#doodles are fun you can see all the weird drawing bullshit i do

[senselessalchemist]

Various doodles slash dumb comic crops

[shadale-s-safe-space]

I don't know much about you as a person, but from what I can gather you've had a long journey with art, but still have the motivation to continue even when its rough. I'm sure you didn't start out making masterpieces, so if its not too much trouble, do you have any advice for a 16 year old artist losing motivation? i feel like im stagnating right now and its awful

Idk man, all I can say is, draw watchu want without the care who's gonna see it or what they gonna say , commit to new ideas and care less about pleasing everyone, because I know that way too well, I started learning by drawing animals, flowers and nature, "you should draw something else", switches to furries " No you must do human portraits", draws humans *no one fuckin cares*, and I felt miserable drawing what I didn't want all the damn time just trying to please everyone and be liked, hell, I still do that sometimes cuz I'm a dumbass. When in reality, when you do your own thing is when you're the happiest, this internet bullshit? Yeah don't trust the likes and favs, people like what they find relatable, no one really knows how much time you've spent on your drawing or how much you love it, when a 5 min doodle you did could do more than a painting that took 2 whole days to complete just to be scrapped in a new speedy record, paint what you love for yourself and you only.

Don't be shy to learn new things, I have tons of stuff I don't post here cuz I know people wouldn't care about it, but here for this post, have this that I practiced when I felt too depressed to think of anything good and wanted to step back from the MD artstyle

You'll see, you'll thrive when you draw what you want, and get yourself a drawing buddy! That way you'll stop focusing on the internet and more on each other, and each other's improvement. Tbh I struggled with that one. Since everyone I had were not into art irl, I somehow managed to find someone after 10 years of drawing alone. I honestly wanted more people to join in and make an improvement circle, but unfortunately that never happened.

I found myself twice as productive now than ever, even though I'm not active here as much I am still drawing and making things, ofc giving you more comics! And other fun things in the future I hope.

If you're struggling to draw something just do it, man commit, i was uncomfortable drawing men and male characters for years, I've wasted so many years being "too uncomfortable" and draw a naked person like yeesh who fucking cares, it's for studying.

And ofc if you feel like you're not improving at all please, please experiment with your artstyle and try something new, please refresh your mind, I was stuck for years doing the same thing over and over, same colors, same 2px brush, drawing like a machine same shit over and over, I felt so stuck and lost, but also afraid to do something new, idk why, I guess I never felt good enough or deserving of it. I also didn't go to art school, I am NOT a professional, nor will i ever be in my opinion. Hell, me feeling like I'll never be good enough left me afraid to try and apply for art school, they were asking for sculptures, different mediums all that scary stuff and I was like, I don't.. know.. how to do those things... I can't build a portfolio in less than 3 months?!?! I don't even know how to use half of what they're asking for!!

In reality at the end of the day, art is what you make of it and no one can stop you, search for inspirations and don't be afraid to try, yes you'll fail fist 2 or 10 or hell even 100 times, but you'll come back with more knowledge than ever.

For ending I give you the most confusing drawing to ever exist [dw he's just sleeping on top of her and she's just ghasping for air but awe romance or sum lol] is it weird? Yeah but I had a fun time making it hahaha

Idk I'm bad at putting my thoughts together, but hopefully some of this helps.

[captainmera]

Uhhhhhhhh

Do you happen to have a tut on how you draw your little poses? Like when you draw you? This is like a very weird question but I am in dire need of help with poses and I absolutely adore all the ways you draw them (and just in general)

Totally fine if not though,😭🫶

STEP.1: draw head.

STEP.2: choose an expression and then draw what you want the hands to be doing/gesturing. (think body language and emotion)

STEP.3: draw body as quick and flimsily as you can using lines in the shape of only C's S's and I's.

if you look at most of my quick sketches or doodles, a lot of the lines are just wonky CSI's, it's called the CSI-method. As a comic artist you just wanna communicate a pose as best as possible without lingering too much. At least if you do full colour + background + character designs + camera work + storytelling + and + and + lots of things... You don't have the time, you just wanna get to next page, tell the story.

And, like...... Allow yourself to draw crappy once in awhile and post it anyway. Idk if you've read my webcomic but there are very obvious pages where it's like WOAH MAMA THAT'S EFFORT and then there are pages where they all look like muppets. But it also makes the cool pages look even more BAMF thanks to it, it gives everything a nice melody and bounce from page to page.

I am inconsistent and I use that to my benefit by leaning into it and letting it punch emotion home more.

it's about communicating a feeling, I think, rather than always being accurate.

I am actually-- really, really, bad at dynamic poses and camera work. Like, legit super bad at it. I bullshit everything, lmao;;; I encourage anyone to also bullshit, and use references if you want! Like go! Whatever makes it fun and less stressful.

see? it's all nonsense but it looked nice anyway haha!

I didn't really consider perspective or anything, I'm trying to teach myself to draw from different angles and it's hard because I like my face-forward-camera lol. But I was focusing more on framing:

so that colours and shadows highlight the scene, so I can say more with one panel than I could with words. It's about the CINEMA~~!

Or, if you close your eyes and then open them. Where does your eyes go? That's the flow of your art. Sometimes it goes in different directions, but there will be key areas your eyes are drawn to. In this image, Hunter will most likely be first, Good! And then secondly Camila, also good! ... Sometimes it's the pizza as second, less good but it still works.

MY POINT IS

THE POINT IIISSSSSS---!!

As long as you have fun playing around with it, you'll learn from it. Don't hate the process, learn from it. If you just relax it'll definitely look better anyway.

My fanart looks better than my serious stuff sometimes lmao, because I put too much pressure on a perfect finish and that just works against the grain of what I'm actually, like, good at doing.

I AM JUST SAYING WHAT WORKS FOR ME.

You should absolutely study backgrounds and perspective and anatomy!

I'm just saying that, like...... It's okay if it isn't perfect. You wont die, people will like it, you'll like it. It's OKAY.

idk if this is what you asked for but I hope it helped.

[gamebunny-advance]

Grab Bag Doodles

I haven't been doodling too much lately. Mostly everything I've drawn I've finished or it's a part of a bigger project that I don't want to post. So... yeah. Kinda had to scramble for some stuff, but nonetheless I hope you'll enjoy me rambling for a bit.

1) Kun3h0 Head Logo. I made this an alternate graphic to take the place of the word logo if need be. I think it's pretty cute.

2-3) Kun3h0 Doodles. She takin' a sippy. Yeah, I kinda wrote myself into a corner saying that Kun3h0's mouth is a screen (to explain why it's white when she opens her mouth), but I'm gonna say it just slides out of the way when she needs to refill her coolant tanks or otherwise needs to access the inside of her head.

4-5) Nekoko Base Tests. So one project I was working on was preparing a new base for HONK because the Yomi project is just not working out for me. I chose an old OC, Nekoko, for the test because she's one of the only OCs I have that kinda suits the "traditional" anime character mold. But I dunno how far I'm gonna take this because I started questioning what the utility of a blank PNGtuber base even is. If you're already capable of drawing, which you need to be able to do to use the base, then there is zero reason to use the base XP. The only way I can see this being actually useful is if I add a bunch of premade parts to it and essentially turn it into a character creator, which is a lot of work. I dunno, maybe I'll still put it together, but I do honestly believe that this has been a futile project from the very beginning.

6) I'm Your Number 1 Fan, Sketch. The original sketch for that piece. It was supposed to be slightly animated and a little more sinister in nature, with all the artists getting crossed off one-by-one and the background getting a little darker every time. I think it's still a cool idea, but a lack of thumbnailing really bit me in the butt: Kliff's pose was already locked in, but by the time I started adding all the artist portraits, I realized that his hand was gonna get covered, so it became way too busy in that area, so I just replaced the idea with the Kliff emojis. Maybe I'll come back to this idea thematically, though.

7) The Troll Slaiyers. Some stupid ass bullshit that I'm probably not gonna finish because I just cannot bring myself to put serious effort into memes. All the portrait art is traced from in-game talksprites. None of the colors are color picked to give it a shittier quality.

8) ???. Hey, for making it this far, here's a secret sketch! No, the image isn't broken, I pixelated it on purpose because it's a part of a "secret" project. Well, it's not my secret, and I'm not even sure if it's supposed to be a secret (I guess I could have just asked XP), but this character belongs to someone else, and I don't want to post anything about it until it becomes public. Originally, it started as a potential test for the PNGtuber base I was working on. I did several different characters to see how well the proportions translated to characters of other styles. I even did a Kun3h0 test, but she seems weird without her really long legs XP. Anyway, I did this one because their proportions are a little more different (having shorter limbs and a very different head shape) and I just started sketching more ideas for it because I think they're a very fun character. Hopefully that project will become public someday, so I can share more of the art and doodles I've done for it, but till then, I guess this is okay.

[corpsentry]

january: an art retrospective

i did some stuff last month (but it’s a lot of stuff and there’s a photodump + some Serious Fucking Reflection, so it’s all below the cut)

so ok, let’s start with this. here are some heads. each head has a red arrow. that red arrow is what i call the red line of the devil. it’s the slope of the face from the side of the eye to the cheekbone and then down towards the chin. up until like 2 weeks ago, i couldn’t draw it. i couldn’t fucking draw it. i would edit over that part of the face over and over again until i was frustrated and tired and i had a raging homosexual headache and it still never looked right. notice that each head is different. notice that each head looks wrong.

at the start of 2021 i finally admitted to myself, as per the image above, that i was deeply, deeply unhappy with my art. what was the problem? i dunno. but i decided i was going to fix it and i was going to do so via another one scribble a day event wherein for every day of january i would find a photo of a human head, and i would draw it.

january 1st, 2021. i was embarrassed to tweet this even on my private account where like 5 friends and a rock would see it. in retrospect, you can also see all of my bad habits emerging like dicks from a hole in the ground. it’s disproportionate. the brows look flat. the eyes are slanting upwards. the entire drawing looks flat, like this isn’t a 3d person but a caricature of one.

january 2nd, 3rd, 4th:

on the 2nd i decided to start a separate thread for doodles and applied learning. here’s the first set of tests

the rest of the week is kind of uneventful so we’re going to skip those. fast forward to january 11th

this one is especially bad. i am acutely aware, suddenly, that i am not changing anything at all. i’m stressed and miserable about it because i’m still trying to see people as people and trying to draw people that look attractive and proportionate and hot. my friend, leny, reminds me that i need to think about faces in terms of planes. i have a moment. my other friend masha sends me some links to anatomy tutorials. i have another moment.

january 11th. applied sketch

january 13th is when i start the troubleshooting process. the link above drives me mad because i’m pretty happy with the face but then i realize that there’s something very fucking wrong with the shape of the head LOL and then i realize that i’ve never had any idea what the proportion of the face to the rest of the skull is so i grit my teeth and i open a new canvas and i

bald studies. it seemed like the right thing to do. can’t draw heads? ok draw some heads. look at some photographs. i traced each photo but tried to stick to straight lines so that i could replicate the shapes more easily. i broke each face down into shapes. i thought about airplanes

i got really excited. i started doing studies, then applied studies, then stylized studies.

sketches. i’m not sure what’s going on (as always) and it’s very rough, but they look different from the sketches i did on january 2nd. that’s a start

january 16th’s daily study. looks more like a person now. juuuuuust a bit

more applied studies

on the 18th i take a break and go stare at some lips because i don’t understand how the fuck they work. again, i focus on shapes, on volume, on the fact that these things exist in 3d. holy fuck lips exist in 3d. holy fuck we are real

january 19th. i’m working on it.

january 22nd. some sketches + a daily study. it has finally occurred to me that heads can tilt up and down and that things look different accordingly. yes i was not aware of this before. yes i have been drawing for over a decade.

january 23rd. by this point after doing my daily sketch i almost always go back and do an applied study which is basically to say i drew a lot of fucking links. this one looks kind of okay. i’m kind of proud

january 25th. links. trying to make sense of everything i’ve learned

26th, 27th, 28th. daily studies

january 1st. january 31st

The End Of The Photo Dump (dab)

ok NOW i get to talk about what i discovered while studying the shit out of human beings

FIRST OF ALL, there is something precious and magical about drawing shit without the explicit knowledge that you’re going to tweet that shit out to 45 people later. it takes the burden of perception off your shoulders and that does something to you, or at least that’s my theory. i told myself i wouldn’t post any of this stuff until the end of the month (if i wanted to post it at all) and kept everything off my public social media accounts and that meant i could draw ugly as hell without worrying about who would point and laugh, which i absolutely fucking did. a lot of these are fucking trainwrecks. most of these are fucking trainwrecks. why do they look like that?? why??? this doesn’t look like the work of someone who’s allegedly been drawing since they were in kindergarten, does it?????

here’s why: because that person took a huge motherfucking swing at everything they’d ever known about art and spent a month building something new in its place. the abstract explanation is that i grew up on shoujo and weird old anime and my understanding of anatomy was unironically kamichama karin and while i love kamichama karin, when kamichama karin is your rule even if you try to break it, you’re going to end up going nowhere. “you have to know the rules to break them”, yeah? well i didn’t know shit. the abstract explanation is i’ve been miserable about my art for a few years now because i saw other people doing things effortlessly which i couldn’t and instead of going back to the basics, i tried to do what they did (not plagiarism, mind you, i mean i literally tried to copy the red line of the devil i mentioned above because i couldn’t even make that happen) and then i fucking failed.

the simple explanation is this. i had to unlearn everything, and relearn it again (like some kind of new renaissance clown, what the fuck is this?)

take this for example. all my life i’ve drawn faces in the order: eyes, nose, mouth, face shape, head. this works for some people, im aware, but it was something central to how i had always drawn, so i decentralized it. i said fuck you to the old me and changed the order up. now i start with the nose, then the eyes, mouth, the chin line, and the sides of the face. now i force myself to think about the human head as a series of parts interacting with each other instead of a bunch of disparate features which i want to look pretty.

or let’s use this zelda from last year. something about this looked wrong last october, the way something about all of my drawings looked wrong, but i couldn’t pinpoint it for hell the way i couldn’t articulate Any of my feelings about the visual arts. now, looking back, here’s what i see. that nose is sticking out far too much given how she’s not really facing very far away from the camera. that ear at the back shouldn’t be there. her forehead is too big. she doesn’t have a forehead. what the fuck is up with the shape of her head?

so apparently reject modernity embrace tradition has its roots in alt-right terminology and i’m not very horny for the alt-right (you understand), but the spirit survives here. you know sometimes you have to admit that you have no idea what the fuck you’re doing and draw people for 31 days. i’ve spent my whole life drawing stylized people and while again there are artists who have no issue with this, i veered off the track of the Good and the Holy and couldn’t get back on. i had no point of reference because i’d never thought about what an actual human being looks like, so i had no way to fix what i knew in my gut looked wrong but wouldn’t come out better.

this was hard. this was like oikawa tooru swallowing his worthless pride and admitting that ushijima wakatoshi had gotten the best of him for the last time in his high school career, but in haikyuu!! by furudate haruichi oikawa tooru fucks off to argentina and then joins the argentinean national team, and you know what, i think i’ve made it to argentina (not the team just the country). as per the golden rule of dont fucking move until you’re at least two thirds of the way through the month, i only started trying to draw Shit shit on like the 22nd or something, but i was happy with that i created. i am happy with what i’ve done. i’ve posted like 2 things this month that involve people with what i now call ~applied Knowledge~~ and they’re, like, not perfect obviously (perfection is an unattainable ideal), but i’m fucking proud of them. i didn’t spend 5 hours hunched over my laptop adjusting the red line of the devil because it’s not a devil’s line anymore. because i finally sorta get how people work. because i sat down and i said ‘we are not going to fuck with this misery shit anymore’ and then i did that. it’s just a line now.

here are 2 collages tracking my painstakingly carved out progress from january 2nd to february 2nd because i’m a slut for collages

and here’s what i’ve done to my art! the same person drew these but also Not Really! you know! for the first time in a year i don’t immediately hate what i’ve drawn. you know what guys? art is fucking fun. zelda’s forehead doesn’t scare me anymore because i know how foreheads fucking work now, and i don’t know everything, and i’m going to keep troubleshooting stuff as i go (i want to draw a skeleton. like a. i want to draw a goddamn skeleton guys) but i’m honestly and genuinely proud of what i’ve done in the span of a month, and i’m also in disbelief. i started this month-long challenge out as a last ditch effort to make peace with my art because i’ve been tired for a long time and i was ready to kick the bucket on drawing people altogether. i didn’t think anything would happen. nothing’s happened for years. i’ve been miserable for years.

this was the caption for january 1st, 2021. i was super, super fucking embarrassed and it looks like super fucking shit, but you know what, i think i did in fact triumph over the bullshit. surprisingly enough, when you put in consistent effort into something, You Will See Results. didn’t see that coming, did you? i know i didn’t.

this isn’t a success story. it’s a happiness story. i never gave a shit damn about the institute of art or whatever, i was just mad at myself because what i saw in my head didn’t match up with what was on the canvas. and now it’s getting better. now i’m calibrating the compass. now drawing not just backgrounds but also people is exciting to me, and i can stick my links in your face and tell you ‘they hot’. i’m going to keep doing that. i’m going to keep going until i drop off the side of the earth and then spiral towards mars like some kind of fairy, and then i’m going to create something beautiful.

thanks for reading. here’s a pr department link for sticking around until the end

[dialovers-translations]

DIABOLIK LOVERS Do-S Kyuuketsu VERSUS Ⅲ Vol.5 Shuu VS Yuma [Track 2]

Original title: 在りし日の証

Source: Diabolik Lovers VERSUS III Vol. 5 Shuu VS Yuma [CD not owned by me]

Audio: Here

Seiyuu: Toriumi Kousuke & Tatsuhisa Suzuki

Translator’s note: Sly Yuma is the best kind of Yuma. I honestly really love the tension between him and Shuu. They have such a cute past together and a lot of potential to still be good friends despite their vastly different personalities. I feel like they would get a lot out of the friendship though. Yuma could get Shuu to stop sitting on his butt all day while Shuu could teach Yuma a thing or two about thinking before acting, haha.

Track 1 ll Track 2 ll Track 3 ll Track 4 ll Track 5 ll Track 6

→  LIKE MY TRANSLATIONS? SUPPORT ME ON KO-FI!

Track 2: Marks of the Past

The two of you are walking through the forest.

Shuu: ...I’m pretty sure that once we make it past here...Mmh. Seems like I wasn’t wrong.

*Rustle*

Shuu: This tree is still here, huh? ...If I recall correctly there’s an escape route by the root...

*Rustle*

Shuu: Yeah...It should still be useable. ーー Oi, don’t stand there spacing out. Get over here already. Do you want to be left behind in a forest full of monsters?

You ask Shuu if they are going the right way.

Shuu: Haah...? Are you making fun of me? This is Vampire territory. In what world would I get lost?

The two of you continue walking.

*Drip drip drip*

Shuu: ...This place hasn’t changed at all.

You ask if he has been here before.

Shuu: I used to play here as a child, that’s all. ...!

Shuu suddenly comes to a halt.

Shuu: These doodles...

You look at them in confusion.

Shuu: It’s written in this world’s language. I guess you can’t read it, huh?

You ask what it says.

Shuu: I’m pretty sure that back then, he also...

You tilt your head to the side.

Shuu: It’s nothing. More importantly, let’s hurry aーー

He flinches, sensing a presence nearby.

Shuu: Oi, you! Come here!

*Rustle*

Shuu: Shh...! Somebody’s coming!

Approaching footsteps can be heard.

Shuu: ...!! Mukami...Yuma?

Yuma: ...!?

Shuu: What are you doing here...?

Yuma: That’s what I’d like to know! Don’t give me a fuckin’ heart attack!

Shuu: ...Let’s go.

Yuma: Wait!

Yuma grabs hold of his wrist.

Shuu: Don’t touch me!

Yuma: Don’t try and run.

Shuu: I’m not running.

Yuma: Heeh? Then while we’re here together anyway, why don’t we take a lil’ trip down memory lane, huh? ...There happens to be someone here to listen to our stories as well.

Yuma glances over at you.

Shuu: Ridiculous...If that’s what you want to do, suit yourself, but I’m leaving.

Shuu starts walking away.

Yuma: I mean, fine by me. ...But in return, leave this chick behind.

Shuu: ...!?

Yuma: Ya don’t mind, do ya?

Shuu: ...Be my guest.

Yuma: Hah! As to be expected of a lil’ rich kid, you’re quick to understand. Couldn’t be me. ...I mean, in the end, I’m nothin’ but a filthy farm boy. I refuse to let go of what I want, no matter what. ーー Especially when I’m ‘bout to lose it to some aristocrat. Well, I guess that sort of stuff doesn’t matter to Mr. Rich Boy who always has everythin’ go exactly his way.

Shuu: ...Please don’t assume that everything always plays out in my advantage.

Yuma: Hah! Ya tell me.

Shuu: You can only say that...because you don’t about us at all, no?

Yuma: ...Now don’t be mockin’ me. I know ya.

Yuma walks up to Shuu.

Yuma: We were pals in the past ーー Nah, pretty much best buds, no?

He grabs hold of Shuu’s collar.

Yuma: Have ya forgotten ‘bout that already? Doesn’t lookin’ at the words written on this wall bring back any memories?

Shuu: ...!! Don’t tell me...Your memory has...?

Yuma: So it really is true...

Shuu: ...!

Yuma: I’ve only regained fragments of my memories. So I tricked ya into revealin’ the truth.

Shuu: Che...

Yuma: You’ve only got yerself to blame for takin’ the bait. ...Well, I’m sure ya would have much preferred if I never remembered at all. ...I’ve been wantin’ to ask ya this whole time. ‘Bout the fire which broke out in my village that day, for example.

Shuu: ...

You perk up your head.

Yuma: Hehe...You’re curious as well, aren’t ya?

You nod.

Yuma: Come on, tell me. You’ve got somethin’ to tell me, don’t ya? On the day of the fire, what did ya see? What did ya think? We’ve both gathered here, so let’s use the opportunity to get things straight...Shuu.

Shuu: There’s not really...anything I have to tell you.

Yuma: Cut the crap!! ...That side of ya is exactly what pisses me off!! If ya think ya can get away with keepin’ quiet, you’re gravely mistaken! You witnessed the truth with yer very own eyes that day, no!? Then why are ya tryin’ to hide it!?

Shuu: ...Hah. Aren’t you getting the wrong idea here?

*Rustle*

Shuu: I’m not simply remaining silent. I just don’t feel like I need to tell you. Don’t try and act like you know me, when you barely remember anything. It’s annoying...

Yuma: Che...Spare me the bullshit.

You run up to them and try to stop their fight.

Shuu & Yuma: ...!?

Yuma: Oi, don’t butt in.

Yuma: Shut up, keep quiet!

Shuu: Haah...Whatever.

Yuma: Aah!? Hold it! ...You’re fine with this chick bein’ taken away from you!?

Shuu: Go ahead? You’re the one who asked me to leave her behind, remember? Well, one of those ‘rich kids’ you hate so much is being generous enough to lend her to you, so why don’t you happily accept the offering?

Shuu walks away.

Yuma: ...Ugh!

Yuma punches the wall.

*THUD*

Yuma: Fuck...!! I don’t like this one bit...!!

*THUD*

Yuma: Makin’ fun of me like that...! Ugh!

