#technically i need to get another blank canvas too but i can just paint over something

[sol-flo]

painted such a fun little canvas today. maybe it's technically an assemblage even. but yeah it's a screenshot from my thesis + i dangled the synthetic image from wire to evoke the billboarding ^_^

[d-criss-news]

Actor And Producer Darren Criss Reveals His Creative Process

The producer, singer and actor talks his approach to songwriting, discovering his sound and how he’s ready for the next chapter.

We don’t know about you, but we’re currently experiencing the Bank Holiday blues. With the realisation that our days of summer maybe coming to an end were in need of uplifting sounds and singer-songwriter Darren Criss is keeping the energy going with his fun-filled EP “Masquerade”. Between the slick alt-pop productions and high-octane energy, the artist puts his theatrical abilities and prowess at the forefront of the EP. Laced with serene dance floor-ready melodies, the actor and musician instantly gets the party going on the project, kicking it off with “f*kn around”.

“The dirty secret is that every song is character-driven,” the artist revealed when discussing the project. “I just chose wording that could perhaps aid people into understanding this exploration of genre, this self-aware exploration of genre a little more. For those people that only know me as an actor, I’m trying to guide them into this notion of music and songs being a form of acting.”

No newcomer to the scene, the artist has spent the past decade gracing our screens in the cult favourite Glee and the thrilling Assassination of Versace: American Crime Story. Wanting to continue his musical journey in the form of producing and writing, we caught up with the multi-faceted artist talking his growth over the years, staying creative in a pandemic and how he’s ready for the next chapter.

Check out the interview below now…

Hey Darren, how are you? How has this past year been for you? It’s a strange question to answer because everybody’s answer is so much more complicated than what you can say in a quick easy tight polite answer. You know, I’m well, as well as one could be given the situation. I feel, you know, luckier than most. Even with the music that I just put out there’s still more that I’d like to do, but I got to do even more than I thought I’d be able to. So that tends to be kind of the theme of the past year and a half. I feel like I’ve been so consumed by working on so many things for so long, that not a lot of people outside of my inner circle know about that. You know, it’s been a lot of high output but seemingly low visibility. So now finally getting to put out some of these things and talk about them… tipped scale of visibility versus output is hopefully having a chance to even out for a bit, to where the amount of work I’ve put in can somehow match that people you know may or may not know about what I’m doing. You know, I’ve been really busy. I’m the kind of guy where if you give me a white canvas it’s a more…I wouldn’t say stressful, but I’m more likely to fill up a blank canvas immediately with as much shit as possible – I guess that is more stressful than having only a few places to fit things in, and I usually keep pretty busy. Ironically when I’m really busy, that’s when I can get stuff done. Like you know that phrase ‘if you want something done ask the busiest person in the room’, and I think there’s a degree of truth to that because you know, the chaos kind of begets chaos, and productivity begets productivity, and in a lack of anything else to do it was like ‘I wanna do all these things!’ and then it gets really crammed, so it’s nice to be kind of simmering down from this overwhelming call to arms to get as many things done as I could with this new unprecedented free time that I had. So, in short, I guess, am well if you wanna use that! I feel, I’m just relieved that a lot of this stuff can exist somewhere outside of my head but it’s a complicated answer, I’ve been able to do a lot more than I thought I’d be able to.

With everything that happened last year, was your creativity affected? The time that it yielded is the kind of time that a lot of creative people fantasise about. Of course, we would have all preferred it in a very different way when you say ‘if only I had time to sit down and work on this’. I think we all have; I say creative people but we all say, ‘if only I had time to paint the kitchen, learn a language, get in shape’, you know do something different that requires a bit of time and focus. We were all given that golden ticket, of course take that with a massive grain of salt, I’m fully aware of the price with which that came, of course if we had the choice, I don’t think any of us would have wanted it to happen the way it did. But none the less, for those of us who did take the time to focus, to hopefully be productive and proactive with the situation we were thrown into, it was creatively beneficial to finally get to address things that had been sitting kind of on deck and dormant in my mind, and it was just a matter of having the time to give them any attention. One of the joys of jumping between acting and music is there is a battle of time commitment, because neither one is a thing you can do casually. If you’re acting in something, there’s a great degree of scheduling that really eats up a large chunk of your day. While I’m in an acting project, I’m writing stuff and playing music but the actual logistics of producing music is as time consuming as the acting. I am envious of people that can kind of just show up, sing a song and leave. I, unfortunately, am not that kind of person. Writing a song is only a small piece of putting music out. Production really does take a large part of my emotional and intellectual efforts, and I really dive in head on. And that’s not even mentioning the promotional side of it. So, it really does take a lot of time to dive into those things, and I was finally given that. If anything, it was hard to decide what part of my musical menu that I wanted to serve up. It just came to a matter of what felt right at the time, what seemed fun. I kind of wanted to put out something that was positive and fun, and unapologetically so. And something that really showed up for a side of me that I felt like hadn’t been represented in the past. The musician side, and unfortunately, we haven’t been able to perform these very much. We’ve done little videos here and there. Stuff that really showed my roots as a musician, a garage rock guy, a guy that really likes getting in the weeds of production. In the past I’ve put up things that are a little more analogue, singer-songwritey, and this is more me as a producer and a musician.

How did you first get into music, what sparked the interest? Well, I’ve been playing music my whole life, and not casually either. It’s such a massive part of my identity, and that’s one of the main driving forces of me wanting to put out as much music as I possibly can. These five songs on this EP are a small part of a much larger body of work that I’m dying to get out whenever I can. When you’re a songwriter, or just in general a creative person, you have more ideas back logged than your body can execute. This is only a small part of a much larger puzzle, and a lot of these songs, the ones that I’ve put out and the ones I’m still trying to put out, are ghosts that have been haunting me however many years., some more than a decade, some more than two decades. The reason I mention this is because I’m trying to illustrate how pivotal music and making music has been throughout my life. I started playing violin when I was 5, and that was a big part of my cultural education, learning how to play an instrument that is so dynamic and requires a pretty specific ear and technical ability. Now I’m not saying I was fantastic at the violin, but I think the training that I had on it from 5 until my late teens really shaped the way that I would create music and think about music, certainly as a writer and a producer, but with just how I would jump between other instruments as well, because the violin was such a great touchstone for me to end up taking up the piano or guitar, or drums, or other instruments that would really formulate how I create music. Between being the orchestra nerd kid that played a lot of music throughout my young life, and also being the guy that would play in bands, its just been such a huge part of my life. As I’ve gotten older and gotten to understand this other version of myself that exists in more of a public view, that has little to do with that I know, I have started to notice that person, that avatar of myself, isn’t necessarily associated with music. And that was troubling to me, so I wanted to rectify that.”

And now you’ve just dropped your EP, talk us through your mindset going into the project? If I was just a recording artist, and that’s all I did, I’d like to think that I’d have a much larger body of work to show for. I feel like a lot of songwriters feel this way. There is just simply too much music…now I’m not gonna say it’s all fantastic, there’s a reason you have to triage the ones that you think are the best at the time, and there are many songs that I feel would be outdated, they feel very of the time 10 years ago. But you’re always trying to put your best foot forward with the pile you have lurking behind you. So, it is a hard thing to decide which thing you want to put out. Killing your darlings is always a hard thing, figuring out which ones to really focus on is difficult and it usually comes down to who you decide to collaborate with – right before the pandemic was one of the most tumultuous times of my career where I was producing and acting in a show for Netflix, and I was also kind of show running, acting, writing music for, editing, doing everything for this other show I created called ‘Royalties’ on another platform. I was doing both at the same time, and one of the things that made this possible was the people that I would collaborate with. A young man by the name of CJ Baron who I produced and wrote this EP with, he’s sort of the midwife that I chose out of working on Royalties because we had a lot of great songs together. I keep referring to myself as a producer, but I do it from a much more cerebral space, whereas he is a much better technical producer than I am. We really shared a lot in common, so by the time I realised that I wanted to make a piece of music you have to decide ‘who do I want to go down this yellow brick road with?’ And when I decide with CJ, that kind of already hinted at the kind of music that I would put out because he has his own fingerprint, and so I thought there’s something that I have that might mesh well with that fingerprint, so that kind of helps the decision process along of what songs am I gonna put out. But in another world CJ wasn’t interested, so then I think ‘Okay let me try and produce an album with this person’, and that person would reveal a different selection of songs. I’m very open to seeing what the universe is allowing and pushing towards, and I kind of follow that northern star to figure out what songs I’m gonna put out. But the mindset was always ‘put something out’, on a completely pragmatic level. What did I want to have to show for if whenever we got out of this crazy, new age of ‘what does this pandemic mean? We have time to do stuff, when it’s over what do I want to sit there and say that I accomplished?’ And at the very least I needed to put out a few songs, so that was really my mindset – no excuses, this is the time that you used to hope for, and so what are you gonna do if you’ve got the golden ticket, you’ve won the time lottery – so don’t fuck it up Darren! That was my mindset.

You describe them as character-driven singles, why is this? The dirty secret is that every song is character-driven, I just chose wording that could perhaps aid people into understanding this exploration of genre, this self-aware exploration of genre a little more. For those people that only know me as an actor, I’m trying to guide them into this notion of music and songs being a form of acting. The number one question I always get it ‘which one do you prefer?’ and I always say they are the same to me. When I’m an actor I treat characters, characterisation of my voice and body, characterisation of how I deliver words like a piece of music. You’re scoring it the same way, there’s cadence, dynamics, volume, nuance, all kind of things that can make ‘a piece of music’ unique to a person. And that’s how I treat dialogue and characterisation. The other side of that coin is I treat music like I’m acting, like each song has its own character when you’re playing live or recording in a booth. You are donning the proverbial mask of that character and what it requires. I really wanted to keep people into this idea that at the end of the day, it’s all performative and all part of a narrative that don’t necessarily have to do with each other and the way that if you ask Alexa to play a ‘Jack Nicholson playlist’ it would be very disjointed. It would be like okay The Shining, that’s a vibe, and then it would go to As Good As It Gets, and that’s a completely different vibe. They wouldn’t necessarily be on the same playlist, but they are distinctly and undeniably Jack Nicholson. So I always thought that it was a bit of a double standard that actors can do this but in music, you know, I’m proud of this but it’s also very annoying – a lot of my songs would probably not playlist together on the same genres because you have more jazz songs, like a trip hop chill tune that might end up in the back of a Starbucks, but that wouldn’t necessarily go on the same playlist as a tune like ‘I Can’t Dance’, which is a crazy song because it doesn’t even sound like me, I’m literally putting on a different voice, I’m singing like two different people putting on an affectation. There’s a lot of things that are very different but uniquely and distinctly me. The word masquerade is a celebration of a lot of different masks, and in theatre we talk about ‘The Masque’, and how each Masque has it’s own style, history and culture, and I really love the genre, and I love Masques, and I love things that make them interesting, and celebrating things that make them unique, and really trying to maximise their effectiveness as a genre with whatever tools I have as an artist, so that’s really what I’m trying to go for, this whole character driven idea is – it’s all a masquerade.

It very much has a fun-filled vibe to it, was this your intention and why? I’m not gonna sit here and pretend I sat in a studio saying ‘Hey lets not have fun!’, especially during a time that was as fraught with a lot of troubled times. This EP was recorded during very troubling times, so I think I’d be delusional to think that whatever joy is in this EP was not some kind of reaction to that, trying to offer something positive is definitely my MO in life in general, so that’s always gonna bleed its way onto my records. Like it or not. The intention is to record things that can be effective. If the vibe you feel is fun, great. If you feel any vibe at all, whatever the fuck that means, that’s a win for me. If that happens to be the word ‘fun’ then awesome, there’s a lot shittier adjectives that can be derived from this body of work so I will absolutely take it. My intentions are again to try and honour the songs. When you write something it has its own magnetic pull, it has it’s own gravitational pull that you have to kind of follow. If a song sounds a certain way, you want the lyrics to feel the same way that it sounds, and you want the production to feel the way that it vibes for lack of a better word. All songs have different body types and dressing it up and knowing how to tailor it to accentuate the things that make it fun or sexy is really sort of a strange alchemy. It’s not up to me how people experience it, but that’s what makes it fun. Once you put something out into the world it’s up to other people to use their own adjectives of the suit you tailor. I’m always excited when it leaves my head and becomes somebody else’s experience. So hey, if it’s fun – great!

What do you want people to take away from the project? Obviously, I hope people enjoy themselves. Any musician or artist would hope that there’s some kind of memorable experience to be had from it. If I was talking about what I hope people take away from it, that doesn’t have to do with the music itself, I hope that every time I put out music it’s me broadcasting this notion that this is something that I do, and that this is a big part of my identity. I think the songs themselves and what they’re about and how they feel are less of an insight into my identity as the notion of me putting out music is, because I feel like for any artist your journey is a constant negotiation between how you see yourself and how you would like to be seen, and how audiences are willing to see you. And you know, sometimes that balance is not always even. Sometimes the way they see you isn’t the way you see yourself, and sometimes the way you see yourself isn’t the same as the way they see you, so you want to be somewhere in the middle. And ‘Masquerade’ is a huge step forward for me to try and represent who I am and what I’m about to folks who might not see that. So that’s the biggest goal I think with any release but particularly this one.

Who would you cite as your inspirations? I’m one of those people that, when I say that everything inspires me, I’m not trying to be cute. It’s a problem. It’s an actual scourge on my life, where I find everything interesting. I find everything inspirational. It’s such a core belief that I have that there is inspiration to be derived from every walk of life. Stuff like from a lawn chair to a Bach cantata, there are so many things that can be interesting and incorporated into some creative output. It’s just all about how you look at it and how you can perceive and understand where it comes from. There are so many things that are inspiring to me. Of course, this is the massive macro answer that you weren’t looking for, you’re probably looking for ‘what artist are you inspired by?’ I think I’m just inspired by people who are really genuine to themselves, and this is an ironic answer considering that I actually try to be as many different people as possible. It’s a strange thing that actors are celebrated for not being anything like themselves professionally. And musical artists are separated for being as close to themselves and putting their souls as close to the chopping block as possible. I think I’ve really found my niche as a storyteller. I’m envious of some of the great troubadours of history, that can put their souls out on the record for us and put their own personal experience into things. Leonard Cohen and Joanie Mitchell, and Carole King, more modern people like Taylor Swift who really can just bare their souls for us. I really admire them because that’s not a muscle I have. And when you’re an artist I think ‘Okay so what muscle do I have?’, and I think ‘Okay I’m like a playwright, I can make each story for these songs and try and bring them to life with as much accessible ability and reality, and as much truth as I can convey, that’s not to say they’re disingenuine, they’re born from a genuine idea but they’re supported by my background as an actor. Baring myself isn’t something that comes as naturally for me, I really admire those people and I try and perhaps emulate a lot of their song writing in whatever limited way that I can. Genres are inspiring to me, lets talk about song writing, and then there’s producing which are two different things to me, because when I hear music I hear chords, I hear melody, I don’t listen to the snare sample, but I always hear the bare bones and then I think about production. So as far as producing is concerned I think it’s really important to know all genres and to listen to what makes each one interesting and respecting those genres, and then when you are producing something yourself, and then taking from each thing by knowing why and how they work within that genre, so again to use a song like ‘I Can’t Dance’ which is a nod to late 70s/early 80s, somewhere between disco and new wave, I’m employing the things that make those genres fun, to me at least, and trying to smoosh them together in a way that sounds cohesive. So…everything is inspiring to me, it’s hard. But each song has a different source of inspiration, but they don’t transfer between all songs.

You’ve also wrote for animated series and for Glee, is the process different for producing? “This is actually a very good question. I think this ties into what I was saying before about writing for narrative is something of a calling that I think I’ve realised more recently is kind of where I can plant my feet more easily than any other type of song writing. I was mentioning the people that can bare their souls, some people have a really good ability of putting themselves out there but also writing as a satirist of character that he creates. The person that is a master of this is Randy Newman, he’s one of the greatest American songwriters of the 20th century. He has an amazing ability to create these scenarios or create first person accounts of people that aren’t actually him, but he can contextualise with his literal voice, his song writing voice, and make those their own sort of satirical version of himself. There’s a lot of layers going on there, but I’ve always thought of him as really excellent. He’s like a playwright with music, he’s writing musicals, I mean he’s won Oscars for writing music for narrative! That’s something that I’d really like to do – from a technical standpoint it’s actually very liberating because when you’re writing music with your name on it, you’re the artist, then there’s this sort of weird expectation that you’re trying to service which is why I like this idea of putting the mask on and separating the songs from my own personal experience, because I need to separate myself from my own experience of the music you’re hearing, at least on the surface. My big break was A Very Potter Musical, that I feel to this day are my biggest hits because I don’t really have hits, but as far as the songs that people know that strangers know of songs that I’ve written, they were songs that were written for characters. It’s a bit like painting by numbers. If you just write a song from scratch about anything, it’s like the canvas I’m talking about again. You can do anything, or go anywhere, and that’s overwhelming. Having parameters, knowing where the gates are, is extremely helpful, knowing when the deadline is, knowing how long your party can go for. It means you can maximise the space you know you have. When you write for narrative you go ‘this is the character’, ‘this is how they speak’ – so you already have your lyrical information there – ‘this is how they talk’, ‘this is the singer, the singer has a great range that goes from this note to this note’, ‘in this scene we need the character to go from point A to point B, and we want it to be a song that sounds like X’, so you create all these amazing little ingredients, and I look at artists like a service industry, I really enjoy servicing what the person or the experience requires. When I have a menu of ‘we want this, this, this’, it’s like okay great I’ve got you! A three-and-a-half-minute song that sounds like this song, but has to be in this key and has to be a duet, I really thrive on that. And it’s probably one of my more favourite versions of song writing. And usually there’s a deadline, so I can get it done! Because I need to get it done for production. I really enjoy coming back to writing for narrative, because I did that for Royalties with CJ, and when I realised how much I enjoyed doing that and how productive I was when I was writing for a narrative, that’s when I got into the idea of ‘I need to stop trying to bare my own soul in music’. I think if I treat it like I’m writing for a character, not only can I get it done faster but I feel like I can make things stronger. So that’s when I decided that’s what I’m gonna do for this next EP. Writing for other shows and characters is what helped me realise my strengths as a songwriter.”

What is next for you? What are you most excited for? “As I mentioned I think productivity begets productivity, and that’s exactly what happened with this EP. Even if the pandemic hadn’t happened and I didn’t have the time, I think I would have been just as emboldened from working on Royalties with CJ and it got me very excited about working on music and how much joy that gives me. Any artist will say the same answer, but I think by the time stuff comes out artists are already over it because they’ve been living with it for a year and a half, and in my case over a decade with these songs, so I’m always ready to move on and go to the next thing. Everything is a stepping stone, so I’m very happy that this EP is out, I think it’s a great representation of a lot of stuff that’s been unaddressed for far too long. I just wanna get going, it gets me excited about keeping the ball rolling as a songwriter or as a producer, I just don’t want this to be like ‘This is the thing I did during the pandemic’, I want to keep it going and be more proactive about keeping time aside for it, because that’s the name of the game. When you’re acting or doing music, you have to balance it with time, and this pandemic has shown me how much I enjoy spending time on music, so I’m gonna carry that on. But of course, as soon as I say that, that’s when something unexpected and something too juicy that I can’t keep my hands off it happens on the acting side. One learns to be pretty flexible, because as soon as I say one thing something else will happen, and that’s been the narrative for the past decade of my life. I hope to just keep going. I’ve been this lucky for this long so I’m not gonna pretend like I’m going to keep being this lucky. If I get to act great, if I get to do music great. I can’t believe I’m in a position where its like ‘oh if the acting thing doesn’t work out, I’ll just do music!’ or the other way around, it’s a highly privileged list of options, and I’m fully aware of that. So as long as I can have one or the other to fall back on, I will always be excited about option. It’s not always up to me, so we’ll see. Everything that I’ve put out is just a way for me to renew my lease with my ability to show up for myself as well as people that I don’t knows ability to be interested in what I have to do next. But I won’t flatter myself, I’m not gonna say that lease is forever, so I’m just trying to put in the time and work to keep it at the very least somewhat interesting.”

