#one piece i owe you my whole artistic passion

[tatck]

experimenting with directly using 3d models because i may of overshot my tolerence for backgrounds

...so does this look bad or

[captainkurosolaire]

I challenge you to pick five Tumblrs in your social circle and tell them something you admire about their blog!

Only 5? I could probably do 500. However, that's determined by what's considered my social circle. I'm often in my head being incredibly social continuously is really a challenge of mine. I'm always actively marching to something, my flame of passion when I have it, I can do some crazy stuff but it diminishes relatively quickly, so I try to cling. But I'll up your thing and list 25 of my fave people. Ask me this same thing in a Month, I'll keep doing 25, until I do all the people. How about that? (If anyone wants to be taken off mention let me know.)

@eligos-venator

- Has one of the most intelligent and sophisticated minds, I've had the pleasure to know. Literally admire all his aesthetics, work, head-cannons, ideas. It's only a benefit that the dude shares some OC characteristics to my own (Winning features). I really enjoyed the short-thread we did. It was incomplete, mainly because of my faults. I want to actually be better to give him a proper delivery and RP worth his time, but he's incredibly worth the investment of eyes.

@mischiefandmystics

- If there was a Mount Rushmoore of writers who kept me in this endeavor, encouraged me. Sun'ra is one of them. His characterization skills, writing, the delivery and how believable his character is, they're masterful acts.

@mishivymendi

- I wouldn't be nearly tamed or as creatively freed if it wasn't for this gem. She broke my shell, I really didn't at a time ever see myself being anything really beyond a smut writer, but Mishi not only saw potential in me, but brought it out. Her stories and world's she brings to life are so majestically colorful.

@asymphonyofash

- My go-to. He's another pillar individual who saw things in me past just the obvious perception, (Probably second longest XIV RPer I know.) Taught me a lot of the lore, I shot him up and he's sort of become my stapled rock. He's right aside Sun'ra met them about the same, both took me under their wing's as I quietly observed and absorbed.

@lavender-hemlock

- We're always up and front with each other, never feeling like I couldn't say anything around, extremely rare to share that these days. Her gif's are legendary, something on my own terms I want to soar in quality. The writing she does is astounding. Character has so many mysterious pages that are quite addictive to want to explore and learn them. (Encore 20 below-cut)

@under-the-blood-moonlight - Her sweetness and artwork and overall is just a friendly presence to be around. I cherish them so much. One I can jive with more darker undertones with. She's one the most hardworking and ambitiously creative people. I'd mail them infinite hugs if could. Thanks for being you! @roxinova - I owe a lot of credit to her. She's constantly OOC and everything was nudging me too be more inclusive to things and involved heavenly. It's rare for me. I'm really horrible about that my autism sets me back socially, I constantly will be drowned by the next day and be reverted back to better off alone, that's my major crux and weakness. But her thoughtfulness, these things, aren't ever foreign to me, I do pay attention probably better than any would ever give me credit. She's a beacon model to have as a friend. @corpse-dancer - Haven't ran into many words with them, but her character, screenshot game, expressiveness, they're all a marvel to constantly see, alongside her attitude and bringing life character. I do think if I were better, we would click quite splendidly. They've recently reminded and motivated me to pick-up my daily-practice, or try too. Keep being a rockstar. @fair-fae - Few who wouldn't know who she is in this community. She's been in my opinion a huge core. I'm certain she's inspired many who weren't even RPers too try it by seeing her at the Quicksands or elsewhere, a tyme ago. Making no exception, I was even one of those. I used to be in QS every-single day and was often doing my shameless stuff. Though her presence first did show me there's a lot more. I admire her in all fields. Also appreciate her adopting me to the FC and her always thinking of others and giving events, or her aesthetics and portrayal, its the epitome of swan elegance. @thorcat - One of my most treasured friends. Been RPing with them for a longtime. There's never anything complicated between us or a rift of drama, it's just let's go and have fun. We really mesh well, I've welcomed nearly ever character and got the privilege to RP with nearly all them. They always open up envelope and help me, settle on back and just laugh. Whether used to be waking up to their characters humping my afk one or use randomly having a hardcore banter between Ufah and Captain and capturing them as a voidal pet. Memories with them isn't something I'd ever want to lose. I love ya! Never stop enjoying life for anything. @lukawarrioroflight - I get in the gutter find myself lacking motivation or writing, discouraged even... But I never have felt, I could ever do any wrong with this person, they bring the light out of me. So no matter what, how many hospital-beds I yearly visit, it's because of this rare nature, that I come back, even if they're the only one's ever to read my stuff. I would do it for them alone. @scholarlybreadbun - I've only been back recently and they've so much warmth. Their presence is the sun of inviting. The couple and posing all the shipping that stuff makes me even melt. I'm not particularly talented in regards to posing couples, but I took notice of them along time ago and set on quietly improving. Really like them for them, wouldn't ever want them to change that. Ideally look forward to be in their orbit longer so I can bask in them. @seascrapes - Been mutual with them for a while. Their aesthetics and character is all S+ level. I appreciate throwing back tagged prompts with them, one of many people I really think would be enjoyable to collab with any other seafarers. The artwork and pieces of Tal Brook, are breathtaking as ever exceptionally too, not to mention. Love your stuff matey, you're a king. @mai-takeda - Is a myth. Her absolutely sheer friendliness and her attitude, are so positive influencing, I was so thrilled to be welcomed with her and boosted by them early on. I couldn't see myself, wanting to exist where they didn't have happiness like the same she always delivers by just doing so many soft-things. Not to mention her writing... She's a whole world to throw yourself gazes

under. @zhauric - It doesn't go far either without the same breath of Mai, I could say about Zhauric. He's someone worthy to look-up and also recognize they're passionate and inviting, hoisting up literally everything. Could easily find any of their characters comrades with my own, or jiving alongside. Not to mention last XIVWrite, they slaughtered it. So enjoyable to read them all. I like how organized their blog is too, motivated me recently to redux my entire thing. @cadrenebula - They have so many diverse characters and their entire roster is vibrant and is imbued with a massive flux of life. They are able to encapsulate so many character's voices and portray them so effectively too, I really admire that greatly. They've made me think bigger and try myself recently at actually undertaking a huge roster of characters too. I've taken many breaks, but I always am so graciously returned often with them close-by and that's so incredibly sacred. I've seen a lot of people get discouraged or quit, leave, departure, etc. But they always seem to have a bigger house then they had last I took a break and I enjoy peaking in. @silvernsteel - Her artist and gif-work are awe-aspiring, there's little unrecognizable by her photo-sets and edits. They helped me even tip-toe into uncharted with giving me the recipes to try incorporating gifs into my arsenal. Plus so delightfully pleasant to actually talk with and just chill. I want nothing less in life, than the beauty they give, to be returned to them for eternity in all their glorious air. If ever needed anything of me, they've got me. @spotofmummery - We talk about passion or friendliness or overall a person to even remotely try to be, I got to include them. Their web-series and writing, screen-work, everything they do is fantastic. And that's furthered back nearly any I've met showcase or immortalize how just genuine of stellar person they are. I wish them always the energy to create and sparks. @snow-covered-moon - They've never been anything less but absolutely a diamond to know. I enjoy their character, their almost always abundant of energy that's very rub inducing. Their WoL character stories, writing, screen-shots, everyday they open up a new pandora box of joy, there's no mistaken love behind their character and that's infectiously easy to also enjoy something when the author does too. Always healthy to be around, I never feel short of vitality when they're close-by. @letheofthelost - Always cheerful or least encapsulates with me, they're a carnival ride. Just pure epic story-telling and engaging equally as passionate, constantly writing characters, not looking for anything outside of RP or anything really just being their selves, they fade all others. I love their presence, them as a person. Enjoy any character they'll ever come and throw under me, or a change of pace. Always feels easily understandable between one another. @crow-iv - Together we're an unfiltered, unstoppable wake of pure passionate writers and art. But I would say they're far ahead of me, in every regard. Already able to portray multiple characters in a scene and do such in-depth thinking, alongside even sketch or draw right afterwards or a scene. They're so talented, huge reason I set-out on giving them a Crew of cast and actual stories to-tell when I'm actually caught up and if they interested and we both have the room, I really think if further myself, I can be better and supply more for them to draw and I want to see them soar. I want to give them all my improvements and effectiveness. @trishelle - They've such a reinforcing personality and aura around them that easily bolsters anything that dares thinking they're about to be depleted so energizing. Aesthetics, characters, all them are so lively that further compliment their own mun's great welcoming presence. Worth hundreds of smiles and stars, keep high. Wish I had more time to dedicate to learning you! But I do notice and appreciate you. @fracturedfantasia - One of my people, I like to retreat and just talk my full

head-cannons with or learn, share insightful and inquisitive thoughts about philosophies and multi-culture things. Or plotting and in-general, they're a well of information and brimming ideas, they are every making of what makes a quality friend. When you can generally be open-about-all that's a real one right there. Their characters and tarot readings, I always would implore if they're offering. Thanks for giving me any-time. You're truly a treasure. @violet-warder - Never have even came to words with them yet unfortunately but didn't mean as a mutual, I haven't admired all their screenies, writing, or the aesthetics they bring of their character. Glamours is real end-game, I like all what you've done and put together. I care strictly about what represent and give, I don't want to see them ever think anyone want's them gone, they are abundantly so talented and possess things only they can deliver. I think recently came back too, and I'm glad to share, hopefully, overtime I can build you better up. Or eventually even talk, but I'm certain you are a busy-body person too, so we're relatable. @layla-grey - I have a lot of underline issues that set me back as a flawed person, but I've never not been anything but someone who's open, it's why I always do include my f-list in anything or etc. I'm not here to present this facade, and really don't care to be an image crafted by another. No one as of recently or now, am I close with as an RP partner or friend with then this stunning masterpiece. I never let-up on story-telling or anything so I can eventually use my Crew or other Characters, to give them anytime a master entertaining day, they push me to not be short-changed. IC and OOC I would devote my full attention too cause they've never shed from me. Didn't ever matter how much silence or anything, they're always around. And don't expect anything out of me or pressure. Just accept me and I equally share that sentiment, I want you to have everything in this world has to offer. ----- This is just a fraction of people, I've paid attention, noticed or know. I've been around in this Community for many years. There's a lot of things I could say about it, more probably then anyone else. But what matters to me, is recognizing the people who are here, that work hard, build others up, support, constantly are a beam. I don't need to interact with everyone, to know when someone is generally out for good. Or they're out for bad I've learned inquisitiveness longtime ago, I had to survive and remain afloat. I just go out and be me, and along the way, I get to find people like these, who help bring out the best me. I am nothing without these people, creators, writers, artist. I'm a terrible friend, horrible person, I don't have the energy to interact NEARLY with as much as I'd like with you all, If I could clone myself, or if things were different, I would drop it all to be in your orbits more if could. But, do know I appreciate you. And even if you ever do depart from this whole community or anything, know that anything you share, or give, that stuff does matter, somewhere, someone was aspired, if nothing else, by me. ONLY you can give the worlds you see and I am thankful. Do love yourself.

[kira-fluff]

Hello! Have you done headcanons for a MC that is a really good artist? Like, that's what she loves and hopes to make a career out of it? (For the RFA, V, And Saeran?) thankyou! Bye bye! \ ^-^ /

a/n: I LOOOVEE this idea! As a passionate artist myself, this one hits home :) As you probably know, I’ve updated my rules, since you specified 2, I will pick 2 from the RFA :) Again, let me know if you’d like to have different characters than the ones I picked! I went for MC instead of Y/n this time. Let me know what you think. Thanks! 

Also, this is pre-relationship and it may or may not have turned into a confession headcanon oh gosh 

- 

MC is an Artist +Confession bonus 

V +bonus confession 

As a fellow artist, V would be incredibly proud of you 

Even though he might sometimes have trouble saying it 

V has always showed actions above his words 

You’d quickly gathered this from his lack of communication with the RFA chat and text messages between the two of you in general 

But you understood him, in a way 

You related to the freedom he felt whenever he expressed himself through his photography 

Because you felt that same feelings when you painted 

You were incredibly inspired by Beatrix Potter, your memories of her various artworks inspiring you to do the same 

You adored nature just as much as V did 

Together, you both made a beautiful pair 

You wore an adorable flower-patterned, yellow sun dress

A beige sunhat you held to your head with a hand, carrying your brushes and paint palette

Him, dressed smartly in a sweater with khaki pants 

 V could carry your easel for you, his professional photography bag slung around his shoulder. 

You’d laugh, turning around to look at him, the wind blowing in your face, urging him to “Come on!” 

V had never thought you more beautiful than the time you’d accidentally tripped into a meadow of freesias, scattering them every which way 

You gasped, whipping out your pocket book, etching down the scene before you 

After a measurable silence, you looked over at V who had been quiet in taking pictures of you 

He keeps many copies of the pictures, putting one in his wallet and other places he’d look frequently just to make him smile 

He’d never let others besides himself see them, but they were the most beautiful photos he’d ever taken, and this not just by his standards of your beauty 

You sometimes would catch yourself sketching him during your time outside with him, sitting in a quiet pasture 

The world’s creatures were your muse, but you couldn’t help yourself from taking every opportunity to capture V’s every expression

And maybe that’s when you realized you were completely and utterly in love with him. 

In those quiet times in the meadows, all along you were in love with him. 

When you’d caught V taking candids of you, you always would beg him to delete them, which he begrudgingly would, if you really begged him 

But.. other than that, you were positive V had no real feelings for you outside of a deep friendship. 

That must’ve done it. He knows.  

Because suddenly, V had become incredibly distant, flaking out of your naturalist escapades, becoming increasingly difficult to come in contact at all..

it was all pointing to the fact that he had realized how deeply you loved him. 

You in turn, pushed away everyone around you. 

Rejection hurt. So much. One does not truly understand it until they’ve felt it themselves. 

It came to a point where you had no more tears left to cry, you knew he was gone forever. 

Your love, your inspiration. 

All was gone. 

You hadn’t touched a paint brush in months 

You’d been skipping meals for a while, beginning to feel more and more fatigue because of it. 

It came to the point where all in the RFA (except V) had become so worried about you that they’d sent Jaehee and Yoosung over to check on you 

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d checked your phone 

Your blinds and curtains had been shut for a subsequent amount of time. 

It had been weeks since you’d last changed your clothes, your hair was unkept. 

You stopped taking care of yourself completely, emptiness overtaking you. 

You had always had a dream of making artwork your career.. but just when your freelance career had begun to take off.. you lost everything. 

You couldn’t bring yourself to touch your paints or pocket book. It reminded you too much of him. 

You weren’t concerned about money, Rika’s apartment was already paid for and… well, with no real meal expenses, you didn’t feel any real purpose to continue. 

You heard a soft knock on the door. 

Instead of answering, you groaned, rolling over in your sheets – hoping if you ignored the knocking they’d assumed you weren’t home.

Any last grain of hope you’d had left you a long time ago. 

“….MC?” 

You slowly sat up in your bed. It was Yoosung. 

You instantly felt shame for ignoring them.. and looking, well, like this. 

“I’m coming in!” Came a loud shout, causing you to panic. 

Damn. Seven must’ve opened the apartment.  

Seven was concerned for you, given the surveillance footage, he couldn’t find almost any instances when you’d left your apartment. 

Given your apparent closeness, Seven shot a text to Yoosung, Jaehee, and of course, V. 

Yoosung and Jaehee replied in agreement and concern, V, however, said something very different. 

// V:  I’m sorry. I can’t go. >> [sent, 6:08am]

707: I thot the 2 of u were rly close. Did sth happen? >> [sent, 6:09am]

V: I’m selfish. I can’t see her anymore. >> [sent, 6:29am] 

707: ? >> 

707: > [sent, 6:29am]

read, 6:32am. //

You began to cry, embarrassed and ashamed, as Jaehee and Yoosung called your name throughout your hollow feeling apartment. 

Immediate concern covered their faces when they saw you teary eyed in your bed. 

“Oh, MC, hey, it’s going to be okay.”, Jaehee immediately held your head in her arms. 

She ordered Yoosung to get some food from your local convenience store

From there, she opted to begin cleaning you up. 

Jaehee didn’t want to force you to do or say anything, so she never asked questions – unless to ask whether you were comfortable taking a shower or perhaps, eating something later. 

You were not opposed to the help, rather, you felt indebted to them, feeling guilty for causing Jaehee, Yoosung, and likely Seven a great amount of trouble. 

Jaehee made quick work of stripping your bed sheets, stuffing in the laundry and opening the blinds, cleaning your room and dusting where necessary 

A part of her chastised herself for not doing so sooner, but she and the others were afraid that they’d be intruding on your right to take a social media break or something of the sort. 

Yoosung came back relatively quickly, a meal in hand, per Jaehee’s request. 

He made quick work of making his specialty – an omurice omelette. 

Jaehee continued to tidy up, checking up with you when she’d realized the apartment had gotten too silent

You at last stepped out of the shower, your hair taking on a glimmer, as if thanking you for taking care of it at last. 

You washed your face, trying to gather your thoughts as your shoved a crew-neck shirt over your head, opting for jeans and slippers as well. 

At last coming out of the bathroom, you at last made eye contact with Yoosung and Jaehee you began to cry again. 

Without hesitation, they rushed toward you for a hug, hushing you when you’d blubbered, “I’m sorry, thank you, I’m so sorry” in between dry heaves. 

After a quick call to Seven from Jaehee, Zen, Jumin and Saeyoung had made their way to your apartment as well. 

They each had their piece to share, kind words of encouragement and love. 

You were happy by their words, but… 

V wasn’t here. 

At last gaining confidence through their encouraging words, you ushered them to the large sofas that laid beneath your TV. 

Looking down, you said, “I-I’m sure you’re all wondering about V and I..” 

You didn’t dare look up when your sniffles began. 

You took a deep breath before beginning, “This is nothing to his fault, but….” your lip wobbled, “I believe.. I think he realized that I had completely fallen for him,” you laughed pathetically, “Still am”

Seven began, “MC–” 

“I don’t blame him, really, I never intended to tell him… it’s awkward.” 

Zen clenched his fist, “That asshole…” 

“And my friend” Jumin quickly rebutted. 

“P-please! I didn’t tell you this to make you dislike him or anything! I just felt like I owed you all an explanation…”, you begged.

Seven stared at you for a while before saying, “MC… V he’s– I think you should tell him properly.” 

Zen, ever the hot-head, stood up shouting, “And get her heart broken all over again?! How heartless can you be!” 

You smiled ingenuinely, “He’s right, Zen.” 

Before you could change your mind, you picked up your phone, and for what felt like years, you at last dialed V’s number. 

On the last ring, you heard sound that the caller had, picked up though there was no sound on the other line. 

Jumin and Yoosung ushered everyone out of the room, deciding to take a little stroll outside the apartment complex. 

After a moment of silence you started, “…..V?” 

You now heard him breathing on the other line.

“V, I know you’re there. Please…” You felt your voice wavering, “P-please… come to my apartment.”, you whispered a final, “please.” 

V was silent for what felt like hours before saying, “……..okay.” 

You hung up, attempting to mentally prepare yourself for the world of hurt you were about to endure again. 

After a long silence in which you’d zoned out, you suddenly heard the door bell ring. 

You glanced up. Only V ever used the doorbell.. always had. 

You slowly crept toward the door, taking deep breaths to calm your nerves. 

Gently opening the door a crack, you took in V. 

It had been a few months, but he looked so different. So…hollow. 

You moved for him to come inside, closing the door behind you. 

“Um, V, there’s something I need to tell you.” 

“You already know my answer.” 

You looked up, tears welling in your eyes, doing your best to ignore his statement. 

“V… I love you.” 

You’d never seen V so taken aback, his whole face grew pale. 

“Y-you love me?” 

“Have. For a long time.” 

You looked down, “You can go now.” 

Yet you didn’t hear a sound of movement. 

Looking up, V was still standing there, shocked. 

At last, you managed to hear the softest whisper, “All this time….”

You leaned in closer, “What?” 

“I- I loved you.. I love you. Since we’d first met. I-I thought you didn’t want a thing to do with me. Thought you’d figured out I’d fallen in love, so I distanced myself.. selfishly to try not to get hurt, but I still did. And all this time you felt the same.” 

You were now the stunned one. 

“Really?” 

V gently smiled at you, enveloping you in a tight hug, “Really.” 

Jumin +bonus confession 

You loved to create stories 

Various areas of fiction, watercolor splashing against crisp, white pages 

Telling a beautiful story in color 

And Jumin adored it. 

He adored you. 

He admired your deep passion to create and your love for everything. 

He couldn’t understand how you could see the beauty in everything around you… for Jumin, he tended to consider things in their degree of usefulness. 

For the longest time, his father and those around him had encouraged this mentality 

And so, Jumin rarely sought for things that would have no real purpose – his penthouse proved this point by its bare walls – void of artistic charm

It wasn’t until you’d met him through the RFA that you’d immediately brought a force of color into his life 

He remembered well the first time you’d come to his apartment 

You gently ran your soft fingers against the walls of his penthouse saying, “Mr. Han, I think you need some more color in your house. It looks like a hospital in here!” You turned to him, a playful smile on your face. 

The breath was knocked out of him. 

God, he could never say no to you. If you’d ask, he’d get you anything you’d ever need. 

But he loved that you didn’t appreciate that kind of affection. Jumin knew he immediately ran to gift giving for love because it was the only way he had been shown love throughout his life…. and, it didn’t really mean anything to him. 

Still, he desperately wanted to be helpful, so if you were ever in a financial struggle, he’d offer to assist you. 

You’d proudly decline, declaring you could do it all yourself. He liked that about you too. Your independence, your kindness. 

It didn’t take long for him to realize he had taken to you greatly. 

One day when you’d come over for a visit, while petting Elizabeth III, you said, “Hey, Jumin.. have you ever fallen in love before?” 

Tension filled the air while Jumin stared at you. 

How could MC be so blind. 

When it had been a few moments he’d not answered, you awkwardly said, “J-just kidding! I figured you’re probably engaged – that was a stupid question, sorry..” 

Jumin was stricken by your sudden uncertainty, but didn’t make anything of it. 

“I’m not engaged. Don’t listen to anything my father says regarding that. And to answer your question, I think I might have an idea of what that feels like.” 

His eyes bore into yours, but he of course missed the look of sorrow that’d taken over your eyes.  

He’d watch you paint all day if he had the time. 