*THUD*

You try and stop Yuma.

Yuma: Don’t stop me! Buzz off...!!

You seem worried about the drawings on the wall being destroyed.

Yuma: The doodles...? Ya really think I give a damn ‘bout what happens to thoー ...Haah...My bad. I lost my temper for a sec there...I guess I’m havin’ trouble bein’ honest with myself as well. ...Altho you wouldn’t say so at present, we were actually reallly close back when we scribbled these.

You ask Yuma what is written on the wall.

Yuma: This was my name when I was still human...and this one’s his. His real name. ...His ‘Vampire name’, in other words, what he is truly called. Don’t ask me ‘bout the details. I can’t read these after all. ...But I’m certain that when we were kids, we both wrote our names on here. Guess ya could say this was like our secret hideout.

You seem surprised.

Yuma: Hard to believe, huh? I don’t remember everythin’, but it’s all too weird to be just some fantasy made up by me. These should be...definite memories of our time spent together.

You ask why the two of them don’t get along at present.

Yuma: We’ve both changed. ...The fire which broke out in my village. And the fact that I became a Vampire. Regardless of my memories being intact or not, the cirumstances are just far too different. I can’t imagine...the two of us will ever get along again. Besides, I don’t think I can ever forgive him for all those years he simply turned a blind eye to everythin’. Right now...He’s nothin’ but a coward runnin’ away from the reality he doesn’t want to accept.

*Rustle*

Yuma: Tsk...Anyway, I don’t know if it’s ‘cause I’ve been reminiscin’ ‘bout the part, but it’s as if my mind is shrouded in a fog, I feel like crap.

You voice your concerns.

Yuma: I’m not that weak, I don’t need ya worryin’ over me. I’m sure I’ll feel better if I just leave this place. ーー Let’s go. I don’t know if it’ll make much difference to ya, but I’m gonna take ya someplace nice.

You seem worried about Shuu.

Yuma: Don’t let it bother ya. He said he doesn’t need ya, remember? ...Come on, follow me.

Yuma grabs hold of your wrist and drags you along.

ーー TO BE CONTINUED ーー

[headoverhiddles]

Wrapped In Plastic - Marilyn Manson x Reader [Smut]

Synopsis: The new kid at school intrigues you. He’s infatuated too, but beneath that scary exterior, you’ve got no idea what’s in store. 

Notes: Era: Spooky Kids! Requested by anon: “High school Brian having a crush on you.”

There he is, sitting in front of the principal again. Brian Warner. You're surprised he hasn't been expelled yet, frankly, even though he just moved here to South Florida recently.

You watch from afar, sitting with your friends. He's making that face. That expression... or lack of expression. He doesn't give a fuck what he got in trouble for, and you, he and the principal know it.

"Hey. (y/n)," your best friend says, "What the hell? Are you listening?"

"Yeah," you mutter, glancing back into the office. God, he would probably fuck like an animal, taking you in some old haunted forest somewhere while spanking you and telling you you're his dirty little slut...

Your friend scoffs when she sees where you're looking.

"That guy is dangerous, quit fantasizing. That isn’t your picture perfect bad boy-- that’s like dating the next Son of Sam killer.”

Your other friend chimes in. “My sister told me she saw him and his pack of weirdos out lighting an abandoned house on fire. My sister’s friend said she hears him jerking off in the washroom every lunch hour. The whole school knows about it. Also apparently in creative writing, he turned in this story about this guy fucking his sister's corpse or something. Seriously weird, probably evil. He's gonna end up in jail, mark my words." You ignore your friend, but turn back into the conversation.

Eventually, the principal gives up, dismissing him. You see Brian join his friends outside the office door, who have been waiting-- Jeordie and Stephen, you think you've heard them called in class. The one with the brown comb-over is called Pogo outside of class, because of his fascination with serial killers. You think it's funny. Those guys just do whatever they want. 

Your breath hitches. Brian tucks his long black hair behind his ear, looking up and grinning at his friends. He's describing what he did, and he looks like a gleeful child who just got away with murder as the other two bust out laughing and dig for details. How could anyone think he's evil? 

Cold chills run through your body as he meets your eyes. Oh, fuck. He smirks a little bit your way, but you quickly look away. His features harden, and he turns back to his friends. You turn back to yours.

You can't help watching after him as he walks down the hall to fourth period, though... his head nearly reaches the ceiling, and that metal Planet Of The Apes lunchbox makes you smile. You've heard him make a threat or two to beat someone's ass with it, and you believe he'd do it. For every bully who promised him he'd be nothing, there's something about him that promised so much more.

--

The bell goes, and Brian sits down at the desk. 

"She was looking at you." 

"Yeah, she was talking to her friends about me," Brian mutters back.

"She looked like she was wetting her panties over you," Jeordie grins, "She looks like she wanted to suck your dick right there in front of Mr. Ogilvie!"

"That'd be the day," Brian sighs. 

"Yeah, you'd have beat off material forever," Pogo laughs.

"But she wasn't," he said, "You guys are just fucking blind."

"I don't know, I got some blow job vibes from her,” Pogo says. 

“You get blow job vibes from everyone.” 

“I’ll blow you for lunch money,” Jeordie mentions. Pogo shrugs. 

“I might take you up on that.” His obnoxious laughter rings out as you walk by the door. You recognize it immediately, and look back. Brian’s sitting there, knees tucked under the desk like his legs won’t fit. Shit. In your experience, being this preoccupied with someone meant you were into them... or at least, wanted to see more of them. 

Brian looks up again, and sees you staring at him. This time, he frowns. You’re drawn away by your friend, who pulls you toward your next class. As you're walking, someone calls your name.

“Hey! (y/n), right?” 

You turn as your friend keeps walking ahead. You scoff slightly as he approaches. “Like you don’t know my name.” You pause, backtrack. “I- sorry. That was mean."

“That’s okay. I’ve been known to be a little mean too,” he smirks, and he flips his hair out if his face. “I guess when you hang around a bunch of catty bitches all the time, it rubs off on you.” His voice is so deep and calm. It throws you off whenever he speaks, but does other things to you as well.

"Hanging out with a pair of delinquents can do the same." Your eyes dart inside the classroom to his friends, who are carving something into a desk. He gives a small smile.

"Touché."

“Speaking of rubbing off,” you raise an eyebrow, “Did you want to talk to me?”

He blushes, then forces his embarrassment away. “That rumor’s not true.”

“No?”

“Nah. I did light that abandoned house on fire though.” He grins, and you do as well, hugging your books closer to your chest. 

“So. You’re a rebel, huh?”

“If not putting up with everybody’s bullshit counts as rebelling, then yeah. I guess so.”

“I can respect that,” you nod. “I feel the same way... but I’m not as fearless as you.”

“Are you saying you might commit arson with me, (y/n)?” 

“Maybe. How did the conversation progress to lighting things on fire with you?” 

He laughs, ducks his head nervously. “Well. Um, I saw you staring like a creep, and... I was wondering if you wanted to be creeps together. Y’know... hang out sometime? Come see my band, or...?”

“Are you asking me out?”

“Yeah, I am.”

You smile, poking his black shirt that read Christianity is Unnatural, Abnormal, and Perverse. “You’ve got balls, Brian.” You look at the clock, and back to his class. “What do you say we fuck off for the rest of the day?”

His eyebrows shoot up. “You wanna skip class today?”

“Sorry,” you walk your fingers up his chest. “I know I’m not quite at your level of rebellion yet, but it’s a start.” 

He laughs as he follows you to your locker. 

---

“So. Do you have a car?”

“No.” He scratches his head. “We can walk back to my house, though. My parents aren’t home.” 

Following that plan, you make it back to his house. For someone hailed as the Antichrist of the school, he's got a relatively normal looking home, white picket fence and everything. All that changes once you get to his room.

"Wow," you say, looking up at everything. He's got serial killer-like writing scrawled on the wall by his bed, lyrics that seem like they're straight out of a porno or a horror film, or both. There are pentagrams drawn on his bed posts, and posters of bands like Nine Inch Nails, Ozzy Osbourne, KISS on his walls.

"I know it's stupid, but I'd give anything to meet those guys," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

"It's not stupid," you say, examining the edges of the posters, freyed from the move no doubt. "I actually think it's awesome. I love Ozzy."

"One day I'm gonna beat his record for most drugs consumed over a lifetime."

"Have you started practicing?" you tease.

"I... well, I haven't had the chance."

"Right. Let me know when you do." You smile, going over to sit on his bed. He looks down at you, seems to have a mini panic attack, then acts cool with it, playing with his lip ring and sitting beside you. You look around the messy floor. He's got a strange mix of stuff that oddly seems to perfectly fit his personality: leaking boxes of black hair dye, various lipsticks and nail polishes, a bag of weed, books on the rise of fascism and Carl Jung's red book, an antique-looking switchblade, a Willy Wonka hat, condoms with little angry faces drawn on them, an old deflated football with "FIGHT" written on it, and... "What's that?" you ask, leaning down. Brian coughs.

"Oh. Yearbook from last year."

You pick it up, looking at all the little drawings of candy, needles, Charles Manson and other doodles he's defaced the book with. "But you didn't go to this school last year."

"I traded my mom's diet pills for it."

"Huh. Hustling already. Must have been some good stuff." You hesitate. The page was open to the photos of you as the lead in the play last year. You smirk, pretending to squint. "Is that a cum stain I see on my face?"

"You wish," he huffs, but he's blushing, hair curtaining around his face. You give him a look, turning fully toward him.

"Why'd you really invite me over?"

"To tell you I hate you, knock you out, and bury you in my backyard." You laugh.

"I mean, if you think about it..."

"It's the perfect plan. Invite the girl you've got a crush on over, assume she's gonna make fun of you, lure her in, then get your revenge." You smile, laying back on his bed.

"You just admitted to having a crush on me."

"Wasn't it obvious?" he asks. "I only ever threaten to kill the people I really wanna fuck."

"And do you really wanna fuck me, Bri?" you ask coyly, crawling dangerously close to him. He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing in his long, graceful throat. "You wanna fuck me right here, right now, while your parents aren't home, make me scream your name while you blare your favorite metal record and act like things'll never change?"

"That sounds good," he groans. His hands wander up your thigh, and you smile, bouncing on his leg. "...I also wanna share my music with you. Read a book over your shoulder. Maybe pop a few pills, key someone's car, grab a milkshake and look at the stars on Special K so we feel like we're floating, you know. Before I bang the shit out of you. Date stuff."

"Is this not our first date?" you ask. His tongue flicks up over his lip ring again. 

"I guess you could say it is."

"Good. Cause I never fuck on a first date," you say, "Or so I tell people." He clenches his jaw, and braces a skinny arm beside your head, leaning down to capture your lips. His lips taste sweet, like mint and those sugary rocket candies. He takes his shirt off, and you rub your hands down, feeling a few scars. He lets out a whimpered noise at your touch, shuddering a little. 

You make out and grind against one another for a few minutes, your hands pulling his hips closer by his black belt loops and his fingers tangling your hair. Your breath gets faster as he grinds harder, more desperately, and you reach a hand down to help him out, give him something to rut against.

"You feel so big," you moan, and he runs a hand through his hair, lips falling open.

"I'm gonna..." He makes another desperate noise, and you feel it right where you need him. But since all his condoms in here seem to be used or have faces drawn on them in scented marker, you opt for over the clothes stuff only.

"Use your fingers?" you breathe. He looks like he's about to cum, and you know it'll tip you over as well, what with all the times you had thought of him like this.

He reaches into your jeans, unzipping them, and messily finds your clit. For a teenage guy, he's not bad. He starts to rub, then reaches three fingers down to thrust them into you.

"Fuck, Bri! Three?!" you breathe. He looks into your eyes, not stopping.

"I thought girls were whores for that kind of thing!"

"It's..." you moan, "That's... oh... y-yeah... Jesus...” He really start to work them in, watching your reactions while rutting his clothed erection against your leg. "Fuck, Brian, grab my tits... yeah... this is just how I imagined it when I..."

He freezes for a second, and his whole body convulses. He gasps, and you see him reach down to cover his crotch, face going beet red. He doesn't stop, though. He keeps fingering you, and now that he's not worried about grinding, he can explore you in other ways. He attaches his lips to your neck, and sucks a hickie right below your ear. 

“Brian... Bri, make me c--” 

"Cum for me, you filthy little slut," he snarls, and you arch your back up, grinding down into his fingers as your orgasm hits. You rock through it, and he kisses you again, sloppy and hot. When he pulls away, he gives you your fingers to lick clean, which you do through a heated stare.

Things calm down into you laying back against his pillows with his stringy body tucked in a cramped position beside you. "I didn't know you were that..." you search for words. "Experienced?" 

"What, you thought I was a virgin?” 

You giggle. “I didn’t know what to think about you, to be honest. Kinky, inexperienced, I had no idea. Of course, I hoped that you were kinky.”

“I’ve been known to use restraints when asked,” he smirks.

“I’ve got that to look forward to. I thought you were cute too, though. I don’t care if you’re some devil worshipper who parents and teachers everywhere shiver at the thought of." He's quiet for a second.

"I thought you were scared of me." 

"That too, a little bit. But what scares me turns me on." He rolls over to face you, a vulnerable position for him, you can tell. 

"The way I dress is what I perceive to be beautiful. Looking like this, doing what I want to, it keeps the assholes who like to give my face their own version of plastic surgery away if they think I'm a Satanist who's gonna... cut off their mom's head or something if they fuck with me. Makes the hypocrites who call themselves teachers question their morals too, ‘teaching’ someone like me to be a good little boy and follow society’s rules. It’s all brainwashing, everything they feed us with their sugar and shit, and I’m the bad guy for standing up to it." 

You stroke hair out of his face, and he looks up at you, lips pursed. "There’s always gotta be a scapegoat. I guess you fit that role.” You look beyond him. “You think it would ruin your image if those bullies found your poetry books?” He smiles. 

“Nah. One day, I’m gonna grow up to be a big rock and roll star. I’ll use my own poetry and turn it into music, and I’ll look ten times more extreme than I do now. Then they can all say they knew me, and I’ll tell them to go to hell.” 

You snuggle into him. "Mmm. Speaking of extreme... we should pull a Sandy and Danny. I'll come to school dressed all goth and shit Monday. Throw my friends for a loop."

"Does that mean I have to dress like a cheerleader?" he asks.

"You've got the ass for it."

He grins. "Stop it, you're making it very hard for me not to wanna fuck you for real right now."

"Here's the deal," you say, "I'll show you where I live this weekend. You tell me what your favorite fruit is, because that's a soul searching question. At that point we'll know each other better... and I'll be fair game."

He bites his lip. "I feel like I've known you forever."

"Yeah. Me too."

Just then, there's a knock at the bedroom door. Startled, you sit up quickly, and who you can only assume to be Brian's mom pops her head in. "When the fuck did you two get home?!" Brian blurts.

"About five minutes ago, honey. Don't worry, we didn't hear anything. Jeordie called, said he 'left the smoke bomb under the urinals.' I hope you aren't getting up to trouble like the last school, your father had a heck of a time getting you into this one.”

“Mom.”

“He had to switch jobs too, and with his back, you know how difficult long drives can be. Oh, how rude of me-- hello sweetie, you can call me Barb."

"Mom--" 

"Brian, is this the sweet thing you had that dream about the other night?"

"MOM!"

“Hugh, Brian’s got a girlfriend over, we should turn the TV up to give them a little privacy.” 

“GIRLFRIEND?!” a voice calls up, “GOOD ON YA, SON. THAT’S MY BOY!” 

“Jesus fucking Christ...” Brian groans, burying his face in a pillow. You laugh so hard into his chest you nearly tumble off his bed. Most dangerous guy in school, your ass.

[maiuoart]

Topic Rant.

Heya, Folks. Small rant; Ignore it if you wish. It’s my views, it’s gotten pretty bad for me in viewing ordeals, but I just need to get this shit off my chest. 

Will it open a can of worms on here? Probably. But guess what? We all have block buttons for reasons ♥

Have a Wonderful day, however! Keep staying sane!

I Am HIGHLY AGAINST FONTCEST!

Fontcest, Selfcest, Sancest, Papcest, & Incest of ANYTHING retaining the Skeletons, Gaster included, and other ordeals with many of the Monsters & their AU selves are included. This even includes the ‘Outcodes’ of the AU. Error, Ink, Dream, Nightmare, etcetc.

I have decided that anyone; Artist or not; Whomever is for this, or draws anything OF IT, will be unfollowed and if I see enough of it ‘In My Orbit’, will become blocked.

The reason for this is it’s beginning to actually trigger me to the point I want to leave.

And I Do NOT Want To Leave.

I love the brothers; I love the AU’s; I love everything considering the Skeleton BROTHERS. But to make it a Safe Place for myself; And those who agree With Me; I will start to get rid of the ones who Enjoy this ordeal. I enjoy Family CONTENT between siblings; Not this stuff.

I can no longer just browse without getting triggered by the ordeal at hand. It literally feels like everyone has jumped on this train, and I am someone who could handle a bit here and there; Literally have all the tags under the sun to keep them covered, and kept my Twitter as clean as possible... But still, some people don’t do tags right; Don’t put tags AT ALL; Tumblr has done this whole ‘In Your Orbit’ ordeal; And this shit is the same with Twitter; Where bullshit like this still creeps up.

I understand I can’t keep it hidden all the time; I understand that yes, sometimes slips will come up. And to my favorite artists I had looked up to? Then see them doing THIS? Not going to lie; Breaks my heart, but if they’re having fun? I’ll just do what I need to do and keep myself safe. 

So, to the great artists, creators, and viewers alike; Have fun, but I’m someone who can’t handle this whole shit in general.

I know its mainly for fun; I can see the whole ordeal for Sancest/Papcest as a whole ‘Love Yourself’, but just thinking about it makes me hurl. The whole pairing different AU brothers with their counterpart BROTHERS; Ex; Edge/Sans?? That’s on a different level of; I Don’t Fucking Understand Why One Would?? That’s legit an image of HIS BROTHER? And in general, the Fell verses; Swapfell, too; Can have a whole disgusting underling because people have this dark look over them. 

And to whomever it was who paired the BROTHERS UP ORIGINALLY; I absolutely have a good amount of disgust For you?? 

I have questionable likes myself; Yandere being the highest one; But unlike the topic at hand, at least it’s not; In My Words; Disgusting. Scary? Yes. Disturbing to a degree? Yes. Can become down right horrible? Yes, yes, yes.

If I get hate for this; Fine. But I’m here to write stories, doodle Sexy Skeletons & Monsters, and have a fun time! Thats why I came into the Fandom; AND DAMMIT, THAT IS WHY I WILL STAY! 

Until I have a reason to leave; I’ll stand my ground on this. I’ve already talked to a few friends with similar viewpoints as myself. But I wanted You all to know, so people don’t bring the Topic to me or do weird shit with my guys. 

Forever a Selfshipper; I’d rather do Chara/Papyrus, Frisk/Sans ordeals in the future, even. But it’s gotten to the point I can’t even look at another Artist right if they so much as say they enjoy this; And that?? I am most sorry for?? 

But I am not sorry for this ranting. 

If you’ve made it through to the end; I appreciate you taking the time to read through this rant. Stay awesome, stay sane, and keep going.

This... Just really had to get off my chest. 

Thank You. 

[vamplified]

ABOUT

Yo my name’s Rhi, Bees, or Toad. Any  of those work. They/them pwease. 20 babey!!! You might know me from my splatoon sideblog. I’m currently going to school for zoology, and I like to draw really niche content. Yeehaw!

I also often stream art and/or games! You can see if I’m actively streaming things here or on my twitch. I don’t really plan anything in advance because it’s mostly informal dicking around, im not a professional or anything. I just like 2 have fun babey

There’s going to be a lot of gore, eye stain, and potential body horror galore cus I love that shit. It’s all definitely tagged tho so make sure you have a blacklist installed if you dont wanna see it ((general tags are used, like #gore, #blood, etc)). If you need anything tagged lmk!

My main blog is @rhi-draws-things, my art blog is @bees-draws. I post cotnd/coh art here but RB all my nice stuff to my art blog!

DNI if you’re an asshole. This includes if you’re: homophobic, transphobic, a nazi, antisemitic, racist, pro-cop, support incest/underage, “map”, support pewdiepie/shitty people, and all that bullshit I don’t feel like typing out. If you’re a freak get out dude you know who you are, and if you have any questions, you’re free to ask. I support pan, bi, and trans people, if you don’t, get the hell outta here!!!!

YES I have AUs. NO I don’t talk about them cus I’m scared of social judgement. We exist. If you send me asks abt anything ill love you forever

Anyway, onto some more FAQs!

Will you draw _______ for me? Maybe? It depends! Simple requests or funny asks might get doodles, but theres no guarantee I’ll do it, or what you want. If it involves OCs or something a bit more specific, commissions are almost always open!

Can I use your headcanons / draw in your style? Fuck yeah go nuts dudes!!! Also if you do I’d love to see it. I dont get pings so DM me things if you want me to see it

You drew vent art / something I might think is personal… is it OK to reblog this? Yes!!! I never post any art (or post at all) unless I want or expect it to be reblogged. All of my art, even vent art, is 100% fine to be reblogged.

Is it ok if I tag your art as me / kin / etc? Hell yeah, go ahead! The only time I don’t want you tagging something as kin is if its a commission of somebody’s OC; as that is not my call to make. Anything else I draw is ok to tag as kin <3

I sent you an ask, but you haven’t answered it :( Sorry!!! Sometimes i really don’t have the energy to answer asks in as much detail or with as much art as I’d like to, so I tend to hoard them until I feel like I can properly answer them! I will most likely get to it, though I will admit it might take a while because I get a lot of asks. I only ever delete asks if they’re really weird, repetitive, or I’ve answered one just like it recently.

My question isn’t answered here! Good thing I have an ask box! :D

[gukyi]

boats against the current | pjm

summary: park jimin thinks his life is all well and good, that is, until he finds out that if he wants to play quidditch for his last year at hogwarts, he needs to pass a presentation in muggle studies. and, just like the novel he needs to research, he realizes that maybe his life would be easygoing and simple, if only he didn’t fall in love along the way.

{hogwarts!au, opposites to lovers!au}

pairing: park jimin x female reader word count: 12k genre: fluff, angst warnings: spoilers to the great gatsby by f. scott fitzgerald. felix felicis consumption (main characters under the influence but not aggressively drunk), actual literary references, possible incorrect feeding of owls. a/n: hi i’m guyi i’m 19 and i never fucking learned how to read or write, especially after finishing this. this has sucked the lifeblood out of me. i’m actually deceased. but hey, at least the banner looks good. 

“Hey, Park! Quidditch after class?”

The words bounce off of the walls of the corridor, the other students paying little attention to the random shouts. Hogwarts has always been loud. Jimin’s friends just make it the slightest bit louder.

Jimin whips his head around to find the source of the noise, finding the fifth year, Jungkook, calling after him. Despite being of another house, Jimin enjoys practicing Quidditch with him—he’s a budding seeker who definitely has the potential to go professional, if he practiced enough and didn’t spend most of him time during actual games flirting with the audience. They get along well, and sometimes Jungkook accidentally calls Jimin “hyung” from force of habit as a young Korean, something Jimin holds over his head as many times as he can.

“Sure!” Jimin shouts back. “Meet in the courtyard?”