Photography - Amanda Demme

[mae-gi-writes]

Let it Be Me (Part One)| Kevin Moon Imagine

soulmate au! x badboy! Kevin.

 In which soulmates find each other on their graduation day and Kevin gets the growing suspicion that his is just as artistically inclined as he is. Let the competition begin. 

Thank you @aniyawoos​ for giving me such inspiration, and for always listening to me rant about how perfect Mr.Moon is. 

Genre: fluff, lil angst, soulmates 

Part one | Part Two (Coming soon)

----

Kevin was pissed. 

He glared at his canvas, now caked with bold dark lines that mimicked a caricature of an unfamiliar face that he'd never set eyes upon. The girl's deep set eyes were furrowed into a frown, eyebrows perpetually pinched together in constant permanent thought, lips pursed as though silent protests were lingering along her tongue. But while Kevin would've normally been proud of mastering such a face in such little time, this did not negate the fact that this was definitely not his work. 

Because the fact was that Kevin did not draw caricatures. He did not use dark tones. And he did not recall having seen such a girl, for he was sure that it would've sparked a memory if their meeting had been so significant. 

"Why is this so dark?"

Kevin let out a snort as footsteps walked up beside him. He caught a glimpse of caramel coloured hair, a flash of too-white teeth. 

"That's not your style," Jacob remarked as he leaned in close to inspect its details, "where are your watercolours? And your sceneries?" 

Kevin's grip tightened impulsively onto his paintbrush. His jaw clenched in silence. 

A fresh canvas, wasted just like that. His hand was still throbbing with a familiar tingle that had spread through him the moment his brush had touched the tip of the blank page, and the entire process was like a dream that he had stumbled through only to wake up disoriented and dizzy.

"I don't know," the raven-haired man muttered as his fingers combed through his locks.

"Not bad though," Jacob remarked with a whistle, "not bad at all. Who is she?"

Kevin's shoulders lifted in a half-shrug, though annoyance spiked through him at his friend's curiosity. Today was not one of those days where he could tolerate human beings, especially when nothing seemed to go right.

"Where are you going?" Jacob called out when he stood up abruptly from his seat, chair squeaking in protest as he made a grab for his rucksack and strode out of the room, mind still reeling from the confusion which had come with that sudden artistic turn of events.  

Maybe it was his just off day, he concluded mentally, as he tried to ignore the soft tingling sensation thrumming through his fingers, as though a ghost of a presence was still present.

The second time it happened, he was in the middle of reproducing one of Monet's famous water lilies when his hand tingled with that familiar warmth, electricity dancing up and down his arm and numbing it so that his limb took a life of its own. He watched, horrified, as his beautiful lily pond turned into another stranger's face, flowers transforming into dark orbs staring back at him, the water trail twisting into a bold nose, a vine curling to form a cupid's bow mouth. 

What in the actual fuck. His mouth moved soundlessly over the muttered words, hands fisting in his lap with the sudden urge to throw his artwork --could he even call it his?-- against the wall. 

“Maybe it’s a sign,” Jacob said once Kevin complained about his artwork getting ruined by bold strokes. This was the fifth time this week and the latter’s growing collection of portraits was both alarming and fascinating at the same time. While Jacob understood the artist’s growing frustration with the manhandling of his artistic talent, there was nothing to be said about how beautiful they all turned out to be, even though they weren’t originally part of Kevin’s vision. 

“A sign of what?” Kevin picked at his fries, mood still sour from the thought of his now empty wallet that was now scraped dry, his savings all flushed down the drain from having spent it all on the last pieces of canvas that were now deemed useless unless he painted them over with white and started again. 

But that would take ages and a lot of layers, and a lot of paint. Kevin wasn’t sure whether he was ready for that. Not that he had a choice, considering that these works would count for his final portfolio. 

He couldn’t help but let out another exasperating sigh at the thought. 

“There are theories circulating,” his other friend, Chanhee, piped up from behind his roast beef sandwich, earrings catching the light of the lunchroom as he spoke, “that a few weeks before your graduation, you might get a few hints about who your soulmate might be.” 

Kevin allowed the information to sink in, “why haven’t I heard of that before?” 

“Maybe because you spend all your time holed up in the studio,” Chanhee sasses him, “and when you’re not in the studio, you’re doing that.”

Kevin’s eyes find the joint in his hand when Chanhee gestures towards it, before he puts it to his lips and takes another puff just to insult his friend, “it keeps my creative juices flowing.” 

“You don’t need that to be creative, Kevin.”

“Stick to your account books, Chanhee.” 

“Alright time out," Jacob interrupts before the pair can get into yet another brawl, "Kev, Chanhee's right. You can't keep depending on that to keep going." 

The raven-haired man shrugged but kept quiet nevertheless. He knew, deep down, that Jacob was right. But once he started, he found it was hard to stop. It gave him everything he needed; the relaxation, the creativity, everything. Ever since his life had turned upside down, ever since the school had turned its back on him for apparently dealing with heroin when he'd been completely innocent, Kevin had suffered with the aftermath of rumours and the countless amounts of gossiping about his whereabouts. Jacob and Chanhee had stuck with him, but they were the only ones that had. The rest of his so-called friends now deemed him too weird to talk to, as though a foreign body had invaded Kevin's body with a bright red alarm sign to indicate that he was off bounds completely.

It was one of the reasons why he spent most of his time in the art room in the first place. He wasn't going to entertain their stupidly, made - up stories about who he was and what he did.

If there was one thing that Kevin hated the most, it was tattletales. And there seemed to be lots of them around here.

After that, he decided he wouldn't be bothered by the fact that his artworks were not technically his, and instead just used them to his advantage. If Chanhee was right and it really was his soulmate, then all the more reason to do so. If they were using his hands then he was allowed to use their artsy prowess. 

All was fair in love and art.

It was on the last day of his final submission, as the art prodigy was finishing his final touch-ups of his now so-called portrait series of weirdly strange people, that he got the sudden urge to just stitch. His fingers shook with desire even though he clamped his hands into fists and gritted his teeth, forcing his limbs to continue working. Pins and needles shot up and down his arms like alarm bells, tearing at his muscles and nagging at Kevin’s subconscious. The more he tried to ignore it, the more the sensation pricked, until it actually hurt.

He dropped his paintbrush and gave in to the sensation. His body reacted on its own, dashed over to one of the unused sewing machines and grabbed a piece of cloth. Five minutes later, he was busy stitching his life away on the machine, the only sounds perforating the air being the loud drumming of the needles piercing through cloth.

Twenty minutes later, barely two minutes before he was to drop his artwork to his teacher’s office, Kevin leaned back in his seat and stared, wide-eyed, at the donut plushie he’d just made. 

What astounded him the most was that he didn’t --for the love of god-- know how to sew. He never took any sewing classes and had never really been interested in the field anyway. 

So how in the world had his hands worked on their own? He gazed down at his hands with growing horror and apprehension twisting his stomach into tiny knots. Why? Why why why? 

“Kevin? What are you still doing here?” 

The said young man’s head whipped up at the sound of his classmate’s voice, only to see the ginger-haired girl blinking at him with confusion etched across her features. 

“Are you--stitching?” her frown deepened. 

Kevin rose without as much as a wince when the metal of his chair scraped against the cement floor before dashing over to gather his paintings. He jostled out of the classroom, ignoring his classmate’s questions while lumbering down the hall as quickly as his artwork would allow him towards the teacher’s department. 

He wished he didn’t have to meet his soulmate. 

------

“Can I tell you something?” 

Kevin looked up from underneath his beanie at Jacob, who sat on the other side nursing a cup of tea. The hot chocolate in his hand was steaming, its delicious scent already wrapping around him like a warm hug, giving him that sense of comfort he craved so much.

Prom had gone and passed without much that was memorable enough for Kevin to be deemed as important. As per Chanhee’s predictions, people started discovering their soulmates in the strangest ways possible, though the group of boys guessed it had something to do with what you were good at and what your soulmate’s passion was. For instance, a girl had found herself going for a midnight swim, only for her reflection to be of a young man living just a few weeks ago from hers. Another boy had the sudden urge to take a ballerina class and was entranced by a picture of his soulmate hanging on the wall of the ballet studio.

As of yet, none of the trio had caught any glimpse of their other halves, and Kevin hoped it stayed that way. After all the incidents that had occured in art class and the countless whims that had taken over his body like he’d been possessed, he wasn’t even sure he wanted to know who held the other part of his heart. 

What if she was a psycho? He asked himself as he gazed at his drink, what if she was completely not like him and they’d made a mistake from the very beginning? 

“What is it?” Kevin prompted his friend. Jacob’s eyes were downcast, the muscles in his jaw clenching as though haunted by his own thoughts. 

“Jacob?” Kevin’s fingers toyed with his unlit cigarette. He’d been craving it for the past thirty minutes and now that Chanhee was gone, he was free to do as he pleased. He fished for his lighter and started flicking a flame over the cigarette butt. 

“I found her.” 

Kevin almost did a double-take. He dropped his cigarette, “what?” 

Jacob nibbled on his lower lip, “I found her, I found my soulmate.” 

There were many things Kevin wished to say. He decided to keep quiet.

Jacob continued, encouraged by his silence, “I was cooking, the usual. You know I love cooking. So I was making this dish of grilled vegetables and grabbed my knife to cut them all. And then I--And then, I--she--she appeared. In the knife--in it’s reflection, I mean.” 

Still, Kevin stayed quiet. 

“She’s--She’s not bad looking,” there was the tiniest of smiles, barely visible, on his friend’s face and though Kevin wasn’t an expert on reading emotions, it was pretty obvious that Jacob was already smitten for that girl in particular. 

“How do you know you like her?” he asked so abruptly that Jacob blinks in shock.

“Well--I don’t know I--I just do. I think?” the latter scratches the back of his head, “I don’t know, Kev. There’s just--something about her. I can’t really explain. You’ve gotta see for yourself.” 

“Hm” was all that Kevin managed to sputter out as he picked up his cigarette, lit it, and took a long drag. 

“Chanhee won’t like that,” remarked his friend.

“Chanhee’s not here to tell me what to do.” 

“Did you even try to stop?” there was a tinge of desperation in Jacob’s voice, “we’re not in school anymore. You don’t need that to cope, you know.” 

The raven-haired man exhaled in response, smoke billowing out of his perfectly cupped lips.

He wasn't into his soulmate. Had no interest whatsoever in knowing who laid behind the magic taking over his fingers every time he found himself in the art room. It hadn't occurred since his last deadline and for that, he was glad, because while it clearly hadn't been his style of drawing, his professors had been so touched with emotional depth that they gave him a distinction with passing colours. 

Needless to say, Kevin hadn't set yet another foot in the studio.

He really didn't feel like knowing who had messed up his entire style for the sake of her own artistic endeavours.

The summer went by and grades were up. People shouted with excitement at the prospect of last minute freedom before college would take it away this coming September. Kevin had enrolled in Mathieu's School of Art and Design as a Printmaking major -- his dream was to work in textile and fashion-- while Jacob had decided to take up an apprenticeship with the local Culinary School in town. It wasn't the best, but it would do for his first few steps into the culinary world.

As for Chanhee, who was going down the safe route, he was registered to complete his ACCA certification for chartered accountants.

"Keep in touch guys, yeah?" Chanhee had tearfully stated on their last day of summer, where the trio had taken to drink at their local pub. 

Kevin clinked his beer with his, his spirits quite high at the prospect of starting a new life, turning over a new leaf, "worried you might not make friends?" 

Jacob shot Kevin a look, then said, "relax Chanhee. You'll be fine. You'll probably be the only one making friends." 

"Shut up guys, you're not helping," Chanhee sniffed.

It was a somewhat bizarre sensation to be walking to school without Jacob and Chanhee at his side. Kevin's bag felt a little heavier upon his shoulders, his traveling a little longer than usual albeit the fact that his college was barely two minutes away from his high school, just across the street. Kevin's nervousness racked up the back of his throat, practically choking him as he made his way to his first class: illustration design.

Comprising only ten chairs, the class was round, its walls painted a sheer white and the spotlights illuminating the room casting long dark shadows across each head already seated. Kevin quickly hurried over to the back where he took his place.

The girl beside him shifted slightly, but he preferred not to acknowledge her existence. Instead, he slid his sketchbook from his bag and started doodling on the corner of the page, next to where he wrote the date. 

It was only when the teacher walked in and the girl's pen suddenly dropped to the floor, and Kevin swooped in like muscle reflex and gave it back, that his eyes caught her face-- he stared.

And stared. 

And stared.

She stared back, unblinking. Unflinching. 

"Who--Who are you?" Kevin breathed, all air knocked out of his chest in surprise.

Her hand darted out, whipping the pen out of his hold and turning back to the professor without a backward glance. Astounded, Kevin hadn’t realized his mouth was still hanging open until he felt the warm trickle of saliva dribble down his chin.

He snapped his jaw shut and quickly turned back to focus on the class at hand, all while trying to ignore the weird buzzing that seemed to take over his entire nervous system. His body was heated, as if lit by a wildfire that raged through his insides and swept along his bloodstream so that he was left in a constant state of exhilaration, senses too alert and fingers prickling with the innate desire to just touch, touch her, no matter what. 

Stop it, he told himself off. His mind raged back like an aggressive, untamed horse. 

It took him so much of his energy not to do something stupid that he only came to attention when the sound of scraped back chairs reached his ears. Whipping his head up at the flow of people leaving the studio, he realized a little too late that the said girl in question was already halfway to the door. 

He scrambled up so quickly he banged his shin. Cursing, he ignored its protesting throb as he raced towards her figure, “excuse me--” 

Either the girl didn’t hear him through the throng of introductions being conversed by a group of students by the entrance, or she didn’t want to. Kevin pushed his way past students milling about the corridors, excusing himself as he went, before he finally caught up to her at the library door entrance. 

“Wait--” he called, practically choking on his own breath. Jesus, he should really work out more. Pressing his hand over his side upon feeling the familiar cramp pinch in, he tried not to collapse in front of the girl, who was now gazing at him in a mixture of fear and confusion.

“Is there something you want?” she asked tightly.

“Well--I--Didn’t you--” Kevin racked his brain and wondered, for a brief moment, whether this soulmate thing was one sided, “didn’t you feel it?” 

“Feel what?” Her eyes were growing more and more alarmed.

“You’re my soulmate,” the words left Kevin in a rush, “didn’t you feel the pull?” 

Her mouth shaped itself into a silent ‘o’. Her eyes glanced at the floor for a few beats of silence. When she looked up at his face, her jaw was set and her eyebrows furrowed, “so?” 

“So?” he gaped at her, “so?” 

“Look, I don’t know how they treat people with soulmates in your country,” she shifted uneasily from one foot to another, “but in mine, they’re definitely not something to be proud of.” 

He blinked, “you’re not from here.” 

“No.” 

“Where are you from?” 

“Look, if you’re talking to me just because of that soulmate bullshit--”

“Can’t you feel it?” Kevin cut her off, hating the fact that his voice sounded so desperate and needy, “can’t you feel the bond?” 

God Kevin. You sound like a wimp, his mind screamed at him. Get a hold of yourself.

“No,” she looked at him dead in the eye, “I don’t.” 

And leaving him to deal with the aftermath of the shock, the girl turned and walked away, her soft footsteps echoing down the hallway like the beats to an ending song.

--- 

STAY TUNED FOR PART TWO! :) Let me know if you wanna be added to the taglist <3

[writing-reading-inspiring]

Discovering Truth (Mob!Tom Holland X Reader) - Chapter One

Summary: One can say that (y/n) doesn’t have a normal life. Then again, anyone who’s father is the leader of one of the most feared English mobs probably wouldn’t. One day, her life gets turned upside down when a letter arrives from her uncle stating that she is a target of her father’s rival mob, the Hollands.

Chapter One  ~  Chapter Two 

I’ve always understood that I wasn’t a typical teenager. I mean, I’ve been exposed to that idea since I was a 7 year old girl shooting a glock 17 at a moving target during my father's “protection training”. I feel like a part of me even understood that when I was waking up to the blaring of an ambulance and the sharp beep of a heart monitor when I was 4. My life is complicated and simple at the same time, which isn’t just confusing, but really sucks. 

To understand how I ended up here, I have to tell you about my family and what I know of my past. My father is Harold Chimaera, leader of one of the most feared English mobs. My mother was his wife, Eleanor Chimaera. She was an amazing wife and an even more amazing mother, at least from what I can remember. My father sent her away to Corinth, Maine when she was pregnant with my brother, Scott, and me in order to keep her safe from any harm that could befall us. Sadly it wasn’t his enemies that hurt us, but a truck driver on Mccard Road who had a bit too much Bourbon to drink. My mother and twin brother died that cold winter’s night. 

When my father found out, he immediately came to the United States to bring me home to London. From there, he moved most of his operation to Cambridge, a place where he can keep me safe from accidents and anyone who would want to harm us. 

I was drawn out of my thoughts by a light knock on the door frame. The gruff voice of my father's right hand man, Abel, followed after it.

“Ms. Chimaera, you’re father requests your presence in the living room.” He adjusted his black suit jacket and scratched at his 5 o’clock shadow that he seems to have forgotten to shave.

“Of course Abel,” I curtly replied. “I’ll be right down. Just give me a minute to put my easel away.”

He nodded towards me before disappearing from my view. I got up and looked at the blank canvas that was taunting me. I’ve been unable to draw for the last 2 weeks and it’s really starting to get on my nerves. I’ve already painted the roses in the garden, the birds in the aviary, the butterflies that flutter just outside the windows, and even the creek that runs next to the house. 

My home may be considered luxurious in it’s grand stature, pristine marble floors, exquisite design, and exotic fauna; however, it lacks inspiration for me at this point. After 15 years, things start to seem boring and you start to get claustrophobic, even if you have a generous amount of room to move around. 

Being caged and unable to leave the grounds of my father's estate may keep me safe, but it stops me from being alive; I’m only existing. I know I’m luckier than most, and I’m grateful for it, but I can’t help how I feel.

I begin to put away my painting materials before heading through the door of my art room. 

My father gave no worry to buying me whatever I wanted. This would explain the highly functioning studio I have next to my room, the stocked kitchen that holds any ingredient I could imagine using, and the $800 camera I have in a hard case on my dresser in my bedroom. 

The walk from upstairs to the living room is brief due to my father wanting me to be able to escape as quickly as possible if needed.

“(y/n)! There you are. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your thoughts on how I should get Mulligan to back off of our exports. But first of all, have you painted anything new for me to hang in the gallery?” My father got up from the couch and walked to the staircase while speaking to me.

His question caused goosebumps on my arms. He has been asking me for a new painting everyday after I told him I had nothing to work from.

“I haven’t been able to paint anything new yet, but I’m thinking about painting the garden again, except this time it would be in the morning,” I replied to him while looking down.

“That sounds absolutely wonderful, my dear. Now, about that plan of yours. I enjoy the part about messing with Mulligan’s investigation, but why exactly do you think he would go after another mob all of the sudden,” my father inquired.

You see, my father has been trying to prepare me for when I take over the mob when I’m older. At least that’s what he tells me. Personally, I believe he’s trying to make sure I’m smart enough to take care of myself if I need to. Nevertheless, I put my input in on subjects such as how to increase profits and how to get nosy detective’s off our scent.

“Dad, Mulligan has been chasing us for years, which means there’s a low chance that he has been doing other cases. His chief must be pretty mad at him for ignoring his other duties. Giving ‘evidence’ that can bring down another mob permanently would put him in good graces with his boss. He would be an idiot if he doesn’t take the bait,” I explained to him. 

“That’s my smart girl.” He came over to give me a hug.  

When he pulled away he spoke again, “Oh, I almost forgot. Rosetta put together the mail and apparently there are quite a few pieces for you. How many colleges did you apply to?”

“Maybe about 15. I wanted options,” I said. 

This wasn’t technically a lie, but it also wasn’t technically the complete truth. I wanted a good amount of options, yes, but I also wanted to be able to get as far away as I can. Not because I hate my life, but because I want to feel free. 

“Sweetheart, I can get you into any school you want with one phone call, so why did you need options?”

“I wanted to get in on my own, and I’m sure I did with my markings.”