He couldn’t understand how you could look at a blank sheet of paper and write something so poetically beautiful and paint a lovely picture to match 

It was all a part of his amazement of you. 

He could watch you for hours, humming to yourself while you played around with contrast colors for your watercolor pieces 

No other art had value quite like your own 

He encouraged you at every chance he got, “MC, you should go into the arts.” 

“That’s what I want to do! But, Dad says the arts aren’t a realistic job.”, you frowned. 

“That may have been true in some outdated decade, but in our world today people are always looking for something hand-made and authentic. When we research our products, we look for items that have a ‘signature’ to them. Trust me, people want your art not only because it is breath-taking.. but because you made it.” 

You smiled at that, Jumin was always one to put a rational thought forward for your consideration, something you’d cherished. 

“Besides, I think you’d be happy anywhere you can create.” 

You grinned, pulling him into a tight hug, “Thank you, Ju Ju.”

Staying close friends became increasingly difficult, but Jumin wasn’t going to risk losing his friendship with you because of feelings. 

So you surprised him when you began randomly, “Jumin, I think I’m in love with you, okay?” 

You made eye contact, doing your best to show you were serious. 

As soon as he realized you were authentic in your confession, you turned around and began sprinting, flying open the door to his penthouse 

Jumin immediately chased after you, both in a full sprint 

You screamed when you heard his breathing and steps behind you and so increased your speed 

You had at last reached a dead end, but Jumin was a ways behind you. 

You reached for the elevator button, furiously clicking it – thankfully it came on the first ding. 

You rushed inside, repeatedly tapping the door-closing button. 

You sighed at last when you felt the elevator moving up, gasping for air. 

You attempted to continue going up to the highest story, which happened to be 320, grateful that this damn skyscraper had a ton of floors. 

You froze when the door came to a stop at floor 13. You panicked, trying to force the doors not to open. 

In front of you was a random businessmen, looked slightly peeved at the long wait he must’ve had for the elegant glass elevator. 

You apologized, allowing him into the elevator along with a crowd of impatient people, some gorgeous women with a smart suit and long hair, their phone resting on their cheek next to their ear, some more businessmen, glancing anxiously at their watches. 

As the elevator climbed to floor 21, a heap of people acknowledged their stop, pressing out of the elevator shaft and onto the busy hallways of what appeared to be the finance department. 

You sighed, pressing more buttons to go up higher. 

You screeched when you felt a hand on both of your wrists, slamming you into the wall behind you. 

Jumin’s eyes were glowing from the slight sweat that was beginning to form on his brow 

He looked pissed. 

“Don’t. Ever. Run. Away. From me. Again.” 

You gazed up at him, a guilty expression clouding your face 

“S-sorry..”, you quickly looked away, not bearing to look at the anger in his expression, the way he clenched his jaw and his eyes took on a darker hue… brows knit together. He was really mad. 

“You didn’t let me answer.” He said, his voice deep. 

He leaned in closer.. you closed your eyes in anticipation. 

He breathed a laugh through his nose, resting his forehead on your collarbone and shoulder. 

You blushed in embarrassment. 

Suddenly, Jumin hugged you tightly, “I love you too, MC.” 

Zen

As a fellow artist, Zen was overjoyed to say the least when he found out about your love for singing 

Your social media accounts were growing rapidly from your posts of music covers and original songs 

You also had a deep love to playing the harp. 

It had taken a lot of coaxing to convince your father to let you pay half and he pay the other of the expense of a 200,000 Won pedal harp 

But you loved it so much 

And so does Zen 

He’d definitely insist on doing a collaboration with you 

After the recording session and upload, both your following counts grew rapidly 

Comments of all types flooded your posts: 

OMG!!! ZEN!! BEAUTIFUL ZEN!!

who’s the b*tch next to him? 

omg, right? 

ew lol 

AHHHH I LOVE YOU ZEN!!! 

MC looks so cute…

fyp!! 

ZEN AND MC WOULD MAKE SUCH A CUTE COUPLE AWEEEE 

I agree!! 귀엽다   (cute) 

Over the course of your social media endeavor, you’d learned to ignore the ruthless comments of jealous fans 

Zen was worried you’d taken them personally so he validated you a lot over the period that the video was a hit 

Zen wrote a song about you (which he definitely serenaded you with): 

“your passion, my passion one in the same this song – our communicator of my love to you. your smile each day this serenade a simple translator the time we have means so much i wouldn’t spend it any other way.” - radio wave COMMUNICATION by Zen 

The song overtook the song charts, making it’s way to the #1 spot in half a day 

You’d asked him, “Zen, are you going to make that a single? You are, aren’t you? Right?” 

“No, this is something for you and you only” 

You smiled at that, but said, “Zen, love like this deserves to be shared. This song will mean something so special to someone else, just like it means something to me. Music, what we do.. it was made to be shared.” 

Zen looked at you with stars in his eyes, taking you in a big hug. 

You truly were the kindest person he’d ever met.. and he loved you so, so much. 

Even though you may not have realized yet what the truth of his feelings were in his serenade, he knew he’d wait for the day in anticipation when he’d finally ask you to be his. 

Saeran

Saeran wasn’t personally one for dramatics, but he loved watching you perform  

You’d sing for all kinds of musicals – you’d act for a series of plays 

He loved it when you’d act in classics like Macbeth or The Phantom of the Opera

It felt like a safe place to forget everything in his life and just watch you 

But he hadn’t fallen for you for who you pretended to be, but for who you really are. 

You were shy – something he found surprising (but unbelievably adorable) because you were a well-known actress 

When you’d first met him, you were walking outside the entrance way of the theater a few hours before your showtime. 

You had accidentally tripped and spilled coffee all over some tax forms you had to fill out

You let out a soft, “oh no!” 

Saeran had been early for a nice seat (hopefully away from other people) and noticed a woman in a cute over-sized sweater was muttering words under her breath, picking up what seemed to be endless amounts of papers 

He quietly walked over and just as softly said, “…need some help..?” 

You were surprised at the sudden presence of a stranger 

“o-oh! … yes please..” 

he smiled, leaning down and picking up stacks of coffee-stained paper

“would you like me to carry them for you?”, he said 

“are you– are you sure?” you looked up at him innocently in concern 

he answered by gently taking the stack of papers, “where to..?” 

“um… i’ll show you..” 

he nodded, following you to the backstage area where there was a mirror attached to a dresser, stage makeup covering the top of it. 

“you’re an actress?” 

you grinned shyly, “everyone’s surprised..” 

“n-no, i think it suits you. i was surprised because i’m watching the show tonight.” 

“r-really? you’ll watch me?” 

he nodded, blushing at your hopeful smile 

“i’ll do my best then, if you’ll watch me..” 

“good.” he looked away 

“i’ll be waiting” you said with a soft smile 

“so will i” 

yeah you two were literally so adorable.

- 

enjoy my beautifuls

[naturepointstheway]

Two Outer Wilds Fic Authors recommendations!

There are some absolutely stellar quality fanfictions in the Outer Wilds fandom on Archive of Our Own and one or two where it’s practically criminal how few kudoses/bookmarks they have (what is coming to this world smh). I would even say I have favourite authors among them as well, and there are fics there that Kelsey Beaucham (the writer for OW) would be proud of (if I were in their shoes!) Basically, if I had to choose someone to write the writing for the next OW thing (be it DLC or otherwise), these are the amazing human beings I’d pick. And yes, I am one of those who will gush in a manner that Cassava would find “gelatinous”. I don’t care. Because I am full of love for their writing.

Author Rec: BlackBlood1872

Normally I hesitate to read fics with second person points of views, BUT they do their fics with absolute finesse and flawlessness that it doesn’t matter. In a way it fits, because when one plays Outer Wilds, they are the character. What you experience in emotions is perfectly valid to project upon the Hatchling. It’s your experience and your game and no one else’s. All three of their fics on AO3′s OW section are absolutely worth it, especially,, ESPECIALLY “The Day Riebeck Forgot” (though not in 2nd pov) which warmed and broke (and then warmed and broke at least three times over) my heart from start to finish. Let’s say Riebeck finally gets to meet a Certain Friend on a Certain Moon and it’s as amazing, exhilarating, beautiful, and heart-breaking as you’d expect. If I were stranded on, like, Mars or something, and I could only have one fic with me from each of my fave fandoms, THIS would be my pick for OW. Honestly, for me, it’s hard to top “The Day Riebeck Forgot” and...I can only gush about it because I have no more words for how amazing it is. It’s a 12/10 rating for me. 

“Neither Benign nor Hostile” - based on a line from Gabbro about dying a few loops ago - is a small fic, one that can be read in the space of time it takes to roast a marshmallow over the campfire, but it smacks you in the feels (much harder than your average marshmallow) and leaves you reeling (at least it did for me.) The mark of a truly gifted and skilled writer is one who can effortlessly break a reader’s heart and tell a whole story in under 1000 words. It is a very maturely written fic, touching upon grief, loneliness, the deep need for the company of the only one other Traveler who knows about the loop, and it really changed my view on the game as well. 

“like the sun and moon, they end only to begin again” - in a similar vein to the previous fic, this explores the many ways you can die in the game, and how it affects the Hatchling and their relationships with life, death, other characters, and the universe. The dialogue is absolutely top notch as in their other fics, and flows with natural ease and symphony. Honestly, if Kelsey Beaucham asked me to pick someone to take over the writing for a DLC or whatever of OW, I’d pick this author, no hesitation. There are no waffles or fluff in their dialogue nor narration, whittled to the finest instrument of storytelling it can be. You get the sense of the Hatchling having had to grow up so fast and consider the preciousness and fragility of life while aware of being trapped in a time loop, especially considering it’s literally their first day of launch again and again, experiencing death so many times in various agonising ways that it has “become routine”. 

Author Rec: PartlyCloudySkies

‘monument’ - This exquisitely narrated piece with its flawless, natural, mature dialogue follows a conversation among the Nomai in the statue workshop, touching on science and art, and how they blend together. To Phlox, the creation of the statues wasn’t just a scientific endeavour, it was also an artistic, creative project that drew on a passion for the art. Daz provides an alluring contrast in their views as an engineer, where to them, it was all science and little to do with artistic endeavour, generating a deep conversation between the two characters. 

“You don’t suspend art, Daz. It happens.” 

The second chapter is enriched in the same finely-tuned narration and dialogue between Hornfels and Esker, touching on nostalgia for the old days, especially for when they used to all sit around the campfire and tell stories and play music. I also loved their discussion on past astronauts of the space programme, and their different personalities and approaches and views on space and spaceflight (yes, Slate, I’m looking at you). I love that Feldspar was essentially the Hermione of the group during Hornfels’ lectures, waking everyone up after they fell asleep. This is well worth a re-read (and another re-re-re-read...) 

‘orbits’ - Longfic oneshots, this one clocking just shy of 10K words, are my favourite things in fandoms and I always love getting stuck in one (and also writing them, depending on the fandom (read: Life is Strange), and when one is as well written as this, it’s perfect. This follows both Hatchling and Solanum on not just their inaugural journeys to space and the Quantum Moon, respectively, but also their character development through time. We see Solanum go from a little child scared of the Eye to one who is absolutely passionate about their coming of age pilgrimage. Each are imbued with individual personalities and views on the world and people around them, as well as insatiable desire for knowledge and exploration.  

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Answers Found in Silence

Vincent licked his lips.

The blood tasted like iron, but the vision of the masterful painting before him absorbed his entire attention.

He loved paintings. He loved living vicariously through them. The rush it filled him with whenever his eyes followed every stroke of the brush, paint layered as passionate memories upon canvas, the sheer essence that the artist channeled into creating such masterpieces.

Seeing what they saw. Breathing what they breathed. Imagining what they must have heard at the time. Tasting what they sampled upon their tongues.

Absentmindedly, he licked his lips again, only now realizing how much blood must have sprayed his face upon bludgeoning a man to death. It took him out of his revelry. That taste of iron prevented him from embarking on another journey through the lens of the painting.

Vincent dabbed his lower lip, then inspected his fingertips, ensuring with a glance that it was indeed another man's blood.

He turned to the corpse splayed out on the marble floor behind him, in the middle of a pool of his own bodily fluids. Vincent scanned the dead body with silent contempt. His lip curled into a sneer. He shook his head in disbelief.

"Philistine," he muttered.

The knife that Sir Dorsey Dwyer had held now lay on the shiny floor beside him, underneath a reflective surface comprised of his own spilled lifeblood, pumped out to completion by his heart's merciless beating, throbbing until he had exhaled his last breath.

Dwyer had threatened to do harm with that knife. Not harm to Vincent—but to the painting. An act of aggression he could not tolerate. An act of spite which he would not suffer.

That they would not suffer.

"Yes," whispered his favorite voice. That sweetest voice. "You did well, my love. Revenge for a loved one he had lost, I can always fathom, but what he would have done to the painting never would have—"

"Brought him back," said Vincent, Lord of the Bailyview, seemingly to himself.

Nobody but him could hear the phantasmal companion whose sentence he had finished. He stood alone in that spacious hall, company only to his late colleague's corpse growing cold. Sparing little glance to the bent candelabra which had caved in Dwyer's skull, he turned to gaze at the painting again.

He said, "It is a bit of a bother though. I need to figure out how to get his sorry carcass out of here without getting caught red-handed, or our time together may just be spent in a cell in the Tower."

She stayed silent.

He rubbed thumb and bloodstained fingers together, marveling at the sensation of that warm slick fluid trapped between them. Though rare for him to take another person's life, he rarely felt anything even remotely related to remorse.

Like this painting.

A beautiful portrait of a quaintly handsome man. Staring off to the side through hazel eyes, head crowned by messy hair, garbed in a fancy dress likely donned just for the portrait's painter—or imagined, as it contrasted the rest of his appearance so.

The painter had clearly seen something in the motif of his masterpiece. Felt something for the man depicted on the canvas.

And the painter had been nobody less than the infamous Outer Wall Reaper. The murderer who had kept the city locked in a breathless fear, rendered masses afraid of the killer who stalked its streets by night, picking off people and making them disappear until only mangled bodies surfaced in the slums, organs missing.

And now, Vincent owned this painting, stolen from the Reaper's vandalized home by looters before an angry mob fully thrashed it. The piece of art had found its way into the private collection of this rich and handsome playboy.

"So fascinating," said she.

Orinrya.

"The painter? Or the subject?" he asked.

She rendered a whole aria, carried in the singsong of a single word as she replied, "Both."

He chuckled.

"So rare for us to glimpse what such a pure soul saw as attractive," she added.

"Pure soul?" scoffed Vincent. But he smiled.

"Yes. Just look at the way he painted every single hair on his head. What little attention he paid to the shirt's collar or the bow, while having slaved over the sheen he had seen on this man's skin. The hand that guided that brush also guided the needles and scalpels that took all those lives, in all those cold and dreary nights. The warmth of their blood, steaming in the snow—"

"You're right."

"Hm?"

"I see it," breathed Vincent.

He sighed. Shot another glance at the dead man on the floor, repeating his oath, "Philistine. To think—you almost robbed our world of this masterpiece. The single only painting the Reaper may have ever made."

Dwyer had been out of line; he had had no right to destroy it. Nobody did. The stupid fop had foolishly tried to put knife to the canvas, to slice it to ribbons in a fit of rage upon hearing who had painted the portrait. A petty act of revenge, as if it would have brought back his slain brother, the only wealthy victim whose life the Reaper claimed in his rampage through the slums. Caught with a night worker, no less, adding insult to injury.

And to imagine that a simple painting could have been the object of his impotent rage—no, they would never have suffered such petty revenge. After all, it was not the artwork that had taken his brother's life.

Snatching a gas lantern from the table, Vincent raised it in front of the painting and frowned. Though perfect for the simple sandalwood frame, this artificial light did not do the artwork itself any justice. The long, foggy night had swallowed the sun, and Vincent could not wait to behold the Reaper's artistry again in broad daylight.

In a way, the Outer Wall Reaper had just claimed another life. Even if only indirectly. Vincent smiled at that thought. That he had accidentally become the murderer's own instrument.

Almost as if on cue to disrupt his morbid amusement, someone knocked on the door.

Muffled through the entrance still closed, the butler spoke, "Milord, I heard—"

"It's fine, Perry. Brace yourself as you enter. Sir Dwyer had a," Vincent's words trailed off like these thoughts. He smiled again to himself before he finally finished the sentence. "He had an unfortunate accident."

He never turned around. The doors to the gallery opened and Perry entered. His shoes squeaked as he swiveled and froze in place, staring at the corpse.

"An accident with a candelabra, I see," said the butler with his usual measure of dripping sarcasm. "Looks like the poor chap fell backwards into it. Repeatedly."

Vincent chortled, still admiring the painting. He never understood how Perry found it in him to deliver such deadpan remarks without breaking out into laughter himself.

Their gazes met for a second, and as always, Vincent read no fear in Perry's eyes. They would never harm a hair on each other's heads, and knowing each other's dirty secrets assured mutual silence—or mutual destruction.

"What would you have me do about this mess, sir?"

Vincent clicked his tongue and shook his head.

"Pay no mind. Fetch me everything for some absinthe. I will take care of the late Sir Dwyer myself. And as you recall, he showed up here all drunk off his arse. I don't think anybody knows he even came here. And someone in the constabulary... still owes me a favor. I'll have it all sorted out soon, no worries."

"Despite the recent disaster at your party?"

"Oh, let them all talk. I love being the center of attention. Next thing you know, I'll be the headline of another lurid article," Vincent said, painting a picture in the air with a hand, fingers splayed as he envisioned the printed piece. "Painting me as the Outer Wall Reaper himself, while others rush to defend my name and trip over themselves in fabricating all the reasons why I would never harm a fly."

Vincent arched his brow as he flashed his loyal butler a twisted smile. The same involuntary expression to mark his face whenever he felt like he was winning a game. And he always won the games that people played in the rumor mill.

"I am less concerned about them, milord. And more about how difficult it will be to clean after the constabulary concludes their investigation." Perry raised his nose and stared down at it, gray cheeks reddening.

"Hm. I am terribly sorry about all that, Perry. You have my word; I'll hire someone to take care of it. Now—how about that absinthe?"

The butler emitted a grunt in recognition, bowed, and backed out of the gallery hall again, leaving Vincent alone with the corpse.

And Orinrya.

The door clicked as it shut completely.

"He's such a good friend of the family," she said. "Three generations, and now the old codger's stuck with handling your caprice."

She smiled through Vincent's own lips. He smiled to himself, as well.

"I'm sure he has his own share of amusements," he said. Focusing on the painting again, he asked, "Now, where do you think this one leads? It's just blank around the subject. Well, not entirely blank. There's some color, some suggestion of gloom. I'd wager he painted it just this same winter. But without background—no context. A blind journey. We've never done that before."

"And that's why we will, darling. You cannot resist."

He smiled even wider.

Orinrya was right. She knew his thoughts, reading them as clearly as if he had spoken them out loud, giving them air. She knew his capricious nature as well as he did, or perhaps even better. Knew he could not pass up on any opportunity to explore the unknown. He bored quickly of things familiar and always sought to visit a new horizon whenever it presented itself.

He flopped down onto the sofa with a heavy sigh, his velvety upholstered oasis in the middle of this opulent marble gallery. Surrounded by alabaster statues of ancient deities, and arrays of exquisite paintings that his family had amassed over all these years to plaster the high walls. The lights from gaslit lanterns cast pockets of eerie glow throughout the gigantic hall.

Vincent tapped his chiseled blood-splattered chin as he once more marveled at the craftsmanship that had gone into painting this portrait.

"What do think is his name? Or was?" he asked.

"Eric," she said. Giggled. "He looks like an Eric to me. And still alive, I feel."

Vincent chuckled.

"So, you're picking up on a name with an 'E'. Perhaps Egon? Egon. Hm. What a funny name," he mused.

"Edward. That must be it, for sure."

"How would you know?"

"Call it—intuition," she cooed.

"Or should I call it whispers? The things you hear from the beyond? You never answered, love. You never told me where you came from."

"And perhaps I never will," she breathed with melody, drawing out another smile from him.

The set of double doors opened into the gallery. The butler entered. Empty glasses and sugar cubes in a small metal cup tinkled and clattered until he arrived by the sofa's side. He set the contents of his tray down onto the table by the sofa, one by one, preparing everything for Vincent's ritual.

Before he could seize the bottle of green liquid to pour him a glass, Vincent raised a jewelry-clad hand to stop Perry.

"That'll be all. Thank you," he told him. "I'll take it from here."

Perry nodded, bowed again, and left the gallery, shedding not even a glance in the direction of Dwyer's corpse.

The doors clicked shut again.

"You know you don't need that, right?" asked Orinrya.

"Yes. But I just—I enjoy it too much. I like the taste. I associate it with our study of these pieces. With our journeys."

He chuckled again.

Perching a sugar cube atop the glass with the ornate spoon—and his family's crest of the eagle cut into the silver piece of specialized cutlery—he poured the sweet green spirit into his clear cup. The trickle of liquid tickled his senses.

And he lived for all manner of sensations.

"It is a lovely taste, I must concede," she said. "Particularly this bottle, this make. More than mere resemblance of licorice. Mint. Thyme? And a hint of other worlds. I do understand the appeal, don't get me wrong."

A delighted sigh escaped his throat as he cradled the glass between the fingers of one hand, swirling its contents like fine wine and sampling the drink's scent.

"Other worlds indeed," he said, the smile never fading from his face.

He sipped from the glass. Heat spread over his palate with a pleasant warmth, like a beautiful wildfire consuming the countryside, burning away every hint of iron and blood. He closed his eyes as he savored the aftertaste, and took another longing sip, kissing the glass like he would his many lovers, the men and women he consorted with behind closed doors at his many lavish parties.

"Drink, sweet prince," she said. "I long to see what lies beyond. I wish to meet this man for myself. To see what the Reaper saw."

"Taste what the Reaper tasted," breathed Vincent, licking his lips again, now only tasting the sweet sting of the green fairy, any tang of blood having been relegated into memory.

He focused on the painting. Drinking in the portrait's details. Warm tones made up the complexion of the artist's subject. Streaks and dabs of gray peppered dark hair despite the youthful and symmetrical face. A faint hint of stubble around the small and tender-looking lips and a soft chin.

And such kind eyes. So utterly kind.

What had the Reaper seen? Who was this mysterious subject?

"The killer became obsessed with him," Orinrya whispered. "Watched him from afar. But not like he watched the others."

Vincent sipped more from his cup; his sights fixed on the portrait. The spirit burned his throat on the way down and blood now rushed in his ears.