Jungkook shoots him a thumbs up above his head before his tuft of brunette hair bounces down the hallway, on the way to his next class.

It won’t be just Jungkook—it’s no fun to play a game of Quidditch with two, not to mention the fact that Jungkook’s a seeker and Jimin’s a chaser—but a group of them, all different years and houses because all that house rivalry bullshit stays on the Quidditch field or in the Great Hall for the end-of-year ceremony, and also because Jimin met them all once or twice at different Hogwarts common room parties and Quidditch happened to be something they all had in common.

In the beginning of the year, his Muggle Studies professor showed a movie representation of muggle secondary school, something akin to the second half of a student’s time at Hogwarts. Only, none of the students wore uniforms and instead showed up to class in slouchy jeans and oversized sweaters. And every student seemed to be very aggressive to every other one, like they truly despised being in each other’s presence. And there were certain students who walked down the corridors and everyone else seemed to know their name, where they came from, who they were. According to the guide distributed by his professor, they were the “Popular Kid” archetype, at the very top of the social hierarchy.

Jimin wouldn’t consider himself at the top of the social food chain at Hogwarts—that position is reserved for the Head Boy and Girl—but he does know a rather large amount of the student body. Or, a rather large amount of the student body knows him.

Speaking of Muggle Studies, that’s his next class, and he’s got about three minutes to get to the room before he gets Slytherin’s points docked for being tardy. He breaks out into a small jog, getting progressively speedier as time passes. Another seventh-year Slytherin is heading the other way, pats Jimin roughly on the back as they pass each other with a grunt of “Park!” and moves on.

Jimin makes it to Muggle Studies just in the nick of time, sliding into his seat just as the professor enters the room.

Muggle Studies is, admittedly, not Jimin’s strongest suit. It never has been—not when he comes from a long line of purebloods, some of whom frown upon the integration of Muggle-borns into wizarding schools such as Hogwarts. Jimin’s not like that at all, extremely progressive in comparison to the stereotypical conservative pureblood, but he has a difficult time wrapping his head around the Muggle world and all of its strange and peculiar doodads. It just seems so complicated in comparison to the Wizarding World, where everything is exactly as it appears. Well, mostly everything.

He begins to zone out, as he normally does in this class, the droning of the professor fading into background noise as he doodles in his textbook, drawing pictures of old muggle telephones and candy bars. Muggle Studies is also one of Jimin’s objectively least favorite classes because nothing magical happens. It’s almost all textbooks and essays and homework about non-magical topics. Although, Jimin has to admit that the Internet, whatever the fuck it is, seems pretty magical.

Crack!

Jimin jerks up to see his professor standing above him, glasses sinking down his pointy nose bridge as he glares at him. His wand is held in his hand, clearly having just aggressively tapped on the front edge of Jimin’s desk.

“Park, do you know the answer?” His professor asks angrily, clearly unimpressed.

“Answer to what, sir?” Jimin asks, trying to simultaneously maintain eye contact with his professor and looking around to anyone who might actually know the answer to whatever he’s about to be asked.

“The author of The Catcher in the Rye?” It’s obvious his professor doesn’t think Jimin knows the answer. He’s correct—Jimin has no fucking clue who wrote The Catcher in the Rye.

“Why would you need to catch rye? Jimin asks, trying to buy himself some time.

The professor rolls his eyes, turning away from Jimin to go find another victim. Someone across the aisle sends Jimin congratulatory finger guns for somehow managing to ask a question so ridiculously stupid that it allowed him to escape the wrath of their professor. Jimin gives a thumbs up in return and dips his quill back into his ink pot, getting ready to draw.

“Miss Y/L/N,” he hears the professor’s croaky voice say. “Do you know?”

Interest only slightly piqued, Jimin turns his head to the student being interrogated. You seem to have curled as far into your Hufflepuff robes as possible, in an effort to pretend to be a metamorphosing butterfly or something like that. Jimin knows you very briefly, if at all. Your name, your house, and the fact that you almost never speak.

Jimin starts to think that maybe he should have just sacrificed some House Points and answered the professor’s question, because you don’t seem to be having any fun at all with the professor breathing down your neck, waiting for an answer. He’s about to do something dumb and stupid to get the attention on him and off of you when, soft as a mouse, you whisper, “J. D. Salinger.”

He shuts his mouth. The professor smiles, awards five points to Hufflepuff, and moves on. Jimin sinks down into his seat, turns to the boy next to him.

“That’s Y/N, right?” He asks, motioning to you. You seem to be shriveling back up into your robes, only hints of your skin peeking out, just enough for you to hold onto a quill and write with it on a piece of spare parchment.

“I think that’s her name,” the boy responds, skeptical. “But I’d stay away from her, Park. She’s… strange.”

Jimin frowns, an eyebrow quirking up out of curiosity. “Strange? How so?”

The boy shrugs, unhelpful. He seems to quickly be realizing that his word choice when describing you was particularly poor. Jimin’ll say. “I don’t know, she’s just… weird. She never speaks and you only ever see her in classes, not during our free hours. I hear she draws a lot.”

“But drawing isn’t weird,” Jimin protests weakly, quietly. Though, he doubts you’re paying attention to the conversation he’s having with the boy next to him, a Slytherin he speaks with sometimes, but not frequently. Usually about the latest professional Quidditch match, or to double check something in class. Jimin supposes that the two of them would be friends. But only supposes.

“I know, but disappearing the moment you step out of class is,” the boy says, leaving Jimin no time to respond as he immediately sits up straight, the professor striding back into view.

Jimin shuts up immediately, reverting back to his classic “I swear I was paying attention to you the whole time” stance, though it is blatantly obvious that that was not, in fact, the case. The professor can see right through Jimin’s act, even goes so far as to sneer at him as he heads back to his desk. Jimin really treasures the relationship he shares with his Muggle Studies professor.

“What an enlightening discussion on twentieth century Muggle literature,” the professor drones. Jimin can feel himself falling asleep. He definitely shouldn’t have stayed up late last night playing a game of Wizard’s Chess where, for every piece you lose, you take a bite of the homemade pastries Sprout brought in for their class yesterday. Both his mind and his stomach are taking massive losses. Lots of casualties. Too much time spent on the loo.

Jimin’s about to start making soft snoring noises to amuse the students around him when the professor’s moderately angry, crackly voice breaks through the walls he’s built inside of his head. “So enlightening, in fact, that I am assigning you all a partner project on a Muggle book of literary merit from the twentieth century, to be due in two weeks sharp.”

Groans fill the air. Jimin sees his already low grade in this class plummeting.

“And I expect that those of you who are not doing as well in this course—,” the professor narrows his eyes at Jimin in specific. He feels the slightest bit called out. “—should want to work extra hard. I will give you your partners momentarily—,” more groaning since the students can’t choose, “—and you will have until the end of this class to decide on a novel. Novellas and plays are also acceptable.”

Jimin doesn’t even know what a novella is. This is going to be an absolute disaster.

Within the next few moments, the professor begins to list off the group partners, and Jimin watches as every single person in the room he thinks he might actually enjoy himself with gets paired up with someone else until all that’s left is—

“Park and Y/L/N.”

Even amongst all of the chatter, Jimin can make out the faint sound of something akin to a gasp leaving your lips. Jimin’s certain he feels the same way. Of all of the people in the room, it’s just his luck for him to get paired up with you. Not that he minds, of course, but trust the Muggle Studies professor who’s out for Jimin’s blood to pair him up with the quietest student in their year. Meanwhile, Jimin causes a ruckus simply by existing.

He turns to find where you’re sitting to see you very obviously avoiding his gaze (along with anybody else’s, for that matter), staring straight down at the parchment in front of you before watching as you crumple it up between your fingers and stuff it into your bag, along with the rest of your belongings. Peculiar.

Jimin gathers his items to head over to where you’re seated—because it’s clear you have no intention of moving from your location, the corner in which you have settled—when the professor calls him over with a grunt of “Park.”

He trots up to where the professor is seated at his desk.

“Park,” the professor says, peering over the beady glasses that sit on his all-too pointed nose bridge. “You currently have a Dreadful in this class.”

“Yes, Professor.” Jimin doesn’t need to be reminded. He absolutely tanked on the last assessment they had been given.

“Do I need to remind you that if you have either two Poor’s in your classes or one Dreadful, you are not allowed to participate in the Quidditch games?” He continues.

Jimin may have needed reminding of that. The next match that Slytherin is playing is in two weeks from Friday, which is a mere two days from when this ridiculous partner project is due. And suddenly, Jimin realizes that if he doesn’t ace this project, he won’t be playing in the next match. Or any of the other next matches, because Muggle Studies may very well be the bane of his existence. Shit.

“No, Professor.” Jimin says through gritted teeth. He’s fucked. He’s already starting to resign himself to his fate of a Jimin-less Quidditch season for the Slytherin team and a Quidditch-less final year for himself.

“Good. I suggest you work well with your partner. She has the highest grade in this course, so you’d do well to learn a thing or two from her. Merlin knows you don’t pay attention to me.” The professor motions for Jimin to leave, dampening his already-sour mood.

That’s something new Jimin didn’t know about you. The highest grade in this course? How is that even possible? Jimin steps up to where you’re seated in the corner, staring down at the closed textbook in front of you like it’s just called you ugly.

“Hey,” Jimin says softly, fearing his usually-raucous nature may be a bit much. “Y/N, right?”

You nod silently, letting Jimin take the seat next to you.

“I’m Jimin,” he says, feeling obligated to introduce himself despite the fact that the two of you have been classmates for the past six and a half years now.

“I know,” you say, barely above a whisper, before your eyes widen, like you had just spoken incorrectly.

Jimin doesn’t know what to say to that. Of course you know who he is. Jimin has a name that gets around. He plays Quidditch, attends every party he can get to, and knows everyone on campus. This conversation stinks.

“I’m sorry you had to be paired up with me,” Jimin says, trying to break the ice, only it feels like he’s sawing through the tension with a plastic spoon. “I’m not very good at this class.”

You nod again, choosing to keep your mouth shut as a means of responding to him. Jimin can’t blame you. An awful lot of dumb shit comes out of his mouth. He should probably pick up a tip or two from you.

“What book were you thinking?” Jimin asks, hoping you have a substantive answer because Jimin’s got absolutely nothing. All he’s thinking about is the future (or lack thereof) of his Hogwarts Quidditch career if he can’t get an Outstanding, or at least an Exceeds Expectations, on this project, and the parchment you crumpled up into your bag. Curiouser and curiouser.

You mumble something unintelligible.

“What?” Jimin asks, leaning in closer. You seem to be alarmed by the sudden shrink in proximity, though you make no efforts to move away, instead hoping to curl deeper into your dandelion yellow robes.

“The Great Gatsby,” you say, a bit louder this time. Jimin can feel himself exhaling. He at least recognizes the title of that book, which is a win as far as he’s concerned.

“Sounds good,” Jimin says with a smile. It’s not as if he has anything better to suggest. “I’ll tell the professor we’ve chosen a book.”

You nod your agreement and Jimin stands up to head back over to the professor to inform him. On the way, he passes by some of his friends in the class, who all seem to be giving him pity looks for his partner. Jimin, for the life of him, cannot figure out why everyone finds you so strange. You seem perfectly fine and dandy to him, albeit a tad quiet. But Jimin’s not going to complain. You seem extremely capable.

“Professor!” He calls as he makes it back over to the desk.

The professor seems thrilled to see Jimin again. “Park.”

“We’ve chosen a book,” Jimin says excitedly.

“And that is?”

“The Great Gatsby.”

This makes the professor raise his eyebrows. He looks up from the paperwork he’s completing to meet Jimin’s eyes, something sort of like a knowing smirk plastered on his face. Jimin feels uneasy. “Really?”

Jimin nods.

“Well,” the professor says, “I will write you down for Gatsby.” He still has that knowing grin dancing along his cracked lips.

“Is there something else, Professor?” Jimin asks, unable to stop his intrigue from getting the better of him.

“No,” the professor says with a shake of his head. “Only, you may find that with The Great Gatsby, there is more to it than meets the eye.”

Jimin’s starting to regret ever asking.  

“I’m serious, Jeon,” Jimin says as they toss around a Quaffle on the Quidditch field, brooms barely four meters above the green below. Even though Jungkook’s a seeker, neither of them have much intent to practice Quidditch for what it is. “I’m fucked.”

“What do you mean?” Jungkook responds, skeptical. Even as a measly fifth year, his coordination with the Quaffle is pretty damn impressive for a Seeker. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. Your next match isn’t for another couple weeks. Meanwhile I’m gonna crush Gryffindor next week.” As he says this, he chucks the Quaffle towards a Gryffindor sixth-year that’s part of their intramural Quidditch group, catching the kid entirely off guard and causing him to swerve on his broom so the ball doesn’t break his nose. Jungkook giggles.

“I know, but I have a Dreadful right now,” Jimin sighs.

“In Muggle Studies?” Jungkook says, looking severely unimpressed. “Well, I suppose that’s what you get for being a pureblood.” Jungkook always teases Jimin about his blood status, as a half-blood himself, he sort of gets the best of both worlds. He’s always calling Jimin old-fashioned for not knowing what Muggle objects are. “I bet you don’t even know what a cell phone is.”

“Fuck you!” Jimin shouts, getting his hands on the Quaffle just in time to hurl it straight towards Jungkook’s face. With reflexes as good as they always are, Jungkook dodges easily. “I know what a cell phone is.”

Jungkook obviously doesn’t believe him. “So what are you gonna do to get your grade up before your game? Because if we win our game against Gryffindor, then we’ll be up against you next. And without the top Chaser, Slytherin’s fucked!” Jungkook starts cackling.

Jimin sighs, one hand holding onto the broom and another rubbing at his temples. “I don’t know,” he says, flying up to Jungkook so their conversation isn’t shouted across the Quidditch practice field. “We have this dumb partner presentation on Muggle literature due a couple days before the game, so if I can miraculously do well on it, I should be alright.”

“Sweet!” Jungkook says like it is a God-ordained miracle. “Who’s your partner?”

“Y/N.”

“Never heard of them!” Jungkook exclaims like it’s the happiest thing in the world. “Good at Muggle Studies?”

“Highest grade in the course,” Jimin says softly, only the slightest bit envious of you. All of his life’s worries and toils and troubles would instantly vanish if he had the highest grade in his Muggle Studies course.

Jungkook hoots and hollers. “Well, there you go! You’re guaranteed to play in the game in a couple weeks.” He gives Jimin a heavy pat on the back, one he feels deep down in his bones, and then gets the Quaffle tossed to him from another kid in their group. “So you better get practicing, Park!”

Jungkook chucks the Quaffle down the expanse of the Quidditch field and immediately Jimin dives after it, still wondering if he really is guaranteed a good score on his Muggle Studies presentation because of you.

The next time Jimin has Muggle Studies, his professor is having a decidedly good day, seeing as the whole class is allowed the entire duration of the forty-five minutes to themselves, time meant to work on the project.

For Jimin, this would normally result in forty-five minutes of doing anything but the project, much to the dismay of the professor (and Jimin wonders why he hates him so much), fooling around and being a shit student, as one does. But today, as his legs carry him towards the empty seat in the corner next to you, Jimin finds that his superego seems to win out.

“Hey,” he says. He isn’t sure if it’s his voice or the book he plops down on the wooden desk that makes you jump in surprise. “Ready to get started?”

You nod wordlessly, pulling out the battered copy of The Great Gatsby you keep with you. It dawns on Jimin that perhaps he should have gotten his hands on his own copy before arriving to class. He makes a mental note to drop by the library after class.

“You must like this book, huh?” Jimin asks, attempting to stir up some conversation. He’s always been quite the talker and you, evidently not.

Again you nod as you pull out a quill and some parchment from your bag. As you do, some extra parchment caught on the clean sheet comes with it, making your eyes widen as you quickly stuff the offending piece back into your bag, hoping no one’s caught you. Peculiar.

“Well, I gotta be honest with you,” Jimin says as he leans back in his seat, trying his very best to resume his “cool kid” persona so he stops making an absolute fool of himself in front of you. “I haven’t really… read the book yet. Or pay much attention in this class, so I suppose I need to work on that,” he adds on a self-deprecating chuckle for good measure.

It’s unclear if you’re picking up the vibe that Jimin is putting down. Or anything Jimin is putting down, for that matter. “That’s okay,” you tell him. “I can do most of the work, if you’d like.”

Normally, an offer like this would have Jimin jumping to his feet to accept, seeing it as his way out of doing anything of substance without having to sacrifice a grade for it. Jimin’s always been kind of a terrible partner to have for a project, but he puts in some effort where it counts. Sometimes. But now, as Jimin sits in Muggle Studies with a professor that glances up specifically at him every now and then, Jimin doesn’t see slacking off as an option. Especially when the fate of his Quidditch season lies in this project. If he doesn’t contribute, the professor will know. And thus will happen the brutal end to Jimin’s Hogwarts Quidditch career.

“No, I couldn’t let you do that,” Jimin immediately refuses your offer, thinking of the greater good. “It seems like an awful lot of work. Plus, you’re probably extra busy with stuff yourself.”

“No, not really,”  you respond with a shrug. No additional comments.

“What do you mean?” Jimin says with a small nudge to your elbow. “Everyone’s busy with stuff. Don’t you draw?”

“Well, I—”

“I don’t know very much about art, but I imagine that takes a lot of time,” Jimin says, grinning to himself. He’s won this battle. “So I will help you with the work because we are both equally as busy. No buts.”

You open your mouth to say something, but immediately close it, like the thought’s vanished from your mind. Or maybe, you’ve forced it away.

“I know I was probably your last choice for a partner in this class,” Jimin says with a sigh, “but I promise I’ll actually help you with this project. I need to actually start paying attention and learning in this class, and there’s no better time to start than now. Plus, you’re way better than that old geezer up there. So I promise I’ll do my share. This is a partner project, after all.”

“I don’t know, I feel like in order to help me do this project, you’d actually have to read the book first,” you say with the slightest hint of a giggle, the faintest outline of a smile gracing your lips. It’s the first time Jimin’s ever seen you smile. He decides then and there that he wouldn’t mind seeing it more often.

“Wow, okay, attacking me from the start, alright,” Jimin says dramatically, hands up in surrender. “Fine, I see how it is. Guess I’ll have to pick up the slack and start reading.”

Another small giggle. “There’s a Muggle section in the library that should have Gatsby in there. It’s a short book, so you should be able to get through it relatively quickly. Emphasis on should.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll have to head to the library after class, then,” Jimin says. “Come with?”

“Oh, no, I don’t need to, though,” you say, holding up your own battered copy, worn at the edges, clearly read multiple times. Jimin’s thankful that you’ve selected a book you’re enthusiastic about—it would be an awful long two weeks if the two of you spent it slaving over a novel that not even one of you enjoyed.

“Aw, come on? What else would you be doing?” Jimin asks. He won’t push the topic if it makes you uncomfortable, but that one student did mention how you have a habit of disappearing post-class.

“I have places to be,” you mutter, clearly not wanting to go too in-depth on the matter.

“To do what?” Jimin asks, pressing just a little harder. He’ll cease if it gets to be too much, but it’s obvious that you’re having fun avoiding his questions.

Head facing the book resting on the desk in front of you, you say, “Things that don’t concern you, Park.”

The clocktower chimes, signalling the end of the class, and, just like clockwork, you’re out of your seat in an instant, disappearing down the hallway like you were never there in the first place.

Jimin drops by the library after class, Muggle Studies being his last course of the day before he resigns himself to his room to an evening of homework and chicken legs. Madame Pince helps him find The Great Gatsby in the little corner of the library that has all of the Muggle, non-magical books. She seems quite surprised that someone like Jimin would have any interest in Muggle literature.

After he finishes his supper, one of his friends, Joshua, drops by their shared dormitory to ask if Jimin’s up for a game of Gobstones.

“No thanks, Josh, I’m busy tonight,” Jimin says with a smile, holding up the copy of The Great Gatsby he’s borrowed from the library. Jimin’s only a couple of chapters in, but he finds the book quite enjoyable.

“Reading?” Joshua says in disbelief. “Is that even you, Park? You don’t read.”

“I’ve got a Muggle Studies project due,” Jimin says.

“Oh, Cheol told me about that,” Joshua responds, like Jimin mentioning his project is just a reminder to him. “You’re paired up with Y/L/N, right? She’s strange, I heard. Smart, but strange.”

“I mean, she isn’t really that weir—”

“I can’t believe she’s got you actually reading! I don’t think I’ve seen you open a book since third year,” Joshua says with a chortle. “I’m impressed, I have to say. What’s with the sudden increase in productivity? Are you actually trying to impress her, or something?”

“Just trying to do my share of the work,” Jimin says with a grimace, wanting nothing more than for Joshua to just go away so he can read in peace.

“Ha! You’re doing work, too?” Joshua says, like he can’t believe his ears. “Damn, she’s got you in deep. Bet you’re just trying to woo her so you get a good grade before the Quidditch match next Friday.” Jimin opens his mouth to defend himself, but Joshua keeps going. “Well, we’re playing Gobstones in the common room if you wanna come join after you’re finished reading, or whatever. Enjoy your book, Park!”

With that, Joshua marches off, heavy footsteps on the cement of the Slytherin common room. Jimin leans back against his bed frame, wondering if a good grade is really all there is to it.

“I read the book,” Jimin says in lieu of a greeting as he takes his seat next to you. You’re much less surprised to see him there today than you have been on days past. “It was good. I liked it.”

“I thought you would,” you muse to yourself. There’s a black notebook in the top right corner of your desk, no writing or any other sort of label identifying it. Just a leather bound book with a piece of hard ribbon wrapped around it, like its contents are secret.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jimin asks, smile dancing along his face. He even went as far as to take a few notes on the story, though he bets that they pale in comparison to the knowledge you hold of the novel.

“Oh, nothing,” you say softly, playing coy.

“Hey, come on! You’re definitely insulting me right now except I’m too stupid to realize it,” Jimin pouts, beginning to think that maybe he didn’t look at Gatsby close enough and there’s some subliminal message to the story that went right over his head.

“I’m not,” you insist, “I just had a feeling you’d enjoy it.”

Jimin’s skeptical, but he drops the topic. “Well, you were right, I did. I finished it last night.”

“You read the whole thing in a day? What happened to Master Slacker Park Jimin, hmm?” You ask, curious. Your fingers are fiddling with the ribbon wrapped around the notebook on your desk, untying the bow and tying it back up again.

“He’s still here, I promise,” Jimin says with a wink, making you roll your eyes slightly as you turn away from him, not wanting to be subjected to his sleaziness any longer.

“What did you like most about it?”

“The book?” Jimin ponders an answer. He did actually enjoy reading it—something he hasn’t experienced in quite a while. He can’t remember the last time he actually read a book for class. It must have been years. “I don’t know, I just… it was very well written. And Gatsby’s character was so intriguing. A man who has everything willing to give all of it up for the girl he loves. Including his time.”

“Mmm,” you hum. “The thing about love,” you muse, more to yourself than to Jimin, though he listens in anyway. He always wants to hear what you have to say. For someone of so few words, you’re very careful how and when you use them. “Is that it makes people feel like they’ve lost control.”

“Presentations due in a week! I trust that you are all making good, steady progress and that you have been working diligently these past few days,” the professor eyeballs Jimin again, and he sinks down into his seat, almost like he’s trying to melt into it. “Remember that next week I will not be giving any time in class to work on this, so you will need to find time on your own to complete them.”