“Of course you did, darling.” He checked his watch and a pained look came to his face. “I hate to do this sweetie, but I have a meeting in five minutes. The mail should be in your room. Tell you what, how about we have a movie night tonight? Say 8 o’clock?”

“Sounds perfect. Now, don’t be late to your meeting because of me. I’ll see you tonight. Love you.”

“I love you too.” With that, he departed from the living room towards the north side of the estate, which is where his conference room is.”

I made my way back upstairs to my bedroom. I might as well see what letters I was able to get today. 

You see, the mail that we receive is gone through and assorted at another location in case of dangerous substances or tricks. It’s also a way for my father to see who was trying to contact me via mail (he already has my computer's searched and monitored 24 hours).

Once I get to my bedroom, I immediately spotted my mail placed on my mahogany desk as it is every day. I grabbed the stack and sat against the headboard of my bed, having to push myself back a couple of times due to its size. 

University of Oxford ... accepted.

University of Cambridge ... accepted. 

University of York ... accepted. 

Université de la Sorbonne ... accepté. 

Harvard University ... accepted. 

Letter from Elijah Wilson ... that’s a new one.

I immediately push the other packages aside and look at the small white envelope that managed to get to my room. I’ve never had mail from a person I’ve never heard of, especially one bearing my mother's maiden name. 

The mail crew must have not seen this because it wasn’t already opened. Slowly pulling apart the unopened seal, I pulled the crisp, white paper out of its sleeve. 

Dear (y/n),

Hey kiddo, it’s your Uncle Elijah again. I don’t know if you’ve even been getting these letters, but that doesn’t matter. I still have hope that I’ll be able to see you again. You must be about 19 now, right? Last time I saw you, you weren’t even to my knee, but you had tremendous spunk for a 4 year old. If you’re anything like you were when you were little or anything like your mother, I believe that you’d get along great with my daughter, Elizabeth. I’m sure you’re living a great life in Cambridge with your dad, but I really do need to see you, sweetie. I understand that talking about what happened with your mother and brother must be a difficult thing to do. I could hardly speak about it for at least two years, but it’s been 15 now. Not only do we miss you in Maine, but we want to try to help you as much as possible too. I’m sure your father has some of the greatest protection set up just for you, but even Fort Knox has breeches in their security system. I’m sure he already knows about the Hollands trying to get to you, but I’m just worried that you won’t be ready for when they do come. Though I hate to say it, there offense has gotten stronger and they had corrupted more mobs that I can count. There are probably enemies that you think are allies coming in and out without any strain. These men have already killed Eleanor and Scott, I don't want to see them kill you too. I know coming to Maine didn’t work that well last time, but we’ve grown since then, we’re more prepared. Please come, or at least respond so I know that you’re safe.

With love and the best intentions,

Uncle Elijah

[always-andshewrites]

In chapter 2 Katniss has a talk with Madge and inadvertently learns some new information, pushing her to have a talk with her dad. Peeta initiates a talk with Mr. Everdeen, thinking he is going to get scolded for his and Katniss' "late night visits" only to have Mr. Everdeen thank him for helping his family out all those years ago. Dylan takes Katniss to the secret place in the woods where she hopes to get some answers, only to have more questions. Haymitch (with inspiration from Hazelle) does a nice thing for Madge; Poppy chats with her dad with a fancy coin that disrupts the Capitol's "bugs" with an idea to share it with K & P.; Madge and Katniss have "girl talk" and we even get a little bit of Madge/Prim. Katniss wakes up blindfolded, as Peeta whisks her away to the woods for some "alone time" before the tour. Katniss and Peeta wake Haymitch up and on their way home they see a car in his driveway... It can only be one person, right?In Chapter 3 Katniss and Peeta come face to face with the devil himself . . . And let the games begin . . .

Summary:

Katniss and Peeta made it out of the arena together, but little do they know the games are only beginning. Who can they trust as secrets are exposed and identities are revealed? This is the sequel to "Changing the Game"; a Hunger Games - Catching Fire rewrite. Told in several different character POV's.

Chapter 3 - Deal with the Devil

| Peeta |

Using my free hand to open the door because my other hand is being held hostage by the death grip from Katniss’ hand, I slowly push the door open.  I tense up when I feel my heart begin to accelerate from the thought of some Capitolite laying their filthy hands on any of my things.  It’s true that this is my home, but technically, it is the property of the Capitol, and thus, belongs to President Snow.  However, the thought of him or any of his goons in my home sends a murderous rage festering inside me.

The moment my foot passes the threshold my head snaps to the left, meeting Katniss' stare.  Both of us immediately recognize the all too familiar rancid aroma of blood and roses filling the air, informing us, without a doubt, who our intruder is.

‘Snow.’ Katniss conveys, casting me a worried glance and gripping even tighter onto my hand.

No one appears to be on the main level of the house, so we tiptoe, quietly making our way up the steps and to the second floor.  Stealthily, we creep down the hallway, eager to face our intruder, yet anxious at the same time.  I instantly take notice of the door to my art studio, which is always, without fail kept shut and locked up tight; is slightly ajar.  It is what grabs my attention, confirming that something is amiss.  All of our friends and family; or really anyone who visits us knows to steer clear of that room, aware of what lies beyond the threshold.

Curiosity overpowers our fear, and together we make our way into that room.  This is the one and only room I ask Katniss to stay out of, not because I have anything to hide but because I know the sight of my paintings will most likely trigger her gag reflex, in addition to causing her now dormant nightmares to return.  They are not so much paintings, but a visual timeline of each of my nightmares, a vivid recollection of our time in the arena.  

When I glance down the row of paintings, for the first time I see them as an onlooker would and cannot help but notice how each one is more vibrant than its neighbor.  Most likely because the nightmares become more lucid and lifelike the closer the Victory Tour gets.

Katniss doesn’t want or need a visual to remind her of the horrors we faced in the arena. But for me, it’s like . . . like a form of therapy.  It’s like if I have the ability to remove the images from my mind and transfer them onto a canvas; by turning them into a still life portrait, something tangible, it grants me control; the power to lock them away forever, or even burn them if that’s what I wanted to do.

As much as I want to forget the horrors we faced and as much as I want to expunge the memories from my mind, at the same time I don’t want to forget.  If I forget, then who would remember Thresh and Rue?  And what about the other tributes?  No, I need to remember, it’s what gives me the motivation to continue living my life.  The drive to fight our battle.

Once the door is open, we see the backside of a man with fluffy snow-white hair.  He is dressed in a sharp, tailored suit, slowly pacing the length of the room.  His hands are clasped behind his back, giving a slight nod here and there, as if offering his approval at the paintings lining the wall.

“Dammit— Lucy . . . Kill . . . Mock—jay . . .” I think I hear him mumble to himself just as his body tenses for a moment.  I am instantly intrigued and wonder who this “Lucy” is.

‘Did you—’ I meet Katniss’ eyes, curious as to if I’m hearing things.  She nods, confirming my sanity.

'Peeta, I'm scared.'  She shudders, squeezing my hand a little tighter, if that is even possible.  I reciprocate, entwining our fingers, assuring her that I am not going anywhere.

'It's going to be okay; he's not going to hurt us.' I tell her, though not quite certain myself.  It is moments such as these that I am grateful for whatever forces have bestowed us with our telepathic link.  The ability to communicate silently while in the presence of others has proven to be more than . . . useful.

“Aghhem . . . Excuse me, can I help you?”  I announce our presence, clearing my throat to grab his attention.  I would recognize that snowy white hair anywhere, I do not need to see his face to know his identity, but I still need him to turn around and face us.

“These are quite remarkable.”  President Snow takes his time turning around as he compliments the painting behind him, presenting his face with an approving smirk.  This particular painting details one of his ferocious mutts from the arena; a squirrel foaming at its mouth fills the page, while Katniss and I are drawn as miniscule beings in the far bottom left corner of the canvas.  I am leaning over the side of the cornucopia gripping firmly onto Katniss’ calves while she aims the golden arrow at the Queen.  Why am I not surprised that this painting brings him pleasure?

On the other hand, I do not miss the way he sneers disapprovingly at the canvas portraying me and Katniss with our allies from District Eleven.  I have captured us high up in a tree with our friends, seeking refuge from those who mean us harm.  Katniss and I are settled in our sleeping bag on a branch; just below us are Thresh and Rue in an almost mirroring position.  I remember that night so clearly as we swapped stories from our district’s.

“President Snow, what an honor, what—” Katniss begins to offer pleasantries, but the deleterious man in front of us cuts her off before she brings it to completion.

“I think we’ll make this whole situation a lot simpler by agreeing not to lie to each other.  What do you think?”  Snow says with his affected Capitol accent and a hint of arrogancy. His lips are plump and full, the skin appearing painfully tight as he speaks, causing me to believe they must be surgically altered.  Lips that full just aren’t natural.

‘I think it’s meant to highlight his features.’ Katniss quips and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to mask my amusement.

“Yes, I think that would save time.”  Katniss affirms, her voice confident and steady as she stands tall.  She has one hell of a poker face but she can’t fool me.  She is utterly terrified, as am I.

Snow continues to marvel over the neighboring paintings for a moment before a sly grin appears on his face.  He follows it up with a nod of approval and then his eyes are back on me.  “I heard you were talented Mr. Mellark, but I just had to see it for myself.  I would never believe that someone from as lowly a district as Twelve could produce such . . . works of art.”  He begins, slithering to the far corner of the room and taking a seat in a chair behind a desk.  Wait a minute, where did that desk come from?  Before today, this room contained only my artwork, an easel, a handful of blank canvases, various containers of paint, my brushes, and a few other random art supplies.  Either I’m losing it or, or— did he bring this furniture with him?  Is it meant to . . . intimidate us?

'What do you think he wants?' Katniss presses, never removing President Snow from her line of sight.

“Please, why don’t you have a seat?”  Snow affirms, motioning for us to take a seat in the sophisticated looking high back chairs in front of him.  However, I get the distinct impression the “please” was not merely a request.  Katniss and I take a seat, refusing to release our grip on the other’s hand and scoot our chairs closer to the other so that our knees are brushing.

'I have no idea, but I have a feeling we are about to find out.  And . . . where did the desk and chairs come from?'

‘No clue.’ She answers without missing a beat.

Unsure as to how I should respond to President Snow’s remark, I say the first thing that pops into my head.  “President Snow, my paintings will be on display in the Capitol in just a few weeks, so I know you didn’t come all the way out here just to see them.  Why don’t we forgo the pleasantries, and you can tell us why you have chosen to grace us with your presence.”  I assert, holding my head up high, recalling my lessons on proper etiquette with Effie as I come off as unperturbed.  I really hope he can’t see how utterly terrified I truly am.

[hvlfwygod]

reoccurrence | patrick

It was the same, every single time. At least, that was what his mom said when she explained it to his brother, his dad, his doctor. She was wrong, though. They didn’t always start the same, they actually could be very different. Sometimes Patrick was at the store, sometimes in the family minivan, sometimes walking through some endless foggy forest. What was always the same was the ending. Always.

“What are you making?”

Patrick glanced up from his drawing as Dr. Wilson sat down beside him. He’d been coming to her office for weeks now, answering all kinds of pointless questions and drawing all kinds of pictures. She listened to him explain what each crayon-rendered monster meant, how often they showed up in his dreams, and his ranking on who were the scariest. Today was a new beast, some cross between a scorpion and an endless black hole; Patrick leaned back to show it off.

Dr. Wilson— she insisted he call her Samara— was patient, she listened, she suggested drawings he could revisit. He listened, too, though only halfway, usually too invested in his drawings. If she wanted him to give her all of his attention, he reasoned, she shouldn’t have put so many papers and supplies in front of him.

"This guy is cool,” Samara said, squinting at the monster. “Can I keep him?”

“It’s not done,” Patrick said, pulling the paper back to him and continuing to color in the shadows. “But later, sure.”

“Cool! Thank you. So where does he show up?”

“In... the desert,” Patrick replied.

“Mhm, and what does he do?”

Patrick hadn’t decided, yet, but he screwed up his face as if he was trying to remember. Samara shifted beside him and he heard a faint scribble of her pen. Then, she sighed and pulled out another drawing, one from two weeks ago.

“He kind of looks like this guy. Are you sure he’s a new monster?”

Slowly, Patrick lowered his crayon. “That looks different.”

“Or, Patrick, are you making up stories instead of telling me about your bad dreams?”

It was quiet for a long time, but for once, Patrick didn’t immediately resume his coloring. He sat there, stony and silent, waiting for the rest of the accusation to come.

“Patrick, you’re seven, you know better than to lie like this,” Samara said, her voice stern yet gentle. “I don’t mind you telling me... Whatever you need to, if it helps. I’d love to hear about all these creatures. But I’m starting to think you’re avoiding talking about the dreams that are giving you trouble.”

Patrick shrugged, not looking at her. “It’s dumb,” he pouted. “Nothing helps. You can’t change a dream.”

Samara sighed. “Not if you don’t try, kiddo. But I promise you don’t have to keep having this nightmare. I know you’re super tired, but we can figure this out. I love your creativity, I really do. But I need you to tell me what you’re actually dreaming, so we can get to the bottom of it. Okay?”

After another long silence, Patrick sighed and flipped his paper over to the blank side. He started drawing anew: pairs of eyes staring out through the darkness, and himself, staring back. “Okay.”

———

He was still pissed off. Patrick, just not high enough to not be frustrated, mentally cursed himself as sat before his latest painting. The oily darkness was finally starting to take on a certain depth, turning slowly back into the base he’d painted weeks earlier. If he closed his eyes, he could visualize the old image: a dilapidated house, the twinkling black lake, the almost perfect way he’d captured the radiating moonlight. But when he stared at what was in front of him, all he could think about was that this was technically his second time reaching this stage. All he could see was a hand-sized smear wreaking a diagonal ruin across the canvas.

It’d been a while since his confrontation with Koda, but the time had done nothing to dull the pangs of regret. Not for fighting with her, but for the collateral damage. Patrick couldn’t even bring himself to recreate his painting until now, and still he could barely get through it without feeling inordinately annoyed. Swallowing pills before this had done practically nothing. Reno’s words from Halloween rang in his head: your shit mood is sobering you up.

A sudden urge to chuck the frame across the room came over him. Idiot, he thought. Fucking moron. Before he fucked up his work yet again, though, Patrick stepped back from his paints and walked away. He stormed past strangers in the studio, eliciting a few complaints and sideways glances as his hand slammed against the door and stepped outside.

The afternoon sunlight was too harsh, still. Perhaps the only indication that he was actually high at all, he mused bitterly as he lit a cigarette. He inhaled, held it, and let it go, forcing himself to calm down. For a few minutes, it worked. His brain was quiet, just a low hum of empty thoughts and the rhythmic exhale of smoke.

But even out here, even high (though, he reminded himself, not quite enough), regret seeped back in.

It had been such a nice painting. Fuck. Why did Koda have to piss him off? He couldn’t believe he’d left it with her, too, or let himself think that she’d take his side. The fight started to replay in his mind, like a bad movie to which he already knew the ending, but couldn’t stop watching. The worst part was that no matter how angry he was at his sister, the world, even Tai (because this wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t jumped Patrick in the first place) he was much more pissed at himself.

Newly aggravated, Patrick killed his cigarette and then dropped it to the ground as he walked back inside. He was ready to give up, write today off, come back to this cursed project another day. But as soon as he saw his unfinished painting again, as if to spite himself, he felt compelled to keep going.

Slowly, he sat down in front of the easel and started to paint. Slowly, the house rematerialized, the shores of the lake took shape once again. Slowly, the image he’d lost crept back into existence.

Patrick worked straight through the sunset, only stopping when fatigue started to weigh his hand and caused his brush to droop between his fingers. He sat back and studied the picture, feeling strangely tilted and dizzy, then checked his phone. Patrick blinked at the hour on the screen, much later than he expected. “Damn,” he mumbled; it was the first word he’d said in hours.

Patrick looked once again at the painting. He had to admit that he was pleased, if only a little. It wasn’t the original, but he’d managed to get close. Except, peeking out from the edge of a small cluster of sinister looking trees, Patrick noticed something new. A pocket of negative space was there, glaring and distracting.  Acting on another whim, he picked up his brush again started filling in the details.

When he sat up after a few long minutes, two eyes stared back at him from the emptiness. A snout was just beginning to take shape, as if the dog was walking out from an engulfing darkness.

———

He woke up with a start, but this time, it wasn’t out of fear. No, Patrick was excited, triumphant. He threw his covers off and scrambled out of bed, disregarding that the sun had just barely started to break over the horizon.

“Mom!” he shouted, pushing her door aside as he walked into her room. She stirred in her sleep but didn’t immediately wake up, so Patrick grabbed her arm and shook. “Mooooom!”

“Patrick, shh, it’s...” she lifted her head and blinked as she checked the time, “not even six, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing! I did it. I changed the—”

“What’s going on?” his dad asked, pushing himself up in the bed beside his mom.

“I changed the dream,” Patrick said, looking to him. “I made it stop, I changed it. They looked completely different.”

“Oh.” His mother’s eyes widened. “That’s great, sweetie."

Patrick preened. “All the wolves got scared of me and started running. All the things started to...” He struggled to remember all the details. “They went away.”

“That’s awesome, kid,” his dad added in. “I’ll make breakfast to celebrate.”

Patrick nodded vigorously, never one to turn down his dad’s pancakes. Before he could follow him out of the room, though, his mom took his hand.

“Sweetheart, can you tell me more about this dream?” she asked.

“It was the same as always,” he told her with a shrug. “But I changed it. It was like I was awake and in charge of everything.”

“Okay.” She nodded. “And what did it change to? Did you notice anything? Anyone?”

Patrick frowned as he thought about it. “... Maybe?” If he thought too hard about it more of the dream started to turn into fog. “I think maybe someone was standing next to me.” His mother pressed her lips together, and he wasn’t sure what for. Patrick tilted his head. “Why?”

After a pause, she squeezed his hand. “I’m sure Dr. Wilson will want to know whatever you can remember. But I’m really proud of you, Patrick. Do you think you can do it again?”

“Yes,” he said automatically. He couldn’t explain it, but this felt huge. Like he jumped over some insurmountable hurdle and didn’t have to look back. “It was so cool, Mom. I’ll never have a nightmare again.”

———

As soon as he fell asleep, Patrick started to wander. He left his own dream behind and went looking for his target for the night. It had been long enough since his strange, bitter standoff with Graves, and he figured by now the element of surprise would be on his side. All that was left for him to do was find the son of Hermes.

He was struggling, though. Which was odd. It wasn’t because of who he was going after, though. The more familiar he became with New Athens the faster he could locate anyone, even someone he’d never interacted with in dreams before. The problem he was having was not with seeking Graves out, but the strange, stilted quality to his dreaming. It was like he was tripping in his sleep.

Maybe he’d taken too much after all. Reno hadn’t warned him to slow down, but Patrick had noticed the slightly prolonged looks before they went to bed.

After leaving the studio, he went straight to his friend’s apartment, which always was followed by some sort of mind altering substance. Combined with his earlier indulgences it was, perhaps, a bit overboard. He was honestly surprised he’d managed to sleep at all. But the fact that he had drifted off was proof enough that he wasn’t too fucked up to do this. He wasn’t going to put this off another night. Patrick felt almost sluggish, but he pushed through, and eventually, found Graves.

He stepped into the man’s dream, sliding through a brief fog and appearing outside a small shop. Peeking through the window revealed a room filled with weird oddities and trinkets. Candles covered nearly every surface, the spaces in between filled with crystals, figures, all assortment of magical items. Graves was sitting at a table, sitting over a spread of cards. It reminded him of the kind of place Cleo would like to visit. Patrick was hit with a sudden, angry flare of jealousy. He wanted to tear this stupid building apart.

Patrick reached for the door handle, but his arm was slow to react. It was like he was moving through molasses, or something was weighing down his limbs.

Sneering, he decided to stay where he was, stay hidden. From a distance, he willed the cards to flip over on the table, the candles to go out, the twinkling items to all clatter to the floor.

But nothing happened.

And then, a sharp pain exploded in Patrick’s skull.

The entire dream seemed to go dark for a moment, and it felt like he was falling. Then, he was back, landing as if he’d just entered the dream for the first time.