"Do you think he would have kept him for last? After torching down the entire world, would he have kept him around, do you think?"

"Not for long," she said. "Those kind eyes, he would not have been able to bear them for all eternity. Those eyes, painted thus, they knew not who watched him. What watched him. What monster—"

"Oh, my dear, let us not wield that word lightly," Vincent said.

His eyes fell shut as he drank more from the cup. The cool steel framing its glass made his silky palm tingle.

"Oh, but my dear, he is one of us," she sang.

"Was," said Vincent, breaking out into another chuckle.

Opening his eyes to continue gazing into the soft amber irises of the portrait's eyes, Vincent's vision blurred.

"Yes, was," she chimed in, joining him with melodious laughter in his mind.

"And this—Edward, you say—"

"Yes. Certainly Edward. I see a room. Orderly. Well-organized. Neatly arranged instruments. Cabinets filled with... medicine."

"A doctor?" asked Vincent with a lopsided smile, arching a brow.

"A doctor."

He drank more from the cup. Lost all sense of time as his senses dulled, losing track of how often he repeated the motion—the trickle of green spirit soaked up by the sugar cube, trailing down through the family crest into the cup, and burning in his throat as he sent it to cascade past his luscious lips and tongue.

"Here, in this very city, am I right?"

"Yes, dear. He is near. I feel it."

As his vision faded, his memory soon followed into the hazy mist.

Vincent cradled the bottle. Empty, save for a few droplets. They laughed as its glass shattered somewhere on the floor, no further mind paid to its breaking after jettisoning it away in a languid arc.

"I can almost taste it."

The lingering smell of the spirit occluded his senses further, but he began to smell another sharp substance.

Rubbing alcohol.

"We're getting closer, love," she whispered.

Every time he blinked, his eyelids grew heavier. His vision of the portrait turned into a blob of warm colors in dim light. The kind eyes of the mystery man in the painting—Edward—soon peeled away from that unseen something off to the right side of the image, and the doctor in the painting turned his head to look back at his spectators.

Then he looked out a window. His motions were slow, deliberate.

They felt that he felt watched.

"A busy street by day, just outside that window," Orinrya said.

"A foggy day," Vincent ventured. "A day not long ago."

"Only days around when the Reaper started his spree."

"Oh, how he cherished knowing how this beautiful man—this oblivious doctor—was unwittingly helping him."

"Did he provide the instruments?"

"Or drugs, perhaps?"

"No, just the thing to stab. A precise thing."

"A needle," they both said in unison, their voices blending until they matched. Orinrya spoke through his mouth. "A syringe."

Two voices. Not one.

The lantern's flame flickered but stayed alight. Turned bright blue. The world began to fade.

"Inspiration."

"He inspired him. Oh, he quaffed the nectar of this man's innocence—"

"Watched from afar, even before he started claiming lives—"

"Twisted it into something darker—"

"Something fierce—"

"Oh, the delicious transgression."

The lights throughout the gallery went out, one by one, until all but the lantern sitting on the floor between sofa and the lonesome painting remained lit. An orange-hued island in the middle of a sea of darkness. On one edge, the dapper lordling lounged, limbs drooping lazily off the sides. On the other, the painting.

The handsome man had disappeared from it.

Vincent brushed over his own lips and the numbness had set in. Unable to feel his own fingers, it felt like someone else caressed him, like she had planted there a gentle kiss.

They no longer saw a portrait, but another place. A window into that other location: a doctor's practice. Vacant of people, with shadows flitting about, hints of its owner leaping from one task to another chore, as day and night cycled rapidly, bouncing back and forth.

Meticulously washing his hands in the sink. Examining a sitting patient's eyes. Carefully bringing scalpel to an exposed arm. A laugh to defuse some fear. Blood, dabbed away with cloth in slender hands. A warm and kind smile to match the gaze from the painting, a patient calmed by his gentle disposition.

Oblivious of the darkness that watched him, reaching through past and present and now seeing that darkened room. A solid night, a roiling fog outside the windows. Like one monster once watched, spying from the outside, they now peered through painting, bridging time and space.

Vincent lurched up onto his feet and stumbled halfway on the infinitely long walk towards the painting. Glass shards crunched underneath his shoe, reminiscent of the blanket of snow outside, melting into the flurries of crystallized precipitation which he saw through the painting, falling softly to cobblestone-covered streets outside the practice's window.

Though numbed by stupor, the bumps and ridges of dried paint surfaced in a texture he traced with his fingertips, exploring the picture of the painting. No longer depicting the kind-faced doctor, but his practice, blanketed entirely by night.

"Push, my love. Let us explore."

And Vincent did. Pressed his palm against the painting, and ripples exploded outwards from it, as if he had disturbed the surface of a still pond. The image swallowed his hand and he pushed deeper, until he dove into that distorted image, neither place nor person, stepping entirely through.

As he stumbled again and blinked to orient himself, he stood inside that doctor's practice.

Rocked back and forth as the absinthe did its number on his coordination, barely able to read the handwriting on letters stacked on a desk.

Orinrya whispered through Vincent's lips, "Doctor Edward—"

"Carnaby," Vincent finished himself, slurring the surname in a drunken drawl, erupting into a stupid giggle.

He slapped the paper back down onto the desk and looked about, letting his eyes adjust.

"Do we truly travel to these places, love?"

"Or is it just a jaunt of the mind?" she countered.

"A little escape that leaves the flesh behind?"

He giggled another drunken giggle as he clumsily knocked over objects on the desk, causing them to clink and clatter and a small broken vial to gurgle out liquid. Something black, likely ink.

"Oh fairy, my green fairy," he murmured with the most melody that a positively drunken man could muster.

"This is all us, darling. No fairy needed. Just some added fun for your pleasure."

He pushed through a door, stumbling down dark corridors, and registering the softness of a carpet beneath his shoes.

"But it's so much fun, love—"

Vincent froze.

Bathed in a bright sliver of silver moonlight from a crack between the curtains, a woman lay in bed. A shapely face, heavily scarred, and peacefully resting, eyes closed.

"Oh, here we go again," mused Orinrya. "Be still, your beating heart."

Arms exposed above the sheets, wreathed in bandages, leaving just enough space for Vincent to take a seat at the sleeping woman's side. The mattress and bed creaked underneath his weight.

The scars on her cheek, as disfiguring they were, he saw past them and found a beauty he would have overlooked otherwise. But it was the scarring that captured his entire attention.

"Yet another fancy for you to entertain, love?"

He shushed Orinrya.

His fingers shook with the green fairy's tremors and an enamored fascination. He traced over the lines of those scars, an uneven drawing from a cut inflicted by a blade, that wandered over cheek to nose. Crisscrossing into another scar that ran across the nose, where ridge had broken once. Gingerly exploring the uneven surface of her warm skin where a hound's claw had raked her jaw. Her soft and shallow breath, he felt even with hands so numb.

So focused, so spellbound—

"Careful now," Orinrya whispered.

Vincent whispered back, "Sound asleep—"

"Look," she said. "Look away."

"No, I shall not."

"Look beside her, I say! Look. On the bedside table," Orinrya urged him. The singsong gone, her tone had fallen deathly serious.

That was when his blurry gaze finally came to rest upon it.

A leatherbound tome. Strange glyphs carved into its face.

Another gasp escaped Vincent's throat, all attention for the beautifully scarred woman now blown away.

An authentic tome of magick. He felt it. He felt its thrum. No ordinary book he had ever seen had ever looked like that. It had to be.

The prize he had sought for so long.

"Take me," Orinrya whispered.

No—the tome had whispered that. In his mind. Like her?

Right?

"Take it," she whispered in his mind. "Take it."

His hands trembled—hovered just above the cool leather surface of the book. How he yearned to rip it open and decipher its inscriptions. But his reverence weighed so heavily, the dread of what terrible secrets it may contain, it boggled his mind. His hesitation dragged on forever, mired in a swamp of lost time and a drunken haze.

"Take it," she hissed. Commanding.

His fingers trembled even more as they crept closer towards the edges of the book, keen on flipping the lid and perusing its mysterious pages.

He hesitated for too long.

"What are you doing in here?" a man blurted out behind them.

In the door to the room stood a dark silhouette. The squeak of metal and a clicking sound preceded a lantern going on.

The doctor. This Edward Carnaby. The kind face from the painting, kindness far from its current expression. Glaring at Vincent.

"Who in the blazes are you?" asked the doctor.

Brows furrowed; the moonlight twinkled with fear in the doctor's pupils.

Vincent rose to his feet and lurched towards him, tripping over a chair's leg. He caught himself against a dresser before he could fully plummet to the floor. Laughed, drunkenly.

"Should he see your face?" Orinrya asked. Another murmur in Vincent's thoughts. "Should he remember?"

"No. Yes!" Vincent said, followed by another clipped giggle.

Alibi, he thought. So convenient. If this was even real.

Doctor Carnaby cried, "Get out! Before I fetch a constable!"

The good doctor threatened, yet he took a timid step backwards, back into the hallway behind him. Frightened by the nightly invader in his home.

"Sorry good, sir," Vincent's words lurched as much as he did with his drunken gait. "I must have been confused. Long night—o-out drinking, you see."

"Get out!" repeated the doctor with more force. His voice trembled with terror.

Leaning against the dresser, sliding, and almost slipping as he propped himself up, Vincent eked out a theatrical gesture with his arm and bowed, nearly toppling over in the process. "I'm Lord Vincent Va—"

"I don't care who in the devil's name you are, you are bothering my patient, you drunken lout! Get! Out! " The doctor's fear audibly subsided. He cleared his throat and pointed a finger down the hallway, directing Vincent to leave that way.

He stepped aside demonstratively and waited for Vincent to follow his instructions.

"Yes, yes, yes. As I was saying, good sir, I must have taken the wrong turn—wrong door, you know, it happens," he said with a smile, growing aware of how much less charming he was whenever he was this heavily intoxicated. "Vincent Vance is the name, Lord of Bailyview. Terribly sorry if I broke anything on the way in—"

Doctor Carnaby's face fell through different stages. The dread dropped into fury, and the fury made way for confusion and mild annoyance, with a dash of pity.

"Just leave, please."

"Right," Vincent said, covering his mouth and feigning the urge to throw up, replete with a retching sound.

Carnaby waited patiently for him to step outside, and Vincent obliged. Stared over his shoulder as he turned into the hallway and stopped there—the scarred woman stirred, and more importantly, that leatherbound tome eyelessly stared back at him.

Beckoning him.

He wanted it so badly. Had to peel his gaze from the book. Had to tell himself he'd be back for it. Flashed a stupid grin at the doctor and stumbled forth.

The glow from the doctor's lantern made it easier to navigate the dark hallway, and in the blurry haze where time and space melted into one misty soup, he braced himself against a wall on the way until he pushed through a door that should have led outside. He slammed it shut behind him, more fiercely than he had intended.

But he did not find himself outside on the street, in the cold, where his breath condensed before his mouth, standing in the pale moonlight as it pierced a ring of clouds—but back in the gallery in front of the living painting of Doctor Edward Carnaby.

The doctor glared into the night outside his front door. Poked his head outside to see where his nightly intruder had staggered off to but paid it no more mind. Did not notice a lack of footprints in the thin layer of snow. He shut the door. The lock loudly fell into place.

Vincent leaned against the wall, watching through the painting.

The snowfall of flurries gently drifting down onto the cobblestone-covered streets made him sway again, made Vincent's legs buckle. Hypnotic as it was, it almost fully robbed him of his senses.

He crashed back down onto that comfortable sofa inside his opulent gallery.

"A fascinating jaunt, darling," said Orinrya.

"And a convenient alibi," he replied, shooting another glance at Sir Dwyer's body.

They laughed at the dead philistine.

The blur continued, as Vincent did not recall how he had gotten from the Reaper's painting of Doctor Carnaby in the main hall—to his private parlor.

Slumped into a different sofa, he peered up at the gigantic portrait of himself.

The renowned painter Léon Choffard had spent months completing this masterpiece. A stylized depiction of Vincent's likeness. Though already statuesque in the flesh, Choffard's artistry had lent the portrait a special something that portrayed Vincent as even more attractive than humanly possible—which Vincent regularly and smirkingly attributed to their brief and romantic tryst.

"It truly captures your pleasant face," Orinrya said.

"Thank you, dear."

Silence.

A large clock tick-tocked away from the edge of the room, with everything around him swamped in shadows, two lanterns shedding just enough light that he could study the rendition of his own portrait.

"I wonder," he suddenly said. "What would happen if we entered that picture? Where would it take us?"

Silence.

Orinrya stayed silent.

"Hm, I like that answer. It is intriguing, love. So mysterious. You say so much by saying nothing, you know that?"

She laughed inside his head. A sweet and seductive laugh. He smiled in response.

"Will you ever tell me what you are? Or is that destined to be our perpetual dance?"

She laughed more.

"In due time," she said.

"Like getting our hands on that book."

"Yes, in due time, darling."

"And the woman."

"The scarred one?"

"No. Yes. Her too," he said. He bit his lip, clamped his eyes shut and sighed. "I meant the lady from the new world, that witch-doctor. And all the others in her company. That bandaged inquisitor—oh, how I would like to peel his bandages away and hear all his stories. It's brilliant how all these fascinating people—and things—are all coming together here, all at once."

"Yes. You feel it," Orinrya said.

"Feel what?"

"The quickening."

"What do you mean?"

"Something new being born. Old dreams that are dying, and a new world being birthed before our eyes," she breathed.

Vincent shuddered with a chill running down his spine.

"And what is this new world you speak? You must know. You know so much. I know you know," Vincent whispered, erupting into a crazed cackle over how silly he found his own words.

She smiled. He felt it. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled as a soft breeze swept through his parlor like a ghostly presence. Like soft fingertips that brushed against his lips, not his own. Or perhaps his own, just numbed from the excess of strong spirits only slowly wearing off.

"The real question, darling—what will you do when you bear witness to the reckoning? Will you hold the reins? Or will you pass them off to see what spectacle others may unfold?" Orinrya asked.

The corners of his lips twitched. Both he and she, they smiled simultaneously.

Not gracing her questions with any straight answer, he only returned more questions.

"Are you angel? Or devil?"

Silence.

"Good answer."

He laughed a hollow laugh, eventually mounting into a long and wistful sigh.

Vincent drifted off into a dreamless sleep. And he never yearned for such, as he lived his dreams in every waking moment.

A lingering thought that swam atop the sea of oblivion.

Sputtering awake, the lanterns were no longer lit. Daylight flooded through open doors into the parlor. He still rested in the sofa, sprawled out across it like his own likeness in the gigantic portrait towering over him.

The air was cold and had left him with a painfully stiff neck.

As he shuffled lazily across shiny marble floors, he surveyed the damage he had wrought the night before. The glass shards scattered across the gallery, and the dead body of Sir Dwyer, still left in his own pool of blood.

Work to do. A body to be rid of. A chief to blackmail. A new slew of rumors to seed.

The rich lord took a deep breath and sighed again, rubbing the back of his neck.

He smiled.

"Oh, the woes of pleasure before business," he reckoned.

They both laughed at the thought.

"But that book—"

"Will be ours."

"Its magick—"

"We will wield it," they sang together, dulcet syllables spilling from Vincent's lips.

"Or will you be wielding it, while I soar to incredible heights on your back?" he asked.

And there was silence.

—Submitted by Wratts

[gothgovernment]

In Bed With Geo (Louis Tomlinson One Shot)

December 2015

"Hi friends and welcome back to in bed with Geo. As you can see, today I'm in bed by myself. This video has been a long time coming, which makes filming it right now absolutely terrifying..." I trail off with a nervous laugh. "Because I was so nervous, I spent three hours getting ready just to avoid this for as long as possible." I smile into the camera before taking a moment to collect my thoughts.

"As I'm sure you've all heard, One Direction announced their hiatus today. I've known this was coming for a few weeks now and it breaks my heart to see this all come to an end. These guys are the reason I have a career. These guys are some of my best friends. These guys are the reason I'm still here. And I am so proud of them for doing what's right and taking a break now before they all burn out..." I start to tear up. Fuck this video is going to be a rough one to edit.

"So, this is my story of how One Direction, and one member in particular, impacted my life in the best way possible."

September 2011

"Welcome Mr Tanaka," the petite lady at the door said as she let my father and I into the party. It was packed with important looking people wearing their nicest suits and dresses. One Direction signs littered the walls as everyone celebrated the release of the boy bands first single 'What Makes You Beautiful'. My dad is a musician with Syco. He helped write and record the guitar for One Directions upcoming debut album. I've always admired his work and I am so proud of him for helping aspiring musicians to realize their dreams.

Dad turned to me and smiled while throwing his tattooed arm around me, "you look so beautiful tonight, honey." He always knew how to ease my nerves. I tucked a piece of hair behind my ear as I responded with a soft thanks. "I've got to go congratulate the boys, want to come meet them?"

"Of course! I've only been asking you to introduce me since your first session with them," I giggled as Dad stuck his tongue out at me. I quickly grabbed a glass of champagne from a tray a waitress was carrying before following dad in the direction of 5 young lads. As we approached them, beautiful blue eyes locked with mine. I smiled politely at the handsome boy as Dad and I came to a stop in front of the group. He returned the smile and stuck his hand out for me to shake.

"Ahh so you're Geo. Izuki here has not shut up about you! I'm Louis," he said cheekily, giving my dad a playful nudge on the shoulder after our hands parted.

"Oh really? What has he said about me? All good things I assume," I bite back a smile as I see Dad rolling his eyes at us. Dad has told me a lot about the boys, but especially Louis. He seems to think we are destined to be friends.

"Alright, give it a rest," my Dad huffed with a smirk, "Boys!" My dad called to grab the attention of the remaining four band members. "This is my daughter Geo. Geo, this is Zayn, Harry, Liam and Niall." They all took turns shaking my hand with Harry even giving me a hug. "Right well, I'm leaving Geo with you while I go and talk business." Dad quickly turned and walked away, leaving me with these strangers. I watched Dad walk away before slowly turning back to the boys, immediately locking eyes with Louis again.

I spent the next 3 hours being dragged around the party by Louis, being introduced to countless important people. Something about this boys carefree and almost childish nature made me feel instantly attached to him. He is just so unapologetically himself all the time, it's almost contagious.

We had just finished raiding the food table when Louis asked me, "so, Geo... what are your plans for the future? Izuki has mentioned you're an incredible drummer." I should have known my Dad would talk about my drumming. It is, after all, his greatest achievement in me. Instilling me with a passion for music is the reason we are so close to each other. After my mother suddenly passed away, connecting through music has gotten us through our grief.

"Well right now my dream is to work as a drum tech but I also have an idea for a YouTube channel where I interview musicians, in my bed, pyjamas on, and ask them real questions. I want to talk to people about how their lives have influenced their music. How being in the industry impacts them. I want to know about their families, their hopes and dreams. I want to talk to artists like real people. Get to know why they are in this industry and if it's worth it. If the pros outweigh the cons... But that's just a fantasy. I would have no idea where to even start. I mean, the only musicians I really know are my dad and now you." I fiddle with the ring on my middle finger, realizing I just gave a much longer than necessary answer. Louis' silence causes me to look away from my ring and toward him. He is looking at me, mouth agape. His face suddenly splits into a smile which instantly helps to ease my slowly growing anxiety.

"You're a very interesting girl, Geo. Very interesting indeed..." He trails off as he quickly pulls out his phone, texting someone rapidly.

~

It's now close to midnight and Dad has decided to call it a night. As I bid farewell to the boys in the form of hugs, I reach Louis last.

"So..." I made eye contact with the Doncaster boy. "is there any chance I could grab your number? Ya know, in case you ever feel like making that dream a reality?" The cheeky glint in his eye makes me nervous.

"What? You want to come on my imaginary show?" Surely he was just being polite. No way would he actually want to waste his time on an interview that would maybe get 6 views.

"I text the lads about it earlier and we're all on board. It sounds like a brilliant idea. I fully believe in you, love." Okay wow, this feels like a dream. THE X Factor boy band One Direction want to be interviewed by me?

"If you're trying to make me swoon, you've achieved your goal," I giggle, pulling my phone out of my purse and handing it to him. When he returns my phone I see that he had text himself 'sup u sexy fuck'. I burst out laughing before giving him a long hug, whispering a goodbye in his ear.

December 2015

"I met One Direction in 2011 at the single launch for 'What Makes You Beautiful'. My dad was the guitarist for all of the recording and writing of Up All Night. All the boys instantly accepted me into their lives. Especially my now best friend Louis Tomlinson. After talking to Lou about wanting to start this channel, he immediately encouraged me and we set up the first ever 'In Bed With... One Direction'. That video gained 400,000 views within six months and affectively created my career. My whole life as I know it is owed to Lou. If it wasn't for his complete and utter faith in me, I don't think I would be here today." I start to cry, reminiscing on beautiful memories. I take a sip of my tea and think for a moment. I really wish L was here right now, but I know we would both be blubbering messes. I need to do this alone. For once, I need to do something without relying on him.

"Since my first interview with One Direction my channel has blown up. It has afforded me this house, my friends, the opportunity to meet some of my biggest idols and most importantly it has moulded me into the strong and powerful woman I am today. So I want to take this opportunity to thank you boys. Louis, Harry, Zayn, Niall and Liam. I love each of you more than I can put into words."

My phone buzzes beside me and I pick it up. 'Big Louser' sent me a text.

baby g, you okay? youve

not text me in a week :(

I sighed as I put the phone back down. I should have known he'd pick up on me semi-ghosting him. I have been so nervous around him ever since he and Eleanor split up about 9 months ago. It's like, I finally have my chance to tell him how I feel but I am so scared of losing the best part of my life. That's why, when he called me about a month ago to say the band had finally come to the conclusion of going on an extended break, I knew I had to make this video. So that the world can know and remember how important Louis and the rest of the lads are. And so that Lou can finally know how I feel. I pick my phone back up, knowing I should reply.

I'm sorry L. I promise

I'll make it up to you.

I'm filming a new video

right now that will be up

later tonight. I'll send

you the link when it's up!

Love you x

I turn my phone onto do not disturb and return my focus to the camera. "I want to talk a little bit about each of the boys from a friends perspective. Firstly, I would like to talk about Zayn. Z, you are one of the gentlest, kindest people I have ever met. You have dealt with so much during and after your time with the band. The constant racist and Islamophobic tweets and comments really wore you down a lot more than you'd let on. But Z, you would always rise above them, knowing that your culture made you into the incredible person you are today." I pause, hesitant about what I am going to say next. I would hate to overstep any boundaries here.