The clocktower rings.

“Class dismissed!”

Everyone immediately begins to herd out of the room, but Jimin realizes that you and him have only spent class time working on your presentation and it’s only about halfway finished. You’ll need to meet outside of class, during your free periods or extra time.

“Hey, Y/N,” Jimin says as you’re gathering your belongings, placing your textbooks and quills back in your back, black, leather bound notebook still held tightly between your fingers. “When do you have time to meet outside of class to finish this?”

“Uh… I’m free most of the time,” you say as you head towards the door, Jimin following suit.

“Okay, I have Quidditch practice every Monday and Wednesday from three to six and Tuesdays from six to nine. This weekend should be free for me, except I’m going to Hogsmeade on Sunday afternoon,” he tells you, walking alongside you. Jimin doesn’t know where you go after Muggle Studies, only knows that you disappear down the hallway and no one can ever seem to keep track of you. He’s curious—eager to find out where you flutter off to when no one else is looking.

“Alright, well. Whenever works for you,” you say, speeding ahead.

“Hey, why are you in such a rush?” Jimin asks, catching up to you easily, limbs nimble from riding around on brooms in a competitive sport constantly. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” you mutter to yourself, Jimin hot on your trail. He’s not trying to chase you down or anything, but you’re walking against the current of students headed down the hallway, taking odd little staircases here and there as Jimin tries to keep up with you.

“You’re clearly headed somewhere,” Jimin says with a scoff. “We still need to discuss when we can work together for our project, Y/N.”

“I know, I know,” you say. “We can figure it out. Whenever you’re free.”

“Hey, Y/N?” Jimin says, finally catching his breath as the two of you wait on a moving staircase, slowly rotating you around the inside of the castle. “You know that you don’t have to hide from me, alright?”

“I—”

“If you don’t want me here, I’ll leave, I promise,” Jimin says. “But if you do, then… please. Don’t run away from me,” he pleads. He feels a little strange, standing here on a moving staircase in Hogwarts, asking you to open up your private life to him after hardly a week of constant contact. It feels personal. It feels like an invasion of privacy.

You seem to be waiting on yourself for an answer, like there are words on the tip of your tongue but you don’t know if you should open your mouth. Jimin’s definitely overstepped every boundary currently within a five-mile radius, asked something of you that is going to make the next week painfully awkward before the two of you go back to not speaking.

“Okay,” you murmur, so quiet that Jimin can hardly hear you, isn’t even sure if you’ve said anything at all.

When you reach the top of the staircase, you and Jimin find yourselves face to face with a thick wooden door, one Jimin doesn’t think he’s ever seen. Granted, he’s not necessarily a big explorer of the castle, so there are definitely places he’s never come across, but this door has been right under his nose the entire time, totally overlooked, even after seven years.

Jimin begins to worry that whatever you’re about to show him may not necessarily follow school rules, but he pushes the thought to the back of his mind as you open the door.

It’s the owlery.

Well, it’s not the owlery that Jimin’s familiar with. Jimin’s been into the owlery before, but this isn’t what he remembers. It’s higher, less crowded, cozier. Gets more light from the windows at the top, bright blue sky slowly fading to night as time passes. Jimin also doesn’t recognize any of the owls, can’t find his own in the crowd.

“What is this place?” Jimin asks, in awe. You place your bag down on a pile of cushions in a corner before making your rounds, saying hello to all of the different owls, poking your fingers through the wire of the cages.

“It’s the school’s owlery,” you explain to Jimin, pointer finger rubbing against the beak of a barn owl. “The school’s owls don’t get as much love or use as the students’, so I… I guess I pick up the slack.”

“I didn’t even know this place existed,” Jimin says, peering into a cage to say hello. The owl sniffs his finger before determining Jimin as a non-threatening being, accepting pets.

“Most people don’t,” you say softly,

“It’s incredible,” Jimin admits. He had no idea the school had its own owls, but he supposes that makes sense. How else is the school supposed to receive news and other business? Through the students’ owls? Magic stretches far and wide, and oftentimes it’s rather inconvenient for every minister and magical official to make the trek to Scotland. Jimin has to admit he never gave much thought to the school’s postal system. He had always received his mail from his own owl, Beanpole, without much concern. Fascinating. “How long have you been coming up here?”

“Ever since I found out about it,” you admit, settling down in the cushions as you fish around in your bag for something. You pull out your leather bound notebook, a strange little writing device in your hand that Jimin believes is known as a pen in the Muggle world. “Since fourth year.”

“Unbelievable,” Jimin says, still shellshocked. He’s afraid that sitting down next to you on the cushions may be too much of an invasion, seeing as he’s just been shown one of the most private parts of you, so he stays standing, feet wandering as he visits each cage. “It’s absolutely breathtaking.”

From up here, where Jimin looks out of the window, he swears he can make out the whole lake by Hogwarts. Can visualize the boats on the lake, taking the scared first-years to the Great Hall to be sorted under the lanterns’ light. He’s hardly ever up this high, just for Astronomy, since the Slytherin common room is in the dungeons. And even so, he almost never gets to look out of the window, at the earth below. It’s like he’s flying.

“You come up here every day?” Jimin asks. It’s no wonder that this is where you’re always disappearing off to. It’s peaceful, homey, cozy. All things that Jimin has definitely ruined by barging into your life.

“I try to,” you say sheepishly, pen scratching against the parchment of your notebook as you pull your knees up to your chest.

Jimin makes his way over to you, footsteps careful so as not to scare you off. “I’m sorry if I’ve invaded something of yours,” he feels the apology is long overdue. “If you want me to leave, I totally will. Just say the word.”

“No, it’s alright,” you say. Hesitantly, you tuck away your little notebook, clicking at your pen so that the ink tip disappears into the contraption. Jimin thinks that you’re ready to leave, finished with the owlery now that he’s here, but instead you simply shift over slightly, motioning to the empty cushion on the floor next to you, like an invitation.

Jimin walks over trepidatiously, like he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to sit down so close to you, press into your personal bubble like it’s nobody’s business. But you make no attempts to move away, not seeming to mind in the slightest that Jimin’s there with you. Jimin sits down beside you, instantly relaxing from the comfort of the cushions amongst the both of you, falling into a peculiar but pleasant silence.

He turns his head to look at you slightly, but you’re not looking back at him. You seem to have lost yourself in thought, staring off towards the sky, aimlessly. From here, Jimin can see the way the light reflects in your eyes, making them appear like skies in and of themselves. Twinkling. Jimin reaches the conclusion that he likes it here, in the owlery, but he likes being here with you just a little more.

“You know,” you say softly, almost inaudible, “it’s kind of nice not to be here alone.”

“You don’t mind?” Jimin asks. He could have sworn you’d kick him out of here by now.

You shake your head slightly, “No, I—I enjoy your company.”

“We could always work on our project up here,” Jimin suggests. “No one else to bother us. It’s quiet here, too. Good place to study. No wonder you get such good grades. This place is your secret weapon.”

“Well, it can be yours, too,” you tell him.

“If you’ll have me,” Jimin jokes back. You sound completely serious, but he wants to make sure that he isn’t disrupting anything by being here.

You nod. “It’s—it’s nice being up here… with you.”

It sounds a little like an opened door, welcoming him in. Feels a little more like an invitation. And as you and Jimin sit up here, far above the noise of the rest of the Hogwarts student body, the comfortable silence surrounding the both of you, Jimin realizes that, even if only just for a moment, you bring a calmness to his hectic, rowdy life. One that Jimin never realized he needed.

“But one thing I don’t understand is why Gatsby would sacrifice so much of himself for Daisy,” Jimin says, biting on the edge of his quill as he ponders the notes in front of him. The presentation is pretty straightforward in terms of content, just the historical context to the story, the basic plot, major themes and characters, all of the usual book report requirements. But despite this, Jimin can’t help but wonder aloud why Gatsby’s done what he’s done. “Especially when Nick was standing there the whole time, trying to talk him out of it.”

“Well, Gatsby was so hung up on Daisy’s presence in his life before she left that he was determined to get back that time again. Even if it did cost him his life,” you say, staring down at the pieces of parchment all spread around around you, a sea of almond and beige against the hardwood of the owlery.

One of the younger owls you had let out of its cage—not a baby but not a disgruntled adult—pecks away at Jimin’s belongings. Jimin sifts through his bag until he pulls out an old granola bar, unwrapping the snack and feeding bits of it to the owl.

“But why? He must have known it never would have happened, with Tom and everything.”

“That’s the thing,” you say, plucking one of the sheets off of the ground. It’s the one Jimin and you had written down research of the decade at the time. Admittedly, it was mostly you, since Jimin doesn’t know the first thing about American history. Or any Muggle history, for that matter. “Fitzgerald wanted to emphasize the darker parts of the Roaring 20’s through Gatsby. He used Gatsby as a lens into the newly rich. Naive and clueless. Blinded by their wealth, and their passion.”

“That’s so… sad,” Jimin huffs. “I mean, Gatsby’s sad as it is, but knowing the context just makes it… sadder.”

You hum, a soft chuckle leaving your lips. Like there’s something uncanny to it, to this whole thing. “Well, people with power and popularity think that nothing they do is wrong.”

Before the clocktower chimes to signal the end of class, Jimin turns to you. You’re slowly putting away your belongings, humming a soft tune to yourself.

“Hey, I have Quidditch from three to six today, so I won’t be able to meet you until later,” he tells you.

You nod in understanding. “That’s fine,” you say. “I mean, I’ll be up there anyway, so you can just meet me there when you’re finished practice. Bring food.”

Jimin chuckles. “You ever seen a Quidditch practice before?”

You shake your head. “It’s not really my kind of thing. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not big on sports.”

“You can come to mine,” Jimin immediately invites. It is, admittedly, not as private as your owlery, but it feels right to return the favor, however he can. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“I don’t want to intrude,” you say, tentative.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Jimin immediately backtracks. “But it would be nice to have you there. You can see me look super cool as I fly around on a broom and toss balls at my teammates.”

“You don’t need to be on a broom to look cool,” you say, rolling your eyes. It’s a welcome ego boost for Jimin.

“Plus, afterwards we can just go straight to the owlery together,” Jimin suggests, seeing the practicality in it. In all actuality, he just sort of wants you there, but any sort of logical reason as your being there will help. “After dropping by the Great Hall to get dinner, of course.”

You giggle to yourself, nodding. “As long as you’re okay with it. I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“No, I don’t mind at all. I—I wouldn’t really mind having you there, you know,” he says, a little more shy. He swears, he can feel the faintest hint of warmth rush to his cheeks, and can only hope that the green in his robes counteracts the red in his skin.

With another nod, Jimin leads you the opposite direction of the owlery, taking you down to the field where the Slytherin team practices. You stick out like a sore thumb, golden Hufflepuff robes against not only the green in their uniforms but the green of the grass, as well. It’s clear you’re out of place, a little awkward and a little shy, but Jimin does his best to keep you comforted, telling you sit at an empty bench in the shade of a large oak tree as the rest of the team filters in. He promises that they won’t bother you, adding in a couple of glares to his mates as they walk past him. He trusts that any tormenting concerning the situation will be directed at him rather than you.

“Keep an eye out for me, yeah?” He tells you as he begins walking towards the back locker room, where his broom and practice robes are. “I promise I’m good.”

As Jimin comes back out of the locker room, sweaty, old practice robes draped over his body and Firebolt in his hands, one of his teammates punches him in the shoulder as they head towards the field.

“A girl, Park? Seriously?” He asks, motioning towards you. Jimin shoves off his teammate.

“So? What’s the big deal?”

“So? You don’t bring girls to Quidditch practice. You don’t bring girls anywhere, in fact. Park, when was the last time you seriously cared for relationships?”

“This is different,” Jimin insists. “We’re just working on a project together.”

“Sure,” his teammate says, not sounding very sure at all.

By the time they’re all on brooms, chucking around Quaffles and Bludgers, Jimin’s been given more than enough grief from his teammates about your presence there. He’s decently high up, so he can only hope you don’t hear his annoying teammates very obviously talking about you like you aren’t even there.

“Her again?” Joshua asks as he flies up to her, Bludger bat resting snugly in his hands. Joshua’s always been kind of aggressive, very forward. Beater was naturally the best Quidditch position for him. “You’re in deep, Park. Never thought you’d go this far just for a grade.”

Jimin opens his mouth to say something, tell Joshua he’s an asshole and that there’s more to this than just a grade, more to you than just your intelligence, but the Beater is already flying off, ready to practice his aim with the other Beater on the team.

Other than your appearance, practice is relatively boring. Every now and then, Jimin will look back down at you, check to see if you’ve abandoned him or not, and find you in the exact same position as before, resting on the wooden bench under the large oak tree with your notebook and pen in hand. He wonders what you’re doing. He always wonders what you’re doing.

Practice ends with the traditional Slytherin chant, a good luck charm for Friday. That is, if Jimin can get his Dreadful in Muggle Studies back up to something passing. If he can’t, Slytherin’s done for. Everyone bids everyone else a good night as they’re flying back down to the ground, heading towards the locker room to get changed and go do the rest of their nightly responsibilities.

“Hey,” Jimin says as he strolls up to you, broom in hand and sweat dripping down his forehead. He seems to catch you off guard, if the way you quickly tear a page out of your notebook like you’ve been caught doing something red-handed is anything to go by. “All done. Did you see me up there?”

You nod. “I have to say, you weren’t really as cool as you said you’d be.”

Jimin gasps, mock offended. “Lies! Blasphemy! I am very cool,” he says with a pout. “You try looking cool on a broom. It’s harder than it looks.”

“I have to admit I’ve never flown a broom before,” you concede.

“Wait, seriously?” Jimin says, pausing. “Never?”

You shake your head with a smile, like it’s something to be proud of. Jimin can hear his teammates filing out for the night, sending obnoxious wolf whistles his way as the two of you chat. Sometimes, Jimin really hates his friends. “I always skipped flying class. I hated it.”

“Well, that’s going to change,” Jimin decides then and there. “Come on, up.”

“Up? For what?” You ask, staying seated.

“I’m gonna teach you how to fly a broom.”

“Oh gods, no. I’d be awful at it,” you say, furiously shaking your head.

“No one’s awful at broom-flying,” Jimin promises. “Come on, please? I’ll teach you. I’m a great teacher, I promise.” He holds out his hand, motioning for you to take it.

You look from Jimin’s eyes, to the Firebolt in his hand, to the other one outstretched in front of you, like you’re not sure which one to trust most. A small smile graces Jimin’s lips, a promise etched on them. You take his hand.

“Okay,” Jimin says, standing in the middle of the field. It’s beginning to get dark now, the only lamps on the field the lights from the torches placed along the outside walls of the castle. It makes everything look a little warmer, makes you look like you’re glowing. “So you’re going to mount the broom, one leg on one side and one on the other—”

“This is extremely uncomfortable,” you deadpan.

“You get used to it, I promise,” Jimin says. “And then your hands just go on the front of the broom to balance yourself.”

Slowly, you lean forward on the broom, hands gripped tightly on the wood. It’s obvious you feel as though you’re about to topple over, but Jimin wouldn’t let that happen to you. Not in a million years.

“Here, like this,” Jimin says with a chuckle, reaching over to hold onto your hands, showing you the proper way to grip a broom. Your palms are sweaty from nervousness, and Jimin tries not to pay too much attention to the way he feels his heart jump a few beats at the touch. You let Jimin adjust you as he pleases until he’s satisfied with your form. “Okay. Kick off.”

“Oh, Jimin, I don’t know,” you say, the nerves coming up all at once.

“You can do it, Y/N,” Jimin says softly. “I believe in you. I’ll catch you if you fall. I promise. I’m right here.”

With a little more encouragement, you slowly push off the ground. The Firebolt Jimin has is certainly a more professional broom, but that doesn’t make it any more difficult to use, even for a beginner such as yourself. Its turns are smoother and tighter, aerodynamic enough to gain speed steadily but still quickly.

“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” you say, shouting, “Jimin, I’m doing it! This is—holy shit!”

“I knew you could!” Jimin calls back. You are by no means up very high, staying low to the ground in case you do end up falling off, but you complete a couple of loops around the practice field before touching back down on the ground, momentum sending you flying forward regardless. You topple off Jimin’s broom, doing a couple of rolls on the grass, coming to a halt a few meters away from where you abandoned his Firebolt.

Jimin rushes over to make sure you’re okay, only to find you laughing to yourself.

“See, I knew you could fly,” Jimin says with a grin, pulling you back up to your feet.

“That was actually kind of fun,” you admit, conceding defeat. Somehow, Jimin had a feeling you wouldn’t really be awful at flying the broom. You’re not awful at anything. You could never be.

“But the real question is, can you look as cool as me while flying?” Jimin jokes.

“I don’t know,” you say sarcastically. “I think I might have to learn a few more things from you.”

“Damn right,” Jimin says confidently, appreciating the subtle praise coming from your lips. “I’m the coolest Quidditch player around. Other Quidditch players cower in my presence.”

With a laugh, you say, “I’m sure they do. I really liked doing that, Jimin. It was very… exhilarating.”

Suddenly, Jimin gets an idea. “Would you like to try something?”

“What?”

“You’ll see,” he says suavely, smirk plastered on his face. He quickly runs over to grab his broom, settling himself on top of it, closer to the front of it than he normally sits. “Come on, hop on!”

“Are brooms meant for two people?” You ask, concerned. You’re starting to see where he’s going with this.

“It’ll be fine, I promise. Come on, Y/N. Please?” With hesitant steps, you make your way over to him, setting on the broom behind his body. “Wrap your arms around me. It’s alright, I promise I won’t let you fall. You’ll be alright.”

The moment Jimin feels your fingers resting securely on his stomach, arms wrapped around his torso, he takes off. You gasp, surprised by the sensation, but Jimin’s always been a decent flyer and the added weight is hardly a barrier for him. Six years of Quidditch playing under his belt alongside broomstick training since he was little makes for a pretty smooth ride.

“Oh my gods, Jimin, we’re so high,” you say, making the mistake of looking down. You must be at least ten meters above the castle walls now.

“Look up, Y/N,” Jimin instructs, flying around in circles once he’s reached a pleasant altitude. You follow his order, gasping softly when you do. It’s nighttime now, only the field’s edges illuminated by the warm yellow light of the torches, but darkness means a night sky above you, and more importantly, the celestial bodies within it.

“Oh Gods, it’s beautiful,” you say, and Jimin only wishes he could turn his head to see the look on your face, but your safety is decidedly more important. “I never—I never realized you could see them so close.”

“I thought you might like it.” Jimin grins to himself.

“Like it? I love it,” you exclaim. He feels one of your hands leave his waist, imagines that you’re reaching out above you, almost as if you can touch the stars with your fingertips. And as the two of you fly around on Jimin’s broom without another care in the world, your body pressed closely against his, warmth radiating through his robes, he knows for certain, then, that if you wanted to touch the stars, all you had to do was ask.

“Still, after all of that, he surely loved her. He must have,” Jimin presses, perhaps more for himself than for the purposes of the project.

“I don’t know, Jimin,” you hum to yourself. “I don’t really think he knew the full weight of his actions. It could have been misplaced.”

“But isn’t that the whole point of the story?” Jimin asks, looking at you. You’re hesitant to meet his gaze, but hold eye contact regardless, eyes flickering every now and then. “That even if Gatsby didn’t know what would happen to him, didn’t realize how ridiculous and ignorant he was being, he still found affection for her. Fitzgerald created a love story so sad that it uncovered the darkest secrets of the era.”

You look skeptical. “But could that have been true love? Was it real?”

Jimin scoffs. “Of course it was real. It was impossible for him not to fall in love with her.”

“Park, you coming tonight?” Seungcheol pops his head into Jimin’s dorm as Jimin’s putting away the last of his schoolwork, deciding that fuck it, he’s not gonna learn anything else about The Great Gatsby before his presentation with you tomorrow and that he might as well just enjoy himself tonight. Admittedly, a rager on a Tuesday isn’t the most appropriate timing for a party, but it’s Hogwarts, and there are no rules. Especially not in the Slytherin dungeons. Besides, even if they do get caught by administration, only the kids who organized the party will get in trouble for it. Jimin doesn’t arrange festivities—he just gets invited to them.

“Of course, who do you think I am?” Jimin says with a scoff. He shrugs off his large, drapey robes, laying it down on his bedsheets so only his dress shirt, tie, and slacks remain.

“Good,” Seungcheol says. “It’s not a party without you, Park!”

Jimin laughs. “I just gotta run and do something really quick, but I’ll be back in a flash. Save me some Felix Felicis!”

“Will do, Chief!” Seungcheol calls as he leaves Jimin to his own devices.

Jimin had mentioned the party his housemates were throwing tonight to you in passing, but neither of you had placed much emphasis on it over the past few days. But with the presentation less than twenty-four hours away, Jimin’s getting a bit antsy, desperate to let loose for a little, and he’d love to bring you with him. Perhaps work up enough courage to tell you how he feels about you.

He finds you sitting in the owlery, which may possibly be the furthest place from the Slytherin dungeons you could find. You’re playing with a couple of owls, some treats in your hand as you teach them tricks.

“Hey,” you say, not even looking up as you hear the door creak open. “What’s up?”

“There’s a party tonight in the Slytherin common room,” Jimin says in lieu of a hello. He’s really just trying to get straight to the point.

“Is that why you look all university casual?” You ask, looking up at him. Without his robe on, Jimin certainly looks much less dressy than he normally does.

“Maybe,” he says.

“So? Why are you telling me that Slytherin house is having a rager?”

“Because I want you to come,” Jimin says with a smile, a charming, mildly-sleazy one he hopes will get you off of the floor. “Please?”

“A party? That sounds like the very opposite of my ideal environment,” you say with your eyes wide. “What makes you think I’d want to go?”

“Well…” Jimin says, faltering. You’re right. From the short time in which Jimin’s gotten to know you, parties aren’t necessarily your cup of tea. In fact, they aren’t tea at all. They’re coffee. You’re a tea-drinker and parties are essentially coffee to you. Is he really that confident that he can convince you to come? “I’ll be there.”

“You’re that confident in yourself, huh?” You muse, smiling as you shake your head. “Think I’m gonna abandon my current evening plans just to hang out with you in a dingy dungeon filled with other Slytherins?”

“Yes?” Jimin feels less and less sure of himself as this conversation continues. He definitely went about this the wrong way.

“I’d be the only Puff there,” you mumble.

“No, you wouldn’t,” Jimin quickly responds. “All the houses are allowed to attend. Granted, it’ll be majority Slytherin, but there will be some other Puffs there. I promise.”

“You really want me at one of your parties, huh?” You ask, standing up. In the glow of the evening light, as the sun sets outside, far below the view from the owlery, you shimmer.

“Of course I do,” Jimin says like it’s hardly a question, because it’s not. The fact of the matter is: Jimin wants you beside him. “Just for a little, I swear. If you don’t like it we can leave and come back up here. I’ll sneak us some Felix Felicis. It’ll be a fun night no matter what.”

“If you say so,” you say with a sigh, pulling off your robes so all that’s left is your own dress shirt, tie, and skirt. Jimin doesn’t think you needed to take your robes off just for the occasion, but you look beautiful nonetheless. “Well? What are you waiting for? The sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave.”