“What the fuck?” He felt as though he were about to pass out, in a strange, dream-logic sort of manner. Darkness crept in a little closer around the edges. But if anything happened, Graves hadn’t seemed to notice. This needled Patrick more than anything else. With effort, he pressed his hands against the side of the building and imagined the floorboards underneath Graves trembling.

Again, nothing happened and again, his head seemed to split open. “Come on,” he mumbled through his teeth. Nothing, nothing, more nothing, then clouds he didn’t conjure rolled in, and rain soaked him to the bone in a matter of seconds, and Patrick could do nothing to change it. He stared angrily at the ground, buzzing with confusion. Did Graves know he was here? Were one of his siblings fighting him back? Patrick banged on the window and his target didn’t even look up.

He blinked, and then Graves was gone, and then the building was gone, and Patrick’s stomach flipped as he fell painfully out of the dream and back into his own. It was still raining, as if the storm had followed him.

Patrick was standing all alone. It was how it always ended, with everything going sideways and a countless array of eyes glaring through the darkness, right at him.

“No,” Patrick almost laughed, shaking his head. “No fucking way.” He waved his hand, pushed the nightmare aside. But again, again, nothing happened.

Fear rolled down his spine like a cold sweat. He willed the dream to change again, and again, and again, but it was useless. All he had was the low hum of growls, a unspoken promise of everything going wrong, wrong, wrong. And the stares, glowing and malicious. Impossibly twisted canine features inching closer and closer. Patrick whirled around, refusing to accept that he couldn’t escape, but they were behind him, too, and up above, and the ground wouldn’t let him move, and they were all about to jump—

He woke up with such a jolt that his head banged against the wall behind him. Patrick cursed and curled in on himself. Pain pounded through his skull, in time with his racing heart. He’d been loud enough to wake Reno, who leapt out of sleep beside him and was halfway to standing in a matter of seconds.

“What happened?”

It was like he was a kid all over again. When was the last time he hadn’t been able to just brush that shit aside? Patrick looked over to his friend and flinched. Reno’s eyes glowed in the dark. Ice cold panic gripped Patrick’s stomach before he remembered that it was normal, Reno’s eyes were just like that and he was awake. 

Patrick pressed his palms to his head. “Nothing,” he mumbled. “Bad dream.”

“Hm.” The tone of this response was almost enough to tip Patrick into a rage, but he was too shaken to commit to the emotion. Instead, embarrassment rolled over him. It was such a stupid, simple, not-at-all scary dream. But he was sucking in each breath as if he’d genuinely been in danger. When he closed his eyes, Patrick saw the wolf in his painting. A little invader in his waking world.

“Water?” Reno asked. Patrick didn’t respond, but he nodded once. He waited until he heard his steps retreating before lowering himself onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. His vision swam, a combination of fear and the drugs still wandering through his system. What had happened? It was like his abilities had completely turned off. A part of Patrick wanted to stubbornly throw himself back into sleep, but a much bigger part was worried that his powers wouldn’t work again. That he’d stare down those endless eyes again.

In the end, he couldn’t do it. Reno returned with water, said he was going to stay up, then wandered off. Patrick followed suit, though he didn’t Reno to some other part of the apartment. Instead, he moved to sit by the nearest window and, like the endless pre-dawn mornings of his childhood, waited for the sun to rise, to banish all his fear.

[almarantha]

Aurum - A TES Drabble

“You really must take better care of yourself, child.”

Amara’s eyelids shot open at the foreign voice, sending her scrambling to get to her feet. She would forgive herself this moment of impropriety, of weakness. It was a startling thing, being spoken to when you were supposed to be dead. Reaching down, Amara placed a hand over her stomach, searching for a fresh wound that should’ve still been bleeding.

Granted, that wasn’t the only thing that seemed to no longer exist.

There was… nothing around her. No walls. No ceiling. No ground, for that matter. There was a floor beneath her, she could feel it, but actually discerning it was another matter entirely. Her surroundings were but a blank canvas. Filled with anticipation, but nothing had yet been put onto the page. No words had filled the empty void of white. No paint had given color, given life, to the environment.

“Yes, but think of the potential.” The voice mused once more, as if reading her mind.

Amara spun her head around so fast that she feared she might have snapped it. Could she even? She was already dead, right? As is, her lengthy wine-colored hair had likely slapped the owner of the voice in the face. To her left stood an Imperial man, hands calmly folded behind his back. He had a handsome look about him. Square, noble features and umber-hued hair cascaded down his neck. It was a face that could have belonged to a warrior, if not for how scholarly his posture was and how soft he wore his expression. The man smiled softly and tilted his head in acknowledgement, seemingly content to wait for her to measure him up.

His attire was familiar, although Amara couldn’t quite place where she’d seen it before. It was something an Imperial noble would wear, fittingly enough; that much was certain. Long indigo robes were rimmed with white, spotted fur. The robes covered an ornate scarlet doublet decorated with intricate gold patterns. On the whole, it looked inordinately expensive, but nothing more so than the jeweled necklace that the man was wearing. A ruby the size of her fist laid set in a gold casing, while several other, smaller, jewels of different colors rimmed the outside of the amulet.

The ensemble was gorgeous. Any Imperial worth anything would kill to be seen in such an outfit.

And yet it seemed horribly ill-fitting on such a man. Just by looking at him, Amara got the sense that he would have been far more comfortable in much simpler robes. He had that sort of priestly disposition about him. Yes, she could imagine him in a monk’s garb.

“…Who are you? Where am I?” Amara asked slowly, having become more or less acquainted with her surroundings. As much as a Dunmer in a completely foreign environment could, anyway.

The man pursed his lips, as if mulling over what sort of answer he should give. “Those are questions that won’t serve you well here. It would be more apt to ask when.”

It only now occurred to Amara that the man had never once opened his eyes to look at her. He faced her direction and seemed to know where she was, but those eyelids stayed shut. Was the Imperial blind? Amara furrowed her eyebrows at the roundabout answer. Riddles. She hated riddles. Especially riddles coming from mysterious strangers.

“When are we then?” She asked, her tone far more demanding than it used to be. Even a few years ago, that would have been unthinkable. But she’d grown up a lot these past few years. One of the first lessons she’d learned was to not take shit from people if you wanted any modicum of respect.

“Hmm…” The man hummed, contemplating her question. “The Middle Dawn, perhaps? Or maybe the Oblivion Crisis…” He lifted a hand to his chin, gazing upwards at what should be the sky. As it was though, he was staring at nothing. Or, technically, the back of his eyelids. “Ah, no. This is the Fourth Era. The Second Great War, I believe you call it. This is the fifteenth year of the conflict.”

Amara’s eye twitched. “…I knew that already.” She growled out in the most respectful way possible.

“So you did.” The stranger turned his attention, such as it was, back towards the Dunmer. “My apologies for the confusion. Such things come naturally to me, but precision can be difficult. What’s the phrase…? Ah, yes, like a needle in a haystack.” His smile never dimmed, but nor did it grow in intensity. Their entire encounter was marked by that soft, serene smile on his face. It made the stranger give off the impression of peace.

Or maybe he was just insane from being trapped in this strange void? That boded well for her.

Sighing, Amara pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her crimson eyes, attempting to compose herself. That was another lesson. Stay composed. Stay above it all. Never let others know they’re getting to you.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” The stranger’s voice came unbidden, surprising Amara out of her frustrations.

She blinked. The last thing she remembered…

“I was… someplace… where was I…?” It was hard to focus in this place, but she needed to remember… “There were gears… Not the Dwemer kind, not nearly so ancient, but modeled after them.” A stoic face flashed through her mind, violet braids matted with oil. “Zamana was excited. Someone advancing her people’s technology… She wanted to see it. So we went home-“

Wait. Was it her home? She’d visited Mournhold a handful of times, but had never lived there-

Amara snapped her fingers. “Right! The Clockwork City! Almalexia told me she knew a way in and-“

For the third time in a row, Amara cut herself off as a realization hit her. However, this one was far more frantic. It was quiet. Far too quiet. It had been quiet ever since she had arrived at… wherever this was. Amara couldn’t believe it had taken her this long to realize it! There was no prideful voice whispering in her ear. No voice giving out unwanted comments and opinions at every opportunity. No analysis of what was going on, no advice on how to handle this situation.

Almalexia was gone.

“Where is she?!” Amara cried out, aggressively grabbing the stranger’s robes and yanking him forward. “What did you do with her?!” Fury and terror in equal measures danced in her crimson eyes, tinged by the light of budding madness.

Best to head this off at the pass, the man thought.

The stranger carefully placed his hands on top of Amara’s own, his expression serious but not unkind.

Was he pitying her? How dare-!

However, her thought process was cut off as the stranger finally opened his eyes. Amara slumped forward, falling to her knees in abject awe.

Staring down at her were the slitted pupils of a reptile, encompassed by the purest gold that Amara had ever laid eyes on. They were ancient orbs, brimming with power and eternity.

How foolish was she to not see the signs…?

Amara fundamentally knew who she was speaking to now.

“I have done nothing with she who once called herself Ayem.” Akatosh intoned. The smile he had been handsomely wearing was gone, but neither did the dragon god of time look all too upset. “Yet, neither is she gone.”

Amara clutched at her chest, head bowed so the man, the god, before her couldn’t see the tears freely flowing down her face. Her frame shuddered as she breathed deeply. It was as if she was in the midst of a mighty battle, and yet the dragon’s words brought such relief to her! Almalexia wasn’t gone!

But then… where was she…?

Once more, the dragon god answered those thoughts on the surface of her mind. “What do you remember, child?” He repeated the question.

Again with this? What did that have to do with anything…? But it seemed she wouldn’t get anything else out of time itself, so she valiantly wracked her mind for the details. A feat not made easier by her admittedly volatile emotional state… Something that had been becoming more and more common recently.

“We were…” Amara’s voice cracked and shut stopped in her tracks, clearing her throat before continuing. “We were exploring. We found the main chamber. We found… we found the artificial heart. We… I… Oh, ancestors…” Her hand clasped over her mouth.

She’d died.

Rationally, she knew that. She’d known that since awakening in this place. But it was another thing entirely to replay the events in her mind, to hear the grinding gears of the automatons, to remember the cries of Zamana, the blade through her chest…

Daring to look up, she found the dragon god gazing… almost mournfully down at her. All he did was give her a slight nod, confirming her worst suspicions. She really was dead, huh? Amara had never been sure what fate awaited her once her mortal life was done. There wasn’t exactly an Ancestral Tomb waiting for her, and she doubted that House Redoran would look too kindly on allowing her one anyway… She’d burned a lot of bridges, making the roll of the dice and gambling that she would succeed in forging her grandfather’s empire anew… But it seemed that it was not meant to be. She had died too soon.

That still begged the question, however… What was to be her fate? Was this… “Is this the Dreamsleeve?” Amara asked the god.

Akatosh glanced around, observing the surroundings… or lack thereof. “No, I’m afraid not. This is a dream of sorts, but no, this is not the realm of rebirth. Your ultimate fate remains unknown, and it is not my place to speculate on matters of life and death. That is Arkay’s domain, not mine.”

Her ultimate fate…?

“Wait, what do you mean? Am I not dead? Should my soul not be bound for Aetherius or Oblivion?” Amara furrowed her eyebrows, squinting in blatant confusion. “You mention Arkay. I do not worship you Aedra, yet if one were to handle my death, it would be him. I am educated on that much. Yet here you stand, the dragon god of time… Why?”

Akatosh scratched at his clean-shaven chin. On anyone else, it would have looked almost sheepish, but surely the high and mighty Aedra had nothing to be embarrassed about, right?

Why he even had a chin to scratch was another question entirely. The humans depicted him as a dragon. The mer depicted him as a great golden eagle. Was this supposed to be a form she would be comfortable with? An avatar of his will? Amara had so many questions, but frankly, that was the least of them. So, she did not voice it, even though it was abundantly clear that Akatosh could read her mind.

“You have my blood.” The dragon god replied simply.

Amara blinked. What?

“You have my blood.” Akatosh repeated. “Your grandfather was dragonborn, surely you know this. The most famous dragonborn in Tamriel’s long history. The title is named as such for a reason. He was not mine in body, but in spirit… All dragonborn are my children. So in a way, I suppose that makes you my grandchild of sorts. Or great-grandchild. I care little for mortal semantics, however.”

She… okay, that was… wow, a lot to process. The metaphysics of it all… Yes, she had known that all of this was the official Imperial line, but… Well, she’d never exactly put much stock in it.

Akatosh glanced down at her and smiled that damnably soft smile once more, now looking almost, well… grandfatherly. Amara wasn’t convinced, however. Picking herself up off of the ground, she rubbed the dried tears away from her face. To say that she was wary was an understatement.

“And do you make a habit out of conversing with the descendants of dragonborn?” Amara asked dryly. She doubted that he even talked to actual dragonborn all that much, if at all.

The dragon-man shrugged, making the motion look far more dignified than it had any right to be. “Admittedly? No.”

“Then why me?” Amara shot back immediately. “Why are you here? In this… this dream, whatever this is?”

“You are mer.” Akatosh spoke softly. “A Dunmer who once worshipped the mortals who propped themselves up as gods. A Dunmer who does not worship the Three Good Daedra like the rest of your kind. A Dunmer who is unsure where she stands among Aedra and Daedra, and so devotes herself to worldly pursuits instead.”

The dragon god trailed off, looking down at the amulet which laid flat against his chest. Clutching it in his tanned and worn hands, Akatosh lifted it off of his neck and lifted it up so that it was level with his golden gaze.

“Despite all of that,” he continued, “you chose to follow not the path of any of your mer ancestors, noble and just and clever that they were, and instead chose the most difficult path of all. The path of your grandfather. You, Amara Ra’athim, a Dunmer of Resdayn, would restore the Septim Empire. A Cyrodiilic Empire. A human empire. Did you think that you wouldn’t catch our attention?”

Amara had remained silent as the avatar of Akatosh explained himself. And when he phrased it like that…

“People need help. Someone has to do something.” She whispered quietly, mostly to herself. She looked into those ageless eyes across from her ever so briefly, which beckoned her to continue. “Ever since I was a kid… Probably before that… Everything has been going to shit around me. You called me a Dunmer of Resdayn, of Morrowind, but I’m not. My father imparted as much of our culture onto me as he could, but I grew up in Falkreath. I grew up in Skyrim, surrounded by Nords. I’m an outlander, and I worked so hard for so long to erase that stain from myself… But it’ll always be true. It’s just who I am. A Dunmer who grew up outside the homeland, because my father fled after the Red Year.”

Amara sighed, only now realizing how exhausted she felt. She supposed she had the right. She was dead, after all.

“The Great War, the Skyrim Civil War, the return of the dragons, the Interregnum, the Second Argonian Invasion, the Second Great War… It feels like we’re all trapped in a loop of pain and suffering. Everyone everywhere is hurting. And things didn’t used to be that way; dad was always fond of telling me. Father was never fond of the empire that his own father had established, but he was never afraid to admit… Things were just better when the Septims ruled the Empire. When all of Tamriel was more or less at peace. Sure, things weren’t perfect, but the world wasn’t almost ending every few years… There weren’t constant wars with… so much dead.

“I was a healer during the first Great War, you know that right?” Amara asked rhetorically. “Of course you know that. You’re the dragon god of time. But I saw… I saw so much death. So many died in my care, I couldn’t save them…” Her expression became unfocused, her crimson eyes haunted by memories best left buried. “I did my best, I really did. And it was more… it was more than my people as a whole did. They were just content to sit idly by and let others suffer. I can’t- I couldn’t… I could help. I could help so I had a responsibility to do so!”

Her fists clenched tightly and a fire roared in her stomach, determination rising up in her throat until she felt the urge to roar. For the first time, she met the dragon god’s gaze and kept at it, refusing to let the mere glance of a god bend her into submission.

“I am the granddaughter of Tiber Septim. I am the Anticipation of Almalexia, with all of her wisdom and training at my side. I had the ability and the means to help Tamriel, so I decided to do it. And if you tell me the way out of here, I will continue to do it. I don’t care if I’m dead, someone has to do something!”

Amara was breathing heavily as she finished her speech. In a lot of ways, it felt like justifying it to herself more than to the dragon god. How often had she questioned herself? How often had she wondered if she was just letting Almalexia convince her to do things? Well, Almalexia wasn’t here right now. This was all her.

Akatosh remained silent for a long moment more, before finally nodding in satisfaction. He held the amulet out to Amara, letting it dangle off of his fingers. “Did you know…” He rumbled, sounding more like a dragon by the moment. Ancient and all powerful. “That it used to be that whenever an emperor was chosen, they had to hold this amulet and light the dragonfires? It was a symbol of my everlasting covenant with man, that so long as a dragonborn sat on the Ruby Throne, the gates of Oblivion would be shut.” He paused. “It was more than just a symbol, naturally. Since St. Alessia, no one could light the dragonfires without my approval or consent. It is I who judged each emperor worthy. If they aren’t… they don’t tend to last very long.”

The amulet dangling off of his fingers glistened, twirling slowly as the dragon god told his story.

“No one has worn this amulet or lit the dragonfires since the Oblivion Crisis. The amulet was destroyed. The last emperor of the Septim Dynasty, a righteous young man named Martin, sacrificed himself to seal the gates of Oblivion shut forever. The dragonfires no longer have any purpose, and it will remain that way. However… perhaps I have torn my gaze from the empire I claim to patron for too long. Perhaps it is time for the Amulet of Kings to be worn once more, as a symbol of my divine providence.”

Reaching forward, Akatosh lifted the amulet over Amara’s head and settled it on her shoulders. The giant ruby thrummed against her chest, and Amara couldn’t help but wonder if this is what the legendary Heart of Lorkhan felt like?

“I…” She tried to speak, but no words came out. Instead, Amara dropped to her knees, but in a far more orderly and dignified manner than her previous descent. She knelt before Akatosh, head bowed as if she were speaking to her liege lord. “I promise that I won’t let you down.”

“I very much suspect that you won’t.” Akatosh intoned his voice more of a growl than it ever was, yet somehow felt amused. Like he was chuckling to himself. “From this moment on, you are dragonborn much in the same way St. Alessia herself once was. The covenant is reborn. Now, my child, look up.”

Amara did as she was commanded, yet could not help her mouth dropping out from under her. For before her was no man. The mighty golden dragon of time stretched out before her, infinite in all of his glory. She saw him as he truly was, not merely stretched out before her in this plane, but across all of time as well. It was enough to render her blind. Or mad. Or dead. The fact that she was only one out of those three things was likely due to the grace of Akatosh himself… And the fact that she was already dead.

“At this point, I would normally send you off. However, there is… one more thing to attend to.” The dragon forced out. His voice was far deeper than it had once been. The voice before had felt borrowed, but this… This was the voice of time echoing throughout her very being. “Tell me, child, what do you remember?”

This again?

“I died.” Wasn’t that all there was to it?

“And, pray tell, how did you die?”

“I was run through by a blade.” Amara responded automatically. But that couldn’t be what he wanted to hear. The memory was fuzzy, there had to be more to it… Who had wielded the blade? Some sort of…

Oh.

“The Clockwork City, it was being run by… some sort of ghost. Except it wasn’t a ghost. I don’t know how to explain it, but… Sotha Sil, one of the Old Tribunal, was in the city itself. And he wanted revenge against Almalexia because she had killed his body centuries ago. Zamana and I fought through his machines… We reached the chamber where his mind was being held. He had made some sort of… dwarven metal body for himself. We fought. I killed the body, but the mind still persisted, we couldn’t kill it. Then… then he had reinforcements…”

She clutched her head, trying to remember.

“I remember Almalexia screaming… She was so angry… And so terrified. I could feel it all inside me. Another Dunmer walked into the room. Seht’s reinforcements. It was… It was the Neravarine.” Amara glanced up helplessly at Akatosh. “…The Neravarine killed me.”

The infinite dragon nodded. “And in so doing, completed the final piece of the puzzle. You must understand, my child… Amara Ra’athim is dead. She cannot come back.”

Amara slumped, her assumption shattered. Akatosh had chosen her, but she could not return. Was all of this for nothing?