Choosing my words carefully, I continue. "Leaving the band must have been the toughest decision anyone could make. I remember you texting me about two months after you left to ask if I thought you'd made the right choice leaving behind your friends, your brothers. Your concern wasn't about if this would affect your future career, it was if it affected your friends. That's the epitome of the Zayn I love." I knew I would edit in a few videos I have of Z and I over the years throughout this mini speech.

I have a video of Zayn and I napping together on the couch in the green room before their show in Sydney in February of this year. He'd been really anxious about the first show of the tour and the nerves wore him out. We were originally sat together, talking about how huge this tour was going to be when he drifted off to sleep with me in his arms. I soon followed after and we napped for two hours before he was woken up to get his hair done. Who would have known that just a few weeks later he would crumble under the pressure and quit. I wish I noticed the warning signs.

"Liam 'good game' Payne, where do I begin? You are my brother, my teammate, my friend. You have always been my favourite person to play Fifa with. I remember a week after my Dad died, I heard the doorbell ring and when I opened it, you were standing there with a dozen of my favourite red velvet cupcakes and your PS4 controller. We played together in silence for hours. Once I was finally ready to talk, you stayed awake with me until 6am, sharing stories about my Dad, our lives and talking about our futures. I will always cherish you, no matter how frustrating you can be." Again, I know exactly what videos to edit in of Liam and I. One of them is him, wearing a crop top and skirt voguing after I did a full glam makeup look on him. He's going to hate me for posting it.

"Haz. My love. My guiding star. I would be a complete disaster without you. Although you are the worlds worst replier and you never answer when I call, you always seem to text me or show up at my house right when I feel like I'm falling apart. It's like the universe has linked you to me. You're my crisis line, and I am yours. I cannot even begin to count all the nights we have lied on the couch together just crying. Happy crying, sad crying, angry crying... It would almost have to be as many nights that we have spent laughing together. H, you were destined to be a rockstar. I can't think of any other job you could be more suited to. I know this is just the beginning for you, and I honestly can't wait to see you grow." I still cannot believe that my baby H is only 21 yet has achieved more than most people do in their entire lifetime. "I love you almost as much as I love apple pie." I am full on crying now. That last sentence really broke me. He and I have an inside joke that nothing in this world is better than a homemade apple pie. We would often text each other about incredible/rare/unique moments and rate them on an apple pie scale.

"Horan. I don't really have much I can say here because 90% of our conversations are inside jokes but I will say this; you have changed my life in such a unique way. I know we've had our differences, but I wouldn't change any of it. You're the one person who can make me laugh no matter what mood I'm in. You are such a light to this world. Without you in this band, I think the boys would've collapsed under the pressure a long time ago. Without you, this industry would've swallowed up every bit of joy they have. You have kept all of us sane with your stupid, loud laughter and irritatingly optimistic attitude. Please never, ever change for anyone you precious wanker." I know that I might seem a bit harsh towards Niall, but this is how we speak to each other. We've always been way too honest and, at times, cynical with only each other. He truly is one of a kind. Niall and I haven't shared as many moments together as I have with the other boys, but the moments we've had are definitely special.

"And last but certainly not least, Louis 'dumb fuck' Tomlinson. I don't even know if I can put into words how you have changed my life. You are my favourite person in this entire universe. Without you, there's a good chance I wouldn't be alive today. You are the reason I have so much self-worth, confidence and happiness within myself. You have single-handedly gotten me through some of my deepest depressions. I can't imagine my life without you. I've been trying to think about what story best represents how you're truly an incredible friend. I decided that although everything you do is a testament to how amazing you are, I would tell the one that made me cry the most.

"The year was 2013, I was 20 years old and I experienced my first heartbreak. My girlfriend of 2 years cheated on me with multiple people. I called you up, crying so hard I couldn't form a sentence. You sat patiently on the phone with me for an hour, never knowing what was wrong, just waiting for me to calm down. When I finally just hung up because I couldn't string two words together you text me that you love me. Six hours later and you walked into my bedroom, pulled me into your arms and laid with me for two days. You flew home early from your press tour without any idea of what was wrong with me. You just knew I was upset and you pushed everything aside to be there for me. When I finally told you what had happened, you hugged me tighter, looked me in the eyes and said, "you are the most perfect person in the world and you deserve to be with someone who recognises that." I think it was then that I realised that I'm completely and utterly in love with you. But you were with Eleanor, whom I adore still to this day. I would never have wanted to ruin what you two had. Because all I've ever wanted since I met you is for you to be happy. And El always made you happy." A sob escapes my mouth as I think of how broken hearted I have felt over the last few years, knowing that my true love would never be mine.

I decide to talk some time to cool down, so I walk to my kitchen to make another cup of tea. While I wait for the jug to boil, I rub my finger over my tiny teacup tattoo. Lou and I got matching tattoos not long after the boys finished recording 'Little Things'. He showed me the song and I fell in love with his verse, so we went out that afternoon and got our tattoos together, his shout. I walk back into the bedroom, press record on the camera again and get comfortable.

"When you called me up crying because you and Eleanor split up, I came straight over and returned the favour. I lived at your house for a week, doing anything I could to make you happy again. And then you went back on tour, and I returned home, and I've never felt so alone. After that week of us spending every second of every day together I realised that you're my soulmate. There's no one I want to be around more than you. And I know you're going to be so mad that I'm posting this video instead of texting you back but I want the whole world to know that you are perfect."

I finished the video with a few happier stories about my time with the boys, then wrapped it up. This was going to be an emotional afternoon.

~

Pressing public on that video was strange. I almost felt numb after all the emotions I had poured out while filming and editing it. I immediately text the link to all 5 boys and went to have a shower. The video was about 20 minutes long so I expected their responses would be a little while away. What I didn't expect was to walk out of the shower and into my bedroom to see Louis sitting on the end of my bed, tears streaming down his face.

We made eye contact once he realized I had entered the room. Frozen in my spot, Louis took the initiative of standing up and walking towards me. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" His voice broke as he spoke, tears threatening to spill. I tried to form words but I was too scared of the impending rejection. "Geo. We're best friends. Why didn't you talk to me? I thought that... I..." His words trailed off as the tears streamed down his face. He looked down at his feet, he always gets embarrassed when he cries. I gently grab his right hand, causing him to make eye contact again.

"I am so, so, so sorry Lou. I didn't know what to say or how to say it. I guess I thought saying it indirectly would make this easier but it's so much harder than I ever could have imagined." I look away from his bloodshot, blue eyes and focus on my hand in his. "I'm in love with you. I think I always have been... And I'm sorry that this will make our friendship weird now. I don't expect you to ever want to talk to me again to be honest."

"How fucking dare you think that. If you think I could live without you, you're insane." Louis swiftly pulled me towards him with his free hand, kissing me with all the love he could possibly give.

[soulmate-game]

AHHHHHH! GUYS!

If you write fanfiction, pleeeeease, you don’t have to put “ (time skip because I’m bad at writing (insert insecurity)” because that’s what fanfiction is here to solve! It’s okay to be insecure, obviously, about any aspect of your writing. But if you don’t practice writing that, then you won’t develop any confidence and that part of your writing will plateau and not improve. In other words— you’ll stay just as insecure about it as you are now, for as long as you don’t allow yourself to practice writing it.

Now, I’m not saying you have to publish scenes that you aren’t proud of. That is just a catalyst to a whole different set of issues. But practice writing the types of scenes you’re least confident at writing, and keep them in a private place until you gain enough experience that you might feel ready to publish scenes of that type. If you don’t get there anytime soon, that’s fine too. It can take time.

But you don’t have to tell your readers that you’re insecure about anything. You don’t owe us that vulnerability. If you don’t feel comfortable writing a fight scene, or publishing it, that’s fine! You don’t have to put your reason for timeskipping in parenthesis— you don’t even have to outright tell us about a timeskip! Even just seeing: *timeskip* or (timeskip brought to you by (insert witty one-liner)) is jarring and hurts the flow of your story. You can build timeskips into your works as PART of your story. For example, let’s say I am a writer who is not confident at all about writing romance (spoiler: This is actually a weakness of my own, and part of the reason THG is a romance story— I’m practicing). Let’s set up a basic scene and timeskip without breaking the scene.

—————-

*sample start*

Marinette took a deep breath, looking in the mirror as she analyzed her appearance with all of the scrutiny of a perfectionist fashion designer. That is to say, she kept straightening the same piece of hair for the last five minutes even though her entire look was spotless, perfect— but if only that one strand could lie five degrees to the right...

The sound of the doorbell made the girl jump, and she scrambled for her purse before nearly breaking her ankle in her rush to get to the door. She swung it open, beaming at her date on the other side. “Hello! Hi! Wow you’re gorgeous— ignore that I said that! Uh, yeah, haha,” she ended up just shoving that stubborn strand of hair behind her ear before giving her— date? Significant other? She didn’t know yet— a lopsided smile. “Uh, ready to go?”

Several hours that included a romantic dinner, stroll down a particularly scenic route, and lots of talking later, Marinette’s date stopped in front of her apartment complex. The pigtailed girl looked up at them with wide eyes, caught off guard as they placed a single, sweet kiss on her cheek before winking. Marinette thought they might have said proper goodbyes— probably, since the next thing she knew she was inside her room sitting on her bed— but all she could remember solidly was giving the empty air a dopey smile as her fingertips brushed where her crush’s lips had been.

— — — *end sample*— — —

See? Just cut off at a point where you feel comfortable, and then bring the story back into focus without specifically stating that there was a time skip. Your readers will pick up on it, and they don’t need to know why it’s there. Maybe you time slipped in order to save writing time or to gloss over parts you deem unimportant and focus on the good stuff. If you timeskipped because you’re not quite happy with how you write that particular type of scene but still want to move the story forward, nobody needs to know. For all the readers know, you timeskipped as an artistic choice. Just zoom back in on the story where you feel comfortable picking up from the aftermath of a scene. If the two sentences (the one before and the one after the timeskip) don’t mesh well enough, you can just add a page break like the ones I used above to separate the sample from the rest of this post, and it does the job just fine without any words attached. Some examples of timeskip sentences include:

For fight scenes:

It took a while, and left (character) panting from exertion, but finally it was over. They leant their body weight on the wall beside them as they tried to regain their breath, eyes raking the skyline to survey the aftermath.

“Uuuuugh,” (character) groaned, arm covering their eyes. They had several new bruises on their body, but were overall intact. “That sucked.”

A bright light enveloped the scene after the drawn-out battle, signifying it’s overdue conclusion. (Character) dropped to the ground, slapping their hand over a still-bleeding wound in their side. That could have gone better, they thought— but it also could have been much, much worse.

For romance scenes:

(Character) dropped face-first onto their sofa only two hours later, groaning. “That. Was a. Disaster.”

The sun was just beginning to set, sending a mango-smoothie highlight over (Character)’s front door as (Romantic interest) took their head in their hands and captured their lips in a passionate kiss. Pulling away, (romantic interest) grinned, pressing their forehead gently against (character)’s. “Today was wonderful.”

The door clicked closed, the sound of the lock sliding into place deafening in the after-midnight silence. Then the silence slid back in for a moment before a delighted squeal tore through it once more, (character) jumping up and down in pure elation.

For business or profession-specific scenes:

(Character) loosened their tie and reclined back in their chair. The meeting was over, sure, but damn did it sap their energy.

It took hours of arguing and lots of pinches on the bridge of their nose, and maybe lots of silent cursing out of the imbeciles they worked with, but eventually (character) was able to knock some sense into the room of gathered “experts.”

(Doctor character) peeled their gloves off as procedure demanded; grip by the wrist, pull so it turns inside-out. Grab opposite glove by the wrist and pull, leaving the first bloody glove inside the second and chucking the messy bundle in the nearest trash can. That... could have gone better.

“I knew I shouldn’t have worn the white shirt,” (character) groused as they shoved their way out of (food establishment) after their shift. Said shirt was now thoroughly stained with different ingredients and who knows what else— (character) didn’t even want to guess. The whole shift was a blur of monotonous rushing. For eight. Hours.

So on and so forth! If you have a particular type of scene you are insecure writing and want some timeskip-line inspiration, feel free to ask me! I will do my best to provide examples like above for you to make your own or just gain inspiration from. I hope this helped!

[feverinfeveroutfic]

chapter twenty nine: drink your poison

“your heart beats faster, you cannot breathe; you're feeling nervous inside. you feel the passion, it makes you seethe; you feel the temperature rise!” -”deadly nightshade”, joey belladonna

All summer long, Sam traded in between hanging out with Alex and Joey. That whole tour between both bands proved to be one of the best she had been on before: the one with Stormtroopers wasn't nearly as eventful as those three months. They not only had showers and rooms of their own courtesy of the record label, but so much more was happening between herself and the two of them.

It all hinged on her riding with either band to the next stop. If she rode with Testament, she stayed the night with Alex; if with Anthrax, she hung out with Joey. She dared not swap rooms with either one, either, given Alex was always there by her side and Joey was a night owl now with the booze mostly out of the picture.

Meanwhile, there was the artistry. As far as she knew, Scarlett was a patient lady. But she always made art whilst next to either of those two men and among either of the quintets, with either her journal or the canvases she bought back in Raleigh. Charlie kept those old ink drawings she had made for them on the previous tour at the front of their van so everyone saw them upon the drive by.

She made paintings of all five men from Testament along a string of five days in between gigs in Oklahoma City and Kansas City, in which both bands didn’t play a show. She completed the painting of Louie literally five minutes before they had to go on in Kansas City, but he had insisted on taking it out there onstage with him. Prior to the curtain lifting for them, he picked it up and, careful not to make the still wet acrylic paint that made up his hair bleed onto another part of the canvas, he carried it flat in both hands as if it was a tray of dinner. Sam and Alex watched from the back of the van at his running all the way to the back doorway, to which one of the stagehands held it open for him.

The two of them glanced at one another once he went inside: by the time she stood there off to side, she realized what he had done to the painting and propped it up right behind the drum kit with a camera pointed down at it. Every so often during that gig, the display behind them switched over to that camera and Sam’s painting was showcased for everyone in there to see. Indeed, over the next string of shows there in the Midwest, the five of them had put their paintings right behind their respective places on stage: Chuck kept his portrait as well as the drawing that Marla had made for him for Christmas on a stool right next to him.

Even when they head banged, they made sure those pieces of art never moved out of their places.

All the while, if there was one band whom she missed, it was the Cherry Suicides. As the Midwestern stint came to a close in early September and they headed out to the Pacific Northwest in time for Alex's twenty first birthday, Sam realized she hadn’t heard a word from Zelda or if the four of them were even still together. All she heard about was the new album named for her but that was where it all started and ended.

She never saw them there at any show up to that point.

But if anything, she and Belinda met a whole other myriad of people along the way, especially Overkill and Vio-lence. They all seemed to be on the fringes of music as well: whenever they had a stop somewhere, some other band was playing that night and they were filling out full arenas with their makeup and enormous hair. There Sam and Belinda walked about the streets of Des Moines, Iowa in their ponytails and their dark clothes compared to the literal look of modeling there up on stage. There was one band that the two of them had developed a fancy for, Skid Row, all because they seemed the least dolled up out of all of them: front man Sebastian stood there at the stage with his black jeans and long luxurious blond hair with a powerful voice that could be heard from clear across the vast floor. But it all felt so alien to the both of them, and they sought comfort in their friendships with the thrashers.

There came a point, when the whole circus headed back out to the West Coast and she had difficulty believing that the whole thing was in fact real given the sheer extent of everything, especially once she found out Slayer was on the tour with them that all of it was in fact happening. She and Belinda finally met them after what felt like an eternity: these four men wrapped up in rich black leather and with longer hair than Anthrax and Testament themselves put together.

The bassist Tom was a big chunky Hispanic boy with long inky black hair and a big goofy smile plastered on his face.

“Heard a lot about you girls,” he told them both as part of his greeting to them. “You girls and those other crazy girls from Rhode Island, is it?”

“Yeah, the Cherry Suicides,” Belinda had said.

“You’re the artist, right?” he asked her. “The girl who made the paintings of Testament and the drawings for Charlie?”

“I’m an artist but no—“ Belinda gestured over to her right behind her. “—those were all from my lady here, Sam.”

Sam herself leaned forward and Tom flashed her a wink as a result.

She sat there on the plane on the way out to Seattle and she wondered where else she could go from there. Perhaps around the world for real that time. She had never really been to the Emerald City before, not even when Anthrax toured up there the first time around in the two summers before, especially since they had a curfew and the hotel was right outside of the city as well. Portland, she had been to with them, but never Seattle: only the outskirts and the inner part of Tacoma.

It would be the first time Slayer toured there as well, and Testament had gotten as close as Yakima and Spokane themselves. Seattle seemed like such a strange place to her, all tucked away in that particular corner of Washington. No one went up there unless they were willing to live within the rain and fly a plane. But apparently, there was a whole scene of music going down up there, one that reflected the entire thrash movement to an extent given it was all away from the world and radically different from everything else.

Soundgarden were a mere sliver of it all: Charlie had invited the two girls with him to see another band there, one who were about to release their big debut in the coming months, yet another quintet called Mother Love Bone.

They left the plane, followed by the airport, and the bunch of them stepped out to the cool afternoon: where it was still very much summer everywhere else despite it already being autumn, a fine gray marine layer courtesy of the Puget Sound sank over the entire region and beckoned an early season rain just in time for the evenin. Sam ran her fingers through her hair as she peered up to the gray sky overhead: Alex joined right next to her with his eyes squinted and his lips parted a bit. The color washed out from his face so he resembled to a ghost of sorts, a young spirit ready to walk the streets alongside the Puget Sound. A faint drizzle began to fall over them once a piece of cloud covered the sun overhead.

Slayer had already left for their hotel, but Greg and Eric joined the two of them there at the curb: their black clothes only added to their ghostly appearance. A cool breeze blew their hair back a bit so they resembled to the very wisps of clouds right over them. Sam thought back to the Day of the Dead ceremony back home in New York City, except they had no hoods over their heads; Alex turned to her with his eyes squinted a bit and his skin looking as milky as ever right there.

“It's utterly lovely here,” he said in a low voice as he adjusted the skull ring on his right hand.

“Yeah, even here right at the city's rim, it's just beautiful,” she added.

“I hope it rains even more tomorrow,” he declared with a little raise of his eyebrows.

“Hey, yeah! You can have a little Seattle rainstorm for your birthday, Alex.” She glanced about the deserted parking lot before them. Across the way stood all manner of tiny shops and places that made her think of the casinos back down at Lake Tahoe and in Reno.

“It kind of reminds me of Carson a bit,” she said, “in a sense that there's not really many people here.”

“Not nearly as wet and soggy there, though, I'd assume,” Chuck joined in from behind her.

“Nah, it's not even remotely close to being like this,” Sam assured him as she adjusted the strap on her overnight bag and on the courier bag Alex had given her.

“So who're you staying with tonight?” Greg asked her; and she realized that she still owed him an encounter just to satisfy the bet with Alex himself.

“I'm gonna be with the five dicks from New York,” she replied right as Belinda walked up behind her, and she gaped at her.

“Five dicks from New York, I'm calling that from now on,” Belinda said and Eric laughed out at that.

“And I assume we're the five dicks from California,” he cracked.

“And Bel and I are about to see five dicks from Seattle tonight, too,” Sam added on top of that, which brought a laugh out all of them.

“There's Charlie!” Belinda pointed up the sidewalk.

“Alright—we'll see you guys later—” Sam threw her arms around each of them as well as Louie as he came up right behind them; she held Alex a few seconds longer just to feel his softness a bit more. Even though it was his twenty first the next day, she hoped that he would take it easy on the alcohol when the time came for him. She wanted that softness to stay intact with him.

She then let him go and she followed Belinda up the sidewalk in order to meet up with Charlie and Frank, both of whom took them to their hotel at the base of Capitol Hill. A quick shower for both girls and a change into their clothes and both men knocked on their door once more.

Sam ran a hair brush through her hair as the two of them conversed about the whole scene there in Seattle right behind her.

“So where'd you hear about these guys, Char?” Frank started them off.

“Aurora told me about them,” Charlie replied, “she talked to me while we were in North Carolina about this band out of Seattle that would probably take the whole glam thing to the next level because they're just huge in their sound. Like they have some genuine soul to them. None of that cheese that we've been seeing a lot lately. She told me they're a little bit punk influenced, too—think that might have something to do with it.”

“Cool—what're they called again?”

“Mother Love Bone. She also told me that they're bit of a supergroup around here, too: formed from three other bands—I wrote them down because I wanted to check them out while we're here in Seattle, too.”

Sam turned around right as he took a piece of paper out from his back pocket.

“Green River, Skin Yard, and Malfunkshun—Malfunkshun spelled phonetically.”

“Sounds like they know how to party up here,” Belinda noted.

“That's what Aurora told me,” Charlie said as he tucked the paper back into his pocket. Sam brushed her hair a bit more and then she spritzed a bit of perfume onto her neck.

“I love that smell on you, Sam I am,” Frank told her.

“I got this when we were in Des Moines,” she said, “courtesy of Bel here.”

“It fits your body chemistry like a glove, Sam,” Belinda pointed out. “Like you just climbed right out of the shower.”

“So you girls ready?” Charlie asked them.

“Yessir,” Sam replied as she picked up her purse from the top of the table there and slung it over her shoulder.

They headed out of there right as the fine Puget Sound drizzle fell over their heads. Charlie led them over to the far end of the sidewalk when something across the street caught Sam's eye. She looked over at a guy in the cushions of the bay window of a coffee shop with his sleeve rolled up his arm, past his elbow. Belinda followed her gaze as well.

Frank sniffled and sneezed right then, but the sheer sight of that man there in the window only added to the thought that ran through her mind at the moment.

The shine of the needle. The sticky darkness that resided inside of there. He gritted his teeth at the vile feeling through him.

“Holy shit,” Belinda muttered right into her ear.

It was right then Sam knew that they were in deep from that point onward.

They crossed the street, away from that coffee shop and up the pavement to where the band in question was playing that night.

Frank continued to sniffle and sneeze a bit as they made their way inside of there. The four of them congregated on the edge of the room because everything else before them had a dark veil over it and no way out of there in one piece. Something smelled of burning iron and a chemical but nowhere in there was a fire place.

“There's a lot of drugs around here right now,” Charlie noted as they backed up towards the doorway.