The party is already in full swing by the time you and Jimin arrive at the door to the Slytherin common room. Someone’s cast a spell to muffle the noise from outsiders, so as to prevent this thing getting shut down instantly, though the parties almost always end before midnight anyway. The record player in the back has been enchanted to play music louder, though it can hardly be heard over the chatter and laughter in the room.

“Hey, Park!” People call as Jimin walks through the crowd, you close to his side. You’re holding onto his arm like it’s a lifeline, like losing him means imminent doom. Jimin waves to everyone he knows and even a few people he doesn’t, all of whom give you courteous nods of acknowledgement that you’re hesitant to return.

“See, it’s not so bad,” Jimin whispers in your ear as Seungcheol comes up to him with two glasses of Felix Felicis.

“Hey, Park! Is this where you ran off to?” He asks, motioning to you.

“Yeah,” Jimin says. “Y/N, this is Seungcheol. Seungcheol, Y/N.”

You send the smallest smile possible, one Seungcheol returns tenfold. “Nice to meet you. Here, I grabbed the both of you some Felix Felicis. Someone magicked them, so it tastes like fruit punch. Highly recommend!” Seungcheol bounces off, leaving you and Jimin each with cups of sparkling gold liquid in your hands.

“Bottoms up, right?” Jimin asks with a smile and a shrug.

You go along with him, clinking your glasses before downing the liquid. Jimin feels it rush through himself, lighting up his bloodstream. Real Felix Felicis is awfully difficult to brew, and much too valuable to be wasted on a shitty Hogwarts party, so this is a much more muted, cocktail-ed version of the potion, but Jimin swears the effects are all the same.

“Feeling any different?” Jimin asks after a little while. You’ve resigned yourselves to a couch in the corner of the room, away from the crowded center of the party, where the rest of Jimin’s friends are, in an effort by Jimin to make you as comfortable as possible. Not that he minds not being the center of attention—in fact, he quite enjoys just living in his own little bubble alongside you.

“A little,” you respond, leaning against him. Jimin pretends that his heart beats all the same, even if you’re pressed up against him. “You?”

“I’m feeling… lucky,” Jimin muses to himself, turning to you. You blink up, gaze meeting his own. Jimin feels like he could get lost in the sea of your irises, but maybe that’s just the drink.

“Is that so?” You ask, hazy grin plastered on your face.

“I think so,” Jimin says, leaning in. “I think the effects of the Felix Felicis are still there, even if it’s not the real potion.”

“Are you sure about that?” You ask, your lips slowly closing in on his own. He can feel each breath that leaves your mouth as you speak to him, feels the warm air hit his skin.

“Mind if I test my theory?” He says with a muted smile, closing his eyes.

You nod. “Go right ahead.”

Jimin leans in just a little further, eager to press his lips to your own, when, out of nowhere—

“Park!”

The two of you pull apart immediately, jerking away from each other like you’ve suddenly developed phobias of each other. Jimin turns his head to see Joshua strolling up to him. He’s already dreading this conversation.

“You never introduced me,” Joshua says, a little loopy. He’s definitely had too much to drink tonight.

Jimin sighs. “Josh, this is Y/N. Y/N, this is Josh,” he deadpans.

“Nice to meet you,” Joshua says with a bow, nearly toppling over as he does. “Jimin talks about you all the time.”

Jimin’s eyes widen.

“He does?” You ask, confused. You turn to Jimin, who’s already fearful of the direction this conversation is heading.

“Yeah,” Joshua says. “Says he’s real thankful that you’re helping him out with that Muggle Studies project of yours. He wouldn’t get to play in the Quidditch game on Friday if it weren’t for all the work you’ve put into the project to boost his grade.” Jimin can see the liquid luck in his body evaporating. “He really appreciates it all. Gotten all close to you just so he can see if he can muster up a good grade. ‘M thankful to you, too. We need our Chaser.” Jimin turns to you to find a horrified look on your face, brows slowly furrowing in anger. “Well, have a nice night.”

Joshua saunters off, leaving Jimin burning in the ashes as you turn to him.

“Is that it?” You ask, angry, voice certain. He thinks he can see your eyes watering. “Is that all you wanted from me? A good grade? So you could play in your fucking Quidditch game?”

“Y/N, no, that’s not it—”

“Really? Because that’s what it looks like to me. I trusted you, you know? I thought you trusted me, as well.”

“I do, Y/N, wait—”

You get up, clearly fuming, sniffing to hold back your tears. “You know I’ve had a crush on you since third year? Third year! And I was going to tell you after the project was over but I guess I don’t have to anymore.” You fumble in your pockets, searching for something, when you pull out a folded up piece of parchment. Jimin recognizes it as the one from your notebook, serrated at one of the edges. You toss it at him, letting it land at the floor at his feet. “Here. A parting gift.”

“Y/N, wait!” Jimin calls, stumbling after you, but you’re already out of the door in a flash, yellow tie disappearing down the hall before Jimin can run after you. When you’re gone, Jimin’s left standing speechless, like the whole world around him is turning and yet he’s frozen in place. The noise filters in one ear and right out of the other, the party going over his head as he stands there, foolishly hoping that you’ll return.

He walks over to the folded up piece of parchment, leaning down to pick it off the ground. Opening it up, he finds, drawn on it, a portrait of himself, done partly in quill ink and partly in pen ink. It’s of him smiling, his mouth open wide and his eyes crinkled up into crescents, wrinkled at the edges. At the bottom, a note:

Jimin,

You will always be my muse.

Y/N.

Jimin doesn’t realize he’s crying until he sees an angry splotch in the corner, seeping into the parchment and causing a bit of ink to bleed.

Overcome with emotion, Jimin storms over to where Joshua is, lounging on a windowsill with another cup of Felix Felicis in his hands. “Fuck you,” he bites, making Joshua jump back in shock.

“What’s gotten into you, Park?” He asks, frowning.

“Nothing,” Jimin spits. “You’re just a fucking asshole, you know that? You’re a dick.”

“What did I do?” Joshua asks, and Jimin can’t tell if he’s joking or not. Maybe he’s not. Maybe Joshua really did think Jimin was just trying to use you to get a good grade, but that doesn’t make him any less of a giant fucking tool. Regardless, Jimin doesn’t stay around long enough to give a response, storming up to his room and collapsing on his bed, the portrait fluttering to the ground beside him.

If Park Jimin was dreading have to give a Muggle Studies presentation the day he was assigned it, it pales in comparison to how much he truly does not want to give it the day of. You haven’t spoken a word to him since the party last night, barely even acknowledging him as he takes his seat next to you, in preparation for your project. Jimin feels like he’s lost all control of himself, his hair a disaster, face puffy and swollen, friend group a disaster and his crush refusing to speak to him. Not to mention, if he fucks up on this presentation he doesn’t even get to play in the Quidditch game on Friday.

“First up will be... Park and Y/L/N,” the professor says. Jimin definitely did not see this coming.

Slowly, the two of you trudge up to the front of the room, little pieces of parchment in your hands as cue cards, to a couple of wolf whistles from the friends Jimin is trying desperately to distance himself from.

“You may begin,” the professor croaks, pen in hand as he’s ready to take off marks for every little thing Jimin gets wrong.

Jimin clears his throat. He turns to look at you, but to no avail. Slowly, he begins. “The Great Gatsby is a story about a man in an unrequited love with a woman, willing to do anything to gain her favor. But more than that, it’s a story about love and loss, and about a time period in which everything seemed so great, that it became infected with poison.”

Slowly, the ten minutes allotted for each presentation tick by, you and Jimin speaking exactly on cue, like robots. The professor nods every now and then, writing something down here and there on the piece of parchment in front of him as the two of you continue.

“The Great Gatsby is more than just a love story,” you say, quickly glancing down at your parchment for a reminder. “It is a cautionary tale of love, warning readers of what happens when you devote yourself too much to a single person, and what happens when it inevitably fails.”

Jimin’s breath catches in his throat. Is this it? Is that how you feel? Is that what happened?

That’s supposed to be the last line of your presentation, and people begin applauding when Jimin clears his throat, desperate to say something else. “No, wait. It’s more than that, more than a cautionary tale of love.” For the first time in what feels like eons, you meet his eyes. Jimin can only hope you’ll trust him on this, let him have just this. “It reminds us that love can be blinding but sometimes, the passion makes it worth it. It reminds us that love is not a weakness, but a strength. And that sometimes, even if the results are deadly, it’s worth it.”

The room erupts into a soft applause, the enthusiasm of a class of tired, homesick teenagers absolutely electrifying. But, if it’s any consolation, Jimin meets his professor’s eyes, and he earns a nod in response.

After class, the professor calls Jimin up front for a moment. The time leaves Jimin antsy, as he’s desperate to speak to you, talk to you, say something. Explain himself.

“Mr. Park, you did well today,” the professor says.

“Really?” Jimin asks.

“Yes, you gave a very enlightening presentation. Did you learn a thing or two from Y/N?”

Jimin looks up to where you’re standing, gathering your items silently, keeping your eyes trained down. “I learned a lot from her,” he says.

“I can tell. You both received an Exceeds, so good luck on your Quidditch game on Friday,” the professor says. Jimin can’t help but wonder if it’s a grade he received slightly out of pity, but he’ll take it.

“Thank you, Professor,” Jimin says with a bow, eager to leave the room as he sees you doing the same.

“Oh, and Park, one more thing,” the professor says. Jimin turns to him, and the professor simply smiles, sage and wise. “Good luck with her, too.”

Jimin rushes after you.

Unsurprisingly, Jimin finds you in the owlery. Almost like you were waiting for him.

“Y/N,” he says.

“You went off script,” you say in response, refusing to meet his eyes. You’re standing by the window, watching as the winds move the clouds across the sky.

“I had to,” Jimin says, walking over to you.

“No, you didn’t,” you spit. “You wanted to. Because everything is what you want, isn’t it? I know that we got Exceeds. Congrats on your Quidditch game.”

“Y/N, please. It’s more than that,” he begs, reaching down to take your hand in his own.

You pull it away, turning to gaze into his chocolate eyes. “Is it, Jimin?”

“Yes, Y/N. It is,” he pleads. “Admittedly, I was happy to hear that you might be able to help me get my grade up but that wasn’t why I hung out with you, or asked you to show me the owlery, or taught you how to fly a broom. People always talked around about how strange and peculiar you were, but I knew that you weren’t weird. You were just different, and my friends are fucking assholes. I’m sorry for that.”

You turn away.

“Y/N, please, look at me. I did all of those things because I wanted to spend time with you. I shouldn’t have taken you to the party, though, I should have just spent the evening with you. I wanted to tell you how I felt about you, but I never got the chance. Y/N, you’re my muse.”

You turn to look at him, finally letting him capture your gaze. “Do you mean it?”

“Of course,” Jimin says. “I’m sorry for all of this. I just—I just want you.”

“You have me,” you whisper, sniffling slightly. Jimin swears he can feel tears welling up in his eyes as well, but he blinks them away.

And finally, after ages of waiting, of Jimin trying to muster up the courage but then chickening out, after days of dealing with his shitty friends and spending his hours up here in the owlery, he leans down and presses his lips to yours.

It’s a soft kiss, nothing deep, nothing angry, but passionate nonetheless. It feels like warmth blooming inside of him, from the inside out. Blossoming like the flowers in spring. You hum contentedly to the feeling of his lips on yours, and suddenly, everything feels alright.

When you part, Jimin can’t help but press another kiss to your nose, and then your forehead, your cheeks, and the corner of your lips, each light, feathery touch making you giggle. You settle in for the night on the cushions, letting a few owls roam about the room, speaking in hushed whispers of a future for the both of you.

“I know you said you’re not really a sports person,” Jimin begins. “But my Quidditch match is on Friday and I’d love it if you’d come. Not like, as my girlfriend or anything. Unless you want that.”

“Are you asking me to be your girlfriend, Park?” You tease.

“I’m also asking if you’d come to my game.”

You giggle, pressing a kiss to Jimin’s nose. This feels right. “Yes and yes. I’d love to.”

Friday afternoon, the bleachers are shaking from students, Hufflepuff and Slytherin filling up the stands as they watch their house teams play in the first game of the season. And even from all the way up there, as Jimin weaves in and out of the other players, tossing the Quaffle through one of the rings to score another ten points for Slytherin, he spots you standing in the bleachers, a girl in yellow amongst a sea of green, and he grins.

[gavalaa]

>> Back on my AU bullshit today we have my take on Shadow Akechi (which, newsflash, isn’t a very creative take hjfh)

>> I’ll be describing pretty much everything under the cut as to save space and not clog up your dash or explore :)

>> And fair warning, there are spoilers to Persona 5 under the cut. IDK why I have to say this since the games been out for like 3 years, but people ask me to warn spoilers anyways SO

Also warning, it’s pretty much me trying to make Akechi Good so if you aren’t an Akechi fan I would just keep scrolling fjhdsjfh

>> SO BAsically we all know he was planned to have a castle-palace so I played off that idea and scrounged up a page of doodles. I modelled his palace off of Buckingham Palace so I’ve been calling it Akechi’s Palace since there’s already a Castle in the canon game.

>> The shadows are designed off the Queen’s Guard and have blindfolds instead of masks, which plays into Akechi’s Justice Arcana. There would probably be like 2-3 types of shadows, including guard, maids inside the castle, and butlers.

>> The palace is in the middle of a large city which is covered in TV screens and media outlets, all of which would be playing recordings of his TV appearances. The palace itself is surrounded by a tall, sharp, and possibly electric fence which keeps out the general public, which Akechi sees as faceless figures. There are large crowds of people surrounding the palace at all points of the infiltration and are mostly comprised of interviewers, press, and media hosts and fans. (The palace would be post-Okumura when Akechi regains support.) The fence which surrounds the palace is large and creates a large empty space which would insinuate that Akechi feels isolated despite the attention he receives.

>> I had a lot of trouble coming up with keywords for Akechi, but I said “eff it” and came up with some bullshit. The first keyword is obviously his name, Goro Akechi. His distortion plays off his ‘special complex’ and would most likely have something to do with ‘remarkability’ or ‘uniqueness’ or something which would put him in control- something that would also foil off of his canon dialogue before his fate at the end of his confidant. The last word, being the place of the distortion, is Akechi himself. There is no one specific place I feel Akechi would see distortion, except within himself. In Futaba’s case, she was trapped in her room, however, Akechi gets out A LOT. I think he’d see any problems he had and whatever complexes he burdened within himself, and consider them completely self-contained. If it weren’t himself, it would be a concept like the media or press instead.

>> Akechi, the main man himself, is regarded as ‘Prince Akechi’ in his palace and has a very pleasant and almost snarky/childish demeanour upon first contact in the game. He welcomes the thieves into his court and is surprised to find anyone visiting him, and attempts to make small talk with them. Even in his most raw and honest state of being, Akechi is still very two-faced and is naturally a people-pleaser during the first phase of his palace. When you eventually tell him your intentions to steal his treasure, he ushers the thieves by saying “By all means, Thieves, you may certainly try.” 

He’s very charismatic, as you’d expect from Akechi, and scarily accurate to the real deal, however when you reach the second phase of his palace he becomes very cold, distant, and vulgar.

>> The palace would begin like any other, and your main infiltration point would be from a side room/kitchen in the back of the palace. You’d run through a good portion of it and see a lot of his distortion when it comes to the media, and how he sees it all wrapped under his finger and submitted to him. You’ll see how he sees the people of Japan who blindly followed the Thieves and his own words, and how little he thinks of people in general, like serfs or plebians. A very prideful display, and how his ego is fueled by the stupidity of the public. It would also insinuate all of the faked investigations that he undertook during pre-game instances.

However, once you reach a certain part of the Palace, you would begin to see a shift due to his two-faced nature. More information regarding his mother, father, and his situation become apparent as you travel further into the heart of his palace. His guilts, regrets, and his chaotic nature would be revealed as you come across his cognitive memories of what happened in his childhood. 

This part of the palace would be presided with Loki, and would very much represent all of his anxieties, guilt, and regressions as a person. (I have headcanonned for the longest time that Loki is more or less a manifestation of his anxieties and hatred and therefore only amplifies that- while Robin Hood is a manifestation of his ego and his guilt and only serves to amplify that.) This section of his palace would showcase everything.

Everything beyond this point would be treated in hushed whispers within the whole ‘prince/palace’ theme, like some sort of scandal (think like, gossiping court and such. very European drama) and it might even touch on the Prince being a bastard, and how Akechi sees even those close to him in operation will eventually turn on him, including the Thieves themselves. 

Yes, that’s right boys, there are cognitive versions of the thieves in this palace. The cognitive people who are shown to be within the Palace are people Akechi considers to be his own confidants in his own operations, including Sae, the SUI director, Shido, etc. you get the idea. He considers the Thieves to also be apart of this ring, and they are rather close to his heart/treasure, which could play off of what Morgana references in the final rank of the Justice Arcana. The thieves in his cognition, however, are ready to turn on him at any moment and are prepared to overthrow him in all manners of the idea. He doesn’t trust anyone, basically.

So yall probably wondering what the treasure is, since it’s a palace. Well boy howdy, do I have news for you!!! Because I’m like that I decided it would be interesting if Akechi posed a challenge in a different type of way-- in that he doesn’t have a treasure. 

The treasure is a physical manifestation of what first caused the distortion, however, I think that what caused Akechi’s drastic distortion isn’t something physical at all. I know he’s always been a little... not great... however, I think what really pushed him over the edge was his awakening to a persona. Due to that, I don’t think it would be as easy for them to just go in and out with stealing his treasure. I think that in this case, they’d truly have to steal his heart in more than one way.

Should the calling card be sent, Akechi is aware that the Phantom Thieves have infiltrated and cleared his palace, and therefore his own heart and mind should be aware of the fact that they are going to attempt to steal the ‘treasure’ however, this wouldn’t make a treasure appear, but make his Shadow more aware and conscience to the events.

They’d have to not only defeat his shadow but then furthermore convince it to change its own heart. They would have to essentially take all that they’ve learned from the palace and attempt to convince Akechi otherwise, i.e. (you can tell I’m an Akechi sympathiser and want him to be happy with friends and a good ending) by trying to get him to understand that he’s not alone and other things like that. 

The boss battle would be a little different and would initiate after a conversation where you have the opportunity to talk to him and try to reason with him, and Shadow Akechi would wield some sort of Robin Hood-esque persona/become something similar. Once you beat his first phase, you have another conversation with him before he lashes out, parallel to his boss battle in canon, and that's when the le epic sad times second phase begins when he transforms into a form far more befitting to his Loki/Chaotic side. After the defeat of his second form, you have the final conversation with him. If you were to say all the right things (like the godforsaken persona 4 ending dfjhdj) He would come to a resolve and believe you and the other thieves, and go back to Akechi, which would enact the change of heart, but in the event that you don’t say the right things, he will succumb to the guilt and regression of the second half of his palace/loki and Akechi will remain in the same toxic cycle he goes through in canon, or even has a psychotic breakdown or something similar to.

The palace would occur post-Sae, but pre-Shido, and should you successfully convince him and change his heart, he will lose his Loki persona and POssibly even Robin Hood in favour of an awakened form, and he could rejoin the team under better pretence. Should you not change his heart, he will either have a psychotic breakdown, or he will wait for you in Shido’s palace to confront you on it and attack you like in canon. (Idk, it’s honestly up for debate what happens if you don’t succeed with changing his heart) The end result would be Akechi sacrificing himself as per usual should the latter happen.

--

I don’t really know!!! But I like the idea and I’ll definitely build on it for fun and continue to draw for it. I’m sorry for any grammar mistakes or weird stuff, I’m disassociating at 2am and losing my last brain cell, so I hope you can make sense of my weird AU drabble that isn’t entirely realistic or good!

[creepercraftguy]

Ship meme for Komamura

I think this ship, while a slight crackship for me, is a bit underrated. I understand not wanting to pair these two, Nagito and Seiko in case you didn’t know who I was talking about, but this is purely my opinion. I never really ship Komaeda with anyone usually, but this ship is a fun one to talk about because of how obscure it is. Anyway, let’s get into it. Just so you know, I picture them as a couple that are basically a pair of self-deprecating dimwits who work together to love themselves as well as each other.

Who confessed first?

Nagito did, but it was mainly because he was complimenting Seiko on her talent and stuff and Seiko took it the wrong way. Neither of them regret that misunderstanding though.

Who initiated the first kiss?

Nagito probably. It’d sort of be on instinct I think, and they’d both be really embarrassed afterwards. It would probably be cute if Seiko took off her mask for him.

Who asks the other out on dates?

Hard to say, but maybe Nagito, since Seiko would be a bit too skittish.

Who is the bigger cuddler?

Nagito likes cuddles, but is a little too nervous to do them. Seiko is also nervous, but whenever she suddenly holds Nagito close, he returns the love.

Who initiates holding hands more often?

Similarly to Mikan, Seiko will do it naturally. Nagito is filled with warmth whenever she does and sometimes refuses to let go.

Who remembers anniversaries?

Nagito for sure remembers them. He remembers any important date so long as it’s about her.

Who is more possessive?

Nagito is pretty willing to spend time with Seiko. Seiko also needs to keep an eye on Nagito to stop him doing anything weird when someone, usually Ruruka, says something about Seiko that he doesn’t agree with.

Who gets more jealous?

Definitely Nagito, but that’s the normal Nagito style “I’m envious of your talent, you’re such a great ultimate” jealousy. 

Who is the most protective?

While not really showing much care usually, he often stands up to Seiko’s haters/bullies whenever he finds them talking shit. Seiko is usually there to stop him doing something he’d regret though. 

Who initiates sexy time the most?

“Sexy time” is a bit much. Usually Seiko’s the one who initiates it though.

Who dislikes PDA (Public Display of Affection)?

Nagito can get a bit carried away at times, but neither he nor Seiko really care for it that much.

Who kills the spider?

Seiko isn’t scared of spiders, so she’ll take them outside. Nagito accidentally steps on it, or squishes it.

Who asks the other to marry them?

Honestly, I think Seiko would be the one to ask. Nagito would probably never have even considered getting married to Seiko, let alone dating her. I think it would take a bit of prompting from her friends to actually do it though. I see Ruruka, Sonosuke and maybe Yukizome being wingmen for her. Similarly, if the roles were reversed, I see Chiaki, Hajime and maybe Mikan trying to convince Nagito to do it first.

Who buys the other gifts?

I don’t think either of them are casual gift givers, but I picture Nagito going all out with gifts when it’s Seiko’s birthday. Even after it’s all over, he still gives her gifts, and Seiko’s like “My birthday was a few days ago though...” and Nagito’s like “I don’t care! I love you!”

Who would first bring up the idea of having kids?

This is a challenging one. I honestly don’t think either of them would plan to have a kid, and Seiko would just get pregnant naturally, you know? By that I mean they made a child without even realising it. However, I see Nagito welling up with tears of joy at the reveal, like, he’s not upset or disappointed at all, which Seiko wouldn’t really expect. I think they’d be good parents and the child would be born very healthy. Maybe this whole thing was a result of Ultimate Luck?

Who is more nervous to meet the others parents?

It’s hard to say what kind of people either of their parents are. I think Nagito’s parents passed away though, due to an accident that happened on a plane, but assuming their not gone in this non-despair AU of sorts, I’m gonna say that Seiko would be nervous to meet Nagito’s parents, because they’re apparently very wealthy and high-class people, and she’d be worried about meeting their standards.