But, naturally, the dragon could read her thoughts. “You misunderstand, child. Amara Ra’athim is dead. But you are not Amara Ra’athim.”

…What?

Her disbelief must have shown on her face, because Akatosh continued. “Almalexia did not have your best interests in mind, child. Ever since she became attached to your soul those many years ago, she has lived in your shadow. Feeding off of you. Whispering in your ear. Plotting. It was her intention that you were to be her avenue to resurrection. So she influenced you to the best of her ability. She trained you. Molded you. Guided you. You, who was raised to worship her since you could walk, never thought to question it until it was far too late. She made you like her. She led you into the Clockwork City on purpose, having a good idea of what was down there. She needed you to follow the beats of her life so that you would understand her, and in that understanding…”

“She wanted me to mantle her…” Amara whispered.

Akatosh nodded. “Indeed. You asked me earlier if Almalexia is gone and where she went? Nowhere. She has gone nowhere and is not, in fact, gone. You are Almalexia. Almalexia is you.”

“I did it?” The woman formerly known as Amara asked, utterly dumbfounded. “I mantled Almalexia? But… I don’t feel like her. I still remember being me.”

“Have you? Do you not feel like her? To mantle her, you had to become so much like her that there ceased to be a functioning difference between the two of you. That the Aurbis itself could not tell the two of you apart. Do you not know things that you hadn’t before? Do you not have memories that Amara Ra’athim never experienced? You are ALM. But there is a caveat to that.”

“…Well what’s one more earth shattering realization, right?” She quipped, not knowing how else to cope by this point.

To his infinite credit, Akatosh took it in good humor, chuckling along with her. “The mantling did not occur as Almalexia had planned. She forgot to factor in one, crucial element…” He let the moment drag out. Imagine that, a god with a sense of dramatic timing. Then again, he was the god of time…

“The mortal element. For all that she spent millennia as a god and being worshipped as one. Almalexia forgot what it was like to be mortal. It drove her mad before her death, but when she had no choice but to endure it while her spirit was stuck to you… Almalexia went out of her way to influence you, however what she failed to realize was that you were influencing her in turn. Not intentionally, mind you, just simply by you being there. The bond the two of you shared was intimate by any metric. To put it in mortal terms… You rubbed off on her. She became more like you as you became more like her.”

“So we…” ALM began, trying to wrap her head around the idea. Former divine or not, it made her mind spin.

“Mantled each other.” Akatosh confirmed. “You are one.”

ALM couldn’t help but note that he looked insufferably smug about that. But then again, he would. The Tribunal had never had the best relationship with the Aedra. She lifted her hand to rub her temple in an attempt to alleviate the budding headache, but she noticed something.

“…My hand is gold.” ALM noted dully. Because of course it was. Almalexia’s skin had been gold, the last Chimer in existence, and now her skin was gold too. Because she was her. And yet was Amara too. By the Ancestors, she was going to need a mirror later.

“The veil is lifted.” Akatosh rumbled. “You see yourself for what you truly are now. More than a mortal, less than a god. Somewhere in the middle. A soul retroactively made dragonborn and a soul that still held a spark of the divinity it carried for millennia. The two together… It is not unlike the ascension of Talos, although perhaps not as grand. Which is for the best. I require you on Nirn for the time being.”

“Right…” ALM muttered. “I need… to lie down. And I can’t very well do that here. Do you know the way out of here?”

“Indeed. Our time here grows short as is. I have spoken all that has need to be said, and your Dwemer companion will require your assistance if she is to survive the night. Although, I must warn you… The method of return will not be pleasant.”

“Whatever you have to do…” ALM sighed one last time, before giving the dragon god a soft smile to match the one he once wore. “And for what it’s worth… Thank you. This all… It really means a lot.”

Akatosh nodded, rumbling in confirmation. “You are worthy. Never forget that, even in your darkest days.”

Then, without any warning or pretense, Akatosh opened his maw and swallowed her whole.

Because being eaten by the dragon god of time in order to return to the land of the living just seemed logical after the day she’d had, she thought as she slid down the divine gullet. Hmm. She was going to need a new name, wasn’t she? Amara and Almalexia were dead, yet lived. They were one.

Almarantha sounded pretty good.

[roaminginspiration]

The Empty Space Next to Me

chap 1 (x)  / chap 2 (x) / chap 4 (x) / chap 5 (x) / chap 6 (x) / chap 7 (x) / chap 8 (x) / chap 9 (x) / chap 10 (x)

Chapter 3

Steve goes back inside the house, feeling dazed, almost staggering. He holds onto the door frame in a sudden surge of finding solid bearings.

He is struck, punched in the guts, by the realization he might have lost Natasha. He wonders if she will ever remember who she is — if the magic of the Stone will ever allow it. But this is nothing compared to the other problematic that she does not want to remember. How can he bring her back if she refuses to go with him? He does not stand a chance if the reasons for her to stay outweigh the reasons for her to leave.

That man could be one of them.

Maybe she has found love.

How do you walk away from love to an unknown, seemingly daunting past?

Maybe he has lost her again. For good.

His mind clouded with all these thoughts assaulting him restlessly, Eliza calls his name from the living room.

“Is Katherine back?” she asks.

He tries to regain composure and walks into the room.

“I’ve just seen her go with…her friend, I think.”

Eliza deciphers the meaning of ‘friend’.

“Oh, yes. His name’s Jake. He’s a good guy,” she comments casually. “You might see him around a lot.”

Great.

__________________________________

They arrive back in the house about an hour later. Steve turns to look over his shoulder. Jake is walking slightly behind her, grasping the tips of her fingers as her arm hangs slightly behind her back.

“Eliza, I brought you these. I know how much you love them,” he exclaims as he holds up a bunch of wildflowers.

The woman smiles. “Aren’t you a charm, Donovan? I see you’re eager to win the heart of all the residents of this household.”

“Just trying to play it smart,” he shrugs with a teasing smile as he hands them over to her.

His body then pivots toward the stranger in the room. Katherine eyes him with a slightly worried expression, Steve can feel. He stands up.

Jake has dark brown hair with faint green eyes. He has a stubble which conceals the outline of his oblong face. His hair is muffled and slightly curly at the ends. He is wearing a casual checked shirt which hangs loosely over his blue jeans. He overall has a scruffy but charming look which blends with their surroundings.

“Steve,” he says, holding out his hand.

“Jake,” the other answers, mirroring him.

They shake hands in a cordial manner but firm, slightly tainted with an unconscious demonstration of strength.

Jake is everything Katherine could want — he can see it so vividly it’s almost blinding. A simple man leading a simple and world-in-danger trouble free kind of life.

He is the soldier who cannot live without a war, and perhaps this suited Natasha Romanoff’s lifestyle. But Katherine finds peace alongside a fellow countryman.

Jake is the better choice. He is the obvious choice.

He, though, has already lost.

“Steve is our guest,” Eliza says as she replaces the flowers in the vase. “It’s his first time in Louisiana.”

Jake smiles. “Well, I hope you enjoy your stay. It doesn’t look like it at first but it’s a place you grow to love.”

Steve answers with a fixed grin.

Katherine steps in and presses a hand on Jake’s arm. He glances down at her and nods, taking it as the signal he should now leave.

He waves everybody goodbye and pecks her on the lips — Steve suppresses a quiet groan and gulps down instead.

Jake leaves the house and Katherine goes to the kitchen, serves Eliza some cool lemonade before disappearing into another room in the back of the house.

He hesitates to follow but eventually wanders through the unexplored area of the old mansion. He steps into a bright room with naked walls and windows and almost no furniture. At the center, Katherine is sitting on a stool, facing a canvas. She’s holding a worn paintbrush between her small fingers.

She senses his presence before the creaking floor makes her aware of it. She quickly glances over her shoulder then turns to the canvas again. He takes it as permission for him to come forward. He does so, very gently, cautious not to disturb or intrude.

He watches, with growing fascination, how she runs her brush across the canvas with a focused expressed and a deep frown on her forehead. Once she lifts the brush, she lets a breath out and slightly leans back to take a wider look at the picture. She then scratches the top of her temple with the other end of the brush and pushes a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“I didn’t know you could paint,” he remarks with a smile.

She dips her brush into the plastic cup filled with water.

“I didn’t know either,” she answers coolly. “It took many shots and just as many spoiled canvases to get something sort of decent.”

He squats down to be at her level and looks at the painting. His eyes wander across the bright shades of purple and copper gnawed on by the dominant dark tones.

“Definitely not gallery material,” she continues, “but this is what happens when you have too much time on your hands and no memories to grasp onto. That continuous silence in your mind, that blankness, it’s deafening. Painting became a good distraction from it. It keeps my brain busy in a good way. It’s soothing.”

He watches her tamed expression.

“I get it,” he murmurs. “I usually draw sketches when I need to sort out things. But for me, it’s when I want to quiet down some loud memories.”

She pauses in her painting and turns in his direction. She probes him for a few seconds.

“Looks like you and I are the same in different ways, strangely.”

He stares into her eyes like he has many times in the past.

“It’s always been like that between us,” he says. “We drew similarities in our differences.”

She nods musingly. “Maybe this is something worth exploring,” she says. “So long as you respect the boundaries I’ve set.”

They gaze at each other and he feels they are having for a moment. For the first time since he got there, he can feel they are reconnecting. Like an old wick rekindling.

The phone rings in the other room. She does not move immediately but is gradually pulled back to reality. She puts the brush down on the table and runs a hand through her hair. She then gets up and rushes out of the room.

Steve looks back at the painting with growing determination. He looks at the dark circle outlined with a dark yellow ring behind the heavy clouds, he looks at the grey dunes standing on the low sea, and the mountain standing ominously in the background.

He has hope again.

Natasha may not be gone, after all. And he can bring her back.

The picture proves it. He has seen the place that she painted before.

He has been there before.

And so has Natasha.

Vormir.

_________________________________

He is hopeful he can make her remember. All it takes is a little push.

Or well, a series of small pushes.

He decides to start with the people that once mattered to her; maybe putting faces on her unknown past might make it less daunting and more appealing. So he drops names which, he hopes, will trigger her memory.

“Sam would be very impressed with your cooking,” he says casually while watching her from the counter.

She frowns. “Who’s Sam?”

“He’s a friend,” he begins, then adds, “he’s your friend, too. The three of us lived in motels together for a year.”

“Sounds kinky,” she comments indifferently, her eyes fixed on the cutting board.

He almost chokes in the lemonade he is sipping and coughs loudly, which brings a little smirk to her lips.

“No, no. Nothing like that! We were fugitives…on the run.”

She lifts up the board and drops the slices of vegetables in the boiling water.

“This is so much more reassuring,” she says drily with unconcealed sarcasm.

He runs a hand across his forehead and sighs.

The next morning, a neighbor living 5 miles East turns up with fresh milk and cream for his farm. Steve catches his name is George Donovan. A man in his late fifties with a thick southern accent and a prosthetic leg. Once he has dropped the crate, she wraps a couple of cookies in a towel and hands it to him.

“Don’t tell Carol I gave you these,” she says and kisses his cheek.

The man chuckles. “You know I never do. It’s our little secret.”

As Steve watches him walk away he cannot help but draw a similarity between the Louisianan farmer and another “father figure” of Natasha. The physical disability is another common trait.

“I don’t know what Fury would think of this,” he muses aloud. “He’s always seen you as his protégée.”

She frowns and looks at him. “Fury?”

“Technically he’s your boss but you have developed a far stronger bond over the years. He’s like a father to you.”

Her attention span quickly comes to an end and she starts emptying the crate that was just brought in. He feels like he needs to pique her curiosity.

“He’s got an eye patch, by the way. But nobody knows how he got it.”

She pauses and looks him dead in the eyes.

“So my mentor was a pirate?” she comments flatly, looking highly unimpressed.

He immediately realizes he has made a mistake. “Well, not exactly. In retrospect, the eye patch is only a detail. You barely notice it.”

Perhaps it is the weak counter-argument or the eye patch, but her dubious and perplexed remain plastered over her face.

He tries again after dinner, this time with something that has little to no risk of irking her. This one can’t fail, he is sure of it. He walks up to her and puts his phone on the table under her nose. She unenthusiastically looks down at it. Her frown turns into a look of utter confusion.

He smiles encouragingly. “These are Clint’s children. The youngest one was named after you: Nathaniel. They care about you. They call you aunt—”

“Kate, you’re here?” a voice calls from the entrance. She jumps out of her chair.

Jake appears into the room. “Got my evening free, I thought we could go to town to grab a drink.” She smiles.

“I’ll go and grab my purse,” she calls out while running up the stairs.

Steve has not moved from his spot. He rubs his chin slowly. She comes back a minute later with a subtle scent of perfume trailing behind her.

“Enjoy your afternoon,” Jake tells him with a nod. He answers with a silent nod.

She does not say a word, nor looks in his direction. She leads the way to the car.

She comes back later that night — the car lights shone through into his bedroom. He walks up to the window and looks. She walks around the car to the driver’s side and pokes her head inside to steal a kiss.

Steve can feel her slip away almost completely.

The next morning after breakfast, Eliza goes out to read on the porch. Katherine is the kitchen, washing the dishes. He is staring at his empty mug. Steve has been sulking all morning and it isn’t like she made any effort to engage a conversation either. It used to be so easy for both of them. Even their silences were intimate and clear conversations.

He has an idea. While she is wiping the kitchen counter, his fingers slowly push the mug over to the edge until it falls off. Her eyes flicker immediately to it and she leans over before she catches it in midair. She slowly stands back straight, staring at the object in her hand. And then her eyes slowly rise to look at him.

He is looking at her with a calm, but triumphant look.

“You say you’re no longer Natasha but your instincts don’t lie,” he begins. “This is who you are. It’s in your nature.”

Her stunned expression hardens. She clenches the mug.

“You’re wrong. I am nothing like Romanoff. She’s gone, okay? ” she says. “You have to stop whatever it is you’ve been trying to do the past few days. She’s gone. Romanoff is gone, and she’s never coming back. Saying being an assassin is in my nature will not bring her back, ok?”

His eyes widen. “That’s not what you were. You were an Avenger.”

“…with skills intended to be lethal and inflict pain,” she finishes. “I don’t want to have anything to do with that. I love my life here and nothing that you can tell me will ever change that, not even your attempt to guilt-trip me with pictures of children I don’t even know. I don’t know any of those people you keep referring to. This is all forever gone.”

She starts walking away.

“You do have memories,” he says. “That place you painted, it’s real. You’ve been there before, and it’s the reason why you painted it. It means you can remember.”

She turns around to face him and her features are tense. He soon notices her glassy eyes.

“That place is what my worst nightmares are made of. It would keep me awake at night until I started painting it. Now I know why, and it only confirms my old life is a terrible thing to remember.”

She walks up closer to him. “I told you I don’t want to go back to New York but you didn’t listen. Clearly, I’m not the one who needs to move on. You’ve found me and you know I’m fine. Now you need to leave.”

His throat tightens. She remains steadfast and imperturbable. “I want you gone by tomorrow.”

And with that, she walks away.

[jungcupid-archive]

i dare you (to never let me go)

pairing: jungkook x jimin                jungkook x taehyung (subplot)

summary: and after all that had passed, jungkook would always be pulled back to jimin. he didn’t know why, maybe it was fate (or maybe it was his 9-year-old daughter).

chapter: 3/?

a/n: forgot to post this here but posted it on ao3... am i boo boo the fool? yes.

+

    Mina was up. According to her alarm clock, it was 8:59 AM. She could’ve just immediately gone downstairs to find the present she knew would be waiting for her, but she liked hearing-

     “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU! HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR mina! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!”

     -that.

     Mina could’ve screamed for hours on end about how excited she was (she was 9 years old!), but she just raced out of bed and down the stairs to find the letter. Mina saw a gift from her Daddy in the living room but decided to leave that for later. Next to it, there was an envelope with a sticky note on it. It read: Mina, I’M SO SORRY!!! I was called in to work for a few hours. Grandma won’t be able to make it but I trust that as a fresh 9-year-old, you’ll be able to take care of yourself. Be good. Brush your teeth. Keep the doors locked. Don’t pick up the phone if it isn’t me. I put your cereal on the kitchen counter. Love you, I’ll try to be back fast!

     Mina couldn’t even bring herself to be upset, he’d be back soon enough. Until then, she had the company of her other Daddy. Mina snuggled up on the couch and opened up the envelope carefully like she did every year, taking out the loose sheets of paper with immaculate handwriting on them. She was already buzzing with excitement when she began reading.

     Dear Jimin,

     IT’S YOUR 9TH BIRTHDAY! WAY TO GO GIRL! I don’t know how you’ve made it so far with only Jungkook to take care of you, but good job! I know he’s a handful, but be patient with him, yeah?

     Mina laughed at this.

     Today you turn 9. Another year older and hopefully wiser. I know what you’re expecting, the usual stuff about being amazing and learning new things and me telling you stories about me and your other father, but this birthday is a little more exciting. This year I’m going to tell you about Jimin (not you, although I’d love to talk about you). If I know Jungkook, and trust me, I do, then he hasn’t found Jimin like I told him to. You probably don’t even know who he is.

     He was right about that.

     Get comfortable, honey. I’m about to tell you the story of Jungkook and Jimin (featuring yours truly).

      “Jimin, stop moving!”

     Jungkook poked his head out from behind the canvas and aggressively waved a paintbrush in the air. “That’s cheating and you know it.”

     Jimin rolled his eyes at Jungkook through the mirror, “Technically, it isn’t because it’s already been 2 hours. 2 hours and 1 minute, to be precise.”

     The boys were in the dance studio, Jimin posed delicately in front of the mirror with his back turned to Jungkook, who was set up with an easel to paint the other boy.

     “Besides,” Jimin practically whined, “I’m tired. When you said you had a dare for me, this is not what I had in mind.”

     Jungkook restrained himself from throwing his paintbrush at Jimin when he turned around, no longer holding his pose. A cry of rage nearly left his body. Jungkook was too good to this Park Jimin kid.

     “Jimin! Fine, go ahead, cheat. See if I care. I always knew you were a bad sport.” Jungkook gave the other a sarcastic smile and started packing up his paints.

     “I just told you that I didn’t cheat! Check your phone, you absolute buffoon. We started at 2, it’s 4:01 now,” Jimin exclaimed, offended that he had to defend himself like this. He snatched his unopened duffel bag off the floor and crossed the room to Jungkook. The painting was beautiful, as always, showcasing Jimin’s form gracefully. Light glinted off the rings on his fingers and his hair looked like it was made of feathers, but Jimin couldn’t care less. He’d just been called a cheater. Again.

     “You always do this,” Jimin continued, sitting on Jungkook’s stool as soon as the other got up. Jungkook placed the painting lightly on the floor and began folding his easel. “I always do the dare exactly right, and you always end up salty because I didn’t fail, consequently calling me a cheater because of some inferiority complex bullshit.”

     Jungkook stopped his movements and turned to face Jimin, arms crossed and the vague thought of murder on his mind, “I do not get salty. And what are, some sort of junior psychologist? Fuck off. You’re just a sore loser who can’t ever complete his dares properly.”

     He fished his phone out of his pocket and thrust it in Jimin’s face. The clock read 3:59. Jimin didn’t back down, showing Jungkook his own phone that read 4:01.

     They both glared at each other and before Jungkook could come up with something rude to say, Jimin shoved his phone back into his pocked and turned to leave. He raised his hand in a half-wave with his back turned, “Whatever, Jungkook. See you later.”

     As soon as the door closed, Jungkook began muttering to himself, eyebrows furrowed, “God, who does he think he is? It’s not my fault his phone is set to the wrong time. And would it have killed him to pose for a few more minutes? He knows this assignment is due in, like, 2 days.”

     When everything was packed up, Jungkook slid down onto the floor. His neck was killing him from being ducked over the stupid painting for 2 hours – no, 1 hour and 59 minutes. The room was air-conditioned but his face still felt warm from frustration. He stared at the ceiling. God, he really did like this room.

     It was so much nicer than the art studio, all blank walls and no personality. This room was charged with energy, even without people inside. The floors were bright yellow and the walls were covered with signatures of past students. It was where Jimin had taught him how to dance. Where Jimin had probably also wanted to dance today because of his upcoming showcase, but never got the chance because Jungkook needed someone to pose for him and he knew Jimin didn’t back down from a dare.