“Yeah, it's making me sneeze like crazy,” Frank said as he rubbed his nose.

“What's that smell?” Belinda asked them as they nestled together in that only safe spot of the room, right near the door and within the stream of fresh air: the one place without a trace of drugs to be found.

“Someone smoking cocaine, I think,” Frank said, “I would know because I tried crack recently. It smells just like someone burning up metal—meth and heroin both smell like that, too.”

Lucky for them, Mother Love Bone took to the stage up front there. Even from clear across the room, Sam could make sight of the five of them: the two guitarists near the edge of the stage. One with long smooth hair down past his shoulders and soft features, and the other with his face hidden out from view. The former made her think of Alex in a subtle fashion, from the depth of his eyes to the shape of his nose: he missed that gray stripe and he lacked Alex's sensual edge as well. The bassist strode up behind them with a big bright purple crushed velvet cap with a lacy ribbon wrapped around the crown there and a plain white sleeveless shirt. She couldn't see the drummer and she didn't have to, either, not with that big bold frontman there at the front, with his long blond hair down to his waist and streams of glitter all around his eyes.

“Hello, Seattle!” he declared into the microphone. “This first song is for all you people! All you people there at the back there!”

Sam and Belinda glanced at one another in surprise.

“We are Mother Love Bone! I am L'Andrew the Love Child and this is quite the cornucopia of delights up here—love rock awaits you, people!”

It hit both girls like a tidal wave, more so than the very stench of the burning cocaine and heroin before them: the vents on the ceiling took the whole cloud on the floor there so they could breathe better. Where every other person before them burned those drugs away into their lungs, the four of them stood there in the doorway and relished in the fresh air that came in from behind them and the music before them.

His voice seared into their minds, much like how Joey's voice stayed with them. Almost immediately, she thought of Joey himself. The whole band reminded her of Joey and Alex, from the powerful, extravagant voice to the rich and strong guitar work. Their songs wormed their way into her mind as well: she knew she would be hearing “This is Shangri La” in her head for days on end from that point onward. The stench of marijuana caught their noses, which in turn made Frank cough more, but it came as a relief to both Sam and Belinda, especially with the rain outside picking up into something one step beyond a drizzle.

“They're fun as hell,” the latter remarked.

“I know, right?” Sam said right into her ear.

He threw his blond hair forth as if it was a genuine mane and then he lifted his head to show off the glitter underneath his right eye.

“Zelda would like them,” Sam told her, to which Belinda nodded her head with her eyes wide.

“Kinda like how she would like Skid Row, too,” she added, and Sam nodded.

Even though it was a tough crowd before them, both girls found themselves dancing a bit at one point. There was that one song at the end “Heartshine”, where Sam pictured herself nestled in between both Joey and Alex. Her love and her friend with benefits. Both of them had her heart.

There was no way she could pick and choose between the two of them because it wouldn't be fair to either of them.

She thought of herself dancing for both men: her hips about in a circle for them both and her breasts high and perfect for them as well. Their hands on her skin to top it all off, too.

The four of them were practically outside in the rain at that point because it was all too much for them to bear in there. But lucky for them, that was the final song and Andy bode the delirious crowd before them a big hearted and jovial good night: at that point, he had put on round white glasses with purple lenses and a big tall dark blue hat upon his head as if he was Mickey Mouse.

“That crowd was just awful,” Charlie said, “but I really liked them, though.”

“I did, too!” Sam added as they began on back down the street towards their hotel. The rain had waned back into a fine drizzle at that point and albeit with the incoming darkness.

“I'm gonna need another shower after that,” Belinda confessed.

“Yeah, that was insane how much drugs were in there,” Charlie agreed with her, and he turned to Frank. “How're you doing right now?”

“A sniveling sneezing mess,” he replied as he rubbed the tip of his nose.

“We'll all clean off and then have dinner,” Charlie declared as they crossed the street yet again. They passed the coffee shop on the other side of the street once more: the man who shot one up his arm was still there in the bay window, except his eyes were closed and even through the dim evening light, Sam could see his pale complexion.

It took them a full hour to shower off, one after the other, and at that point, it was almost nine o'clock in the evening.

“Happy birthday, Alex,” Sam declared as she dried off her hair and let it hang over her shoulders.

“Happy birthday, little man!” Frank proclaimed. “He's finally old enough to drink now.”

For the rest of the evening, she thought about what to do for him that next day, especially since they had to play a show there in Seattle right after Anthrax and Slayer's sets in that respective fashion. Belinda didn't have her leather working tools onhand, either, but that strap that the two of them had crafted for him held up well in the last two years however. Neither Scott nor Dan had any ideas as to what to do for him other than give him a cake after the fact, either: and Joey was out of the question at that point himself.

At one point she caught Anthrax's set and Joey held that white Flying V guitar upon his body once again as if it was a complete extension of him. That time around, he wore a black billed hat with the word “Injun” scrawled on the inside there. She hadn't even seen him all day at that point, either: to see him there made her wonder if he had an ace up his sleeve at the time. At the end of their cover of “Antisocial”, he glanced over at her and showed her and Belinda both that definitive lopsided grin.

They rounded out their short set with an extra large and loud rendition of “Gung Ho!” that ended with a little dual solo from Joey and Dan both, and someone in the audience throwing something at Scott. He ducked down as the jug landed on the stage right next to Charlie's drum kit.

As they left the stage, Joey leaned forward into the microphone.

“Don't be throwin' cider at our man Scott, now,” he taunted the person there and a few people in the crowd clapped at that.

He then padded off of the stage last and greeted Sam with a big open lipped kiss.

“Whoa,” Belinda breathed, and Joey laughed at that but he dared not let it get to him.

“Come with me,” he beckoned both girls, and he led them into the backstage area.

“Eric!” Belinda called out right then; thus she ducked away from them but Joey led Sam onto his dressing room. She left the door slightly ajar but he was quick to bring her to the corner behind the door. Slayer were taking to the stage as he slid his tongue into her mouth and his hands up the curvature of her back.

“I've treated you so poorly,” he said to her in a low enough voice for her to hear over Slayer's intensity.

“No you haven't,” she vowed to him. “You just have a little problem with alcohol is all. I don't want you anywhere near it ever again.”

She took the hat right off of his head and placed upon her own.

“Adorable,” he complimented her as Tom let out a high pitched shriek that made her stop right in her tracks. It made her think of hell on Earth itself.

“Tommy screams like a demon sometimes,” Joey told her, nonchalant.

“If you're the Devil, I'm proud to be a part of it,” she said.

“Nah, Sam, you know us. We're not really into the whole Devil thing—they just seem that way is all.”

“But still. If you're the Devil, I'm proud that to be a part of the whole thing.”

Joey's bottom lip trembled at that.

“Make love to me,” he begged her in a low voice. “Make love to me—please.”

“I'll do something even better for you,” she told him as she put her lips onto his, and then she moved down his neck to his collar bones. Joey held still as she moved down his hot body, all the way down his chest and towards his waist. He shuffled around and pressed his back to the wall: she lifted the bill of the hat from her forehead so she could have a better view of what was there.

She tugged down his shorts and gave him a gentle soft kiss right underneath his waist. She thought of giving him a vampire bite like she did with Alex, but he appeared to enjoy the feel of her lips there more than anything.

“Yeah, that's the spot right there,” he breathed at the soft delicate feeling under his belly button, “—ooh yeah—yeah, right there.”

She tugged his shorts down a bit more. Her tongue on his skin and within her mouth would do him justice.

She could tell he wanted it.

She started out small from the head and then she moved inward to his body, as far as she could stand it. But of course the tip reached the back of her mouth and she coughed and gagged at the feeling. She let go of his firm skin and coughed better.

“You alright?” he asked her.

“Yeah—it’s just the first time I gave a big ass blowjob standing up like this.”

Joey chuckled and he tucked his hands behind his curly head. She looked up at him with her eyebrows raised.

“You look like you’re about ready to sing some lounge stuff,” she told him.

“Lounge—I lounge around and kiss asses all day is what I do best,” he said. She tried it again and that time she got it for real. Joey groaned in his throat as she fondled the smooth curvature of his hips and his thighs with the tips of her fingers. He tipped his head back and gave her yet another soft pleased little groan.

“Yeah, nice li'l deep throat there,” he muttered, “yeah—yeah!” His chest heaved at the feeling and he treated her to soft little whimpers as a result. She was blowing him on Alex's birthday. Something about it gave her a feeling that she could do literally anything from that point onward.

She ran her tongue along the taut skin when she noticed Joey was about to come right there. She held onto him and he gasped at the feeling.

“Fucking hell—you're—you're—you're gonna kill me!” he stammered.

“Not if you can help it, big boy,” she teased him. Joey came right in her hands right there and he fell down onto the seat of his pants, out of breath and dizzy. He fell onto his side and Sam shook her hands about to get it off of her skin.

“Joey?” she called to him. He was out like a light right there.

She bowed out of that room in search of a bathroom just to wash her hands. Right there at the other end of the backstage area, she spotted that door and she ducked in there without a moment's hesitation. She washed her hands with that soft smelling soap and then she ducked out of there once again, only for her to run into Alex and a little brown bottle of Seattle's own in hand.

“Hey!” he greeted her with a mischievous grin.

“Hey!” she retorted back to him.

“Where you going?”

“Back to Joey's dressing room. But it is your birthday after all.”

“Indeed it is!” He took a sip of beer and the crowd erupted into applause for Slayer.

“How was your day?” she asked him once the noise out there died down a bit for them to hear each other.

“Oh, it's been fun! Chuck and Tiffany took me out to lunch at the top of the Space Needle and then we went to this one place right outside of town... did you know there is an actual sound garden up here?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it's this big metallic sculpture that's fenced off but they took me to it. I don't think it might be open tomorrow because it's Saturday. But—it's definitely another thing we gotta do together when the time comes, Samantha.” He took another sip from the bottle. “Come on, I'll take you back to Joey's room.”

He took another sip before he walked in there with her, and he spotted Joey on the floor right behind the door.

“Is he alright?” Alex asked her.

“Oh, yeah. He just—had one too many is all.”

“Oh, shit.” He tipped the bottle back into his lips.

“By the way, how's it feel to legally drink now?”

“Excellent,” he confessed. “I dunno if I'm gonna do it a lot tonight, though, especially since we're going on after Slayer.”

“How many so far?”

“Just a couple,” he told her with a wave of his hand. He kicked back the brown glass bottle and took a big swig of its contents. He set it down before his body and showed her a little smile. Even though he stood still, she could tell that he had had a few at that point.

“Alex,” Sam said in a low voice: she could see it in his eyes as they drooped a bit.

“Samantha—Samantha? Samantha.” He bowed his head a bit and continued to show her a smile.

“Just exactly how much is 'a couple', Alex?”

“It's enough, I can tell ya that.”

“Alex.”

“Samantha.” He let out the biggest belch right there, one that made her retract back a bit.

“Your ancestors back in the home country felt that one, Alex,” Greg called from right outside the door.

“Oh, no, pardon me—that came right outta—outta my ass.”

She giggled at him and he giggled back at her. She moved in closer to him. Joey was unconscious right there but it didn't stop her from moving in closer to Alex.

“You gonna—you gonna—you gonna—what're you gonna do?”

“Kiss you—”

Her lips grazed up against his; he held the bottle out from his body so she could have more space for him.

“That's good, yeah,” he said in between embraces.

“We might have a cake ready for you, baby,” she whispered to him.

“This is better than any cake, my dear artist,” he retorted back to her as she put her hands on either side of his face. “Hell, yeah—hell yeah! Hell to the yes! Fuck—fucking hell—”

He pulled back and shook his head about a bit. Slayer picked it up once again out there; Sam eyed the pale washed out look of Alex's skin and she thought of that man in the coffee shop on the way to the Mother Love Bone show.

“You're not going to puke again, are you?” she asked him, concerned.

“Nah,” he assured her. “Well, I might but I won't do it on you, though. I promise. I promise, I promise, I promise.”

She giggled at him and the droopy look of his eyes.

“Alex—you're so cute when you're a little bit tipsy,” she told him.

“I'm—I'm—I'm as loose as a pussy when I've got a few in me, lemme tell ya...”

She giggled at him.

“Let's see—you're going on in a bit. There has to be a way to rid of the booze without you barfing it up.”

“I'm probably gonna have to barf anyways,” he told her. “There is some bread over there.”

“Bread and crackers under the vanity mirror,” she said as she made her way over to the mirror in question.

“Bread and circuses,” he said with a hiccup. She handed him a handful of oyster crackers as he took a seat on the small dusty couch on the other side of the room, away from the door and away from Joey's unconscious body.

“I wanna have fun with you,” he confessed with a hiccup.

“We are having fun, though,” she pointed out. “It's your twenty first birthday, Alex. It's all about having fun! You only turn twenty one once in your life after all.”

“That's right, right? You only turn—” He swallowed. “—a certain age one time, don't ya.”

He let out a whistle and looked on at her, dazed.

“You alright?” she asked him.

“Yes! I feel like I'm about ready to fall right to sleep, though.”

He took another sip from the bottle and then another bite of oyster cracker. He practically swallowed it whole.

“Well, chew it, Alex,” Sam was scorn.

“Just melts in your mouth,” he pointed out with his mouth full, and he took another couple for himself.

“Keep eating it, though. It should absorb it up inside you. You're gonna be on soon.”

“By the way, we're gonna make another album for you, my darling artist,” he said in a broken voice once he swallowed it down.

“We will, too,” Joey blurted out right then, and Sam and Alex looked over at him. He was still unconscious but by some sheer magic, he had said that out loud without a shred of irony. The two of them looked at one another: Alex rubbed the exhaustion out of his eyes.

“What's Testament's new one going to be called?” Sam asked him.

“'Souls of Black',” he said in a hushed voice. “At least, that's what Eric told me. He wants us to play on Clash of the Titans. Like if we get it done in time, we can get it there.”

“And when's that supposed to be?”

“Uh—next summer, I think? I think? I dunno. I can't really think about things too much.”

“Well, you boys better get on it soon,” Sam encouraged him.

“Yeah, that's the plan anyways,” he told her. “Once we're done here, we mosey on into the studio and run like hell. I think it's gonna be formidable, Samantha. We're as tight as we've ever been.”

“Tight like a tight pussy?” she joked to him.

“Tight like a tight pussy, yes!”

He popped more crackers into his mouth.

“You ought to record something after you've had a couple,” she suggested, “you know just to see what you can make out of it. It'd be true psychedelic metal right there.”

“I don't really know if I can, though,” he confessed with a soft chuckle. “I don't know if that's not really something you can do when you're off your rocker and three sheets to the wind.”

“What about three sheets to my wind?” she asked him as she crawled closer to him and hovered right above his body.

“Oh, my, Samantha—”

“Was that 'oh, my' said in amazement or were you calling me yours?”

“You're good,” he remarked with those eyebrows raised up again. She put her lips onto his, and she tasted the salt from the crackers as well as the hops from the beer.

“I'm gonna need a drink after this,” he confessed to her.

“You are drinking, though,” she insisted.

“No, drink of water,” he corrected.

“I see. Well, drink your poison, baby.”

“Drink your poison and get nasty wit' it,” he cracked and she giggled some more.

“Alex!” Eric's voice floated from outside of the room.

“Oh, shit, I gotta move!” he said as he stood to his feet and rubbed his eyes. “Thank you for the bread, too—that actually helped me out a bit.”

Sam stood up herself but then Alex stopped her right in her tracks.

“Samantha?”

“Yes?” She turned her attention back to him as he lounged there in the doorway with a lax look to his deep eyes.

“Tonight—go to bed and dream of a beautiful gray stripe,” he said as he ran his index finger over that little tuft on the crown of his head.

“I always do, baby,” she assured him with a wink. “Go give 'em hell.”

He ducked out of there and back to his band: he still had his balance right then. She hoped that the bread really helped out and he would keep it together that evening as she made her way to the spot behind the door. She adjusted the bill of the hat and stooped down for him.

“C'mere, Joey—c'mere, baby—” She scooped him off of the floor and lifted up his head for a better look into his face. She set a hand on his forehead and pushed the hair out from his eyes. He opened them a bit and showed her a little dimpled grin.

“There he is,” she said with a smile herself; with her free hand, she took off her hat and set it upon the dark curly crown of his head. “There's my little Injun boy.”

[beholdme]

All the Many Shades of Gerry - Chapter 3

Chapters: 3/19

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Gertrude Robinson, Elias Bouchard

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Library AU, Librarian Jon, Artist Gerry, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Canon Asexual Character, Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Ace Subtype - Sex Positive, Polyamory, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Romantic Fluff, Falling In Love, Boys in Skirts, Kissing, Demisexual Gerard Keay, Minor Character Death, Past Character Death, Canon-Typical Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Flirting, Minor Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Adventures in Hair Dying, Happy Ending, Banter, Gerry has a lot of sass, Gerard Keay is Morticia Adams, Jon is a very grumpy Librarian, Martin adores them anyway.

Summary: In which Gerry is a kaleidoscope and Jon and Martin can't help falling in love with him.

He happens to love them back.

Find it on Ao3

[1] [2]

In the following weeks, as he sees Jon a few more times, Gerry's hair fades out and he looks rather more 'forest nymph' than 'American Gothic'.

So it's not much of a shock when the next time Jon catches sight of Gerry striding through the library stacks, his hair has been re-coloured. This time it's a smooth buttery yellow and Jon is struck by how young the warm, bright colour makes him look.

Gerry doesn't feel young though, he feels tired and bored and wrung out, and he wishes he had never agreed to take art commissions.

"It's only the one time!" Gertrude had insisted to a very put upon Gerry, very early in the morning. "And if he puts in a good word for you in his circles, your name will really be on the map in the art world."

Gerry wasn't particularly interested in being put on any maps, or being picked apart by rich, stuck up strangers, but he had agreed to try, mostly because Gertrude had put a lot of effort into making his passion for art an actual career and he felt like he owed her.

(He forgets, frequently, just how much of a commission she takes on the sales of his paintings).

So there he was, striding around the library at 7 am and desperately looking for exactly the right reference book. Unfortunately, it has been out of print for years, and Gerry can't seem to find a copy anywhere that won't cost him half a liver. He has the money now, but he refuses to pay half a month's rent to a second-hand retailer on principle.

Jon watches him skulk around for so long, (apparently forgetting that he is, in fact, a librarian) that Sasha comes out from her desk to ask Gerry if he's looking for something specific. She's wearing her big round glasses today and even indulged herself in her favorite waistcoat to beat the Monday blues.

"Why, yes." At this, Gerry looks directly up at Jon, where he is standing and watching him from the upper balcony level. Jon's face burns, and he ducks out of sight, but not earshot. "I do actually come here to borrow books, not boys." And he smartly feeds her the name of the reference book he has been hunting for almost an hour.

Sasha giggles at his antics, "We do have a copy of that, actually, but it's very popular. There's a waitlist; also it's checked out right now."

Gerry's whole demeanor sags and he sighs in defeat. "Guess I really will just have to order it off the internet, then." He eyes the stacks of books, old and new, looking vaguely betrayed.

"No!" Sasha's exclamation takes everyone a bit aback, being that they are in a library and all. "You know, my mate has this sweet little bookstore, and he loves hunting down rare copies of older books, he might have a copy?" She wrings her hands, eyebrows raised in question.

Gerry beams down at her, causing even stoic Sasha to blush and scurry off to get a piece of paper for the address.

They're already most of the way to the front desk by the time Jon realizes just which bookstore Sasha is busy recommending to the man he is dating , and just who owns that particular establishment.

By the time he manages to get downstairs to try to deflect the situation, Gerry is out the door, nothing left but the faint scent of oil paints and leather from his jacket.

***

Tim Stoker leaves Gerry feeling faintly dazed. By the time he stumbles out of the bookstore and into the tea room, elusive book in hand, he's forgotten everything he has ever known in the face of such intense flirting. And Gerry thought he was bad.

Throughout the whole episode at the library, the walk through Chelsea, and the exchange with Tim, Gerry had never once taken a moment to consider that Sasha's friend with a bookstore and Jon's Martin with a bookstore might be the same person.

He chooses to blame the lack of sleep and general disarray that is his life for the oversight.

Which is how, 9:30 in the morning, having been awake for almost 24 hours and completely finished, Gerry walks up to Martin in his tea room and says, "I'll have whatever is pink and in that jug, please. The biggest you've got."

Martin, of course, recognized him immediately. He would have recognized Jon's gothic childhood boyfriend from his social media stalking alone, but Jon's frantic texting was also a pretty big giveaway.

Martin: Relax, I don't bite clients this early in the morning. He's in safe hands with me.

Jon: HE KNOWS THINGS ABOUT ME. Besides, who's gonna stop him from biting you?

Martin: Whatever he has to tell me can’t possibly be worse than the office gossip I heard about you before we even meet.

Jon: W H A T

Now, here Gerry is before him, and he’s quite pleased with what he sees. Even tired and vaguely dazed, his presence in the little room carries a certain energy that Martin enjoys.

"Right away. Take a seat and I'll call you with it." Martin's voice is sweet, but gentle and firm, in a comforting sort of way. Through Gerry's sleepy haze, the instruction makes perfect sense, although he has neither paid nor offered a call name.

Gerry considers taking a seat on the plush bench that occupies one wall, before deciding that he desperately needs a cigarette, and wandering outside.

Technically he is only supposed to smoke at night when he's painting and needs just the right kind of boost, but he decides to call this one since he's on a painting-based errand when he's supposed to be sleeping.

"Gerry?" He turns toward the sound of his name, to find the barista offering him a large to-go cup of what he assumes is fruit ice tea. He frowns at having his name known (his new, much-preferred name, no less) and then frowns at a blonde, bespectacled man in a tea room attached to a bookstore.

His brain finally takes a moment to function, and he puts all the pieces together in an avalanche.

"Martin?" Far from his usual self-confident tone, the single word comes out in a squeak that would make even a toddler wince.

"Yes?" Martin returns the single word in the same solidly reassuring way, and even offers a happy smile.

"I didn't... I didn't recognize you."

"Would be pretty hard for you, considering this is the first we've ever met." Martin's voice is calming in a way that eases Gerry a bit, teasing and all.

"Thank you. For the tea, I mean." Gerry closes his eyes and desperately begs his shit to pull together for him, just this one time. "It's nice to finally meet you."