Who sleeps on the sofa/couch when the other is angry?

I don’t think Seiko or Nagito would usually get angry at each other, but I think most arguments stem from Nagito’s unnecessary actions for the sake of hope. Seiko would get pretty mad and storm into the bedroom, and Nagito would probably stay on the couch, but not actually sleep.

Who tries to make up first after arguments?

It could go two ways. Nagito would apologise to Seiko whenever they get a moment together in privacy, and he’d pour his heart into his apology. He’s not the type of person who changes that easily, and most of his actions are instinctive, but he knows that’s no excuse and tells Seiko that he loves her and cares about her, not wanting to make any problems, and Seiko would usually forgive him. The other way, which relates to the first question, is that after realising Nagito isn’t getting any sleep on the couch, Seiko would go and lay with him, and they’d make up from there.

Who tells the other they love them more often?

I obviously think Nagito would.

Who accidentally pushes a door instead of pulling it or vice versa?

Nagito never knows when to push or pull a door, but whatever he does, it always works. Seiko does this.

Who doodles little hearts over the desk with their initials inside?

Nagito does it, but never remembers doing it. Someone will eventually call him out on it and show him, and he’ll be surprisingly embarrassed. 

Who starts the tickle fights?

Nagito will randomly find where Seiko is ticklish and things will escalate from their.

Who starts the pillow fights?

Similarly to what I said about Sayaka and Leon, Seiko usually pillow fights with Ruruka, and then Sonosuke and Nagito both get dragged in and involved.

Who is the last to fall asleep while watching the other with a warm smile?

Nagito.

Who kisses the other awake in the morning?

Seiko.

Who mistakes salt for sugar?

Seiko is naturally a bit more noticeable of this, since baking isn’t too dissimilar to when she adds things to her medicines. Nagito wouldn’t make the mistake, but would more than Seiko, that’s all I’m saying.

Who let’s the microwave play the loud beeping sound at 1am in the morning?

Nagito. Seiko usually turns it off.

Who comes up with the cheesy pickup lines?

Seiko. She tries a little too hard to be flirty sometimes. 

Who rearranges the books in Alphabetical Order?

Both of them.

Who licks the spoon when baking?

Seiko. Nagito sometimes does the same after, making an indirect kiss.

Who buys candles for dinner, even when there’s no special occasion?

Nagito, but neither of them really.

Who draws little tattoos on one another with a pen?

Seiko draws funny things on Nagito.

Who comes home with a souvenir/fridge magnet whenever they go on holiday?

Seiko probably.

Who convinces the other to fill out those couple surveys that you usually find on the back of magazines?

Seiko would probably ask, but read them herself first.

Who has the other as their phone background?

Nagito, amazingly enough.

Who leaves notes written in fog on the bathroom mirror?

I see Nagito doing this for a bit of a joke.

Who asks if they can join the other in the shower?

I picture something pretty funny with this. With hus Ultimate Bullshit Luck power, I think Nagito would accidentally walk in on Seiko while she’s in the shower. I think she’d invite him in, or ask him to wash her back her. 

Who loudly proclaims their love while drunk?

Nagito has pretty high alcohol tolerance. Seiko isn’t loud drunk, but is grumpy drunk, so she’d proclaim their love furiously while drunk.

[shhh-no-ones-home]

ambiguous chris motionless x reader

+++++++++ Okay so I had a dream similar to this and was like 'yes, must write.' then I realized that y'all probably wouldn't like the actual dream cause it turned into some weird form of the Halloween movies with my family rather than the band and it was just super weird, trust me. So I wrote the first half with some changes lol.

then I was listening to miw on shuffle and thought this song worked perfectly for this weird dream I just had and I've never written an miw fic to an miw song so if it's odd listen to something else? 🤷

ngl she unedited, ill probably re-edit in a week or two, ope

Song: brand new numb by motionless in white

tag list: @thisplace-ishaunted @ryansitkowskiswifey @alilpunkrock @theoneandonlykymberlee @svintsandghosts @cynic-spirit +++++++++

I sat at the table on the bus and doodled. It had been a slow night and everyone was out partying still. So I sat alone. Then I heard the door click.

"Hello."

I called out like I normally did, not turning around to see who had actually come in the door.

"Hi."

Chris said a little out of breath. I just kept sketching. I looked up at him briefly to see him open the fridge but returned my attention to my drawing.

"Back so soon?"

I asked, Shading in one of my doodles. He hummed back a yes before sitting right next to me. Really close too. I looked up at him before looking across me at the empty booth. He could have sat over there but no he chose to practically sit on me he was so close.

"Can I help you?"

I asked, trying to scoot a little closer to the wall. He just took another drink.

"Nope."

I scrunched my brows together, shook my head, and went back to doodling.

"That's cute."

He said. I looked up at him admiring my half worked bullshit and shrugged.

"Thanks."

He leaned forward on the table and stared at my paper. After a few minutes it started to get to me.

"Okay, what is your deal?"

I tossed my pencil to the table and sat back, crossing my arms over my chest and looking at him. He just shrugged.

"Do I have to have a deal? I'm just enjoying your company."

I sent him a look.

"Well that's a first. I thought you hated me."

He laughed a little bit.

"Why would I hate you?"

"Really? You want me to go through all the times we've been at each other's throats on little shit? How we avoid each other all the time?"

He shook his head.

"Okay fine, those things may be true but I don't hate you. If anything I admire you."

I loosened my arms a little bit, confusion written all over my face.

"You admire me?"

He nodded.

"Of course I do. You're a super strong leader and you get shit done. I guess it just seems like I hate you cause I'm jealous. I wanna be like that but half the time no one listens cause I'm just another one of the guys. And like we share ideas and stuff but it's never the same."

He pouted a little bit and I just laughed in disbelief.

"You're jealous of me? Holy shit."

He looked back at me, brow raised.

"Is that really that hard to believe?"

I leaned forward into the table like he had done.

"All this time I just thought it was cause I was pushy and spoke my mind and don't take shit from anyone."

He nodded.

"That's exactly what it is, but I don't hate you for it, I admire you for it. Do you know what I would give to be like that? To not let things bother me? To speak my mind with out thinking of the consequences? To push back and take what's mine?"

I held my hands up in defense.

"Okay okay, I get it. But the thing is half the time I don't even realize I'm doing it. I've gotten so used to it I don't even notice. It's just who I am now."

He nodded in understanding.

"Do you think you could teach me?"

I raised a brow.

"You willing to let me be around you that often? Cause it takes time."

He thought for a second and side nodded.

"I think so, yeah."

I smiled at him.

"Then sure, if love to help you unlearn being a push over."

He sent me a testing look.

"Okay we both know I'm not a push over. I know what I want, when I want it, and how I want it. I just need a little help on the execution, and making people see things my way."

I laughed a little bit.

"You know this is gonna make us a very dangerous team right? Someone as up front as you and someone as pig headed as me? The teams gonna be ready to kill us both by the time tour is over."

He shrugged.

"Not necessarily, no one said we had to stop being fun."

I laughed at him.

"I guess you're right."

I shook my head and looked back to my drawing, picking up my pencil.

"Was there anything else you wanted to get out of the way while you are sitting oh so close to me or...?"

I looked up at him and he had a huge smile plastered on his face.

"Actually yeah but you gotta say yes or no first."

"So I have to answer the question before I even know what it is?"

He nodded.

"Just tell me, yes or no."

I sighed and shook my head.

"Fine, I'll go with yes."

His eyes lit up.

"Great!"

Before I knew what was happening I was kissing him back like my life depended on it. His one hand was placed firmly against my back, not that I could back any further away or anything. Our lips moved together until I couldn't breathe anymore. I pushed him away and we both panted.

"What was that?"

I asked between breaths. He just smiled at me.

"Well the question was would it be alright if I kissed you? And with the way you were kissing me back if day you chose right."

He winked at me and I shook my head.

"What if I would've said no?"

He just shrugged.

"Guess I would've left."

I laughed and wrapped my arms around his neck.

"Guess it's a good thing you didn't."

I pulled him to me and kissed him again, deeper this time. As we moved against each other I felt him slide his hand down my thigh, bringing my legs into his lap and leaning into me. I held him to me as we made out. That is until Ryan walked onto the bus.

"You dog!"

He laughed, causing us to pull away from each other.

"Please don't tell anyone."

I said quickly, turning to ryan. He just smirked at me.

"No promises."

We both looked at each other panicked until I noticed Chris's makeup smeared all over his face and started laughing. Chris and Ryan just exchanged glances.

"What's so funny?"

I wiped my mouth with my arm and just shook my head at the long smear of black along it now. I just shook my head.

"Nothing, let's just say there would be evidence if anyone else came on."

He cocked an eyebrow before I pull d him to me and kissed him gently.

"Maybe you should go take the rest of your makeup off."

His eyes went wide before he rolled his eyes at himself.

"Shit, I forgot."

As he stood up he pointed at Ryan.

"Not a word to anybody."

Ryan just held his hands up in defense.

"Not a word."

[aelysalthea]

The Secret Lives of Neil Josten

Chapter 3: Dan's Academic Pursuits

Dan was bored already. Bored when it wasn't even the end of her first class? It made for a long semester to come.

Mathematics wasn't really a choice she'd wanted to make. Even Introductory Statistics was so far out of her realm of expertise that it would be a struggle, regardless of how often Matt preached that it was "only a first-year subject". Dan wasn't a math person.

Unfortunately, that didn't mean she wouldn't take it. It would be useful, she knew, just as she'd known that Introductory Mathematics would be to her benefit in the long haul. It would. Hopefully. Surely her arduous struggle two years before couldn't be for nothing.

The first class of Statistics wasn't setting a good precedent for successive lectures, however. The lecturer was a younger man, thin and plain, unremarkable but was a remarkably boring voice which he used to make a dull subject seem even duller. He spoke at the room rather than to the students and seemed to forget for the better part of the class that he had an audience at all. That, and that the words he droned and the solutions he detailed were in perfectly legible font on the screen overhead.

There wasn't a need to read it out when Dan was fairly sure that everyone in the class could read. Almost one-hundred percent sure.

"This was a bad idea," Kelsey muttered at her side exactly fifty-four minutes into the lecture. Professor Drone-A-Lot looked to be only contemplating the prospect of wrapping up. "A really, really bad idea."

Dan nodded in heartfelt agreement. She and Kelsey weren't really friends, just as she wasn't really friends with Thomas at her other side, or Jackson another chair along. She didn't even know the girl who sat on Kelsey's other side but to recognise her as a fellow athlete. They tended to group together these days, and especially the seniors. Juggling a sports-life and college studies was nothing short of a circus act.

If Dan had her choice, however, she would have sat with one of her Foxes. Even a freshman would have been better than Kelsey the netballer or Thomas, who played - what did he play again? Hockey, was it? She couldn't remember. Unfortunately, a quick glance around the enormous, ominous, mostly full lecture hall when she'd first stepped through the doorway hadn't spotted any of her own. That in itself was strange, because Dan could have sworn she had one. A valuable one, too. Neil was reportedly good at math, or so Matt had claimed the previous year.

The professor was still droning, still dictating what was already written on the screen over his head, by the time Dan's watch ticked onto the hour. As if to the sound of a bell, motion rippled through every student. No one spoke, not a one interrupting the professor, but unspoken agreement sounded the end of class. A sidelong glance saw the boy at the end of Dan's row slink into the aisle, twisting in place to scuttle up the stairs and through the door in short order. He wasn't even the first one to leave.

"Should've picked a spot closer to the door," Thomas murmured, and Dan nodded again. A shuffle behind her signalled more escapees, and though the professor seemed to be making an attempt to wrap up the session, she didn't wait for him to properly finish. Her notes were minimal at best, and she hadn't written a word for the past twenty minutes. Scooping her bag from beneath her feet, Dan swept pens and books within and was scooting along the line of seats in Kelsey's wake before she'd even zipped it shut.

"Don't be the last one in," Kelsey's friend whispered over her shoulder, teeth flashing in a grin. "I heard from Monica that this guy sometimes tries to keep lecturing to anyone that gets caught behind if they hang around."

Kelsey gagged and Dan gave a shudder that wasn't wholly theatrical. Snickering with the rest of her not-quite friends, she hastened up the stairs in then thickening stream of escaping students - only to pause at the top. Thomas nearly ran into her from behind with a muted yelp.

"Dan," he scolded, but didn't wait for a reply before skirting around her and making through the doorway. Dan barely noticed. Hitching her bag over her shoulder, she slipped instead down the line of desks and seats along the back row, the chairs already emptied, and paused alongside the only one that still held an occupant.

"I thought I remembered seeing you'd picked statistics this semester," she said, not bothering to dampen her voice anymore. The ruckus of escapees had climbed to careless abandon, drowning out the vestiges of the professor's words. "I didn't see you come in."

Neil started slightly, snapping his attention from his notepad up towards her. He blinked owlishly for a moment, as quietly disconcerted as he always was when someone 'crept up' on him, even if he did seem to be getting better with it these days. When he realised it was only Dan, he eased immediately, shoulders releasing their tension.

"Hey," he said, sitting back in his chair and dropping his pen onto the notepad. "I came in at the last second."

"I'll say. I thought I was cutting it close and you got here after me." Dan propped herself against the desk alongside Neil's. "You're sitting with me next time, though."

Neil cocked his head. "Hm? Why?"

"Because you're good at math."

"I'm not that good at math. I just enjoy it."

"Bullshit. And that's weird."

Neil shrugged. "It's fun."

It's scary that he's not even joking, Dan thought with a mental roll of her eyes. Once, she probably wouldn't have been able to discern Neil's blank-faced humour from sincerity, but it was a little more apparent these days. In this instance, he was definitely being honest. "So weird," she said, shaking her head. "Come on, though, throw me a bone. I'm in my last year and could use all the help I can get."

"If you're not good at statistics then why did you pick it?" Neil asked.

"Because it'll be useful."

"I suppose. For you."

"I'll do a trade with you," Dan offered, turning against the desk to drop her elbows onto the back of the chair instead. "You're taking psych this semester, right? I'll give you my notes and even help you read my scrawl, and you can -"

Gesturing at Neil's notepad, Dan waved an indicative hand. It wasn't for lack of necessity that her words died, however. Her offer abruptly sidelined, Dan straightened and peered at Neil's paper. "What is that?"

Neil followed the line of her gaze. "What is what?"

"That." Dan pointed at a square of the page, barely post-it sized and covered in arching lines of pen. "Did you draw that?"

Neil shrugged, shoulders regaining some of their tension, but Dan barely noticed. She was more concerned with the pictures in black ink that the bleached the paper, making a mockery of the blue lines and disregarding any notes that Neil had taken above it.

It was difficult to discern just what it was that she was looking at, for it seemed a part of something larger. Like a jigsaw puzzle piece isolated from its kin, what appeared to be a landscape image in immaculate detail and various intensities of shading consumed the square piece. The outline of a tree trunk, gnarled knots at its base and twisted branches extending higher. Tufts of grass stretched from its roots, and debris surrounded its base. Foliage and stunted bushes, a shrivelled flower and a misshapen rock. Something that looked like the shadow of an animal – a fox maybe? – and something else that looked far more sinister but less discernible.

As Dan drew her gaze across the picture, she shook her head slowly. It was… unexpected, to say the least. She couldn't have withheld the wondering smile that grew on her lips if she'd tried.

"Neil, you drew this yourself?" Dan asked without really needing an answer.

"It's just doodling," Neil said.

Dan ignored that uncomfortable edge to his tone. She reached for the notepad, fingers trailing over the surface made bumpy by the footprints of the pen. "This is really good."

"What?"

"Yeah, it's - Neil, you're a really good drawer."

"Not really."

Dan shot him a glance. "Don't tell me I'm wrong. You suck at school work in everything that isn't math or, like, Spanish or whatever else you and Andrew decided to take up at the moment -"

"It's Russian, actually," Neil said.

"Whatever. What I'm saying is that I know you suck at things, but this," she tapped the picture with a finger, "does not suck."

Neil shrugged tightly again. His face bore the kind of closed blankness of discomfort that Dan knew so well of him, and the tension in his shoulders bespoke it even more. Why he should find such a thing uncomfortable Dan didn't know, but she'd learned a long time ago not to ask. It would be an unkindness when the answer could potentially dredge forth bad memories. Neil had a lot of those, and they were often sparked by the most unexpected triggers.

Straightening, sparing a last glance for the artistic spread of penmanship, Dan forced aside the urge to explore it further. "Well, whatever," she said. "It's not like it's relevant, just kind of cool. You won't be completely distracted doing drawings in every statistics class, will you? Because that would be a problem if I'm planning to mooch off of you. And if you actually want to pass."

When Neil slowly shook his head, Dan gave a short nod. "Good. That's good then." Another nod pointed towards the doors, almost vacated of fleeing students. "Let's go, then. We don't want to get trapped by Professor Mitchell, right? Apparently he has a tendency of doing things like that."

Dan didn't wait for Neil to agree. She barely waited long enough to be sure he was packing his gear away and rising to follow her. Leading the way from the lecture hall, Dan shrugged the incident aside, even if she did stick a mental pin into the reminder.

Neil had been, and likely always would be, something of an enigma. It seemed that, even without trying to hide it, he had a wealth of secrets buried just beneath the surface. Dan found herself smiling as she cast a glance over her shoulder at Neil, his chin tucked and head bowed in utter contrast to how he usually held himself on the court but nothing if not typical of what she'd seen of him in the college hallways.

Always secrets and accidental revelations. Dan doubted they'd ever stop coming, though if they were as curiously unexpected as this latest discovery was, she found she didn't mind finding them out piece by piece. Not anymore.

***

When Neil returned to Fox Tower that afternoon, the room was silent. Such wasn't uncommon, both when it was empty and when either of his roommates were present; more often than not Kevin would be sprawled on his bed with headphones on and oblivious to the world, or Andrew at a window deliberately ignoring anyone around him. Neil didn't care. He was just as often blotting his surroundings out himself.

Dumping his bag at his desk, he dug through its contents briefly before disregarding delicacy and upending it and tipping the contents out. As he flipped through his books, the door opened behind him and he glanced over his shoulder.

"Hey," Neil said as Andrew entered, gravitating towards his own desk to offload his shoulder bag. Its thud was surprisingly heavy given Neil knew he rarely carried books with him, though he'd never asked just what Andrew filled it with instead.

Andrew tipped his head in an acknowledging nod before turning towards the kitchen. "I'm hungry," he said.

In anyone else, Neil probably would have ignored such a comment. When it came from Andrew, there was question, offer, and suggestion wrapped up in the two simple words. Flipping through his extracted notebook, Neil followed after Andrew.

"There's mac 'n' cheese on the bottom shelf," he said.

"You don't like that," Andrew said, turning to the pantry.

Neil shrugged. He wasn't hungry anyway, and even if he hadn't a taste for the goop, Andrew liked it. "I don't care."

Andrew crouched before the shelves as Neil dropped onto his own haunches before the fridge. He rearranged the collection of magnets, crumpling a couple of brochures Kevin had stuck up, a receipt that Kevin said was important but definitely wasn't, and tore the sheet of his statistics notes from the book.

"You hid it," Andrew said behind him, shuffling through tins and boxes for the admittedly hidden box.

"Kevin would have tossed it otherwise," Neil said.

"Asshole."

"He's kicked up his game on dieting this season for some reason."

"We have diet plans already. Let him suffer alone. He shouldn't inflict his poor life choices onto others."

Neil snorted as he rearranged the fridge magnets, adding his paper to the motley collection. He could agree with Andrew's sentiment, if only in part. Without a dark cloud hanging over Kevin's head that year, he seemed to have launched himself into the life of a committed athlete with a vigour that put his previous attempts to shame. That meant monitoring every mouthful, and not only of his own meals but frustratingly those of every teammate. He'd nearly gotten his throat cut when he threatened to throw out Andrew's tub of ice-cream barely two weeks before.

Rocking back onto his heels, Neil glanced over his shoulder to where Andrew was pulling pots out of the cupboard before turning back to the mosaic on the fridge. The collection of paper pieces, torn slips in some instances and larger chunks of pen-lined paper in others, consumed most of the lower half of the fridge door, overriding what had once been cluttered with Kevin's choice of 'relevant' content in the form of pictures, newspaper clippings, and loud advertisements. In Neil's opinion, what took its place was distinctly better.

The image hadn't rhyme, reason, or intention behind it, but somehow each picture-piece contributed to the whole. What had started as an offhanded doodle, something sketched mindlessly in the boredom of a classroom, had expanded into something more. A crevasse in a tree that evolved into the entirety of that tree, had produced a branch, a root, and then the shadow of another alongside it. The arch of a hill scattered with clumps of dirt, pawprints, and grass flattened by a departed foot.

What had started as an offhanded glance over Andrew's shoulder, a simple request and a chipped magnet to hold it in place had expanded. Hours of mindless scratchings in the back of classrooms when he could have been prepping for the end of year exams, sitting in silence and barely attending to the movements of his pen, unintentional but subconsciously deliberate nonetheless. The result was an expanse of fragmented but somehow continuous depictions in lead or ink. To look at it, Neil could determine in an instant which scraps of paper and sketched images were his own and which were Andrew's. It was somehow satisfying to see them all click together.

He didn't know why Andrew drew. He didn't know if he even liked to do it or if he simply… did it.

Neil didn't know why he drew, either. He couldn't have said if he liked it, or if he was good at it as Dan had suggested at the end of their earlier class. He just… did it.

"That's the third one," Andrew said from behind Neil.

Neil cocked his head, arms folding as he glanced over the mishmash pieces of the picture they'd unintentionally made. "Third what?" he asked.

"Fox."

Neil eyed Andrew sidelong. Andrew was regarding his latest addition with his usual hooded, nonchalant gaze. It was difficult to get a read on him sometimes, still difficult even after over a year of knowing him, but Neil thought he knew. In this instance, with the beats of silence and staring, Neil thought he knew.

He shrugged. "So long as you're okay with it," he said, turning towards the cupboard to extract a pair of bowls.

"I didn't say I liked it."

"Neither did I."

"It's a little obsessive if anything."

"Yeah, well, it's typical of me. Right?" When he turned, Neil found himself the focus of Andrews attention. He stared back silently, expectantly, but Andrew only rolled his eyes, returning to his mac 'n' cheese. Neil followed behind him. "Your turn next," he said, just as he always did as an unnecessary reminder.

"Whatever," Andrew replied. "If I can be fucked. The entire pastime is growing increasingly pointless."

"So you agree it had a point at least at some time?" Andrew didn't reply but Neil shrugged anyway. "Then I guess it doesn't matter."

Andrew still didn't reply, didn't confirm, but though Neil had never partaken in the betting habits of his teammates, he would confidently wager there would be another addition before the end of the week.

[ohblackdiamond]

till it shines (peter/paul, nc-17)

"Look, I'm not gonna quit, I swear. If we have to end the tour, we have to end the tour. We get dropped from the label, we get dropped from the label. We lick our wounds and we try somewhere else. But until then, we got awhile in this hotel." "And no shows." "Yeah." During a five-day lull in concerts, stranded in an Atlanta hotel, Peter and Paul find a means to entertain themselves.

Notes: Inspired and based to a heavy extent on a very lovely, NSFW fanart concerning Paul's on-tour artistic endeavors. No, not the ones he showcases in galleries. 