     Jungkook groaned, rolling over onto his stomach and throwing a contained tantrum because he knew he’d been slightly unfair. Okay, so maybe he’d been a little less understanding than he could’ve been. A lot less. And maybe Jimin had been just the teensiest bit right about Jungkook being salty. Maybe. He took in a deep breath and sat up, slowly gathering his materials.

     When Jungkook opened the door, staining the knob with red paint in the process, he was surprised to find Jimin leaning against the wall outside with his eyes closed. His lips quirked up into a smile and he opened his eyes, looking to Jungkook. Jungkook couldn’t help it, he smiled back.

     “Sorry?” Jungkook attempted. Jimin laughed and shook his head.

     “Time is a construct anyways, and so are apologies. But I’m sorry too. You can finish up tomorrow, I’ll be there.”

     Jungkook rubbed the back of his neck and said, “Thanks, and after that you can practice for your showcase. I’ll critique.”

     Jimin plucked his duffel bag off the floor and began walking down the hallway with Jungkook by his side, “Yeah? And what makes you think you’re capable of doing that?”

     “Well,” Jungkook started cheekily, “I recall my dance teacher as being quite the klutz sometimes, it became second nature to point out his mistakes.”

     “Brat.”

     “Your brat.”

     “Nope, just a brat.”

     And that was them, Jimin and Jungkook. They’d known each other all through high school and now they were learning to navigate how to be freshman all over again. Sure they fought. A lot, actually. But in the end, they’d always come back to each other. Because they were best friends and for best friends, it was hard to be with each other sometimes, sure, but it was harder to be without each other.

      “This is unnatural! It shouldn’t exist! I’m going to fail and get kicked out of this stupid school and never be able to design stupid buildings and make stupid money for the rest of my stupid life!”

     “Extensive vocabulary, little Jeon.”

     “Shut your stupid trap, little Park.”

     They were in Jungkook’s dorm room. Jimin was lying on the bed, reading some book about healthy eating. He sighed and placed a bookmark in the crease before setting the novel aside and sitting up. He stared at Jungkook, whose head was resting on the desk. Jungkook lifted his head just enough to make puppy-dog eyes at Jimin.

     “Help me?” Jungkook tried sounding pitiful, which wasn’t hard considering his current status of Dumbest Person Alive. “I don’t understand this shit at all, and I sure as hell can’t fail.”

     “Yes you can. This class is an elective, remember? Your perfectionist ass probably doesn’t like hearing this, but you could fail this class and it literally would not affect your life-long goal of becoming an architect. Your GPA? Sure. But how much is one class really going to matter?” Jimin’s logic was flawless, except for the fact that Jungkook’s perfectionist ass truly didn’t like hearing any of it and therefore did not process any of it. His life was a stack of Jenga blocks and God was a drunk freshman at his first frat party desperately wanting to prove his worth by winning a game his loose limbs were just not made for.

     “Also, taking Chemistry this year just because you were good at it in high school was a stupid decision. Just throwing that out there.”

     “You suck, go back to reading about the different kind of leaves you can put down your throat,” Jungkook huffed. He slammed his textbook shut and stared out the window dramatically. “I’ll just fail and damage my perfect GPA, which, by the way, is the pride of my family. Stop laughing, I’m serious!”

     Jimin finally got up from the bed and sprawled himself over Jungkook’s lap, turning his face away from the window. Jungkook pouted. “We’ll find you a tutor, okay? Let’s go get some food right now, it’s late. I’m a performance arts kid, Chemistry makes me want to physically throw up.”

     “Technically you’re a health and nutrition kid,” Jungkook muttered, but he complied nonetheless, and soon they were down in the cafeteria.

     It was close to 8, which meant prime time for kids who lived on campus. There was a flock of people crowding around the cakes, which immediately put Jungkook in an even worse mood than he was in before.

     “They’re going to get all the cheesecake cups before we get there,” he groaned, “why is life so unfair?”

     Jimin smacked him on the back of his head and told him to “sit the fuck down drama queen” so that he could get them food. Jungkook obeyed and pulled out his phone, deleting some pictures from his phone and moving others around to keep everything organized. He was considering joining Jimin in the line and even scanned the crowd of people to spot where the elder was when he noticed what was happening.

     Jimin was standing uncomfortably in front of this dude who looked like the type of person to duct-tape knives to their chest for “self-defence”. He was standing incredibly close to Jimin, practically breathing down his neck and although Jungkook couldn’t heart anything from so far, he could see the guy mouthing words into Jimin’s ear that were clearly making him uncomfortable. Jimin shifted every so often and didn’t once look behind him. Jungkook’s eyes narrowed in annoyance as he got up, getting closer to the line.

     Park Jimin was usually so outspoken and didn’t hesitate to defend himself when Jungkook accused him of something but throw him into a situation where an actual confrontation was needed, and suddenly all his bravado left him. Jungkook almost rolled his eyes.

     Jungkook walked straight up to Jimin and not-so-accidentally shoved the guy leaning into him as he went in to peck his cheek. Jimin turned to look at Jungkook, ears tinting pink as he opened his mouth to say something. But before he could, Jungkook whined in a sickeningly cute voice, “Baby! What’s taking so long? I’m hungry!”

     “Uh.”

     Park Jimin everybody, a man of many words.

     “Dude, don’t you have something to say?” The discount serial killer behind them said through gritted teeth, his eyes on Jungkook.

     “Oh! I’m sorry! Did I bump into you? I guess I get too excited when I’m with my boyfriend. Sorry about that.” Jungkook ignored Jimin pinching his stomach and merely slid his arm around his waist. “It won’t happen again.”

     “I didn’t need you to come save me like some knock-off knight in shining armour, idiot,” Jimin muttered lowly, struggling to move out of Jungkook’s grip.

     Jungkook grinned, planting another wet kiss on Jimin’s jaw, “Relax, baby, it’s the least I could do for my honey bear.”

     “One more word and I’m not sweet-talking Ms. Chan into giving you an extra cheesecake cup.” Jimin warned, at which Jungkook immediately shut up. Although his hand stayed on Jimin’s waist, it didn’t have to, but Jungkook liked having it there. He certainly didn’t want Freddy Krueger back there to try something else. Yeah, that was it. A gesture of consideration.

     After they’d gotten their food and settled down at a table, Jungkook gave Jimin a sly smile. “You’re such a charmer, Park Jimin. I don’t know how you get Ms. Chan to give you extras every single time.”

     He grabbed the first of his two cheesecake cups and began devouring it, not even sparing a glance at his actual dinner. Jimin looked at him distastefully and wrinkled his nose, “I think she likes that I have actual manners and can behave decently in the caf, unlike someone I know.”

     “Wha you mee?” Jungkook choked out from his mouthful of cake, he quickly swallowed the rest and wiped his mouth free of crumbs. “You know, as flirtatious as you can be, you don’t handle intimacy very well.”

     Jimin’s hand stopped in mid-air, bell peppers falling from his fork to the plate with a satisfying plop. “What.”

     Jungkook grinned, “Earlier, your ears turned red! It was the most entertained I’ve been in 19 years, to tell you the truth. What was up with that? Wait, don’t tell me… do I make you… nervous?”

     Jimin stabbed his vegetables a little too hard on the plate and looked up with an obviously fake smile, “Shut up if you know what’s good for you, Jeon Jungkook.” Jungkook didn’t back down, opting to lean in close across the table until Jimin looked up, only to find that the two of them were nose to nose.

     “Oh look, a fly.”

     “No fly here,” Jungkook said in a matter-of-fact tone, thankfully without food in mouth. His innocent expression slowly transformed into a smirk. “Just a well-mannered boy who definitely does not make you nervous acting decently in the caf.”

     Before Jimin could call Jungkook out on his bullshit, there was cake on his face and he couldn’t see. He could hear Jungkook cackling, his evil laughter only increased when Jimin tried to blindly swat at him.

      “Oh, Jeon Jungkook,” Jimin said in a murderous tone while wiping cake off his face, “the dead man you are today.”

     In the blink of an eye, both boys were up and running. Jungkook screamed in delight while being chased by a ravenous Jimin. Ms. Chan stared at them with a surprisingly fond look in her eyes (probably because of Jimin, the old charmer) and then nearly yelped when she realized Jungkook was running towards her.

     Jungkook jumped over the counter and hid behind Ms. Chan.

     “You wouldn’t go through such a beautiful lady, would you?” Jungkook taunted as Jimin also slid over the counter. “Especially not when her hair is looking so voluminous!” Jimin made a wild swipe for Jungkook but he moved out of the way.

     Jungkook stepped towards the left and in the split second that Jimin lunged to that side, Jungkook slipped past Ms. Chan on her right, gave her a wink, and sprinted out of the caf and towards the field. Just when he thought he’d successfully evaded the wrath of Jimin, Jungkook felt a hand on his shirt and he was yanked back and knocked to the ground. Thank god for soft grass. Jimin sat on top of him, a triumphant smile on his face.

     “Guess who?” He practically sand. Now, what happened next was purely evolutionary instinct. Jungkook was the prey, and Jimin was the predator. Also, Jungkook used to be on his high school wrestling team so it might’ve had something to do with that. In a span of seconds, Jungkook utilised his rush of adrenaline to take Jimin down and straddle him, switching their previous positions. Sometimes, he forgot that Jimin was physically smaller than him. It was moments like these where he just really, really enjoyed that fact.

     “I swear to god, the minute you let me go-”

     “Who says I’m letting you go?” Jungkook pulled out his phone and carelessly pretended to entertain himself with it, “I have a couple phone calls to make anyways, care to listen in?”

     Jimin, clearly defeated, stopped resisting and just let Jungkook sit on him. He stared at the stars and exhaled deeply, rolling his eyes when Jungkook leaned over his face to block his view. “Jesus, Jungkook. No one’s ever going to be able to date you for longer than 2 minutes. You’re the worst.”

     “Oh, definitely,” Jungkook waved off. He pocketed his phone and leaned in even closer to Jimin, fingers grazing his cheek where there was some cake left. “And I don’t need someone, anyways. I have you, don’t I?” He popped the cake into his mouth.

     Jimin cleared his throat, eyes lingering on Jungkook’s finger, “Excuse me?”

     Jungkook put his ears right next to Jimin’s ear and whispered, “I’ll just marry you, babe.”

     Jungkook sniggered when Jimin hastily pushed his torso back up, his face turning a cute little shade of red. “No thank you,” Jimin choked out, sounding embarrassed. He sighed in relief when Jungkook finally got off him.

     They sat criss-crossed, facing each other under the harsh field lights. Jungkook smiled and then shook his head, “In all seriousness, I love you. You know that, right? Having you with me has kept me sane this year.” He knew it was cheesy, but Jungkook felt the need to thank the older boy for putting up with his stupid ass.

    Jimin punched him on the shoulder, looking anywhere but at Jungkook’s face. “Yeah, yeah. I love you too.” Before Jimin could withdraw his hand, though, Jungkook caught his wrist and held it gently between his own fingers. Without warning, he planted a soft kiss on Jimin’s forehead. When he pulled back, there was cake on his lips and Jimin, although caught off guard, silently wiped it off with his thumb.

     “Well, this is awkward,” a voice boomed out from behind them. A boy stood there, about their age. His features were a little hard to distinguish because the lights didn’t quite reach him. “I didn’t expect to be hearing love confession on my walk to the caf, but by all means, continue. Don’t let me interrupt you!”

     Jungkook and Jimin stared at the boy, and then back at themselves. All at once, they sprang up and took a few steps away from each other. Jimin was the first to speak.

     “It’s not like that, trust me. We’re not… we would never… uh… hey, I know you!” Jimin exclaimed as the boy stepped out from the shadows. “You’re Taehyung!” You’re the one who gave me flowers at my last showcase! You wouldn’t have believed it, Jungkook. He just came up to me and said ‘hey, you deserved flowers for that; and then he ran out of the room. I thought I was hallucinating, but then he shows up out of breath with this grin on his face as he presents me with a huge bouquet of flowers with the tag still on them and-”

     Jimin turned to look at Jungkook but he was staring at Taehyung, his face gone slack. He glanced at Jimin long enough to convey the get-me-out-of-here-before-I-say-something-stupid way look and Jimin, looking beyond confused, simply turned to Taehyung, gave an awkward little wave goodbye and then pulled Jungkook away and into the building.

     The whole time going back to the dorm, Jungkook didn’t say a word as Jimin complained about “bad impressions” and “making new friends”. As soon as they stepped into the room, though, Jungkook snapped out of his trance and started hitting his head against the closet door. Jimin, not entirely unhappy with the situation, just sat down on Jungkook’s bed and watched him repeat the action a few times before he stopped, his head rested against the door.

     “Okay, crackhead, care to finally explain?”

     “I’m in love.”

     Jimin gaped at him. In all the years he’d known Jeon Jungkook, he’d never proclaimed his love for someone else. He’d had crushes, even on Jimin, but he’d never blatantly said that he was “in love”. It wasn’t like Jungkook, who’d told Jimin time and time again that there was no way he’d ever get into a serious relationship in high school because he still had no fucking clue what that entailed or what this whole love business was about. Jungkook was a feeler, but a calculated feeler.

     “Kim fucking Taehyung. He’s in my Chemistry class and ever since I saw him on my first day, I’ve just been head over heels,” Jungkook groaned, removing himself from the closet and collapsing onto the bed, his head lying in Jimin’s lap. “I only ever see him in class and I’ve never once had the nerve to talk to him. So seeing him outside of class was… jarring, to say the least.”

     “Kim Taehyung,” Jimin murmured, not fully listening to Jungkook, who continues talking about Taehyung in a dreamy voice as Jimin stares straight ahead.

     And even though Jimin should’ve laughed or teased Jungkook about love at first sight, even though Jimin should’ve complained about not being told about this earlier, he didn’t. Instead, his head hung low so that he was looking at Jungkook’s head in his lap, his eyes lighting up as he talks about Taehyung, and something inside of him cracked.

     And Jimin had no idea why.

      “So when were you planning on telling me?” Jimin asked through a mouthful of toothpaste. Jungkook gave him a pointed look in the mirror and pulled his own toothbrush out to twirl it next to his head, the universe symbol for ‘you’re fucking psychotic’. He spit into the sink.

     “You would’ve gone all crazy. Remember when that girl asked me to Prom in junior year and you interrogated her to the point where she backed off and told me she didn’t want to go with me anymore? I didn’t want that Jimin to appear.”

     “Okay, fair.”

      Jimin finished brushing his teeth and watched Jungkook neatly pack up his toiletries. He made a move to leave but stopped when Jungkook pulled out a bottle of perfume tentatively.

      “No.”

      Jungkook looked offended, “What? I can’t smell nice?” But he averted his eyes.

      Jimin rolled his eyes, “I can’t believe you’re this whipped already.”

      It was a known fact on their floor that Jeon Jungkook was sensitive to smells. If you were inviting him over, your room must be a scent-free zone unless you wanted him to go home with a nasty migraine. Jungkook never used perfume, usually opting for lotion instead. Jimin knew this, the whole world knew this.

     But here he was, dabbing perfume onto his wrists and gently rubbing his neck. Jungkook crinkled his nose and shoved the bottle back into his bag. Jimin scoffed.

     “You’re willing to be confined to bedrest and nausea because of… because of what exactly? Kim Taehyung?” Maybe it sounded a little catty, but Jimin felt the need to bring his best friend to his senses.

     A dreamy sigh escaped Jungkook’s lips and it was like watching a cartoon character’s eyes literally glaze over, “Because of love, little Park.”

     Before Jimin could retort, someone stepped out of the shower from behind them and Jimin instinctively looked over his shoulder. When he saw who it was, he immediately cursed and kept his head down. Jungkook looked at him strangely and flicked his forehead.

     “Hey, let’s go. Jimin?” Jimin almost threw a fit, if only Jungkook would learn to read social cues.

     “Jimin?” A deep voice called from behind them. Jungkook turned around and his eyebrows immediately narrowed. He grabbed Jimin’s elbow and was ready to storm out of there but Jimin didn’t move. Jungkook watched in disbelief as Jimin put on a reluctant smile and turned, staring straight at his ex.

     “Namjoon. Hi!”

     Namjoon stood there with a towel wrapped around his waist, skin still glistening with moisture. Jungkook had to admit he looked good, even if his fogged up glasses ruined the effect. Didn’t make him any less of a dick though. Jungkook’s scowl didn’t drop off his face once as he watched the two of them converse for a few minutes. In fact, it only seemed to deepen when Jimin laughed at something Namjoon said. Jungkook was 99% sure he’d have permanent wrinkles around his mouth when Namjoon leaned in to give Jimin a hug and said bye. 

     Jimin joined Jungkook looking slightly dazed but jumped when Jungkook snapped at him, “Don’t go fucking soft on me, Park Jimin. I forbid you from falling for his charm again.”

      “Shut up, I won’t. He was just being friendly.”

      “He was just being friendly,” Jungkook imitated in his most annoying, high-pitched Jimin voice. This earned him a (well-deserved) pinch to his side.

      Kim Namjoon had been an unfortunate part of Jimin’s life when they’d first started University. A smart, older student who, unbeknownst to Jimin and Jungkook, had quite the reputation for being a grade A asshole. Unfortunately, he was also incredibly charming. What did this lead to? A one-sided relationship in which Jimin got pulled back in every time he was about to leave because Namjoon carefully planned out when to showcase his boyfriendability. Jungkook, of course, called bullshit and finally got Jimin out of what had to be the worst relationship of his life and dealt with the aftermath as Jimin cried about how stupid he’d been (and occasionally, how much he missed Namjoon, for whatever reason).

      They remained friendly, much to Jungkook’s chagrin. Jimin wasn’t entirely comfortable with him yet, but he could handle a casual conversation. Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

     Jungkook, on the other hand, had perfected his bullshit detector.

     “If he even tries talking to you again, I swear to god,” Jungkook muttered, annoyed. He grabbed his backpack from his room and threw it to Jimin, who was standing in the doorway.

      “You’ll do what, Jungkook?” Jimin’s eyes shrank in amusement. Jungkook finally found his keys from deep within the folds of his blanket and he quickly reached the door to lock up.

     “Anything. I’ll do anything to make sure he doesn’t,” Jungkook said firmly, grabbing his backpack from Jimin and putting his keys inside. Jimin just laughed and waved his words off, beginning to walk down the hall.

     “I’m serious, Jimin. I don’t want him near you. Hey!” Jungkook grabbed Jimin’s wrist and pulled him back to him. Jimin, not expecting the sudden jerk, nearly tripped over his own feet but Jungkook held him up by the shoulders.

     “Jesus, Jeon, give a guy a warning next time,” Jimin rolled his shoulders to get rid of Jungkook’s hands and then looked at him right in the eyes, “I’m not going back to him. Understand? Contrary to what you may believe, I actually do have some self-respect. Sure, I have leftover feelings but that’s all they are – leftovers. Echoes of what I actually felt. So calm down and let’s go to class.”

     Guilt appeared in Jungkook’s eyes but Jimin stopped him from saying anything, “It’s okay. Let’s just go.”

     He nodded and they walked down the hall together.

      Jungkook wandered to the field after class to wait for Jimin. As he sat down, he scanned the crowds for the familiar tank top and basketball shorts combination but didn’t find it. He was considering calling Jimin just to be annoying but his phone rang before he could go through with it.

     The universe was always stopping Jungkook from being a brat, it was actually kind of rude if he thought about it.

     Jungkook picked up when he saw it was his mother, a smile immediately spreading across his face, “Mom! I thought you’d forgotten about me-”

     “Why hasn’t Jimin called me? It’s been a month!”

     “Yeah, missed you too,” Jungkook leaned back to lay his head on the ground but was met with a pair of legs instead. Jimin was sitting cross-legged behind him, and Jungkook grinned at him from his lap. “He’s here now, why don’t you nag him yourself.” He put the phone on speaker and placed it on his stomach.

     “Park Jimin? Is there a reason I haven’t heard from you in a month? Or are you too old to talk to me now?”