His hands are fully occupied with a book, a cup of tea, and a cigarette, but Martin doesn't seem particularly bothered by the lack of a hand to shake. "It's nice to meet you too. We're giving Jon a heart attack by doing it without him."

"That is the lawful good," Gerry says, after a long drag of his smoke. "A panicked Jon is a happy Jon, after all. Whatever would he do with himself without a situation to unnecessarily complicate?"

"Yes, the man does seem to thrive on anxiety, doesn't he?" Martin asks warmly, eyes crinkling around a fond smile. "Speaking of, you seem pretty wrecked yourself. Good party, I hope."

Gerry's answering laugh has a razor edge, "Not hardly. This fucking painting I'm working on will be the death of me." Gerry lifts the reference book as proof of trauma and stabs out his cigarette viciously.

"Hmm, sounds like a pain. I hope you typically find art a more enjoyable career?" Martin asks, tilting his head inquisitively. His curly hair moves fetchingly and Gerry catches himself tracking the movement.

"Mostly, yes. Although I keep the bartending gig for variety. You'd be amazed at the sort of inspiration someone can find in the right drunk crowd." Gerry grins, thinking of all the ridiculous things he’d seen walk in and out of the bar in his run there.

"I'd be very interested to see what kind of art you can turn that into. Maybe you'd like to show me sometime?" Martin's words are open and friendly.

Gerry eyes him for a minute, hiding behind a long taste of his drink. He's trying to suss out Martin's motivations, for his kindness and general geniality. The drink is good and it tips Gerry's mood far enough back into cheerfulness that he shrugs off his considerations for the time being.

"You know what," Gerry quips back. "I think I would like to show you sometime. How 'bout tonight."

It's not a question really, with Gerry's typical force of personality behind it, and he leaves the shop with Martin holding an address in his hand and a time to drag Jon over for dinner that evening.

***

Gerry does not make a big deal of Martin coming over. He acts as if any other friend is coming over for dinner.

He tidies, a little. Lights a few candles. Wears pants. The bare minimum really.

He isn't trying to impress anyone, he tells himself sternly.

Except he is, obviously. He doesn't know Martin very well yet, but he does want to keep Jon around, and they are a packaged deal these days. Which he was happy with, truly.

In their limited interaction, Martin had been sweet and put Gerry instantly at ease. He knows, from many years of working a bar, how to spot a dipshit, and feels confident in his assessment of Martin's character.

But, it's his own character that concerns him. People don't always like Gerry past surface interactions. He can be tempestuous and moody, and catching him tired is a pretty bad idea. The combination of artist and mommy issues can be jarring.

He desperately wants those things to not bother Martin though. He wants Martin to like him, and he's not interested in putting on a show to make it happen.

It occurs to Gerry an hour before they're due that he doesn't even remotely know what takeout to order for dinner.

(He knows what Jon will eat, and he obviously knows what he likes, but what about Martin? Why didn't he ask this morning? Why didn't he ask Jon earlier?)

Gerry is just starting to really panic about all the life choices leading up to this moment, when he gets a text from an unknown number, instantly filling him with relief.

Martin: Since you're hosting this time, I'll grab the take-out. Jon says you like Thai, I'll bring that. You got the drinks covered?

Gerry: As long as you drink either coffee, vodka, or water, yes.

Martin: I'm sorry, I subsist only on the blood of virgins.

Gerry: Oh dear. I couldn't tempt you to settle for Earl Grey?

Martin: Hmmm, yes, I'll accept your offerings this time.

***

The first knock comes right on time. Gerry, dressed in his best paint-stained jeans and cherry blossom kimono, opens the door with a flourish.

Martin allows himself to be welcomed in and hands the food off to the dramatic artist, who deposits it on the table where he has already set the tea tray.

"No Jon? Not that I mind quality ‘us’ time, of course."

Martin is busy taking in the rambling studio space and barely spares the attention to respond, although he manages a blush at the flirty tone. "He's, uh, running late. Work stuff. You know Jon."

Gerry smirks at that. "I do indeed. Is it a 'stumble in at 3am' late, or 'we could probably wait to eat' late?"

"Hmmm? Oh, let's wait a bit? If you don't mind." Martin seems equally taken with his painting wall and his book wall and keeps trading his attention between the two. The paintings, being the larger attraction, eventually win, and he meanders over to study them closer.

"Do you keep all the completed paintings around?" His voice is soft and reverent, and Gerry feels a rush of pride for his work.

"For a while. I like to make sure they're in their final forms before I release them into the wild." Martin blinks big brown eyes at him, before grinning and giggling slightly.

"You're very talented. Jon said as much, showed me the pictures, but words and photos are nothing compared to seeing the real thing." Martin really regards his paintings as if they're special, and rather than the prickly feeling of appraisal he feels during gallery nights, it fills Gerry with warmth.

He turns to examine the wall himself. It's filled with an eclectic group at the moment. Large abstracts made by pouring paint and then layering designs over, three-dimensional pieces painted and then embroidered or quilled over in select places, including a particularly wild eye design. Surreal faces and scenes that seem realistic except for the wild subject matter of planets in meadows and chimeras going to battle.

"Is this what comes from your adventures in bartending?" Martin asks Gerry, turning from the wall and towards the slightly taller man.

"That, and my traumatic childhood." Gerry makes sure to laugh at the last, taking the edge off the small confession.

"Obviously." Martin offers.

"Obviously." Gerry accepts.

***

Gerry and Martin drink tea on the floor while they wait for Jon. Gerry gently prods Martin through the story of how he came to open the bookstore. The blonde man even softly confessing that he had to lie on his CV to get the librarian gig at Magnus.

"How old are you? How did you convince them you had a Master's degree?" Gerry is incredulous. Not that he doesn't think Martin could have an advanced degree. But in paranormal research? Gerry hadn't even known that was an option.

"That's the thing! I'm only 29 now . I worked there for five years!" Martin's voice pitches up in disbelief. "I'm still in shock that anyone ever brought it. Desperate times, desperate measures, you know?"

"I do, actually." Gerry shifts slightly, adjusting his balance with the long remembered urge to flee from those desperate times. He fiddles with his teacup to distract himself. He brought this particular set from a pawn shop because the filigree and florals appealed to his love of colour theory. Soft pinks and corals warm against the cool aqua background.

"Jon says you wanted to go to art school when you two were younger."

It's not a question, but merely Martin offering the same space for openness that Gerry had given him.

"I never went. After my A-levels, I had to get away, and I never really stopped moving for long enough to go to uni when I was younger. Now I'm settled and it's not important to me anymore. Besides, no one asks for a copy of my phantom degree when I sell a painting. So I'm happy with how things turned out for the most part." He stops to consider the outline of a possible past for a moment, one where he didn't have to skip college and go ten years without seeing Jon. "Besides, can you imagine a 27-year-old in art school? The young ones would sacrifice me for more creative talent."

Their eyes meet for a moment, and then they laugh easily and move on to different topics, sliding through the easy stages of getting to know each other.

***

Jon does eventually arrive, looking panicked and harried. He de-ages 10 years when he finds them laughing and relaxed instead of tense and awkward.

So, the three of them eat cold Thai take out on the floor of Gerry's loft, leaning against the perfectly good couch. They share the odd intimacy of people who have known each other for very disjointed amounts of time but like each other just the same.

[redgoldsparks]

Long blog post about Kpop, BLM, and anti-Blackness in fandom, with podcast recommendation links under the cut.  instagram / patreon / portfolio / etsy / my book

This is a blog post from my patreon that I decided to post publicly here: 

I was delighted when I read articles in early June about Kpop fans organizing to take down a Dallas Police snitch website, and flooding racist hashtags on twitter with fancams to make them unusable. BTS, the most popular kpop group (and arguably the most popular musical group in the world), made a statement in support of BLM and backed it up with a $1 million dollar donation. BTS fans, called ARMY, organized a campaign to match this with $1 million in fan donations, which they achieved in approximately 24 hours. These actions lead many news sites, including The New York Times, to run articles on the progressive and political nature of kpop fans as a whole. But while kpop fans are very passionate and frequently organize large-scale charity drives, that isn't the full story. Black kpop fans, who make up a large portion of the American fanbase, consistently face discrimination and outright harassment by non-Black fans.

Kpop music was born out of a fusion of American hip-hop and rap music with Korean pop lyrics and choreographed group dances in the 1990s. Kpop today owes a huge debt to Black American culture, both in look and sound. One situation, which unfortunately plays out over and over, occurs when a kpop group takes this a step over the line from appreciation/inspiration into cultural appropriation. Nearly every kpop group has had at least one instance of a member wearing cornrows or fake dreads. A few have sung the n-word when covering an American song, or even performing in blackface. It's not clear to me how exactly fans in Asia react to these instances, but Black fans have consistently called out this behavior and asked the groups and companies to do better. Some non-Black fans then, without fail, attack these Black fans in the name of "defending their idols", often making weak excuses along the lines of, "Korean musicians can't be expected to understand nuances of US culture." But Kpop artists increasingly tour in the US, and often have larger fanbases in the US than in their home country. Ignorance is no excuse, not in 2020.

BTS's statement in support of BLM set off a small ripple of similar statements from other groups such as Monsta X and Ateez, the production company SM Entertainment, and some individual idols such as NCT 127's Korean-American member Johnny Suh and Got7's Taiwanese-American Mark Tuan.

Many Black kpop fans gave interviews or wrote thoughtful pieces on their experience in fandom spaces in the second half of June. If you want to know more about this, I highly recommend the podcast episodes "When Black Lives Matter But Black Opinions Don't" by Black fan and culture writer, Stitch; and "The Kpop Narratives", an interview with Black fan and journalist  Keidra Chaney on Fansplaining. Chaney also wrote an article about the these topics, in which she said: "While the narrative of K-pop fans as social justice saviors is hopeful and even charming when viewed from those outside of K-pop fan communities, the lauding of K-pop activism that neglects this additional knowledge contributes to the erasure of Black fans' longtime efforts as well as their harassment within these communities."

Two other articles I'd recommend are this short write-up on why it's important for Kpop idols to speak up about BLM; and this piece interviewing multiple Black fans about their experiences.

Despite everything, fandom in general, and kpop in specific, continues to bring me a lot of joy this year. BTS has been a particular delight; I've made new online friends through loving BTS and it has strengthened my connections to some older friends as we happily get more and more obsessed together. BTS was recently the featured music guest on Jimmy Fallon for a full week, and each day they released a beautiful new music video. If you are interested, here they are: Idol, Home, Black Swan, Mikrokosmos, Dynamite  And if you watch one or more of those and think, "Who are these guys? I need to know more." Then I recommend this 17 minute episode of BTS on Karpool Karaoke episode with James Corden. If you feel yourself getting sucked into kpop then- relax and enjoy the ride :) - Maia Kobabe

[bijvoorbeeldja]

Jens and Sander’s Date Gone Wrong Part 3 (Final Chapter)

Part 1/Part 2

............

Sander was fidgety, shifting from one foot to the other as he tried to calm his anxious nerves.

He was waiting for Robbe. They’d planned to meet up here, at the park, before going out to visit some of Robbe’s favorite street art spots. 

When Sander had finally gotten the nerve to text Robbe after their accidental date at the bar, he’d been nervous. Maybe Sander had manufactured their chemistry in his mind. Maybe Robbe wasn’t interested. But the more he thought about Robbe’s smile, his contagious laugh, the messy curls of his hair, the more the butterflies leaped in his stomach. He so desperately wanted to see him again. 

Reaching out to Robbe, he’d wanted to just be blunt, ask him on a date. But he wanted to be careful. He didn’t want to scare the boy away, no matter how much the both of them had blushed over beers when they’d met. So they exchanged messages casually — but frequently — until Sander brought up art. 

Sander: So you ever going to show me that street art you like so much?

Robbe: Okay, but you’re an actual artist. You’re not too good for vandalism? ;-)

Sander: I want to experience the things you like.

Sander had hesitated before sending the message, biting his lip as he worried if he was being too forward. But being with Robbe had just felt so natural. It made Sander feel alive. He had to see him. So he sent it. 

When Robbe had replied, Sander smiled.

Robbe: Okay, but you're probably going to want to be a vandal too after I show you how cool it actually is. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. 

Sander: Consider me sufficiently warned. ;-)

Sander: ...so this weekend? We can meet up and you can show me?

Robbe: Deal. Meet at the park near the bar? 19h?

Sander: I’ll be there. 

Now, he waited, trying to slow his breathing and remain calm. Then, suddenly, there was Robbe, walking towards him, hands in his jacket pocket. He smiled when he met Sander’s eyes, a shy smile that made Sander’s insides melt. The warm colors of a fading sunset formed a halo around Robbe, making him look ethereal, angelic.  

“Hey,” Robbe said softly, a warm blush coloring his cheeks. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Sander smiled back, so happy and nervous and warm and electric.

“How are you?” he asked Robbe, unable to tear his eyes away from the boy’s small frame, his freckles, the sharp lines of his jaw. 

“I’m good, Driesen. You?”

“I’m good,” Sander said, smiling at him. “Really good.”

The two stared at each other, entirely unable to divert their gaze away from each other. Sander scanned Robbe’s face, biting back a smile fueled by the warmth he felt looking at the boy. Finally, Robbe blushed deeper, looking down.

“So, you want to get out of here? See the first spot?” Robbe asked, clearing his throat.

Sander, still dazed by the boy’s presence, could only nod. 

Robbe laughed softly, holding the boy’s gaze for another beat before turning to walk down the street, Sander close behind. 

……..

Robbe had been leading Sander around the city for two hours, but it felt like two minutes. 

Sander had been awestruck by the quiet, yet passionate nature of the boy, who talked excitedly about the art around the city. So often, Sander had passed by these spots on his way to school, and even with his own passion for art, he’d often passed these spots without a second glance. His focus had been so limited, so narrow.

But with Robbe, it came alive. The colors, the lines, the emotion — it all became real, wide, meaningful in front of his eyes. At first, Robbe was shy, blushing, as he talked about his favorite spots, describing the art with a childlike innocence. But when he felt Sander listening intently, smiling back at him, he opened up. He started opening about his family, his fears, his passions. Sander was learning so much about him, and the more he did, the more he wanted to know.

As they walked side by side, their hands touched, their fingers brushing lightly together. Neither of them pulled away. The night air was growing chillier, causing Robbe to tighten his jacket tighter around him. Sander smiled, watching him out of the corner of his eye. The boy was practically swimming in his clothes, and for a brief moment, Sander let himself think about what it would feel like to hold the boy in his arms, envelop him in his touch. But when Robbe looked over and caught his eye, he bit his lip, trying to push the thought away. 

“So, I guess it’s getting kind of late,” Robbe spoke slowly, his voice laced with hesitation. “I didn’t mean to bore you with all of this for so long.”

Sander smiled, slowing his pace and looking over at Robbe. “You could never bore me, Robbe.”

Robbe continued to walk, but smiled as he looked at the ground. 

“Can I walk you home?” Sander asked, closing the distance between them and grabbing Robbe gently by the elbow. 

Feeling his touch, Robbe stopped, turning to Sander. He straightened, taking a deep breath.

“No,” Robbe said.

“Oh,” Sander said, swallowing and nodding. “I get it, I—”

“No, Sander,” Robbe said, smiling. “You can’t walk me home. Yet. But you can kiss me.”

Sander’s eyes widened slightly before a smile crept up on his lips. Saying nothing, he stepped even closer towards Robbe, sliding his hands around Robbe’s waist. 

Robbe leaned in, tugging on the lapels of Sander’s leather jacket to pull him closer. They both smiled into a slow, feather-light kiss. 

………

Robbe woke up to the smell of bacon. 

Rolling over, he frowned, feeling an empty space next to him. He rubbed sleep from his eyes and stretched, reaching over to grab a t-shirt off the bedside table before retreating to the kitchen, following the enticing smell of hot breakfast.

He smiled when he entered the kitchen, leaning for a moment against the doorframe, watching his roommates. Jens was eating waffles, telling a story between bites of food. Sander was at the stove, flipping pieces of bacon that were sizzling in a pan. When he saw Robbe, he broke out into a wide smile, turning off the burner before walking over to plant a kiss on his cheek. He held his face close, resting his forehead against Robbe’s as he exhaled. 

“Good morning, Robin,” he whispered, stroking Robbe’s thumb with his cheek. “You hungry?”

Robbe hummed, eyes fluttering closed. “Absolutely. But not for bacon.���

Sander laughed, pulling Robbe in closer. Sliding a warm hand underneath his shirt, he traced circles on Robbe’s bare skin.

“Hey, you two!” Jens said, interrupting their intimate reverie. “I’m eating here!”

The two blushed, pulling apart slightly. But Sander still held onto Robbe, pulling him to the table and onto his lap as he sat down.

“Could you two get any more nauseating?” Jens asked, but he smiled, genuinely happy for them.

“So I guess we should talk about how you’ll be paying me,” he said casually, returning to his waffle.

“Rent? We already paid for this month, Jens,” Robbe said, stealing a piece of Jen’s bacon.

“I’m not talking about rent, Robbe. I’m talking about this,” he gestured, motioning to the space between them.

“What do you mean?” Sander said, eyebrows furrowed. 

“Well, for this whole love connection, you do have me to thank,” Jens said, matter-of-fact. “If I hadn’t taken one for the team and agreed to a date with Sander, you two never would have met.”

“Taken one for the team, huh?” Sander said, smirking as Robbe laughed.

“Yeah, I mean I’m basically an expert matchmaker and you two owe me big time,” Jens was smiling smugly, visibly pleased with himself. 

The boys laughed, squeezing each other tighter.

“I guess you’re right, Jens,” Robbe said, nodding. “If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have met my soulmate.” He was serious now, running a soft palm up and down Sander’s arm. 

“Okay, gross. That’s enough,” Jens said, getting up from the table. “You two make me sick.”

Carrying his plate to his room, he shouted back to the kitchen on his way out. 

“I’ll bill you two for my services!”

The boys laughed, snuggling even closer. 

“I guess I do owe Jens,” Sander said, speaking gently, tucking a lock of Robbe’s hair behind his ear. “If I hadn’t agreed to that disaster of date, I wouldn’t have met you.”

“You are pretty lucky,” Robbe said, smiling.

“I sure am,” Sander said, nodding. “My little vandal.”

.......

[reverielix]

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⇢ but I’m also on the hunt for fics!

⇢ you can send me any piece of skz fan fiction

⇢ the only thing I don’t want to receive are smut fics (you can send me fics with suggestive content in them when the plot doesn’t revolve around it / I can just skip the smut without missing too much, or preferably any relevant information) 

⇢ Do you have a fic in mind? Let’s enrich each other! ⇠

writing asks: 

⇢ as you can obviously tell just by looking at my blog, I’m very passionate about writing (and by following you’d know I’m also a slow drafter, because I simply enjoy discovering new ways to write and play around with words)

⇢ so I’d like to host a space on this blog in which we can discuss all things writing (e.g., characters, specificity, purple prose, pantsing or other topics)

⇢ you can ask questions, submit posts or message me about anything writing related and I will be happy to engage in a conversation revolving around one of my favorite things: words

⇢ let’s learn together!

other:

⇢ you aren’t limited to the categories listed above as I’m always looking for communication and new ways to learn

⇢ with the aspects mentioned, I simply tried to give you an idea of what you can message me with

⇢ make sure to read the general info section above, as I’ve already answered many potential questions and explained general guidelines there (if you still happen to have any questions, feel free to let me know)

⇢ thanks for engaging, and have a nice day!

[therodrigator6]

Well, hello there fellers.

You can ignore this text post if you want, it comes straight from me, completely outside of Drawings or Proyect updates.

I just really felt as though I needed to take the time to write up my thoughts into a, very possibly, LOOOOOOOOOOOONG post, since I have a LOT on my head right about now.

So, my melancholy, rather depressing, but perhaps amusing, musings, under the cut.

Right, so my whole string of thought was sort of just... proppeled out of me reminiscing about the past... 2 years, maybe year and a half.

I got thinking hard about She-Ra again, LMAO. and I know, I KNOW, why am I even thinking about that damned show again.

BUT, I was really thinking hard about how much I went through, positively I mean, how much growth I had (Around my art and my vocation obviously) with She-Ra.

And really, if you were to scour through my blog, if you went back all the way to... maybe it was late 2018, early 2019, when I posted my first fanarts around She-Ra, you’ll see how far back I was, skill-wise. I mean I wasn’t exactly a beginner, but I weren’t no Grade A artist neither.

And PRIOR to all of that I had more or less drawn fanart intermitently.

Anyone who followed me back when I made RWBY stuff, specifically Whiterose fanart could attest to that. I wasn’t consistent at all, and I experimented more often than not with every single drawing I was making. And don’t get me wrong, I really enjoyed drawing stuff for RWBY, I sort of miss it now LMAO.

But I can certainly see just HOW POWERFULLY drawn I was to She-Ra, because my output of content and the growth of my skill as an artist was EXPONENTIAL. I suppose in a way I owe it really to MY sudden... obsession? Fixation? on that show.

VERY HONESTLY, at this point in time, I feel like I could REALLY speak on what things drew me to She-Ra, and precisely what things KEPT me there. IDK I think it used to be a very special little show.

On one hand? I really had just decided to watch it because I was starting to fall out of love with RWBY.

RWBY WAS a show I’d also loved, and which also meant a lot to me, but the things that MEANT a lot to me, were just not given the story I would’ve been interested in. That AND the small fandom space I’d carved out for myself was getting even smaller. Smaller AND very... toxic? Uncomfortable? I felt as though... my efforts and my involvement in that fandom were neither welcome nor appreciated at one point, let alone the fact that on the SHIPPING side of things, it stopped being fun.

So there I was, starting She-Ra up. I’d known about it for some time before, and I’d *Heard* that it was a fun good show, and most specially... *With an active, HUNGRY fandom, raging about a very popular Ship*. So I thought to myself, YAY, I’ll watch this show and I’m REALLY gonna do my best to go for everything popular.

I was tired of unwelcoming fandoms, tired of enjoying the very little measly, *Unpopular* things about shows, this was all about having a GOOD time. And maybe finally getting my works out, really finding a motivation to create stuff.

I mean in hindsight, now I know I fucked myself over MANY times.

You see because, as soon as I started watching She-Ra, I TRIED to do something different about the way I consumed shows.

In the past I used to be VERY ship-centered about my show experiences, to the point were FANON-Ship-centric relationships with shows would make the stories I was watching really boring and bleak in comparison. I had been afraid at the time, that THIS would also ruin She-Ra for me. So I really thought about... NOT tainting my vision and perception of the show with... Fandom stuff, Fanon or Ship-centric views, NOT EVEN CREATOR INTERACTIONS. I really tried to watch it blind and enjoy it for what it was.