“till it shines”

by Ruriruri

It was the last day of the Gay Kitchen, with honorable maitre d's, cooks, servers, and busboys Peter Criss and Paul Stanley manning KISS' dwindling hotel fridge and supply closet. At least, it was supposed to be. Peter didn't know if after last night, it was still on the table.

At first, they'd really wanted to go all-out with the band dinners, but their budget hadn't permitted it. One last hurrah before they had to limp back to New York, with a single failed record to their names and all the notoriety of four strays in a junkyard. Back to Lydia for Peter-and Lydia wasn't so bad, Lydia wasn't so bad at all; she'd supported him through worse screw-ups and disappointments, but it was what she represented. A guy who still wasn't paying the bills four years into the marriage wasn't any better than a bum. She'd thought she'd found somebody who'd be going places. She'd been wrong.

For Paul, the prospect of going home was just as disastrous. At least, that was how he made it out to be. He'd get into these depressed rambles about his parents and his sister and his niece and how coming back just wasn't an option.

"Not an option? C'mon, you were in college, what, a couple of quarters-"

Paul had winced and licked his lips, a quick, nervous tic Peter had gotten far too accustomed to seeing as the band's money situation worsened.

"I only went a week. Don't tell Gene." And a swallow. "Look, it's stupid. I know. But I was born to play rock and roll, okay?"

"You're preaching to the fucking choir."

"I mean. if I can't do this, if I can't make this happen, I might as well not be here. This is the only outlet I've got."

Peter had rubbed the back of his neck and tried not to groan. Overblown as ever. Paul thought Peter was the dramatic one, the tetchy one, just because he had enough balls to address what was pissing him off instead of keeping it to occasional bitchy comments. Paul never seemed to hear his own whines.

"You think you're the only one with a dream around here?" Peter couldn't even bite back the rest. "How old were you when the Beatles got on Ed Sullivan? Ten?"

"Twelve," Paul had grumbled back. "Don't make this an age thing-"

"I was just out of high school. And I was already in bands-"

"Pete, I know, I know already. You keep telling me." Paul heaved a sigh. "You keep telling all of us."

"You've got to pay your dues, that's all it is."

"Got to pay your dues if you wanna sing the blues." The right edge of Paul's mouth was starting to perk up.

"Yeah." Peter tugged absently at his bangs, trying not to let himself get too good a look at what he'd been seeing since before he even auditioned for KISS. The semi-permanent dye they all used worked fine on brown hair, but past that first wash, it was useless on gray. The streaks were more obvious against the jet-black backdrop than they'd ever been when he left his hair alone. "Look, I'm not gonna quit, I swear. If we have to end the tour, we have to end the tour. We get dropped from the label, we get dropped from the label. We lick our wounds and we try somewhere else. But until then, we got awhile in this hotel."

"And no shows."

"Yeah." No shows for the next five days at least. Their last pitiful handful of concerts, they'd opened for some redneck band. Outlaws or something. That was another depressing thing. Peter had always expected to at least be friendly with the bands they were the lead-in for, but they'd only been met with indifference at best and hostility at worst. Never ended up opening for the same band more than a few times, either. It just made the whole tour all the lonelier.

He realized after a second that Paul was staring at him. The guy had a weird stare. Kind of like a broke bagboy waiting on his tip, or maybe just like a girl who was really hoping for a proposal. Big-eyed, eager, and not remotely calculating. It might have pissed Peter off, if Paul didn't always follow it up with an abashed grin once he was caught.

"You're thinking about something," Paul said, before Peter could make the accusation himself.

"Yeah. I'm thinking we all need cheering up."

"You need cheering up, Peter."

"You just finished telling me you'd die if you didn't make it, Paul." He paused, still staring at the fridge. "And fuck, I'm gonna die if I have to eat at McDonalds one more time."

"Well, they've got Steak 'n Shake here, if you'd rather."

Peter groaned.

"Not when you're in a fucking blouse and heels. The crowd thinking we're fruits is bad enough." Before Paul could even stammer out a protest, something about it being rock and roll, or about needing more practice in the heels-God, c'mon-Peter continued. "No. I thought we could make our own dinner while we're here. Really make it, not just sandwiches and shit. Real food. We got the kitchen for it. And it'd save Bill some money. You know how to cook, right?" He knew Gene didn't. Ace just wouldn't.

"I'd hope so. My mom started leaving us home alone when I was eight."

"Poor, poor little Paulie." Peter rolled his eyes. "We could-we could make it themed, even. Make out like it's a restaurant. Menus and shit. Invite the guys down for dinner."

Paul brightened, which surprised him. Usually he'd be sore for hours over the slightest crack at his expense, like some spoiled, anxious kid. But for once, he actually seemed excited.

"Like Italian one night, maybe? We could make pizza."

"Yeah, sure, lemme get a shopping list going."

After three beers apiece, they'd named their restaurant the Gay Kitchen, decided they'd act the part of its bent proprietors, and written up a menu full of double-entendres. An hour later, still drunk, they'd pooled their money and ventured out to town in jeans and the lowest of their heels. They'd bought twenty bucks' worth of groceries, which should have been plenty. Then they'd started in on meal prep.

Strange how fun it was. Especially that first night, working on a poor man's casserole, with the radio on and Paul standing next to him chopping up onions, his hands encased in Ziploc sandwich bags because he didn't want the smell on his skin, while Peter cut half-frozen chicken breasts into ragged little cubes. They'd tossed the whole thing into the pan with some salt and pepper, dumped a can of cream of mushroom soup on top, stuck it in the oven and hoped for the best. He knew they should've gone with canned stuff entirely, especially for the meat, if they'd really wanted to save money, but the Gay Kitchen experience demanded the expenditure. At least, that was their excuse.

Besides, Ace and Gene had loved it. Not for the food so much. Peter figured their dinners were decent, maybe even good, sometimes, but he couldn't kid himself. There was nothing impressive about a dessert course that included Hostess cupcakes "with fresh Cool Whip." But the makeshift restaurant had done the job. Cheered them all up. No one said a word during any of the dinners about the tour ending or going back home. Not a single word. And he and Paul had screwed around, too, acting faggy, hitting on each other and the guys indiscriminately throughout the meals. Last night, Paul had even groped his ass while he was mincing around plating everyone's food.

"I had to take him off the menu." Peter could've sworn Paul was deliberately making that annoying lisp of his even worse during each dinner. Pitching his voice into a whine, too. Some commitment. Peter had glanced up, questioningly, but Paul had just ignored him and continued. "You see why, right? He's got such a nice ass-all the boys were looking, I couldn't help but get jealous-"

"Course you're jealous. You dieted yours off, Paulie," Ace had retorted with a laugh. Peter had been vaguely surprised Paul didn't break character at that, just clicked his tongue disapprovingly, his hand still on Peter's ass. Not squeezing anymore, thank God, but Peter had still felt the ghost of Paul's fingers there hours later when they'd both turned in for bed.

Looking back, maybe that was where it had really started. Glancing over at Paul on the double bed next to his, watching him, knees up, with the pad of hotel stationery in his lap and a pencil in his hand, Peter had cleared his throat. Paul lifted his head from where he'd been scribbling.

"Yeah?"

"What're you drawing?"

Paul held up the stationery without a hint of embarrassment. The usual weirdly accurate assortment of veiny, disembodied dicks covered the page.

"What do you always draw those for, anyway?"

Paul shrugged.

"I dunno. Why does Gene refuse to shower?"

"Because his mom told him even his B.O. was sacred." Peter rolled his eyes. "You got a fixation."

"<i>You've</i> got a fixation. You're the one always getting your dick out."

"Getting it out's not the same as drawing it. . That's not even your dick. Whose do you keep on-"

"I went to art school, asshole." There wasn't much of an edge to Paul's words, Peter noticed. "Life drawing comes with the territory."

"In high school? Jesus." Peter cocked his head, trying to decide if Paul was bullshitting him, but Paul was already back to doodling, his eyes averted. "You ever gonna attach them to anybody, or are they just gonna keep floating around?"

"Well, I thought I'd attach them to you, but then I realized that'd mean I'd have to draw your face."

"Oh, fuck you, Paul." He didn't know why, but he got up then, moved to sit on Paul's bed. Paul stopped scribbling just long enough to shift over for him. Peter leaned in, vying for a better look at the sketches. Six, no, seven dicks, from a couple different angles, all varying levels of erect. The balls were so accurate it was almost disturbing. "Ain't even mine. They're too small."

"These are scaled down."

"The shape's wrong, too. Was that one supposed to be bent like that?" Peter pointed at the offending cock, right in the center of the paper. He kind of thought it was intentional. There was something uncanny about Paul's artwork-well, the dick drawings, anyway. His other offerings, at least the ones Peter had seen-splattery acrylic abstracts from his high school portfolio, and the occasional insulting cartoon of his bandmates on the back of a paper napkin-lacked that attention to detail. And that enthusiasm. It was weird. Forget the rockstar shit; Peter almost wondered if Paul's true calling was illustrating gay porno mags.

Paul shifted the paper, blinking at him slowly.

"Are you really critiquing my doodles here?"

"Well, yeah. If you're gonna draw dicks, at least don't draw them bent."

"What's wrong with drawing them bent? Some guys have fucked-up dicks."

"Who do you know with a fucked-up dick? Gene?" Paul's was fine. Smaller than his, sure, but there wasn't anything the matter with it. Peter got a good look at it in the showers after concerts, and during occasional threesomes with college girls that didn't qualify as groupies. Paul didn't care about nudity any more than he or Ace did, which was a relief. Especially since Gene was so weird about it. Months on the road and he still wouldn't strip down in front of the band. Peter had asked Paul why. Paul had said something about Gene going to some Jewish school and that giving him hang-ups, which sounded ridiculous to Peter. If Jewish school was anything like Catholic school, then it was a flimsy excuse for changing in closets and behind closed doors like some chick. Gene probably just had something terribly, shamefully wrong with his dick. Smallness or herpes or both.

"What? No."

Pete scooted over some more. Paul's posture was slightly stiffer than it had been before, but he still moved to give Peter room. Not that the double bed had much space to begin with.

"Does that mean you've seen it?" Peter wasn't sure why he was pressing the issue. Probably because Paul didn't seem all that uncomfortable. In fact, ever since the start of the Gay Kitchen, he'd been more relaxed, more talkative. It'd been nice. Peter watched Paul's lips purse for a second before he replied.

"Come off it. I don't have the right equipment for the privilege."

"Just eat some more and you'll get the tits down."

"Oh, fuck you, Pete." Paul jabbed his elbow into Peter's ribs, just hard enough for Peter to jerk back, but after a second he was scooting in closer again, just to prove he couldn't be nudged off that easily.

Maybe it had been a lower blow than Peter had meant to take. God knew the poor guy worried more about his weight than a chick. Lydia once said Paul was shaped like a rectangle. Just thick, straight lines from his shoulders all the way to his ass, and no definition anywhere. And he had been, but that wasn't the case these days. Paul had ended up with a bad bout of stomach flu about a month and a half into the tour. He would pull himself together enough to do the night's show, but afterwards, Peter'd had to listen to him get up, agonized and grunting, at two in the morning, and hear him retching into the hotel toilet. Paul had probably dropped fifteen pounds since then. Maybe more.

He looked better now. His abdomen still wasn't flat and he still cinched in his waist with a corset onstage, but Peter figured Paul did look a little closer to-well, whatever the hell a frontman was supposed to look like-and a little farther from the shy kid from Queens who drove the band's milk truck to and from gigs. Shouldn't be something Peter was already nostalgic about, especially since they were probably right about to head back to the milk trucks and ballrooms, but he was.

He could hear the scratch of Paul's pencil against the stationery. Paul wasn't going to retort. He'd just sulk and doodle more dicks until he got tired enough to turn off the lamp and tell Peter to get off the bed so he could sleep. Peter licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry, and he spoke.

"You know what? Maybe you should draw mine."

He hadn't thought the comment through. It just splattered from the corner of his brain to his mouth. Maybe he was just trying to get a response out of Paul, see if he could come up with an insulting way to put him off, or if he'd just stammer out a refusal. Instead, all Peter got in return was a raised eyebrow.

"Your dick?"

"Yeah, my dick."

"You're volunteering?"

Shit. Shit, now he had to commit to it. Peter shrugged, somehow managed a tilted sort of grin, and leaned back on his hands.

"Why not? Least that'd keep you from doing all those crooked, veiny ones."

"Yeah, 'cause yours is fucking Adonis,' right-"

Adonis must've been some underground rocker only college kids had ever heard of. Peter wasn't about to admit to his own ignorance.

"Nobody's complained yet. C'mon, Paulie, how about it?"

Paul hesitated visibly. Peter almost didn't think he was going to agree to it. Too nerved-out by the suggestion. But then Paul nodded, his black curls-somewhat limper without the Aquanet and teasing brush forcing them into bushy, puffy proportions-bouncing slightly as he did.

"Yeah, sure. Go ahead."

Peter yanked off the ratty pajama pants that were all he ever went to bed in, tossing them to the floor. Turned around so he was facing Paul head-on, legs stretched in front of him. He could feel Paul staring at his face, and then at his cock, as he tore out the doodle-covered paper and started on the fresh one beneath. He hadn't gotten more than a few scribbles in when Peter realized-

"Hey, wait a minute. You're not drawing it soft."

"I'm just gonna draw what I see."

"No, you aren't. Hang on."

"Hang on?"

Paul blinked, the beginnings of a mild smirk edging across his face. The expression didn't really sit right on him, somehow. Paul's mouth seemed to Peter to only really look okay when it was either pursed in a pout or spread in a hopeless kind of smile.

Luckily, that smirk of his dissolved as soon as Peter closed his hand around his dick, starting to pump. He didn't look at Paul while he was doing it, not at first, his gaze veering more towards the pad of paper and the burnt orange florals of the covers. His breath wasn't hitching yet, but the pleasure was starting to seep through on practiced automatic. A little harder. A little faster, and Peter's brow was furrowing, eyes glazed, focus on anything but his own dick starting to fade.

Except it couldn't fade completely. Not with Paul barely a foot away from him, his big brown eyes furtively darting between Peter's cock and the pencil, his mouth tight. Looking over at him, Peter could almost swear he saw the faint start of a blush cropping up on Paul's cheeks. "Jesus, relax, would you? I'm not gonna come here."

"Wow, isn't that a relief," Paul mumbled, rolling the pencil back and forth between his finger and thumb.

"'S not like you haven't seen this before." A solid five or six times by now, minus the fact that it was usually a girl's mouth or hand on Peter's cock instead of his own. They weren't great at sharing the not-quite-groupies yet. It had taken awhile before they figured out positioning that'd get all three of them off, and that always hinged on whether the girl was down for it. Once they'd ended up with a chick who'd gotten too intimidated by two guys at once, and after a round of debate over who'd go first, Paul had ended up slinking off to the shower while Peter made it with her. Unsurprisingly, she'd been so satiated she'd fallen asleep by the time Paul returned, and they'd both had to lug her out of the hotel room and into the hallway. Paul had been pissed off. Peter just found it funny.

Paul looked as if he were about to say something, but then he shut his mouth. Peter exhaled, letting his eyes shut for a second while he kept pumping, no fantasy in mind, just the simple mechanics of pleasure. Jacking off was mindless, with or without an audience. Nothing meaningful. Nothing to consider. And Paul, for whatever reason, was still just watching him do it. That pencil lead hadn't even touched the paper. Peter took a sharp breath before he spoke again.

"Good enough?"

He'd stopped himself once he was fully hard, but before any precome could dribble out from the reddened tip. He could feel his face getting flushed, a little sweat starting to trickle on his forehead, but he was all right. If things got too bad, he could always head over to the shower to finish rubbing it out, after Paul was done drawing. But he didn't think it would come to that, though his cock twitched in protest. Paul gave a distracted nod.

"Yeah. It's fine."

Then he finally started to draw again. Peter leaned over, trying to get a glance in, but Paul kept covering up the pad with his other hand, swatting at him when he got too close. Peter snorted.

"C'mon, you're not drawing the Mona Lisa here."

"You throw me off watching."

"What'm I supposed to do, just sit here?"

"That's exactly what you're supposed to do." Paul was erasing now, but carefully. One of those cheap pink erasers. He brushed the residue off the paper, and it landed on the covers, tiny black streaks of rubber against the orange comforter. Deprived of watching Paul at work, Peter tried to focus his attention on the eraser remnants, flicking them.

It didn't really help. Despite himself, Peter was starting to squirm. He didn't think Paul was drawing anything past his dick, but he'd been trying to stay still anyway. His thighs kept twitching involuntarily. The ache in his balls was getting irritating enough that he gave in to a few more strokes, shoving his hand in the covers as soon as he heard Paul laugh.

"You having trouble keeping it up?"

"Fuck you, you know that's not it-"

"Gimme a couple more minutes, all right, Pete?" A pause. "And get a little closer, there." He reached his hand out, fingers curving lightly around Peter's bare knee, just for a second. Immaculately manicured nails, bizarre for a guitarist, even one who hadn't played a gig in almost a week. The black nail polish hadn't even chipped. But Peter only really noticed how the warmth against his skin seemed to linger on after Paul had withdrawn his hand. "There."

Peter got closer. His legs were flat on the bed and spread slightly, toes touching the wall by the time he got closer; he'd ended up more to Paul's side. His painfully hard, flushed dick stood out sharp against the rest of his body, craving attention he couldn't-wouldn't-give yet. He'd get that touch in later. He'd get off on his own. A couple more minutes, like Paul said. Yeah.

The amused expression on Paul's face had shifted, gotten focused and intent. The way it did when he was trying to pull a riff together, or a set of lyrics. Peter didn't much care for that look-usually it meant Paul would try to banish whoever was in the same room, whether it was him or Ace or even Gene, so he could be alone with whatever brilliant thoughts he had. But now that look was locked on him instead. Partially. Flattering, maybe, to be mulled over like a rhyme that didn't flow, or a chord that wasn't right yet, but Peter knew that if he thought too hard about it, he'd get disgusted. So he just let his mind wander to the sound of Paul's pencil scraping across the page.

Peter didn't really notice at first when that sound stopped. Or when Paul put the pencil down. The pad of paper was still resting on his lap. Peter inhaled, waiting, figuring Paul would hand it over-with a joking autograph, probably-any second-but then a mass of dark curls ended up right in Peter's face. Paul was leaning in, heavily, breaths hot and heavy against Peter's neck. He pushed away the pad of paper, his bare chest pressed up flush against Peter's. Peter opened his mouth, started to say something, and then swallowed it down when Paul's hand wrapped around his dick.

Peter couldn't believe it. Didn't protest or argue-didn't want to. He was surprised, that was all. Surprised Paul would go for it. Have that kind of nerve. Paul didn't pull back enough to look him in the eye. Didn't say a word.

His palm was sweaty against Peter's cock, fingers only a little callused. The first few strokes were too slow, unintentional teasing, but then Paul got steadier, built up a rhythm. Like doing it to yourself, Ace had told him once, lazily, in the worst and best advice Peter had ever gotten on handjobs, but different. Different. Peter could feel Paul's heartbeat against him, like a pinball smashing against the bumpers. Each breath was getting more tattered, soft curses forcing their way from Peter's throat; each inhale pushed more of Paul's Aramis cologne into his lungs. Peter's hands, curled up into the covers, flew up desperately as he got closer, warmth and need pulsating inside him, threatening to burst-clenching Paul's shoulder, his back-holding him there, right there, as he spilled into Paul's hand.

Paul let go as abruptly as he'd started. His whole body froze up, and he shifted backwards, brushing away Peter's hands, dark eyes wide, almost scared. He scrambled off the bed and onto Peter's, yanking the covers around him like a little kid caught up too late.

"Paul?"

"I'm sorry," he said, and shut off the lamp.

--

Peter got up early the next morning, before the alarm clock, but it didn't matter. Paul was already gone-got a cab, evidently, leaving everyone else with the crappy tour bus. Peter could hear Ace and Gene grumbling about it through the wall before he got out of bed, stopping short of the pad of paper and pencil on the floor. He picked both up and took a look.

The drawing was immaculate. Paul had gotten the balls just right. Everything. Taken the time to shade it, even, like it was a serious study. He'd signed it, too-initialed it, rather, P.S. nestled in a forlorn corner. No date. Peter tore the sheet carefully from the pad of paper, looking at it, unsure of what to do with it. Whether to keep it or not. He ended up setting it on the nightstand, face down, before crossing over to what had been his bed up until last night. He didn't have to pull back the sheets to see the semen stain from where Paul had wiped off his hand.

He could've used some washing off himself after last night. No Paul hogging the shower was an empty comfort right now, as Peter turned on the water, letting it get blisteringly hot before stepping inside. It didn't really help.

Paul was back before lunch, anyway, quiet and withdrawn. Bill was talking about booking them a couple more shows further down South-a terrifying prospect, but better than heading home-and Gene was chatting about it with all his usual enthusiasm, while Ace added vodka and ice to his coffee. Paul just looked sunk. Gene kept throwing questioning looks Paul's way, and glancing at Peter, but if he ever asked outright, Peter never heard it.

The band meeting drifted off into nothing after awhile. Paul got up abruptly, saying something about a headache, and excused himself with about as much subtlety as a dying animal. It was a few minutes before Peter got up the nerve to follow him back to their room-and, as expected, Paul had locked the door.

"Paul, c'mon-"

The sound of the knob turning was almost gratifying. Paul was standing there, looking awkward, mouth pursed. Peter noticed, belatedly, that for all Paul had gotten up early that morning, he hadn't shaved, stubble poking hopelessly all around his jaw. His t-shirt and jeans-one of maybe ten street outfits he'd rotated over the tour, same as Peter, same as everyone else-were rumpled past what Paul usually would allow for.

"You didn't have to come check on me."

"I did, we share a room."

Paul swallowed.

"Look, if you wanna change rooms, go ahead, just don't tell Gene about-"

"I ain't telling Gene nothing. And I don't wanna change rooms." Pete exhaled. The look on Paul's face twitched just a bit, but Peter didn't give him a chance to respond before plowing back in. "Are we gonna do Gay Kitchen tonight?"

Paul flinched. Almost like he thought Peter meant it badly, or was making fun of him, or something. Like one of those Japanese trees, the ones with flat leaves that folded up after the briefest brush of a hand. One word and he'd curl back up. One touch, leaving Peter all out of sorts, trying to undo the trick, get those leaves to unfurl again.

"Do you want to?"

"Ace was asking earlier."

"Oh." Paul turned away, walking over to the kitchenette on the other side of the room. He pulled open the fridge, getting out the last can of Coke, popping the top before he really answered. "I guess."

"C'mon, it's our last night here. It'll be fun."

"We're almost out of food."

"We've got enough. Still have those hot dogs." Peter felt awkward, still standing there, barely past the doorframe, as if he was a visitor to his own hotel room. He stepped over to sit on one of the beds. The drawing wasn't on the nightstand anymore. "Hey-"

"What?"

Peter's throat was suddenly a little dry. The words were out before he could hold them back.

"You didn't have to get rid of it."

"It was stupid."

"No, it wasn't. It-it was good, Paulie."

Paul was still all tensed up. Like a battery coil on the verge of springing. Peter almost thought he was going to walk out, more prepared to face Gene and Ace or another lousy cab ride than spend the rest of the day with him, but instead, Paul sat down on the other bed.