     Jimin winced at the harsh tone and put a hand over Jungkook’s mouth when he started giggling. “Hyejung, it’s not like that. You know it’s harder for me to find the time right now and-”

     “Mm. I thought you’d be the type to make the time, not find it. Guess I was wrong.”

     “You know, I see where you get your pettiness from,” Jimin said drily to Jungkook. Then, picking up the phone, he said, “Hyejung, I swear I’ll come to visit soon. For now, though, we’ve really got to study, okay?”

      “Fine, fine. I’ll grant you leniency just this once. Pick up your phone next time, okay?”

     “I was in class!” Jimin exclaimed defensively.

     Jungkook clucked his tongue in disappointment, “You know that doesn’t matter to her.”

     “Whatever you say,” Hyejung said apathetically, “I’ll leave you to it, then. Is Jungkook still there?”

     “Yes, I am. Thanks for noticing, oh dear mother of mine,” Jungkook plucked the phone out of Jimin’s hand and turned it off speakerphone, holding it to his ear. He said a few more okays and alrights until finally, the call ended.

     “She calls me more than my own mom,” Jimin shook his head in disbelief. Jungkook grabbed his Chemistry textbook and handed it to Jimin, who opened it up and rested it on Jungkook’s chest.

     “Well, if I knew your mom, she’d call me more than my mom. We were clearly switched at birth. And don’t put the book here, I can’t look at the material if I’m trying to study. Oh, that reminds me actually, what are we planning for the summer? Are we finally visiting yours?”

     “Are you actually going to study?”

     “Uh, probably not.”

     “Idiot.

     Jimin closed the book and placed it on the grass beside him, leaning back on his wrists. The sun was pleasantly warm. Jungkook tilted his head back in Jimin’s lap and pinched the skin on his neck. “Hey, answer me. Are we going to your place? You’ve never even told me where exactly you lived before coming to Busan. I don’t even know the names of your parents! Wouldn’t it be nice to, I don’t know, spend some time there?”

     Jimin sighed and looked down at Jungkook, tweaking his nose gently before saying, “I’m sorry, Jungkook. Can I just come back to yours this summer?”

     “Of course, but Jimin…” Jungkook suddenly sat up and turned to face Jimin. He seemed to struggle to find the words and then finally decided on, “Just, I’m here. You know, to talk or whatever. You didn’t tell me then, and you aren’t telling me now, and that’s okay. I just don’t want you to carry whatever this is around forever. Okay?”

     Jimin smiled and ruffled Jungkook’s hair, “Okay, little Jeon. Now really, you have an exam in less than 30 minutes, shouldn’t you study?”

     “Shit, yeah. You know what, I’m going to study outside of the class. Maybe I’ll find people in my class to study with. To be clear, people is Kim Taehyung,” Jungkook shoved his textbook into his bag and blew a kiss to Jimin as he got up.

     “Love you, babe! Wish me luck!” Jimin groaned in embarrassment but wished him luck anyways, waving reluctantly.

     From the outside, it looked like something more. But Jimin knew they were just friends. Just friends.

       It had been 30 minutes since his class ended and 20 minutes since Jimin first received his text, and Jungkook still wasn’t here. Jimin was waiting in the dance studio, scrolling through Instagram without really paying attention to what posts he was liking. Jungkook had told Jimin to meet him there, saying he’d come after “talking to Taehyung about a thing”. Their conversation had gone as follows:

5:40 p.m

>bitch meet me at the practice room we gon get shit DONe

5:41 p.m

istg shit better not just mean ur shit< 

i actually need to practice dont further convince me that ur brain is the size of ur dick (re: small)<

5:41 p.m

>first of all. im an angel ofc im helping u with ur shit ? ?

>second of all if u wanted to compare my brain to smth small and Really offend me u shoudve just used urself

5:41 p.m

hahahahhahahaahaha! die.<

5:42 p.m

>also i have a juicy story about a certain Kim bring ur small ass ears so u can enjoy listenin.

>on second thought i might have to bring a megaphone so the sound can travel thru ur puny ear canals :  ))

5:42 p.m

im sorry didn’t i Just tell u to die<

5:50 p.m

i have a high maintenance ass it cant sit on anything that isn’t plush for this long<

5:52 p.m

>u kno what they say sit down be humble

>srry tho got caught up with tae, ill be there soon

 It was now 6 PM.

     Jimin didn’t mind Taehyung, really didn’t. The dude seemed nice enough. Jimin just felt this tug in his stomach when Taehyung was apparently enough to make Jungkook completely forget about him. Okay, not forget about him, but that’s what it felt like.

     He decided to get changed and start practicing, not knowing when Jungkook would decide to show up. Just as he switched out his normal tank top for a workout tank top, Jungkook burst into the studio, a grin on his face and his easel under his arm.

     “You won’t believe how fucking slick I am,” was the first thing he said. Jimin gave him a small smile and plugged his phone into the speakers. He put on a short violin piece he could warm up to. Was he acting petty? Yes. Did he have a good reason? Not really. Was he going to keep acting petty anyways? Absolutely.

     “Well, aren’t you going to ask why?” Jungkook’s words were bursting out of him with barely contained energy. He swiftly set up his easel and squeezed out the necessary paints onto his palette.

     Jimin stayed focused on the way his leg slid across the floor a little too lazily. It looked sloppy, but Jimin could fix that with time. As he was about to reach the climax of the composition, it abruptly switched to the song he was using for his showcase.

     Jimin groaned, “Jungkook! Just let me warm up and then I’ll humour you about Prince Charming.” He watched through the mirror as Jungkook put Jimin’s phone back down and practically skipped over to him. Jungkook smiled when Jimin sighed in defeat and placed his hands on Jungkook’s hips from behind.

     “How do you even know the choreo?” Jimin asked suspiciously when Jungkook began moving to the beats. Jimin’s fingers moved up and down Jungkook’s body, tapping rhythmically and eventually landing on Jungkook’s hands.

     “I only know some, not all of it. I pay attention when you dance, obviously,” Jungkook pulled Jimin flush against his body by placing his hand on the small of Jimin’s back, he let him lean back and then let go, somehow managing to grab his hands before he fell to the ground. Jimin slid through Jungkook’s legs and stood up, looking at him in disbelief.

      “That move was too dangerous for anyone but my partner to do, you moron! What if I got hurt?”

     “Calm down, Jimin. I went to your partner and asked for pointers the other day because I knew I’d be practicing with you and I wanted to do it right. That’s why I know the choreo so well, okay? Jesus, stop exposing my ass,” Jimin slapped Jungkook on the arm and turned off the music, ignoring the younger’s cries of pain.

     He stood there with his arms crossed and Jungkook stared at him, “What? What did I do this time?”

     “Jeon Jungkook, you learned not only my part of the dance but my partner’s part. I don’t even know when you did this! That’s a lot of time spent doing something that’s completely irrelevant for you, you could’ve used that time to, oh I don’t know, study for your exams!” Jimin didn’t know why he was so angry, he just was. Jungkook sputtered for words and in a split second, his face took on more annoyance than confusion.

      “Why are you getting so mad? I was trying to help, Jimin!” Jungkook took a step towards Jimin but Jimin held out his hands.

      “I don’t want you to help me that much! You… you have no right to!”

     “What?”

      “You have no right,” Jimin said, his voice tight, “You’re nothing more than a friend, Jungkook. That’s it. You’re not my boyfriend or something that you’d feel the need to go out of your way like this just to help me out. I’m not that important. God, just… just focus on your life and I’ll focus on mine. You’re messing everything up!”

     Somewhere along the way, Jimin had started crying. He didn’t want to be this way. It wasn’t fair to either of them, but he didn’t know how to stop. Everything he’d said was true on some level, but who was Jimin really mad at? Because it certainly wasn’t Jungkook.

     Despite how hurt Jungkook appeared, he still managed to say in a calm voice, “Jimin, if something’s wrong, we’ll work it out together. Just tell me.”

     That was it. That was the moment. Jimin liked Jungkook. A lot. Too much.

     “Don’t do that! Oh my god, Jungkook! You’re hurt! I hurt you, why aren’t you yelling at me? Please, just…” Jimin dragged the heel of his palm along his face, choking on his words. Without thinking, he grabbed his phone and bag and moved past Jungkook, out of the studio, not turning to look once despite the younger’s pleas.

     Jimin had fucked up, and he couldn’t deal with what that meant right now. When he got back to his dorm, his phone beeped with a notification. Jimin chucked his shoes off and jumped into bed, pulling his phone out of his pocket to check it.

jungkookie

>i asked him to be my chem tutor. that’s what i was gonna tell u. talk to me when ure ready.

     Jimin felt like he was going to start crying again. He buried his head in his pillow for a moment and then collected himself, scrolling through his contacts to find someone in particular.

 “So yeah, that’s what it is.”

“Min, you can’t be serious.”

“Shut up, Hoseok. It’s not that far-fetched. I don’t think.”

“Yes it is! I mean, the whole you being in love with him-”

“Love is a strong word.”

“-thing is not far-fetched. But the fact that it took you so long to figure it out? I spent all of your stupid high school years listening to you talk about this dude every Monday afternoon and every time I even suggested you might have a crush on him, you shut me down. And now you figure it out?”

“First of all, it’s not my fault that half your dance ‘lessons’ were just us talking. You never let me respond to your ‘how was your day’ with ‘good’, you always wanted to hear everything. So if anything, it’s your fault for being nosy.”

“An unwarranted attack on my teaching style, but okay.”

“Also, I didn’t like him in high school! I really don’t think I did. Something’s changed now. God, I fucked up bad.”

“Yeah, of course something’s changed. Someone’s moving in on your man. And Jimin, stop sniffling, you’re not a moody teenager anymore.”

“I’m upset! And, he’s not my man! In fact, he isn’t even my boy. He’s just. Jungkook.”

“You infuriate me, Min.”

“Really? I think I’m kind of cute.”

“I will hang up right now, find a way to physically reach through phone screens, call you back, and strangle you.”

“Seriously, though. Hoseok. Please. Tell me what to do about this.”

“Jimin, just do what you should’ve done in the first place, tell him how you feel. Any other option over complicates things and before you know it, you guys will be in your 30s and won’t have spoken to each other in years because you were too afraid to admit your feelings but you also couldn’t stand to see him with someone else so you just ran away.”

“Oddly specific.”

“What can I say, I’m an excellent foreshadower.”

“I’m going to take my time. I don’t want to mess up anything between him and Taehyung right now.”

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Right now would be IDEAL to tell him so that you can get it over with before he gets serious with Taehyung.”

“I… you’re right. Sure, yeah, I can do that. Thanks, Hoseok. I’ll call you when I plan on visiting.”

“Of course, Min. I’ll be waiting, as usual. Bye.”

“Bye.”

      Jungkook knocked on Jimin’s door, trying not to be too loud. It was the middle of the night, approaching 1:15 AM now. Jimin hadn’t answered any of his texts of calls, and he was beginning to worry. Jimin’s words from earlier hadn’t stopped bouncing around his head. He heard the sound of footsteps coming from inside and instantly stood a little taller. As soon as the door opened, Jungkook lunged to hug Jimin, who nearly toppled over wish so much extra weight on him.

      “What the fuck, Jimin,” Jungkook said in Jimin’s ear. His words implied that he was angry but his tone was soft, relieved. “I thought you’d finally drowned yourself in beer of something.”

     Jimin pushed Jungkook away and upon seeing his face, Jungkook froze. Jimin’s eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks had chalky streaks running down them and his nose was rubbed raw. His hair was tousled every which way, as if he’d been pulling it over and over again for hours. Which he could’ve been doing, for all Jungkook knew. He looked over Jimin’s shoulders and noticed the bottle of wine situated on the desk.

     “Guess I wasn’t far from the truth,” Jungkook said softly. He looked into Jimin’s eyes, “Tell me how to help you.” Jimin sniffed and shook his head, eyes glazed over but a crease forming in between his eyebrows. He stepped away from Jungkook and curled up on his bed. Jungkook drew in a long breath and then moved to shut the door, silently thanking the gods Jimin’s roommate never came back to the dorms before 3 in the morning. He lay down on the mattress beside Jimin and grabbed a hold of his face.

     “Tell me. Please, Jimin,” Jungkook’s voice cracked, pained from having to see his best friend like this. In all the years he’d known Jimin, he’d never looked so utterly heartbroken.

     “No one. Jungkook, no one’s ever going to – to love me. Isn’t that fucking pathetic? Not you, nuh-not my family, no one.” And Jungkook had definitely heard this before, but never so intensely, never full of such conviction. Still, he felt himself breathe a little easier knowing that nothing absolutely awful had happened to Jimin.

     “Jimin, you know that’s not true. You have so many amazing qualities.”

     “I’m not a fuck. Fucking scholar luh-like Taehyung,” Jimin said in a small, broken voice. He looked so hurt, so fragile. He looked the way you can only look after being emotionally drained to the bone. “I don’t have nice eyes, or a deep – deep voice.”

     Jungkook’s eyes narrowed, when had Taehyung come into the picture? “Jimin, being academically gifted isn’t exactly number one on the ‘qualities I want my boyfriend to have’ list that most people have. You’re absolutely gorgeous, radiant, even. You’ve got these soft eyes, and a cute nose, and full lips. Your voice is light and dreamy and perfect for you because you’ve always been fairy-like. And you’re one hell of a dancer! God, when I see you move on stage it’s like I can see you completely change the atmosphere. You leave a trail of emotion behind you that touches the hearts of everyone in the room. You give the best pep-talks in the world and you have the purest, biggest heart out of anyone I know. You are capable of giving so much love, it only makes sense that you’re constantly inviting it back in. You could get literally anyone in the world.”

     Jimin’s eyes sharpened for a fraction of a moment and he stared right at Jungkook. “Anyone?” he whispered.

     “Anyone,” Jungkook confirmed. He pulled Jimin into his chest. “Now, go to sleep.”

     Jimin mumbled something into his chest and in a few minutes, was fast asleep. Jungkook sighed into the dark and hugged Jimin a little bit closer, a little bit tighter.

      “Wake up, Jimin. It’s time for class. Well, your class, not mine.”

     “Hnghh. Bwekhfusht.”

     “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking, but I can’t today. Seriously, get up. Jimin. Jimin? Park, I dare you to get the fuck up.”

     “Urngh muh hehhd.”

     “Yeah I left some Advil for that. Listen, if you don’t get up, you’re admitting to being a cheater. Ah, there you go! Just don’t lie back down.”

     “UNGHH.”

     “Fine, I’m leaving… call me if you need me?”

     “Shaddupp.”

     “Cool, bye.”

          Around 5 PM that day, Jimin finally stopped thinking about all the bad things that could happen if he told Jungkook that he had a little thing for him and decided to just do it. The night before had been a complete disaster. Actually, the whole day had been pretty shitty. Jungkook didn’t deserve that, but in the end, he stayed with Jimin. Jungkook stayed with Jimin.

     He needed to tell Jungkook how he felt before Taehyung turned into something more than a crush. Jimin wasn’t sure what brought on this sudden burst of confidence and adrenaline but he knew it wouldn’t last for long so he needed to act while it fueled him.

     He grabbed his shoes and raced out of the dorm, intent on telling Jungkook everything.

     Drinking to the point of wanting to cry for a week straight had not been Jimin’s intention when he’d pulled out the wine last night. He’d just wanted to relax and empty his mind of any confusing thoughts. Before he knew it, old insecurities began creeping back and he couldn’t take it, he broke down. Jimin often wondered why people said they “drink to forget”. Whenever he drank, he just seemed to revisit the worst memories among the ones he’d naturally forgotten. What a scam.

     Jimin was half-way across the field, being poured on by the rain to the point where he couldn’t keep his eyes open, when he literally ran into a familiar body. Jimin fell to the ground and looked across at Jungkook, who was rubbing his head with a grin on his face. He got up, laughing, and extended a hand to Jimin. A shot of energy flowed through his body as Jimin was pulled to his feet, he smiled through the rain and rubbed the part of Jungkook’s head he’d knocked against. Jimin opened his mouth to say something but before he could, Jungkook spoke.

     “I love you.”

     Jimin stared at him, not quite believing what he’d just heard. It was like all the noise from the downpour had been cut, like the only sounds that mattered were his beating heart and Jungkook’s words. Despite his brain not entirely comprehending the words, a smile began to stretch across his face.

     “I love you so much and I know it’s kind of out of the blue, but I just had to tell you. I don’t think being friends is going to work anymore.” Jungkook had an insanely wide grin on his face.

     Jimin couldn’t contain how happy he was a laugh bubbled out of him, loud and free. It was oddly appropriate, the confession happening on the field. They’d been here just two nights ago, saying their ‘I love you’s for a completely different reason. Jimin was so caught up in the moment he didn’t feel his hand running through his wet hair, didn’t hear himself clearly until he’d said-

     “I love you too.” There. It was as simple as that. And now Jimin was downright giddy.

      Jungkook threw his head back as he laughed and then grabbed Jimin’s face in his hands, eyes shining, “Do you think he’ll say that? When I tell him?”

      Just as fast as the giddiness came, it disappeared. Jimin’s smile started to fall, the rain was making his vision blurry.

     “Who,” Jimin asked, but he knew.

     “Taehyung, silly. Who else? Okay, let’s start again. You’re Taehyung and I’m me…”

     Jungkook’s words faded into the distance. The downpour that had gone silent suddenly thundered in his ears and Jimin couldn’t hear his own heartbeat but he could feel it. He could feel it slow down and speed up and he wished that eventually, it would stop altogether. Hope was a dangerous thing, Jimin felt like an idiot for inviting it into his life with open arms. He should’ve known better.

     “..okay? Oh my god, I can’t believe I’m actually about to fucking tell him this!” Jungkook pulled Jimin into a hug, completely enveloping him.

     In that moment, Jimin hugged back. He held onto Jungkook as tight as he could and when they pulled apart, Jimin thought about how lucky it was that it had started to rain.

     How lucky it was that Jungkook wouldn’t be able to tell tears apart from raindrops.

      Jungkook and Taehyung had hung out all morning under the pretense of studying for Chemistry. Jungkook had come back to his dorm incredibly happy, knowing that whatever it was he had with Taehyung was special. He was pretty sure he was in love. He’d decided to go tell him not 1 hour after they’d gone back to their respective buildings. Jungkook had ran into Jimin and then headed to Taehyung’s place. Jungkook had told Taehyung he loved him. Taehyung had kissed him on the spot.

     Jimin knew because Jungkook hadn’t stopped talking about it for an hour.

      Now it was Jimin, Taehyung and Jungkook. Although, Jimin felt like a third wheel too often so he spent a lot of time in the studio. Jungkook never finished the painting of Jimin, he ended up doing one of Taehyung instead, who remained as charming as ever and became Jimin’s friend despite Jimin not wanting him to. It was hard to dislike Taehyung in any setting, really. The couple came to Jimin’s showcase before final exams started and brought him flowers.

     “Just like old times, huh,” Jimin had joked to Taehyung, not much energy in his voice despite feeling like he was on cloud nine, like he usually did after a performance.

     Taehyung had smiled with an emotion indistinguishable to Jimin, “Yeah, better times. When I didn’t know Jungkook.”

     Jungkook had playfully argued with him about this statement but, for some reason, Jimin had sensed the words had been directed at him more than Jungkook. He’d felt as if Taehyung had looked right into his head and pulled out his ugliest thoughts to display in front of the world. But there was empathy behind the words, and in a twisted sort of way, Jimin had felt like Taehyung understood him better than Jungkook.

     Jimin and Jungkook no longer hung out together as much, which was a given. Jimin had to learn to find new friends. He met Yoongi, an aspiring pianist, and spent any time he wasn’t with Jungkook and Taehyung with him. They were from the same town and Jimin had been mortified to hear that Yoongi knew about his family, but it was easy for them to be together. Things seemed to be getting better for Jimin, except they weren’t, obviously.

     There was no overnight remedy for heartbreak, or even a one-month remedy. Jimin knew from experience.

     On one particularly average day, Jimin got a call that destroyed any thoughts of his own pathetic heartbreak.

     Within an hour, he had packed up his things and headed to the train station.

      Jungkook and Taehyung scoured the windows for any sign of Jimin. A group of people began boarding the train right in front of Jungkook and he had to use all his patience not to yell at all of them to move it, already!