Fool I was, I should’ve done the opposite.

It’s a tired old story, and a really redundant thing for ME to talk about. But I really felt a DEEP disappointment with She-Ra. Akin to LOSS almost.

Cuz you see, for a year and a half I ended up CENTERING myself on She-Ra, on more than one level.

On one hand, I TRULY believed She-Ra was a show with a story that I loved, there were plenty of characters that REALLY spoke to me. Characters like Glimmer? for example? And her storyline? for me are *one in a million*.

Of course I’m... REALLY compacting my She-Ra experience. I had come to appreciate MANY things about it. It’s world, it’s story, the characters, the comedy, the animation, the people who loved it and grew because of it, etc.

Furthermore, once my initial *doubt* about the show had passed, I really immersed myself in the fandom side of things. And I gotta say, I really enjoyed it for as long as it lasted. I think I experienced a new level of feeling like I *belonged* in a community, and a feeling that people LIKED what I did for it, and that people wanted MORE of ME in it.

Alongside that, and going back to animation. Geez, She-Ra came at the best *or worst* (depends on how you wanna look at it in hindsight now, LMAO), time of my life.

Literally on the verge of me finishing up with Prepschool and having to chose a career for University.

Prior to She-Ra, I really was trying to pinpoint my vocation, and animation had been in my mind for a LONG time, since Steven Universe really.

AND... Idk, AGAIN, THERE WAS SOMETHING ABOUT SHE-RA... which told me... “This is important”. Animation is important, being able to tell tales for people is important. Telling tales for people who need it, or people who don’t often get to tell tales is important. This medium is BEAUTIFUL, I MEAN, LOOK AT EVERYTHING IT CAN SPAWN OUT OF PEOPLE.

So it helped me make THAT decision.

Also alongside these things well... I go back to all of that about “Belonging”, and “community”.

Boy I met some of the most amazing friends I ever have in my life. People whom I respect, people who I admire, people who thought like me, liked ME, enjoyed this show, etc.

OF COURSE, at the time, and I really should’ve known better. We met out of our mutual LOVE for Glimmadora, LMAO.

ME? FALLING IN LOVE WITH AN UNPOPULAR SHIP? Who’da thought.

AND I DID SO, *DAMN NEAR DIVORCED FROM FANDOM* LMAOOOOO, you can see how my “I’ll learn to love whichever aspects of this show I’m *gonna* love, outside of fandom influence” policy really just fucked me in the ass.

AND GOD, DID I *LET IT* BE A PART OF ME.

That comunity, those friends, that ship, that show, those creators. It was all I thought about, and it DROVE me. so much so I put up with so much shit from my University. I put up with so many bad things in my life that were going on because of that show.

And I see now that many of those friends I mentioned did too. GOD, how I wish... we just hadn’t.

I think... for most of us things had already been pretty shit, not gonna lie.

There was the pandemic, for a start. Prior to May the 15th I had an uncle of mine die of COVID, which shook me to *my* core, but dear old She-Ra and the Glimmadora fandom gang were there to cheer me on. (This was around the time really horrid people in the She-Ra fandom, whom LOATHED Glimmadora with a passion were making “Glimmadora shippers must have Covid, since a symptom of Covid is a lack of taste” Jokes btw.)

And I think of my friends also, who have always spoken to me about their problems and their lives. For all accounts I think, they’d always had it harder than me, and they found themselves a WILL and a DRIVE to go on... through this, through She-Ra, and our friendship.

Then May the 15th came and it’s all been going downhill from there HSEBRGJKSEHRBGKJSERHGBJK.

I mean... I understand NOW, just how DAMAGING for myself it was to... cling so much to that show, to all of it. NEVER should’ve connected the drive of my vocation to it.

Cuz yanno... even if I HAVE continued to grow and get better the past few months, some things haven’t changed for the better.

For instance, I basically LOST my entire space here, in fandoms, in ejoying shows. I LITERALLY ONLY CREATE NOW... Either out of spite, or for my friends.

There is a VERY DEEP loathing now within me about stuff like... Catradora for example. I hate it, it makes me feel disgusting, simple as that. And THAT kind of feeling isn’t welcome here, also simple as that. So I’m out of a space and that hurts.

PFFT, basically all the pieces I produce now, which I still do with a She-Ra theme. Nobody’s gonna wanna consume MY content anymore, and they don’t. I made sure they couldn’t because I knew, I wasn’t going to be able to stomache this She-Ra fandom anymore.

That’s been another thing too. I don’t like being a contrarian, I don’t like being the guy who thinks the thing everybody loves is bad or wrong, and if I could SO HELP ME GOD, I’d change my entire view of it all. I don’t really care about being right or wrong anymore, I just want that peace of mind back.

HELL, there were people I knew since 2016 almost, who kinda just told me...

Shut the fuck up or leave.

On some cases I shut my mouth, on others I just left.

And yanno... I do feel miserable about it. But it also makes it all the harder when I think of my friends?

GOD DAMN, EVERYTHING THAT *COULD* GO WRONG, WENT WRONG FOR THEM.

ALWAYS, for all of my friends. And even through the hurt, I sit here and think, well I think I still have hope! I think I still have a drive to go on and persue animation  and tell good stories.

But I understand now... that *I* have a priviledge over my friends. The priviledge of support. I’m not REALLY alone, there’s people helping ME.

My friends don’t have that, and I can’t give them that, how I wish I could.

And it does just HURT only being able to tell my friends, “HEY! Have hope things’ll be better!” And then we all turn to the only beacons of hope we shared, and seeing them all dull and out of light. No Glimmer of hope.

Like, how do you tell people to hold out, to keep fighting, to keep trying to STILL CHASE THEIR DREAMS... When you can’t even help them keep their heads high when they’re trying yo get a damned job. When no matter how much THEY try they keep getting knocked down.

When there’s no longer a space were they feel confortable sharing their creations, because everyone they had ONCE tried to please with them? suddenly decided they were of no value.

So here we are.

I’m starting up a new semester in a couple of days, hopefully building myself up more to chase MY dreams... whilst all my friends suffer and can’t chase theirs.

Shit’s fucked. I wish I could do more.

PFFT, I guess, long story short:

Life unfair, Me Sad.

Me Angery, Me Bitter

Me Lost, They Won

Boohoo I guess.

SO ANYWAYS... I really just... needed to put these thoughts out in words. Scream to the void as it were.

I can’t wait to go back into discord or twitter or tumblr and see how my friends can’t catch a fucking break.

And how things will continue to get worse before they get better.

God I hope they get better, for all of us, if not atleast for them. They’ve already gone through enough.

[salamandersofftheclock]

Principles You Can Use From Rowling’s Philosophy of Writing 

by Ruthanne Reid

If you’re like me, you loved the Harry Potter series. Maybe you watched the movies or even visited the theme park, and you wondered about JK Rowling’s writing process and the strategy she uses to write her best-selling books. If you’re like me, though, you’ve also been deeply hurt by things Rowling herself has said. On Twitter, on her website, in interviews, and more, Rowling has promoted harmful views of trans people, and you might be one of her many readers who find it painful, or even impossible, to return to the Harry Potter books you once loved.I understand. Before I dive into the wisdom we can draw from Rowling’s writing process in order to write our first draft (or others), allow me to share a principle with you. Death of the Author: Or, How to Love the Book, Not the Author In 1967, a French literary critic named Roland Barthes wrote an essay called La mort de l’auteur, or Death of the Author, in which he states that any piece of writing should be separated from the author that wrote it. In other words, he believed in judging the written work completely on its own merits, without involving personal beliefs or actions of the author in question. Sometimes, this is possible to do. Sometimes, it isn’t, and we readers have to apply discernment to what we read and the lens in which we view things.I have two examples for you. HP Lovecraft First, HP Lovecraft, whose incredible work literally created today’s modern horror genre. Do you enjoy any kind of tale with Elder Ones, or chaos gods, or even just good old Cthulhu? (I know I do!) His work was so creative, so new, that you’d be hard-pressed to find any horror story that doesn’t show at least some of his influence.Unfortunately, Lovecraft was also an extremely xenophobic racist. Now, I enjoy a good chaos god, and I’ve made the decision to separate his xenophobia from his writing. That means, of course, that I must view critically anything he wrote that implies white English people are somehow the pinnacle of humanity.It means I purposely do not allow his racism to infect my way of thinking. By doing so, I am practicing la mort de l’auteur. JRR Tolkien Here’s a second example: JRR Tolkien, whose work defined modern fantasy. Do you enjoy anything with elves and dwarves or made-up languages? We owe Tolkien for that. He redefined and polished the fantasy genre so well that everything from movies to MMORPGs still use his templates. Unfortunately, he also described his orcs as “squat, broad, flat-nosed, sallow-skinned, with wide mouths and slant eyes: in fact degraded and repulsive versions of the (to Europeans) least lovely Mongol-types.” Yowza. Now, was Tolkien a racist? Not exactly. In fact, according to the standards of the time, he was absolutely liberal and anti-racist. So then what do we do with this bizarro and racially horrifying description? We see it and choose to discard it. Generations of artists and authors have done exactly that, turning orcs into anything but“least lovely Mongol-types,” and aiding this genre.Again, it’s important to see the problem so you can avoid letting it influence your work. We enjoy the good parts while consciously discarding the bad, rather than being influenced by it. So What About JK Rowling? She’s not dead. In fact, she’s still saying harmful things, even as we speak. Instead of listening to her readers, who (at least initially) approached her in love, trying to help her understand, she doubled down, rejected their experience and their words, and in the process, caused an unbelievable amount of pain. Here’s the thing about la mort de l’auteur: it is entirely up to you whether to apply it to what you read, or to simply discard the whole thing and find less troublesome authors. Both roads are valid. In no way do I condone her attacks on the trans community, or her persistent sharing of misinformation. I choose to apply la mort de l’auteur for the simple reason that I benefited from the good things she’s written, and I wanted to share them with you. However, if you aren’t comfortable doing that, you are absolutely welcome to walk away. In fact, I’d suggest these writing articles instead: Neil Gaiman’s rules of writing, or how to create your own rules of writing. Okay. Awkward stuff done. Ready to dive into the process stuff instead? Let’s go! 9 Rules From JK Rowling’s Writing Process Over the course of her writing career, Rowling shared a lot of solid writing wisdom, and in my opinion, eight writing rules stand out—along with a ninth we can apply from her choices since. Whether or not you’re writing your first book like Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone) or last book in a series (like Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows), I think these rules speak to Ms. Joanne Rowling’s philosophy on writing.They are great writing tips for you to reflect on in your spare moments and then apply to your writing process, for short stories, novels, bestsellers, or even the first time you’ve ever attempted a book. Rule One: Protect your writing time “Be ruthless about protecting writing days, i.e., do not cave in to endless requests to have “essential” and “long overdue” meetings on those days. The funny thing is that, although writing has been my actual job for several years now, I still seem to have to fight for time in which to do it.” This is especially hard for those of us with family. Our loved ones come first, and while that is important, our loved ones also need to understand that we need time to write. Setting reasonable boundaries is a crucial step for a writer—even if they’re as simple as, “Mommy needs fifteen minutes of quiet time, okay?” If you have trouble setting boundaries with loved ones, try setting a reasonable boundary for one week. See how it goes. If it’s too much time or too little, tweak it. Establish a routine that signals to others that it’s your writing time, but also lets them know that outside of your writing space, you’re there for them. Not only will this teach the importance of flexibility and discipline to others, but also that your writing is valuable. It’s your work, and your dream! Needing quiet time to write doesn’t mean that you don’t love your family. Your writing deserves your time, too. Open communication about this can help everyone understand and respect that. Rule Two: Treat your writing like a job “You’ve got to work. It’s about structure. It’s about discipline.” It’s easy to forget that writing is a job. We don’t always feel like doing our job. We certainly don’t always feel inspired. To be writers, we must train ourselves to sit down and write even when we don’t feel like it. Those moments are the ones that really matter, even more than the shining, flying, muse-kissed moments.Writing when we don’t feel like it is what turn amateurs into professionals and rough drafts into polished manuscripts. “The muse works for you. You don’t write at her beck and call—you train her to show up when you’re writing. “ Rule Three: Believe you ARE a writer “I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me.” Yes, writing is possible with another job. Yes, writing is possible with other responsibilities. Are you a writer? (I know your inner critic snarled no, but I also know a tiny candle-flicker of unquenchable hope in you whispered yes with so much longing you could cry.) You ARE a writer. That means you write. A runner runs. A painter paints. A cook cooks. You are a writer. You write. Accept this, fight to believe it, and be amazed at how far that takes you. Rule Four: Write what you know “Write what you know: your own interests, feelings, beliefs, friends, family and even pets will be your raw materials when you start writing.” This doesn’t mean you need to experience aliens in order to write about them. It means that all good stories have universal application. A great example is this Google Doodle. (Trust me. I’m going somewhere with this.) Take two minutes and thirty-six seconds to watch this: Halloween 2017 Google Doodle: Jinx’s Night Out It’s adorable, right? Without a single word, this video told an effective story. You felt for the little ghost, both when it was sad and when it was happy, right? News flash: you’re not a ghost. That was universal application. It doesn’t matter what culture you’re from or what language you speak; all human beings know what it is to be lonely, to feel left out, to be frustrated, determined, and to finally be with friends. That story works because the creators used their interests, feelings, beliefs, friends, family and even pets to tell this story. (I’m fond of the kitty, myself.) I’m greatly oversimplifying, but here’s the gist: you already know how to tell a moving story because you live one. If you’ve ever had emotions, ever responded to anything, then you already know what universal application looks like. Listen to the people around you, and apply empathy. You don’t have to be a ghost to write a good ghost story. Rule Five: Read “I always advise children who ask me for tips on being a writer to read as much as they possibly can. Jane Austen gave a young friend the same advice, so I’m in good company there.” Read. Read. Read some more! The more you read, the bigger your arsenal of words will be. The more you read, the better your grasp of metaphor, poetry, beauty, passion, and empathy will be. The more you read, the greater you will be as a writer (and probably human being). It’s like learning more dance moves or impressively difficult notes on an instrument. The more you learn, the better you’ll be. So read in your genre. Read outside your genre. Get in the habit of finding time to pick up a book instead of your phone (unless it’s to open up another book.) You DO have the time to read. Even if that’s just ten minutes a day. Any time counts. And the more stories you read, the more likely you’ll start to implicitly develop the skills you need to become a great writer. Rule Six: Persevere “Perseverance is absolutely essential, not just to produce all those words, but to survive rejection and criticism.” This is one of those unpleasant truths about publishing: you’re gonna get rejected. A lot. I wish there were a way around this. Harry Potter was turned down again and again because that’s just the way it goes sometimes. And it isn’t only publishers: when you get published, and your work is out there, you’ll get bad reviews, too. Mostly, they’ll just be people who don’t understand what you’re doing. Intellectually, you’ll know that. Your heart, on the other hand, is going to break into a thousand pieces. But here’s the secret: you can’t stop writing because of push-back. You MUST NOT stop writing because of push-back. Keep going. Don’t stop. When you get rejected, pick up your pen and keep going (and use the way you feel to put more universal application into your work). And when you’re feeling really discouraged? Remember that when someone doesn’t like your book, they might also just not be your ideal reader. That person just wasn’t your target audience.If your book isn’t to someone’s taste, that’s all right. It will be to someone else’s.Keep writing your book, because your ideal readers need it. Rule Seven: Bring your whole self to the page “What you write becomes who you are … So make sure you love what you write!” Writing is a little like a Mobius strip, in a way: Your beliefs and experiences and feelings all help craft your writing. However, your writing clarifies, corrects, and often reveals your beliefs, experiences, and feelings. As you write, you’ll discover things about yourself. You’ll clarify things, too, because it’s only as you come to write them that you realize they needed clarification in the first place. Now, understand: this means that if you haven’t given yourself a good look to find your biases (we all have them), you will bring those to the page, too. It’s important to see who you are as you bring your whole self to the page. Writing is a brave, bold venture, and life-altering discovery is part of the journey. Rule Eight: Accept that failure is part of the process “Failure is inevitable—make it a strength. You have to resign yourself to the fact that you waste a lot of trees before you write anything you really like, and that’s just the way it is. It’s like learning an instrument, you’ve got to be prepared for hitting wrong notes occasionally, or quite a lot. I wrote an awful lot before I wrote anything I was really happy with.” Failure is normal. Also, it is okay. You’re going to write a lot of crap. You’re going to push past those things and write more crap. It may take you twelve years. It may take you a million words. If it does, then you’re on the right path—the same one your favorite authors walk. Accept that it will take time, and that sometimes, your pencil won’t be your friend. If you accept it, then when it happens, you won’t throw in the towel and set the house on fire. Instead, you’ll be able to go, “Well, dang; that sucked, didn’t it? Knew it would happen. Time to write some more.” Rule Nine: Respect Your Reader Sadly, this rule doesn’t come from writing advice she’s given, but in a way, it’s the final conclusion of the previous eight. This involves bringing your whole self to the page. This involves empathy and universal application. This involves perseverance, never quitting, and willingness to tackle your writing troubles. If your readers value what you created, they will listen to what you say. Your words have the power to uplift or hurt others. None of us can ever really know where someone else is coming from, and it’s essential that both our stories and our interactions reflect respect. Respect yourself enough to be a better person. Respect your readers enough to hear what they have to say. This sounds scary, I know, but I promise you, it’s worth it.

[freewheelshippin]

FIC: “be proud”

Let me indulge in the fantasy that I got to help, just a little bit, in making one of the only ballads on this earth I like. More “utapri characters that aren’t ranmaru” content than usual, especially Ai, since this is vaguely based on their Idol Songs album! 

Content warnings include an allusion to home invasion, Ranmaru’s usual backstory things (i.e. dealing with debt), and some eating/meal scenes. 

Ranmaru was surprised to receive the package, a fairly big box from someone he never expected to get mail from. Something in the pit of his stomach half-expected it to be everything he’d sent her, unused and returned to sender. 

For a second, he thought he was right. It was a similar array of trinkets and colors as the merch she’d designed for his album, but it quickly became obvious this wasn’t his merch, but hers. Trinkets from her shop, like patches and pins, and one of those handmade prints she liked making on weird paper. Candies he didn’t recognize, some American snacks he did, a little box of something that looked homemade with a hand-scrawled label on it. At the bottom, a shirt, printed with a cleaned version of an album art draft he’d especially liked but the agency didn’t approve. Folded within it, a note, written in English on one side and clumsy Japanese on the other. 

Yo, Kurosaki! 

I know I already messaged you thanks for sending me my comp copies of everything, but I wanted to return the favor! You really didn’t have to go out of your way get it to me like that, much less pack in all the other shit you did. But I’m glad you did! It arrived on the day I got another rejection, one I was really hoping would pan out. I got back all the time I would’ve spent feeling sorry for myself and instead just wanted to try again. That’s kind of the message I got from the sound of your album, so I guess it’s appropriate! 

Honestly, even if it was tough figuring things out sometimes, I had more fun on that job than any other one I can think of. You don’t have much to apologize for, I’ve survived way worse than some grumpy e-mails from a cool client, and you actually had pretty good feedback to offer. I think the end result was pretty metal. (Or well, rock, since it’s your shit, after all.) 

If you’re cool with it, I think it’d be fun to keep sharing our work with one another, outside of just being a client and artist. Get some fresh perspectives, you know? You know where to message me if you think so, too. 

-- M 

P.S. You’re the first person to get this custom pick I got designed. Be grateful (LOL). 

Taped to it, there was a pearlescent pick, red and black with white lettering. Ranmaru took it off, careful not to tear the paper, and ran his fingers over it. It wasn’t even close to the type he’d tolerate using if he wasn’t going to finger-pluck his bass. 

He clasped it in his hand, pausing for a moment, before he let out a ‘hmph,’ equal parts amused, relieved, and a little bit giddy. 

--------- 

“...Ranmaru,” Ai said, looking at him with those big saucer eyes. Sometimes Ranmaru felt like the guy never blinked, which made his curious once-overs scarier than he’d ever admit to. 

“What,” he growled back. 

“...according to every piece of data I know about you…” he started. He already didn’t like where this was going. “Nothing would point to you being the cell phone charm type.” 

“So?!” he barked, frowning at Ai as he self-consciously stuffed his phone into his pocket. It buzzed from a message notification, as if on disastrous cue, making a plasticy noise as it rattled against the charm. “What’s your data know about the real heart of people, anyway,” he continued, crossing his arms as he leaned back in his chair. 

“It hasn’t been wrong about anything yet.” Ai tilted his head. “Why do you have a charm all of a sudden?” 

Because I saw she uses one of mine, Ranmaru answered frantically in his head, thinking back to the video chat they’d had where she showed it off. His hand was in his pocket, muffling his phone buzzing as more messages came in. He ran his fingers over the smooth pick, the subtle grooves where the letters were, the jagged hole he’d poked into it, the string that ran through it and knotted into a hole on his case.  Because she told me about how much she liked it, so I wanted to return the favor. 

“Why is this so goddamn important to you, Ai?” Ranmaru bristled. “Can’t we just get on with work already?” 

Ai stared at him a moment longer before shrugging slightly. “I’m simply curious. What would motivate you to act against your usual protocol seems interesting. But if you won’t tell me, I suppose there’s no use prying, especially when we have work to be done.” 

Ranmaru grunted back, leaning back to the table and looking over the notes. “We’re decided on what we wanna do for our duet, but we still have to decide on a direction for our solo songs on the album. Something that makes each of us stand out but doesn’t ruin the cohesiveness of the whole thing.” 

“You should do something slow,” Ai said, after a moment of thought. 

“Why should I?” Ai should know by now Ranmaru wasn’t about that sort of sound, especially when Ai already had the sad lullabies more than mastered. “Nothing about that’s very rock or wild. It won’t work with my image. Or do whatever that “gap” shit is that people like…” 

“Really?” Ai looked at him again. “Ballads are an intrinsic part of rock music, and wouldn’t it be ideal for communicating feelings that aren’t as energetic as your usual work?” 

“You should’ve just said power ballad in the first place,” Ranmaru grunted, but he had to admit it wasn’t a bad idea. “It’d work better with your usual style. And the duet, from how it’s going so far.” The biggest problem Ranmaru could think of was he couldn’t imagine what on earth he’d want to sing about in one. 