"You really don't wanna change rooms." He said it flatly, borderline disbelieving, clasping the Coke can in both hands. He looked strangely young, sitting like that. The six years between them never felt like much except when Peter really let himself give it some thought. At twenty-two, he sure as hell hadn't been on the road with a record, however indifferently-received. Hadn't made it-with threesomes, even-with a whole bunch of girls. He resented it when he considered it, but right now, all Peter was considering was the tightness of Paul's lips and the way he was staring at the floor.

He was just a kid, really. Scared of getting rejected as any other kid, hell, as any other adult. Putting on onstage, putting on during their dinners, only ever peeling back how he really was during all the time in between. The worries and frets, the painful, painful shyness behind every sharp retort. The panicked heartbeat against Peter's chest last night as he'd pushed past his nerves for something he wanted.

Something Peter wanted, too.

"Fuck, no. You and me are the only ones around here that know how to pick up our own shit."

"Pete, that's not it-"

"No. No, it's not it. C'mere. C'mere," he said, quietly, scooting forward on the bed, hands resting awkwardly on either side of him, those orange covers clashing badly with his chipped black nail polish and cheap silver rings. He watched as Paul set down the Coke can and stood up, crossing the tiny threshold between their beds. He still looked like he was about to flee. One wrong word, one sudden movement and it'd be over.

So Peter was slow, agonizingly slow to take his arm and tug him forward. Paul let him do it, didn't go rigid at all, though the fear in those wide eyes was still there. Peter wanted it to fade; suddenly, he wanted it to fade more than anything, as he got to his feet, palm hot against Paul's arm. As he leaned in, pushing Paul's dark curls behind his shoulder, and pressed his lips to Paul's neck.

Paul didn't respond at first. Then, just as Peter was about to pull away, he felt Paul's other hand close around his. Too shy to even lock their fingers together. But that was all right. That was all right. Peter did it for him, shifting his hand in Paul's until their fingers were laced. He raised his head, and Paul's mouth met his, cautious and careful. None of that too-eager fooling around like with the girls. None of that silent desperation from last night. Peter liked this better, every second feeling warmer and fuller than the last. As if he was just on the brink of discovering something grand as his tongue slid across Paul's lips and he let go of Paul's arm to trace the stubble on his jaw, cup his chin in his hand. Paul parted his lips for him, Peter tasting cereal and toothpaste when his tongue slipped inside, but he didn't care. Paul was opening up for him. Finally opening up.

It wasn't too long before Paul started pressing up against him, hips rocking meaningfully against his. Somewhere along the line, he'd ended up with Paul's hair in his fist, and he tugged, lightly, urging him forward as he sat back down on the bed. Tugged his hand, too, as if he needed to. Paul got the picture, following him down, timidity shifting to urgency, until Peter's back was pressed against the mattress. Peter thought about yanking his hair hard for that one, and he might have, except Paul kept kissing him all the way down, except Paul's knee was rubbing against his crotch, his thin blue jeans barely a barrier at all.

Peter's breath hitched as Paul shifted lower, moving off of him enough that Peter could shuck off his own shirt and toss it to the floor. Paul was unzipping him, those long, thin fingers hooking around his belt loops and pulling down his jeans. Freeing his cock, already far too hard, worse than last night, easily. Peter took a sharp inhale when Paul sank down, pushing his thighs apart with his knee, and started to lick at his cock. All the way down, pouring on the attention, fingers pressing hard against his hips, keeping them steady. Peter watched, dazed, breaths hitching, until Paul's warm mouth was around just the tip of his cock.

"Paul, hold on."

Paul pulled back, lifting his head like he'd done something wrong.

"What?"

"You don't know how to do it, don't worry about it." It was just a guess, but Peter figured it was a good enough one. And that wasn't all of it. He didn't think Paul would give himself enough leeway for a screw-up. Perfection or nothing.

Paul hesitated.

"But-"

"It's okay, man." It was hard to think past the blood pumping straight to his dick, going untouched for now, but Peter was managing, barely. The brief image of Paul with his lips around his dick was promising enough, the lead-in for a dozen jerk-off fantasies already. Maybe more than that. "Just-c'mon, let me-"

He tugged Paul back up, helping him peel off his t-shirt, then his jeans and underwear. Taking him in like this, with no girl between them, didn't feel strange or wrong or any of that bullshit; it felt good, every shed layer lending Peter more skin to touch, making him more certain of everything. Despite the concert performances, despite the threesomes and the locker room showers, he'd never really gotten a sense of Paul's physicality before. Now that Paul was straddling him, hair hanging in his face, mouth pressed to his neck, his ear, Peter could really see it all, the wide, powerful build of his chest before it bore down against Peter's, his arms, taut and muscular, tensing as Peter's hands tightened around them. Paul's cock brushed against his, sending a jolt of electricity through Peter, and then he was grinding up against him, their hips flush, flesh against flesh. Peter was cursing before long, the stimulation maddening, almost agonizing because it wasn't quite enough. Paul seemed like he sensed it, reaching over, taking both their cocks together in one hand-but Peter shook his head.

"I've got a better idea."

"Yeah?" Paul's fingers rolled up against his cock just so, the pressure of his hand and his dick incredible enough that Peter almost changed his mind. Looking up at him, that slightly-sweaty brow, those dark eyes, dilated and needy, Peter nodded, fingers closing on Paul's wrist.

"Yeah. I already know you can jack me off." An exhale. "Get on your back and I'll show you what I can do."

Paul let go of him. There was a little consternation somewhere in his expression, a hesitancy Peter tried to erase, hand running down Paul's hairy chest, fingers tweaking a nipple, but Paul did as he'd asked, grasping Peter by the shoulders and rolling them both over. Peter shifted, repositioning himself on top of Paul, putting his hands beneath his thighs. Almost immediately, Paul stiffened up, started to try and lift up his legs. Peter pushed them back down before he could.

"Nah, we're not doing that. Don't worry." Peter watched some of the tension fade from Paul's face, curiosity replacing it. "Spread your legs out a little. there, now." He slid his dick between Paul's thighs, tip right up against Paul's taint. He didn't need to instruct further. Paul's mouth tilted in a distracted grin, his thighs closing tight around Peter's dick-and from there, Peter started to thrust, the soft warmth surrounding his cock nearly overpowering.

Paul was finally making a few sharp sounds as Peter's thrusts sped up, thighs squeezing hard against his cock. The sounds got louder, turned into curses, turned into strangled attempts at Peter's name. Between Paul's moans and his own urgency, Peter couldn't think, his pace speeding up, every brush against Paul's cock, every tensing of Paul's thighs pushing him closer to the brink. He came with a cry, spurting hot between Paul's legs, Paul still urging him to keep going, just a few more, a few more. He managed, grunting, shuddering with exertion as he kept thrusting. Beneath him, Paul looked out of it and focused all at once, dick throbbing against his. So close. Too close. It was seconds before Paul came, quieter, spilling all over them both, head lolling back in the aftermath. Peter was still panting as he slid his cock out from between Paul's slick thighs, as Paul put an arm around him, pressing a kiss to his jaw, his cheek, before finally meeting his lips again.

--

The Gay Kitchen's final evening went well. Ace and Gene had brought dessert-a box of oatmeal creme pies and a gallon of cheap Neapolitan ice cream-and they'd served it along with the hot dogs and stale chips. A beer apiece, except for Gene, who got a Sprite from the machine downstairs in a rare spendthrift moment. Paul's come-ons and gropes weren't any heavier than the night before, but there was a warmth and a relaxation in him that was new to Peter. A softer look to his expression he'd only been privy to late, late at night in the hotels, just before he drifted off.

Peter liked that. He liked that a lot. Feeling that, maybe, something of Paul's might be reserved for him. That maybe he'd be let in for more than an afternoon. He thought he might be. He figured he would be.

They didn't fool around that night. They didn't really have the time to. Once dinner was over and Ace and Gene had gone back to their room, Peter took a shower, and then he started packing, too-aware of how quick check-out came. Particularly when they were headed straight down to the bottom edge of Florida tomorrow, a solid ten or eleven hours on the road, to play at some college or auditorium or-something. Peter was just glad Bill had secured them another handful of tour dates, no matter the location.

He tossed his makeup kit and street clothes and shoes back into his suitcase, fiddling with the wobbly latches, tracing the crack down one side. Ten to one the damn thing would break before they got out of Atlanta, but maybe he could tie a scarf around it or something to hold the luggage together. He turned to Paul, who was sitting on the floor next to him with his own ratty suitcase half on his lap, about to ask him, but Paul spoke first.

"You forgot your heels."

"I didn't. They're in the laundry bag with everyone else's."

"Not the ones that go with your costume. The other pair." Paul pointed under the bed. There they were, three-inch platforms he'd barely worn all tour, neatly placed. He didn't remember putting them there.

He pulled them out, a piece of paper under one heel catching his eye. Setting the heels aside, he picked up the paper.

"Paul?"

It was the drawing of his dick. Paul hadn't thrown it away after all. He glanced over at him, and Paul smiled, a little bashful. That hopeless smile he hadn't been able to plaster on a single promo picture, more endearing and elusive than any sketch.

"It's for you. I don't know if I'd frame it, but."

Peter felt himself grin back.

"Are you kidding? It's the best drawing of my dick anyone's ever gonna give me. I'll keep it forever." Peter held it up, examining it anew. "There's only one problem."

"I thought you were done critiquing my art."

"Hell, no." And Peter handed it back. "You gotta sign it for me."

"I initialed it-"

"Sign it. Make it worth a million bucks someday." Peter didn't think he'd stop smiling as he leaned over, tousling Paul's hair. "You can even add the star."

[all-hail-the-witcher]

are you drunk, high, or sober

so kids

today is,,,,mikeys birthday!! my lil bean boi is growing up awww

anyway though, so, obviously we did not go to high school together cause fuck distance so for this Special Occasion I decided to combine my freshman bio class, my senior English teacher, and a bunch of mikeys 1 am bullshit together to create what I think could be an accurate rendition of how we would have met if we had gone to high school together.

really it’s just a crack fic about evolution and hot cheetos.

_____

ship: platonic (bro) ralbert

genre: straight crack

words: 2529

editing: I was about to say no but I actually did !!

warnings: Race is a raging bromosexual, hot cheetos, danny devito, conspiracy theories, fish are untrustworthy monsters, yaks, lactaid, bros bein bros, albert just wants his pencil back okay

_____

Albert fidgeted in his seat slightly, highly uncomfortable in his priest clothes. Well, okay, they weren’t priest clothes, they were his graduation robes. Except he had bought them a size too big accidentally and they now looked like priest clothes. Race had made fun of him endlessly, even commenting that they should cosplay as priests sometime. Obviously, Albert had flat out refused, but that didn’t stop Race from sending him the occasional Psalm or slightly incorrect Bible passage.

But enough about Albert’s priest clothes. Let’s get back to the matter at hand: graduation.

It was a daunting day for both of them: a relief that they had finally made it and yet also sad because they wouldn’t get to pelt each other with spitballs during psych anymore. High school was where Albert had met Race, all because of a particularly cursed biology lesson during freshman year. It had never been established if Race had been entirely sober during that first exchange. Albert had always claimed that he was hungover at the least. Whatever the case though, Albert felt a smile stretch slowly across his face as the voice of the valedictorian faded into oblivion and he recalled the events of that day…

•••

“-in fact there was a time when people thought that giraffes were just horses who decided they wanted to eat leaves.”

Albert tuned back into the biology lecture he had effectively been ignoring when the blonde kid next to him with the dead fish hair swatted the pencil he was sketching with out of his hand.

“Dude!” Albert whisper screamed. “Give me that back!”

The kid, who was an asshole for stealing his pencil, instead twirled Albert’s pencil thoughtfully. “Nah, you're missing the best part of the lecture! I’m doing you a service!”

Albert rolled his eyes. “Look, people were dumb. It’s not my fault that some idiot 500 years ago thought that a giraffe was a horse in disguise.”

Asshole glared at him sideways in a manner that Albert could only describe as disappointed.

“What?”

Asshole sighed heavily. “Some people don't appreciate the cryptid animals of the world.”

Now it was Albert’s turn to stare disappointedly.

“Okay so like,” asshole’s eyes lit up and he threw Albert’s pencil with such force it landed two rows away from him before bending forward to stare into Albert’s soul, “you know about fish right?”

Albert’s disappointment was beginning to morph into annoyance. Plus he really just wanted his pencil back. “...yes?”

“Okay so essentially, fish aren’t real.”

“Wrong. I have three.”

“They’re government spies!”

“No they’re not! I bought them myself from petco!” Albert considered for a moment. “And besides, one of them is paralyzed.”

“He’s malfunctioning!” Asshole slapped the table so hard that the people in front of him looked back slightly to see what was going on. “It’s a glitch in the system!”

“What? No. He’s just...dying? I guess?” That was actually kind of sad now that Albert thought about it. Maybe he should just euthanize Rudolph…

“No, dude, I’m telling you. Fish aren’t real!”

“And I’m telling you that you're wrong!”

“Look,” asshole was starting to sound exasperated now. “Have you seen a fish since the government shut down?”

“Yes, I literally just said that I have three at home!” Albert leaned down to grab another pencil out of his bag so he could continue drawing. He was about done with this conversation.

Asshole sighed heavily. “You're a horrible person. A non-believer. When your robot fish report you to the government for hoarding all the lactaid for yourself in your basement then I will say I Told You So.”

“First, they’re not robots. Second, I’m not even lactose intolerant?”

“Well.” Asshole paused to pull a bag of hot cheetos out of his bag. “I am. And I fully intend to hoard all the lactaid myself when I take over the world with my seven yaks so you better have a good security system.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Albert paused looking for a pencil to stare at the asshole next to him.

“My master plan to take over the world with seven yaks,” asshole said as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

“And what does that have to do with fish?”

Asshole considered for a moment before pulling off one of his white converse high tops and pointing to his socks that were covered in- wait were those cryptids?

“You see my toes?” Asshole said, wiggling his foot around for emphasis. It was then that Albert began to question whether or not this kid was entirely sober.

“Yes…?”

“They can fuck them. Honestly. Fuck fish and fuck everything they stand for fuck them.”

“Okay.” Albert gave up searching for a pencil, deciding that talking to a potentially high person was more entertaining than doodling shitty flowers in the margins of his notes. “Do you have any other opinions about animals that I should know about?”

Asshole considered for a moment while crunching loudly on his hot cheetos, effectively getting orange spicy dust all over the table and Albert’s notes.

“So, whales,” he said finally.

“What about them?” Albert almost regretted asking.

“They sLap. But also, they’re BIG,” He turned to face Albert, his eyes wide, “and they don't need to be.”

“I mean, they do eat a lot of fish, they have to store it somewhere.”

“They could just, like, shit it out.”

“That would be a lot of shit.” Albert tore a piece of paper out of his notebook and began to fold it into a paper airplane. “Also I’m pretty sure that they already shit, so that doesn’t solve the problem.”

“But they could shit like, POOF!” He threw a small handful of cheetos in the air for emphasis.

Albert stared in confusion at the pile of orange crap now littering the lab table. “You want…..whales…….to have explosive diarrhea…..so that they can be smaller?”

“Yes,” asshole said confidently, beginning to eat the cheetos off of the table.

“That's...interesting.”

Asshole threw a cheeto into his mouth casually. “You know if you made out with a whale technically it would be brushing your teeth.”

Albert turned his head slowly to face the asshole seated next to him. “I’m sorry. What?”

“You heard me.”

“Doesn’t mean I wanted to,” Albert muttered under his breath.

“Also-”

“Oh no.” Albert put his head in his hands.

“Hey! You asked for my animal opinions!”

“That was before I knew they included making out with whales who have explosive diarrhea!”

Asshole threw a hot cheeto at him.

“Fine, fine,” Albert sighed, brushing hot cheeto dust off of his shirt, “let’s hear it.”

“Well, no offense to anyone who actually likes them but kiwi birds are weird and why did they need a fruit named after them and why are they fuzzy and who gave fruits the right to be fuzzy like what the fuck- WAIT-” he flung out his arm so that is wacked Albert in the chest and stared into oblivion as if he had just seen the ghost of shrek, “WHICH CAME FIRST THE BIRD OR THE FRUIT?”

“I don't know?” Albert said unhelpfully.

“God they’re as cryptic as whales,” asshole groaned, all but slamming his head into the table.

Albert chose to ignore the mess of a person next to him and pretend like he was still taking notes, as the teacher had grown suspicious of what was happening in the back of the room and was beginning to eye them. But, Albert still didn't have a pencil so it didn't really work.

“What does a kiwi bird look like anyway?” He asked once the teacher’s eyes were off them.

“Your worst nightmare.” Asshole turned his face on the table so that he was looking at Albert.

“Alright then.”

Albert decided that if he was going to pass this class he better take out a pencil and at least pretend to take some notes. However, after digging a pencil from the very depths of his bag, he discovered that the asshole was still intently staring at him.

“Aren’t you going to take notes?”

“Notes and my brain don't mix well,” asshole said, eating another hot cheeto. Albert wasn't quite sure how there were that many in the bag considering he had thrown at least half of them on the desk. Maybe he was a wizard. “Ask me more questions about animals.”

“Can’t you tell me your name first?”

“You've sat next to me for two months and you don't know my name?” Asshole clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Tisk tisk Albie.”

“Oh no, you are not allowed to call me that,” Albert groaned. He hated that nickname more than anything. Well, he potentially hated kale more, but only cause it tasted like unwanted veiny leaves.

“I’ll call you whatever I want until your sorry ass learns my name, Albie.” Asshole smirked. “Now, ask me about animals.”

“Alright, uhhh…” Albert’s eyes wandered across the doodle-filled pages of his notebook until they landed on a drawing of a shittly looking smiley face sheep. “Opinions on sheep?”

“I want a sheep,” Asshole whispered wistfully. “They seem fluffy. And precious. Like clouds.”

“Good to know.” Albert doodled a sheep jumping on a cloud. “What about, uh, crickets?”

“Hmmmm. They’re kinda scary.”

“Are they now?”

“Yeah. One time one got stuck in my brother’s dorm room and he was so scared he sent me a snapchat video of him screaming.” He paused to monch another cheeto. “Yeah. Crickets are scary but rubbing your legs together under a blanket as such is nice so crickets make some points I guess.”

“Rubbing your legs together under a blanket?” Albert asked incredulously.

“Yeah like, when it’s 4am and you can't sleep? Have you never done that before?”

“No…?”

“Oh.” Asshole looked disappointed for a minute. “Well, you're missing out bro.”

“Oh so now I’m your bro?”

“Of course, bro. You’re my bro, bro.”

Albert scribbled down a line about Darwin from the board. “Stop saying the word bro.”

“No bro. I gotta let everyone know we’re bros, bro.”

“No bro.” Albrt sighed loudly. “Fuck, now you got me doing it!”

“Isn’t it great bro?” Asshole used his finger to draw a heart in the cheeto dust that was still sitting on his desk. “Bro, look that's us!”

Albert glanced briefly at the cheeto dust. “Isn’t that kinda gay?�� he asked, returning to his notes.

“It’s not gay if you have socks on,” Asshole said quickly. “And I definitely have socks on, so we’re good bro.”

Albert stared long and hard at his seatmate.

“Got somethin’ to say, bro?” Asshole smirked.

“Are you high?” Albert finally asked.

“Nah bro. My body is a temple. I only do-” he paused to wink “-brocaine.”

“Okay, that’s it,” Albert said definatively. “Never talk to me again.”

Asshole shrugged and went back to eating his hot cheetos. Albert went back to taking notes, pausing every few minutes to flick cheeto dust off of his paper.

Eventually, the teacher said something about cheetahs and the asshole next to him sighed deeply.

“I wish I could be a cheetah,” he said wistfully. Then he looked down at his bag of cheetos. “Or a cheeto.” Carefully, he pulled one out and inspected it. “Danny DeCheeto.” he decided, popping the cheeto into his mouth and crunching loudly.

Albert burst out laughing. He just couldn’t help himself. There was something about the way that he has said it so bluntly that made him have to laugh at the terrible pun.

“DASILVA!” The teacher, Jeff, who Albert lovingly referred to using his first name because he was a crappy teacher and didn’t deserve formalities, yelled.

“Oh now you’ve don’t it,” asshole whispered excitedly.

Albert elbowed him in the ribs.

“Stop interrupting my lesson with your absolute idiocy! I’d give you detention if I didn’t run it!” Jeff yelled halfheartedly. Albert didn’t particularly care.

“It wasn’t my fault!” he called back. “This kid’s been talking all through your lesson and it’s really distracting!” He pointed at the asshole next to him. “I was really enjoying your lesson on cheetahs!” he added just to be a kiss up. Albert always made it a point to kiss up to teachers who hated him because it just made them hate him more.

“HIGGINS!” Jeff yelled again, this time at his seatmate.

“I’m not on a sports team so that’s not my naaaameee!” he singsoned back, also just to annoy Jeff.

“RACE!” Jeff yelled instead.

“Yeeees?”

“Stop distracting my students who actually want to learn!” Jeff gestures wildly with his hands. “It’s rude! There are some people in here who want to actually hear about cheetahs, not about whatever you’re doing back there with cheeto dust!”

“Terribly sorry!” Asshole, or, Race, called back in a way that was clearly not sorry at all before Jeff returned to his lesson.

“So,” Albert whispered, “Race, huh? I thought I wasn’t allowed to know your name.”

“Oh be quiet Albie.” Race scowled, licking cheeto dust off of his fingers.

“Hey! I told you not to call me that!”

Race pointed a cheeto dust covered finger at him menacingly. “One more word out of you and I’ll have my yaks come lick your eyeballs.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Albert gasped in fake horror.

“I would,” Race said just as the bell rang.

Albert watched as he swiftly brushed all of his cheeto dust into the floor, scooped up his bag, and gave him a mock salute. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“If you bring cheetos I’ll have to steal your socks!” Albert called after him.

As he scrambled to put his stuff away, Albert couldn’t help but think that this was the start of a really good, yet definitely weird, friendship.

•••

Albert was pulled out of his memory by the crowd clapping wildly for the valedictorian. Soon after the student council President was announcing that it was time to move their tassels and then everyone was filing out of the rows back out to behind the field.

From somewhere in the crowd, Race materialized, attacking him in a giant hung.

“WE DID IT BRO!” Race yelled, jumping up and down.

“YEAH BRO!” Albert yelled back.

After a few minutes of celebrating, Albert reached into his pants pocket for the bag of hot cheetos he had stashed there, handing them to Race, who immediately started laughing.

“Do you remember the first time we met in Jeff’s class?” Albert asked. “You were being an asshole and got cheeto dust all over my notes.”

“I remember,” Race smirked. “I was literally talking out of my ass to try and get you to laugh.”

“Well, it worked.”

“Oh yeah, he got so mad at you.” He picked up the bag of cheetos, smirking. “You know, the funny thing is, I don’t even like hot cheetos. They’re too spicy and they make my mouth burn.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Albert chortled.

“But, since they’re a gift from you bro, I’ll cherish them forever.” Race made awkward kissy faces at Albert who shook his head in response.

“That’s gay bro,” he said mock seriously.

“It’s alright,” Race reassures him, winking. “I have socks on.”

________

see I told you it was cursed

hbd b r o (o no I don’t have soccs on :o)

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