“Then it’s decided,” Ai said decisively. 

“...Oi, Ai, when did I say I agreed to this?” The kind of thing he’d rather shape into a ballad instead of his usual, urging style was a complete mystery, which Ranmaru didn’t like the idea of committing to in a partner project and on a deadline, even if it was months away. But like hell he’d admit that to someone else in Quartet Night, much less Ai, who’d just give him “logical” suggestions Ranmaru already knew he’d hate.  

“Was your reasoning not enough?” Ai tilted his head. Ranmaru met his eye. Something about the curiosity on that blank face felt less pointlessly prying this time. Now it was more like someone who just wanted to see something new. 

Ranmaru couldn’t fault him for that. And he was due to challenge himself in this way, anyways. 

“....Fine. Whatever. That means you can’t do your usual sentimental stuff. You should do something that’ll lift everyone up after the heaviness of the other songs.” 

“That sounds logical,” Ai replied. His eyes moved to Ranmaru’s pocket as it buzzed once again, but quickly turned back as they brainstormed ideas. 

-------- 

He wiped his eyes as he leaned back from the computer, surprised by how quickly and unbidden they came. He hastily tore up a strip of paper and hung it over the camera built into the laptop -- he knew it wasn’t on. This wasn’t a video call. But the idea of someone seeing him like this felt surreal and, frankly, too scary to confront right now. 

They chatted a lot more, now. It’d been about half a year since they’d started talking outside of work. It wasn’t just occasionally sharing art and music with each other anymore, either, it was a big stew of ideas, inspiration. A lot of breaking down what they liked in all the albums they shared with one another, and how they wanted to integrate all that in their work. Her siphoning gear and singing tips off of him, while she broke down expressions and visual composition to a science to help him out with modelling. And amid all that, something easygoing. Complaining about work, about weird clients, about shitty train rides, but also the nice parts of their days, too. 

He’d gotten short with her today, and she got frustrated with him. They argued -- for the first time since they’d tossed aside client-and-professional for friends-and-colleagues -- and it turned out she was as passionate a spitfire as he, assuming she got in the right mood. 

And in the middle of all that furious typing, she paused. 

M: You know, it’s kind of relieving to argue with you like this. 

Ranmaru was so startled, he forgot the point he was making. 

R: what the hell are you talking about?

M: oh, come on, we both know I’ve used diplomacy to handle your grouchiness before, and that worked fine enough then. But I just appreciate that I trust you enough to not take such a safe approach, for once, and the thing you’re most upset about is that I didn’t feel comfortable calling you out on your horseshit sooner.

Ranmaru didn’t have an answer for that as she typed on and off. He imagined if this were a verbal conversation, this would be the point where he’d just listen while she strung her thoughts together -- wordily, but getting to good enough of a point that it was worth letting her meander. 

Instead, she cut right to a point he wasn’t expecting. 

M: hey, I’m not taking back anything I said, but I probably should’ve asked sooner. Are you doing OK? You always get stuck in asshole mode for a reason. I don’t have classes to teach today, so you can bend my ear if you need to. even on voice chat, if you like, japanese or english. 

An uncomfortable wave of relief washed over him. He hadn’t told her about it, but things were the kind of stressful that pushed his stoic approach to its limits. Too many deadlines at work. Too many people there talking, too few saying anything he gave a damn about. Money was tight this month -- the debt collectors suddenly hiked up what he owed, and they’d banged down his door to “tell” him that. And another shitty argument with Camus, after he “freed” all his bananas for some ridiculous flambe parfait he just had to have for lunch on a day when Ranmaru couldn’t afford any. 

This was just how things were. Why was he upset about it now? He was beyond cursing how things had turned out for him. Making useless wishes when there wasn’t anything to do but work and survive until he didn’t have anything to lament. 

M: alright that’s a suspiciously long amount of time between messages for you when you’re riled up. are you OK? It’s fine if you’re not, and it’s fine if you don’t wanna talk to me about it, but i’m here if you want. If something’s really eating at you, that’s more important than me being mad. (for now, anyway)

It felt surreal as he leaned back to the computer and felt his fingers find the keys as he started finding the right words. 

R: it’s not a light subject R: and it’s not on you to deal with it M: LOL bro c’mon. M: I eat heavy for breakfast, and I said I’m here for you. M: lay it on me

He wiped his tears away with his sleeve. It’d been long enough since he’d cried that he didn’t even think about how it’d smudge his makeup and stain his clothes, but he didn’t especially care as he started to explain himself, the words coming out hesitantly until they coalesced into a small cascade of short, tight sentences, heavy with years of restrained sorrow he’d ignored so aggressively until now. 

--------- 

Recording Haruhana went well. Ranmaru expected it to, somewhat. Ai’s cold problem-solving could be annoying, but they never got in the way of the heart of his vocals. Their voices blended into an interesting harmony, and the acoustic guitar bridged their styles into a bittersweet sound they slipped into easily enough that recording sessions went uneventfully. 

“It does not surprise me, but.“ Ranmaru couldn’t bring himself to outright glower at Ai as they stopped recording and stepped away from the mics. “You’re very good at conjuring a strong, wistful image with your voice.” 

“Then why do you look surprised…” he grunted back, loosening and lowering the mic for whoever had it next. “...You do it well, too, but we already knew that.” 

“The heart of things you’re so obsessed with,” he said plainly. “It wouldn’t do if we couldn’t bring truth to the emotions we write about.” 

Ranmaru hadn’t given much thought to why Ai’s songs were so lamenting and sad, for the most part. He’d acknowledged they were genuine, had a tone color that suited him right, and made the fans happy. Truthfully, he’d only thought of those songs in the context of work -- Ai was a rival and a colleague he respected enough to sing with and not want to lose to, so he’d only looked at his songs from that standpoint, too. But Ranmaru realized better, now, just how good Ai was at sharing sadness that wasn’t so heavy it dragged people down with it. Wistfulness that grasped forward towards something, like a greater understanding. 

“How’s the ballad going?” 

Ranmaru clicked his tongue. “How’s your synthpop bubblegum bullshit going?” he shot back. 

“Well,” Ai replied, unfazed. “I have the chord progressions and kits mapped out.” 

“Good for you, then,” he grunted back. Great. So Ai was making good progress while Ranmaru hadn’t made any. 

“Are you struggling?” 

“Isn’t that the point of a ballad?!” Hopefully Ai couldn’t argue with that and would leave him alone from there.  

“Shouldn’t you defer to a composer or lyricist if you’re stuck?” 

Ranmaru glared at Ai. “If it’s a ballad, I should write it myself, not leave it to someone who’s just gonna put words and music I don’t mean into my mouth.” 

“Past data suggests you won’t back down about this,” Ai said smoothly, stacking the notes and papers they’d brought into the studio neatly. “I suppose I should wish you luck, in that case, and remind you this is my album, too, and it’s the fans who are most important.” 

“I know that,” Ranmaru spat, long done fussing with the mic. 

*************

R: you hate ballads, right  M: I sure do! :D  R: why  M: too slow for my tastes, sentimentality done like that isn’t my thing, don’t always feel genuine, you know   R: that’s literally every problem i have with the big project at work right now M: oh no you have to make a ballad?? Like….poppy enough for shining agency and all that? Oh boy.... R: what’s your advice to making a ballad you don’t hate, then  M: HMMMMMMMMMMMMM M: pass a kidney stone  M: WAIT RANDY COME BACK I’LL HELP FOR REAL  R: If you want to help why are you calling me randy?!  M: suffering is the root of all good ballads. I’m helping   R: can you at least remind me what the one ballad you like is  M: oh, turn on your light  M: judas priest M: it’s always judas priest  R: so why don’t you hate it R: other than it’s judas priest  M: oh, nothing big  M: my first gf just made me a mixtape and confessed with it is all M: and that was my entry point into western metal  M: sealing my fate forever as a queer metalhead and thereby forming the foundation of all my aesthetic, social, musical, and auditory sensibilities forevermore M: and some other stuff  R: oh is that all   “We are about to arrive at ____ station, please make your way to the doors if your stop is ____ station....” 

R: what’s the other stuff M: oh dw about it  M: it’s, you know, the stuff everyone brings to listening. the mushy baggage that lets ‘em connect with strangers. you know how it is

The train arrived right after that message went through, and he had to put his phone away over questioning her further. Recently, he’d felt more irritated with himself than usual. He knew he got this way when he felt he owed someone and hadn’t done his part to even the score. 

He was kind of in the same camp as she when it came to slow songs. Rock was about energy, passion, an urging sense of power, and even if he could understand why those slower songs were important, it didn’t mean they had to always resonate with him. He thought about their exchange. She dropped art into their chats a lot because, as she insisted, it helped having a musician look at her work, instead of another illustrator. And he liked her perspective for the same reason -- more personal than a fan, but more refreshing than everyone else at the agency. 

Really, it sounded like what made the ballad feel genuine was the context she could apply. It wasn’t just a song, but a personal gesture that singled her out from the millions of other people who’d hear the song and imagine it was for them. 

Ranmaru frowned as he exited the train station. The solution to his ballad problem was simple, so obvious he felt stupid for overlooking it. If he expected people to connect to his music, he had to give people something to connect to. All he had to do was what he always did -- just go for what his heart told him to. No frills, no fancy trimmings, just something he wanted to honestly express. 

He strung basslines in his head as he walked to his apartment. Let the music-making guide him, instead of demanding it follow rigid instructions. As he pushed the key into the lock, he caught the faint stain of his eyeliner on his sleeve. 

Don’t look at me … while I dry my eyes....

His stomach lurched a little, but moreso he felt his body surge with the truth of the song he wanted to write. The same rush of a surging venue, somehow, but with the kind of wistfulness and earnest desire he appreciated in Ai’s work more now. 

Tama had started to squeeze through the little crack in the door, investigating why Ranmaru had just stood there like an idiot for so long. 

“...c’mon, you little dope,” Ranmaru said softly, surprised how breathy he needed to keep his voice to get past the tightness in his chest. He squatted down, scooped the soft little creature up, and walked straight to his workspace. He did the once-over his apartment he’d gotten in recent habit of, seeing if anything had been seized by the collectors while he was gone, before depositing Tama on a cat tree where Mike was sitting. He hummed a melody that was quickly taking shape, his hands barely keeping up as he grabbed a scrap of paper, scrawling notes as fast as his hands would let him. 

*******************

Reiji looked up at Ranmaru in disbelief. Ranmaru scowled back. 

“If you don’t want it,” he growled, reaching for the box he’d put in front of Reiji. “I’ll fucking take it back.” 

“No! No no no, Ranran, I’m so grateful!” Reiji exclaimed, scrambling to slide it out of Ranmaru’s reach. 

“Humph! If I didn’t know of your peasant tastes,” Camus started from across the table. “I’d just tell you you’re better off skipping this slop.” 

“Oi!” Ranmaru pointed a spoon threateningly at Camus. “You don’t have to eat, asshole! You still owe me for ruining my bananas, and as far as I’m concerned this just means you owe me another meal!” 

“You think your pauper’s tongue deserves the fineries I’d select, I see,” Camus said challengingly, tilting his head and crossing his legs. Ranmaru was a hair trigger away from just throwing the box with Camus’s portion right at him. Maybe it’d ruin that stupid suit and he’d learn to shut up. 

“He-heeeey, Ranran, everything smells super good….I’m so excited to dig right in, but are those sauces I see?” Reiji interrupted. Ranmaru clenched his fist around the spoon as he turned his glower towards him.

He slammed the spoon down in front of Reiji. “Which sauce do you want, the spicy chili one or ketchup,” he managed through gritted teeth. 

“O- ohhh, wow! So gourmet! We have options!” Reiji cheered, in that singsongy way he did when he was trying to smooth over disasters. “Ranran, I knew you could cook, but I never knew you were so talented! I wonder what’s in ---” Ranmaru was losing his patience, and he grabbed the bottle of homemade chili sauce, hovering it above Reiji’s portion. The bottle sputtered as the air escaped, and Ranmaru’s grip threatened to explode the whole thing right then and there. “ -- I’ll have just a little bit of the spicy one, haha…” 

Ranmaru held his gaze a moment more before he focused back on the food, squeezing a reasonable amount onto Reiji’s portion. He opened the box with Camus’s, already dressed with a mountain of sweet chili sauce, stabbed the spoon into it, and slid it over. 

“Is this omurice?” Ai asked. Ranmaru handed him his own box.

“Is the rice in the omelet?” he grunted. “It’s just a stuffed omelet you eat with rice.” 

“Mm-mm! So good! I’ve never had spices quite like these! Is this a secret specialty dish you’ve been hoarding to yourself?” 

Ranmaru, at this point, just wanted to sit down and eat. “No,” he grumbled, hoping they’d get the picture. 

“I can’t recognize this preparation against any recipe I know of. Did you make it up yourself?” 

“It’s one from a friend, alright? She sent me a bunch of chilis and herbs and I had to make something to use them all up. If you don’t like it, then you don’t have to eat it. Stop asking questions and let me eat!” 

They ate quietly for a while, much to Ranmaru’s relief. Camus, of all people, was the one to end the silence. 

“Kurosaki,” he said, taking an odd tone for a conversation with Ranmaru. “....You will share the recipe for this sauce immediately,” he said, an odd hush to his voice. 

“And what if I don’t,” Ranmaru sneered back, feeling just a little smug. “You gonna pass out from a sugar crash and finally give me some peace?” 

Before Camus finished his reply, Ranmaru took a bottle from his bag and tossed it at Camus, who disappointingly kept his composure through the surprise. “Maybe you’ll learn to eat some meat, now that you’ve got a way to slather it in sugar.” 

The rest of Quartet Night all stopped again in surprise, the same way they did when Ranmaru said he’d made them all lunch for today. Their eyes burned on Ranmaru as he went back to his meal, and he tried very, very hard to not let it bother him. 

“...Ranran, you’ve been acting different lately. Did you--” 

“No,” he growled. “Whatever you think it is, no.” 

****************************** 

M: oh dang M: wow dude M: i really don’t know what to say 

Ranmaru stared at his phone in the dark, waiting as feedback from the other side of the world came in. 

M: you fucking nailed it. I don’t know how you did it, like a week ago this wasn’t anything. M: now it’s a whole new side of you i don’t think your discography’s shown off yet  M: the fans are gonna go apeshit 

The rest of the song came to him in the kind of exciting, passionate fervor where his hands couldn’t keep up with the ideas. The melody followed the bassline very naturally, peppered in by flashes of lyrics that slowly built and reorganized themselves. And from there, more instrumentation became evident. What he had now was just enough to make the soul of the song clear, finished late tonight in the studio. 

Already his head was filled with what more he could add, but they blended into blur of ideas he was too tired to separate. 

M: can I confess something? I mean, i don’t know why I’m asking, you’re probably already asleep  M: what you have here already made me cry a little bit  M: i don’t know what you did, but you made a ballad that works so well. It really feels personal and so full of the soul everyone loves you for, but there’s something really sad and kind in there that makes my heart squeeze.  M: and that’s even in the lyrics! (what i can understand of them, anyway haha) but you know how saccharine I find ballad lyrics most of the time!!!   M: then again, it is you. I don’t think there’s anything you could ever make that would feel disingenuous lmao  M: is it too late to ask if i can illustrate this album too....would Ai and the agency let me do that…. M: i can draw something that’s soft and rock as shit!!!!  M: anyways M: you’re probably dead asleep but just know this: good work, dude.  M: it really felt like you were saying something very heartfelt, even in this rough cut, and i think how personal that voice is is gonna make everyone feel such a feeling.  M: it sure made me feel one!

He locked his phone, tearing himself away from the slow stream of messages coming in. He laid on his back, phone facedown in the blanket, as he stared up into the dark swallowing the room back up again. Every part of his body felt like it was on fire, burning to get back into the studio. 

The lyrics weren’t complete yet. He wasn’t the poetic type, so it’s not as if he’d let himself overthink his words and lose their heart in too many revisions, but there were still blanks. The phrase that’d pull it all together, the words that summarized the message of the song, they still weren’t there, but he could feel himself getting closer. 

It was about paying an unspoken debt, and it was about shame, but above all, it was about pride. In himself, for letting himself reach this point, and in someone else. That was the sort of connection he could sing himself to tears with, whether on the stage, the studio, or the clean, edited album, and for that, he was proud. 

[zidian-enthusiast]

Character study: Nie Huaisang

I wrote this a few weeks ago and I didn’t share it here, I’d rather show it before Fatal Journey premieres. Imagery based on CQL’s first episode.

Liquor pours into the small cup. Beyond the closed curtains, in a hall buzzing with activity, an old man tells a story to a young and quite easy to impress audience.

Nie Huaisang takes the cup he just filled and, as if he was drinking to honor someone, he raises it to the empty seat across his own. He downs the wine and its taste is surprisingly bitter. Fond of refined sweet flavors, he finds it mediocre at best. Too disgustingly similar to the metallic taste of blood, in fact, to dare take another sip. 

“Well,” he mutters, smirking. “Isn’t it ironic? Adequate, even.”

No one answers because no one is there, but if there was, he suspects the answer could be a smack that would make him taste blood in his mouth for real. Or, rather, a deafening roar first, one that would make everyone around cower in fear.

“Honorless! Coward! Is this what the QingheNie sect comes to be in your hands? A swindler’s den, backstabbing, plotting in the shadows? Is this what’s left of my teachings?!”

He can almost see him, red in the face, veins popping in his temples, sitting across the table with the poise of the ruler of heaven and hell. He can almost hear him, shattering his eardrums with his furious, hurtful words. 

But in reality, he is not here anymore, is he? And the thing is, Huaisang will never forgive those responsible for that.

“… a man whose deeds are so cruel, it makes this old man’s skin crawl, I’m telling you!” says the voice of the storyteller opening his tale, and Huaisang’s lips curve again, this time into a cold grin.

If the unfair story the man’s telling taught him anything, it’s that cruelty comes in many forms. From the powerful oppressing the weak, and from the wronged weak seeking revenge. Cruelty naturally gives birth to more cruelty, in an endless cycle of pain. But also, cruelty can be born from something as pure as love, too.

He knew that already. After all, Nie Mingjue loved him, and yet, he was incredibly cruel to him.

His brother, who only knew the way of the blade, was devoted to it with a passion that could probably impress even their most strict ancestors. He owed them nothing– if anything, they had to thank them for dooming them to inherit the gruesome fate of this cursed line of cultivators, all dead by qi deviations– but still, Mingjue carried the weight of the entire sect and the risky path of their clan’s cultivation with utmost dedication until the end. 

A man like him would hardly find any appeal on subtle arts like literature, painting or music. Of course, to a man like him, a brother inclined towards those things was an utter disappointment.

“Playing all day with those useless brushes instead of training with your sword! How much longer will it take you to develop your golden core? You are behind your peers for at least four years! I will not stand for you making the Nie clan into the laughing stock of the entire cultivation world!”

And yet, it was Mingjue himself who provided him with the means to play around. It was just the two of them since the beginning, and Huaisang’s fragile life was entirely in his hands– still, even against his own harsh words that more often than not brought tears to his little brother’s eyes, he never denied him any of his whims. For every object he broke and every slap he gave him, he’d always find a way to compensate him later, be it with gifts he’d deny ever giving to him, or any superficial entertainment he’d judge to his little brother’s taste.

Now, none of these actions were any less cruel in Huaisang’s eyes. The act of awkwardly rubbing the wounds he inflicted didn’t make him feel any less frustrated or scared. Simply, at some point, he got resigned to the fact that his brother really didn’t know any better. And as time went by, he also understood it had to be the same for Nie Mingjue; both wanted something from their brother that the other couldn’t provide, and yet… At the end of the day, they still were the only family the other had. 

And, regardless of anything, Nie Huaisang knew, from the bottom of his heart, that his brother would die for him without hesitation if needed– after a good fight, that is. Huaisang liked to think he’d do the same. He wasn’t that confident in his own guts but yes, indeed, he would at least have the intention. 

He never thought it possible, but he had the chance to confirm it. That day, when his heart tore apart as his feet propelled him forward without hearing reason, having to be forcefully restrained by treacherous arms that kept him away from Nie Mingjue as his qi deviation turned him into a formless, bloody mess. 

What hurt the most was that, no matter what, the great Chifeng-Zun, the rightful Nie Mingjue, his dear, only brother didn’t deserve that. Righteous, honest Nie Mingjue deserved a dignified end. 

Nie Huaisang cried, and mourned, and searched, and despaired, and then… he decided.

He could never, ever rule their sect like his brother, so he wouldn’t even try to. After all, all that hard work led him to the same miserable end their ancestors met, why would he follow that? Why try to be a pathetic imitation under the long shadow his brother left? Why stay in the rightful path, offering his back to the same surreptitious knife that stabbed him in cold blood? 

If his love of literature and human understanding in general left him something that the blade certainly couldn’t provide, it was a good eye for deceit. And oh, there was so much of it in this whole image. The mastermind? An artist. His hand, relentless yet soft, made itself the god that decided the fate of so many people. Nie Huaisang could never stand when good art was underappreciated. He was a generous patron of the arts– how could he not give the artist all the credit he deserves?

“…and so, who could say for sure that the Yiling Patriarch… will never walk among us again?”

As if to give the storyteller the perfect climax for his tale, a strong wind makes the curtains of the shop flutter and the crowd gasps audibly.  It ended in such a terrifying note, but luckily, it was just that: a tale! 

Nie Huaisang, however, chuckles softly. After reconsidering, he takes the wine bottle and pours himself another cup. Once again, he raises it to no one.

“I know you won’t enjoy it, but your own story of revenge is about to unfold. Please forgive your younger brother… You know he could never resist a well-written tragedy,” he says in a low voice that gets lost in the crowd’s noise. He drinks, then scrunches his nose. It still tastes like swill, but he downs it in just one gulp, and then stands up.

That disgusting taste like blood would last just a fleeting moment. In fact, by the time he tosses the gold piece to the storyteller and leisurely walks down the street, fanning himself, it’s almost gone. 

The sensation of having his hands sullied by blood, though, will last longer, but he is fine with it. The pieces have been carefully set into motion. He stares into his fan, one of his favorites. He painted it himself long ago. He smiles at it.

He’s a bit rusty, but he is actually a pretty good painter. In fact, he’s sure he can be even better than the other master who provided the right inspiration. Inspiration, just like cruelty, comes in many forms. 

Nothing says he can’t shape it into a beautiful masterpiece, painted with sorrow and love.