     “Baby,” Taehyung called, “I’ll look down there, you keep looking up ahead, okay?”

     Jungkook nodded hastily and moved up the platform. Jimin’s roommate had called him half-an-hour ago, asking him if he knew why Jimin was planning on going back home. According to him, all of Jimin’s stuff had been packed up and the place looked spotless except for a note left on his pillow.

     God, he was going to kill Jimin.

     Jimin’s face suddenly blurred past him. Jungkook stopped jogging and backtracked, staring at Jimin through the window, who looked exhausted. Jungkook climbed into the closest possible entrance, shoving past a bunch of other people and found Jimin’s booth. He sat down in front of him, trying to stay calm.

     “Where do you think you’re going?” Jungkook questioned coldly.  

     “Home. I… my family needs me and, in all honesty, I think I need them too,” Jimin replied in a heavy voice.

     “And you were going to tell me when?”

     “Jungkook, I had no time, my mother-”

     “God Jimin, it’s like we’re not even friends anymore!” Jungkook cried. He stood up and tugged on Jimin’s sleeve. “Come on, you’re not going anywhere. You still… you still have to finish exams! And I still need you here, you can’t just up and leave.”

     Jimin pulled his arm away forcefully and looked at Jungkook. His eyebrows were drawn in frustration and his eyes shone with tears, “Jungkook. My mother’s been in an accident. I don’t care if you need me. I’m sorry. I’m going.”

     Jungkook’s anger immediately left his face. His muscles relaxed and his eyes softened when he looked at Jimin.

     “Jimin… I’m so sorry.” He pulled Jimin up on his feet so he could hug him.

     “I want to dare you to stay, but I know you’re going to cheat,” Jungkook murmured into Jimin’s ear.

      Jimin melted in Jungkook’s arms, “You’re right this time, little Jeon.”

     “I’m right every time, little Park,” Jungkook leaned back from Jimin, arms still caught on his waist. “Promise me I’ll see you again? You’re going home, right? Tell me where that is.”

     Jimin didn’t say anything, he twisted one of the rings off his finger and placed it gently into Jungkook’s palm before kissing him on the forehead. Jimin led Jungkook to the open entrance and with a small push, Jungkook ended up on the platform. His face twisted in confusion.

     “Jimin, tell me where home is.”

     “I dare you to be okay without me,” Jimin called out, fresh tears streaming down his face. The train began to move slowly. Jungkook was panicking now, he held onto one of the handrails and fell into a light jog.

     “Jimin! Tell me before you leave. What if I can’t find you again? Please,” Jungkook choked on his words and lost his grip on the rail. He stumbled and tried catching up to Jimin, but the platform was about to end.

     “Don’t you dare cheat, Jeon Jungkook,” Jimin called out, he couldn’t help but sob. Jungkook stood on the platform, looking like he’d had his entire world stolen from his. He could’ve told him, it would’ve been easy. But somewhere inside of him, Jimin really didn’t want to. He didn’t want Jungkook to be able to find him.

     Jimin caught sight of Taehyung running to Jungkook and coming to a halt when he realized Jimin was nearly gone. Even from a distance, Jimin was still able to see that look in Taehyung’s eyes.

     Only later, when Jimin was half-way home, did he realize what that look meant, what it had always meant: regret.

      And that was the last time we ever saw that Jimin. Your Daddy cried a lot that day, and ever since then, he’s never taken off that silver ring. Jimin never contacted us again, and we couldn’t find him. He’d come from somewhere else to study at Jungkook’s high school and he’d stayed with a host family. Whenever Jungkook had asked Jimin about his life back home, he’d never answered any of the questions. When we decided to get married, Jungkook tried asking the University or even his high school for information about Park Jimin. But he was never able to find answers.

     Getting in the way of Jimin and Jungkook’s relationship is the biggest regret of my life, and I don’t have a lot. Jungkook didn’t know Jimin liked him, and Jimin never told me or Jungkook. But I knew there was something between them, something that could’ve developed into a stronger love than your father and I had for each other.

     Today, I trust you with this. Find Jimin. Give Jungkook another shot at happiness. Make him see that there’s always only been Jimin for him, and no one else – not truly.

     I love you, Jimin.

Forever and always in your heart,

Taehyung.

     Mina wiped away her tears as she stared at the picture paper-clipped to the last page of her Daddy and someone else who was probably Jimin. She folded the papers and pressed them back into the envelope, putting it aside so that she could breathe a little easier. She wasn’t completely sure how she was going to find this Jimin, or even get her Daddy to open up to her about him, but she did know one thing.

     Her Daddy deserved a happily ever after, and she was going to be the one to give it to him.

+

[vixxpirational]

Stranger Danger (AU) | Part 2 of ?

Inspiration: The need to write and my lack of ability to actually do it in a timely manner Group: Taehyung/BTS (and some other lovely lady but you don’t know who she is yet. Imagine all the sexy noonas). Warning: Blood lust Words: 3637

Taehyung wakes up but things have drastically changed

Taehyung woke without his shirt and curled on the cold pavement. He was sweating, his body on fire; everything seemed to radiate from his chest. He rolled onto his back with a low moan, his body sore and screaming for him to be still. Even his eyelids felt stiff as he blinked them open slowly.

The full moon was high in the black canvas of night and, for some reason, that registered in Taehyung’s mind that it must be a little after three in the morning. The last he remembered, it was about ten o’clock when he had settled down in the graveyard to work.

The graveyard.

He sat up, too quickly, his head spinning, his stomach lurching. He looked around. His canvas was still blank and intact, his pencil had rolled in the dewey grass. His toolbox of brushes, paints, charcoal, his life was untouched. His shirt was folded neatly beside him, a small note pinned to it. The writing was neat, cute, feminine.

Thanks for a good time. See you soon, handsome.

“What the fuck is this?” he mumbled as he stared at the pretty lettering. Whoever it was would need to learn the that even the smallest prick into his expensive clothing was unacceptable. He carefully removed the safety pin and note, setting it on the canvas so that he could shrug his shirt back on. He didn’t remember taking it off in the first place.

He didn’t notice the marks on his chest.

He reached for his phone next, swiping through the notifications. He stopped at the fourteen missed calls from his roommate and frantic texts of “where are you” and “are you okay” and “if you’re dead, i’ll bring you back to life so i can kill you again.”

A cold wind swirled the fallen leaves around the trimmed lawn and headstones. It was a wind that should have sent a nauseating chill to Taehyung’s bones, but it felt more like a gentle, warm beach breeze. The thought was pushed from his mind as he remembered the woman, her plump breasts and flawless legs, her tempting eyes and sexy smell. His crotch immediately began to swell and he groaned. His chest still hurt.

His phone buzzed with another text. “if you don’t answer in the next five minutes i will call the cops.”

He rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help but smile. Jimin had a knack for being dramatic, but he meant well. Taehyung went into Jimin’s contact, saved as Chimichanga, and pressed his phone to his ear. For sitting in the cold for so long, it should not have felt warm against his skin.

“You’re alive?”

“I’m calling from beyond the grave—” Taehyung started.

“Fuck you, Taehyung.”

“—to let you know you cannot have my Gucci collection.”

“Prick.” The relief in Jimin’s voice eased the pain radiating from Taehyung’s chest.

“Why are you worrying so much? You know how I get when I work.”

“How often do you paint in a graveyard?”

Taehyung laughed. “Good point. I may have dozed off a bit. I’m packing up now.”

“Can I still call the cops? You’re technically trespassing.”

“Sure.” Taehyung reached for his pencil and tucked it over his other ear. “I’ll make sure that I use your car as collateral on my bail money.”

“Prick.” Jimin’s soft giggle was soothing even after he cut the call off.

Taehyung gathered his things, and stood up. He had mastered the delicate balance of carrying too many art supplies in his arms, making it look easier than it actually was. Everything didn’t feel quite as heavy as normal. His chest still ached, but he ignored it as he loaded his truck and drove back to his dorm.

Jimin was hunched over his desk, anatomy book propped open to the a diagram of the cardiovascular system. Lines of red and blue curved and twisted inside of a grey silhouette of the human body. Taehyung’s mouth began to water as his tired eyes followed the arteries in the thighs, arms, neck. Sinking his teeth in would give the most blood, the loudest screams of pain.

“You okay?” Jimin’s voice pulled Taehyung back. He nodded and set his stuff on his bed. “You look like shit. You’re pale and clammy. Are you getting sick?”

“Don’t ‘doctor’ me, Chim,” Taehyung snapped. He didn’t know why he was suddenly so irritable. Maybe he was hungry? His stomach felt empty and his chest was still hurting.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m not feeling myself, I guess.”

“What’s wrong?” Jimin made his way over. He felt Taehyung’s forehead and frowned. He massaged Taehyung’s neck and something set his lips deeper. He pressed two fingers to the vein in Taehyung’s wrist, his eyes darting to his watch, and counted before stepping back.

“What? What is it?”

“You’re dead cold to the touch and your heart rate is dangerously low. How did you drive here? How are you even standing?”

“Dangerously low?” Taehyung rolled his eyes and pulled his shirt off and tossed it to his hamper. Jimin gasped.

“What is that?”

“What is what?” He looked down. His chest had been on fire since the moment he opened his eyes in the graveyard, but now he understood why. There were marks in an oval pattern on his chest that looked like the imprint of human teeth. Where the canines should have been were two wounds deep enough that even Taehyung knew there should have been a pool of blood around him when he had woken up. There was a deep red lipstick kiss in the middle.

“You’re going to the hospital.”

“No. I'm going to is my bed.”

“You could have died with where that’s located. How deep is th—”

“Jimin, I’m alive. Can I just sleep?”

“What happened?”

“Paint brush accident?”

“Very funny. If I let you sleep now, even against my better judgement, will you go to the hospital in the morning?”

“I’ll consider it.” Taehyung’s face twisted in exaggerated irritation as he stripped out of his jeans and into basketball shorts. He cleared off his bed, setting his supplies on his desk and situated his canvas on the easel. He climbed up onto his bunked bed, settling down for a hard, restless sleep.

He slept through his first alarm to shower. His second alarm woke him but only enough to remind him he had class in forty-five minutes. He turned it off, the effort to reach for his phone making him moan. He felt like his arms were ten times heavier than normal. His mind was hazy. His stomach rumbled in hunger. His chest wasn’t hurting anymore.

He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. It was too warm in his room. He scratched the back of his head and yawned, forcing his legs over the edge of his bed. He slide down his lofted bed and fumbled to reach for his lamp. His hand caught the line of sun peeking through the curtains as he did and it burned as if someone were holding a lighter against his skin. He jumped back and cursed, hand yanking on the cord of the lamp and pulling off his desk. It felt to the floor, the light bulb shattering.

He didn’t care about the racket as he stared at the burn on his hand. He watched the skin knit together and heal at an ungodly, scarless speed.  

“You can’t do anything gracefully, can you?” Jimin whined from his pile of blankets. Taehyung looked up and smiled.

“Just burned myself. Sorry. Go back to sleep.” His roommate sat up slowly, strong arms stretching above his head.

“How’d you burn yourself?” he asked, voice strained in a yawn. “You literally just woke up.”

“The sun.”

Jimin tilted his head, tired eyes narrowed in a threat Taehyung was all too familiar with. He had learned to hold the sarcasm until after breakfast because of that look.

“I’m not kidding, Jimin. I watched it on my hand disappear too.”

“You’ve sniffed too much paint.” Jimin hopped down from his bed, landing with athletic precision that Taehyung had always been envious of. He held out his hand, fingers wiggling, the all-too-familiar gesture of give me your hand and shut the fuck up because I know more than you.

“Your fingers are really cold. You still look pale.” Jimin moved his hands to Taehyung’s neck, fingers pressed to his jugular. “Your heartbeat is really slow still. How you’re functioning is a miracle.” His eyes darted down. “That’s already healed. It’s just a scar. Were you bitten by a radioactive spider?”

“I’m going to class.”

“No, you’re going to the hospital, remember?”

“Jimin, I’m swear I’m fine. And Peter Parker still went to class after he was bitten by a spider. Why can’t I?” Taehyung brushed passed his roommate to go to his wardrobe. His left foot stepped into the line of sunlight on the floor and he howled, falling back into the shadows. He watched his skin sizzle for a moment before going back to normal.

“What the fuck—”

“Can you develop a severe allergy to the sun overnight?” Taehyung asked, looking up at Jimin and unable to hide the fear this time.

Jimin stared at his roommate for a moment and shook his head before walking out of the dorm, leaving Taehyung confused and cowering under his desk.

Taehyung watched as the lines of sunlight moved across the floor of his dorm room. His stomach rumbled with hunger and he felt light-headed, irritable, scared. His throat was dry and scratchy; he had never felt so thirsty. He didn’t know what was happening to him or why Jimin just left him, but he was too afraid to know why at this point. It wasn’t until the two-in-the-afternoon sun finally left his room in completely in shadows that he finally climbed out, stretching his stiff limbs. He reached for his phone and climbed back onto his bed, reading through his messages.

NamJOON of Doom

you weren’t in class today? it was nice not having you answer all the questions. got to prove i’m actually the smart one. :P jimin said you weren’t feeling well, though. hope you get better soon, man. :( if you need anything, let me know. <3

JungSoup

did u finish the fear painting assignment thing for tommorrow? mine is shit so im gunna reserve a studio for tonite if u wanna join me. u know how creepy they are at night. nvm jimin hyung told me ur sick pls dont come and make me sick ur prolly jus hungover arent u hyung pls come cuz i dont wanna be alone with the studio ghost

Moldy Suga

you missed class. don’t die pls

He could feel the weight of everything lifting just a bit as he filtered through his friends’ messages. Everything felt almost normal. Even with Jimin’s reminder that something didn’t make sense, he found a way to find relief.

Chimichanga

sorry to bolt like i did. i’m going to help you figure this out. i know how to help. sit tight and stay out of the sun. if you’re going to die it’s going to be on my operation table and it will look like an accident ;) no way the sun is going to get you first

Everything faded away when he got to the next text.

Unknown Number

Meet me in the graveyard tonight. Our spot. You know the one. 11 o’clock. I will explain everything to you, handsome.

The woman from the night before came to mind, her perfect, alluring body; her smokey feline eyes; her soft, sultry voice. His hand pressed against his chest, fingering over the two scars on his chest and the faded red kiss mark.

He knew she was the reason this was happening but he wanted her back, wanted to be around her, learn from her. He felt drawn to her, connected in unexplainable ways.

Taehyung jumped when he heard doorknob rattle, cowering under the blankets on his bed. He didn’t understand why he was so jumpy.

“Jimin?”

His roommate walked in followed by a small, mature looking woman with short, blonde hair.

“Taehyung, this is my cousin, Choa. This is my dumbass roommate that got himself bitten by a vampire.”

“Vampire?” Taehyung asked. The other two ignored him.

“I’ve heard a lot more about you than just that, I promise,” she said with a friendly smile. Her presence was far more nurturing than Taehyung expected. She bowed to him before she made her way over to his desk. She delicately moved his toolbox to the side, setting her purse down.

“Jimin, what’s going—”

“She’s going to help, Taehyung.”

“How?” he asked as he watched the woman pull the largest bottle of sunscreen he’d ever seen from her bag.

“Doctors run in the family, but I am the black sheep that has her master’s in paranormal studies. I know more about your physiology now than future-doctor-conformist over here.” She pulled at hat out with rounded bill out of her bag.

“When you’re old and having heart problems from sleeping in haunted buildings your entire life, who will you go to?”

“Don’t trust him,” Taehyung said with a grin, sliding off his bed and landing on his feet with grace he’s never had before. Something about her presence was making him feel relaxed. “He’s always telling me that he’s going to make my surgical death look like an accident.”

Jimin rolled his eyes as Choa snickered. “He’ll have a hard time of that now, won’t he,” she said, patting his shoulder. She was much smaller up close. Taehyung could hear her heart beating. She smelled metallic and warm, making his mouth water and his throat ache.

“What’s happening to his eyes?”

“He’s hungry, Jimin. Why do you think I asked you to steal blood from my dad’s clinic on the way back?”

“Oh, right. I left the cooler in the car. Please don’t eat my cousin while I’m gone, Taehyung.”

He blinked and turned to look at Jimin, his head spinning. He hadn’t heard anything his roommate had said.

“What’s happening to me?” Taehyung asked as he watched Jimin leave their room. Choa reached up to touch his cheek and he could feel the blood pulsing in her palm. His eyes rolled closed and he took a deep breath. She smelled so… delicious.

“You need to eat, sweetie. Jimin will be back with something that will help settle your stomach. That will help with your anxiety.”

Taehyung nodded and leaned against his desk. She smiled and reached for his hand. She felt for his pulse in his wrist before feeling again in flat of his elbow, then at his neck. The closer she came to him, the more he could hear the sound of heart beating. He knew it was hers. She smelled delicious.

The sound of Jimin barreling back into the dorm room pulled Taehyung back.

“Do you know who turned you, Taehyung?” Choa asked softly as Jimin set a cooler next to her. She opened it up and pulled a plastic bag out, red liquid sloshing in it. She handed it to Taehyung.

“I remember her, but I never met her until last night,” he said as he stared at the bag. There was a cap on it where the line, connected to a needle, had carried their blood in. The small twinge of guilt was a flicker on his conscious compared the rumble in Taehyung’s stomach. He opened the cap and brought it to his lips, squeezing gently as if he were drinking from a juice box.

Taehyung had never tasted anything more delicious in his life. It was cold, but it didn’t matter the temperature when he could himself going back to normal with every luxurious swallow.

“Conversions aren’t very common anymore, right, unless there is a direct threat to the current population,” Jimin said, looking at his cousin. “Is there anything that you’re aware of going on?”

Choa shrugged. “I heard something about animal attacks, but that was on the other side of the country. The images I saw definitely didn’t come from an animal, though. I do have a connection with the local coven but they haven’t mentioned anything to me.”

“What does that mean?” Taehyung asked.

“It could mean anything, kiddo. I’ll keep in touch with you and check up on you, answer any question you have as best as I can.” She touched Taehyung’s cheek again, in a motherly way, her eyes suddenly sad, as he continued to suck the bag dry. “But you’ve got a rough road ahead as you adjust, especially if you don’t know who turned you.”

Taehyung had to convince Jimin that he was perfectly fine going out on his own. The sun itself had completely set for the evening and he still needed to finish his assignment. He had the sunscreen and hat that Choa had brought packed in, just in case he wound up staying out all night, and her instructions to reapply as often as every 30 minutes, depending on the sun’s intensity and Taehyung’s comfort level. It would prevent his skin from burning visibly, but he’d still feel the sun more than ever before. It was all he could do until the semester ended and he could adjust his schedule.

He texted Jungguk back, letting him know that he would come to the studio with him. He packed his things, Jimin watching apprehensively.

“Text me if you need anything.”

“Jimin, I’ll be fine. I’m just paining.”

“Did you eat?”

Taehyung rolled his eyes and held up the insulated lunch box that he had kept stored under his desk. He never thought he’d actually use it.

“If you’re going to have to kill a human, though, Jungguk would be a good start. You’d be making the world a better place…” Jimin smirked and crossed his arms. He acted as if he hated Jungguk, but everyone knew that they were close.

Taehyung didn’t respond, though. The thought of having to feed on a human for survival wasn’t something he had really thought about. He didn’t want to; the stollen blood bags were bad enough.

“Be careful, okay.”

“Promise,” Taehyung said as he walked out of their room. He hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should go. But he hoisted his canvas bag up his shoulder and started down the hall. He had to keep some normalcy in his life.

He started at the moon as he made his way across campus. There were still tricklings of pink and orange on the horizon, but the sun was completely gone. The moon was too bright. He knew just from the location of it that it was just past 9:30. He only had about ten hours of freedom to exist before he was bound to the shadows. He didn’t know how he knew that.

The smell of the art studios was always a comfort for Taehyung. He felt his muscles relax and his mind clear of everything as he made his way inside and through the halls to the studio Jungguk booked. He was home in his art, knowing that nothing would strip away his joy of creating something from nothing but pigment and paper.

“Took you long enough,” Jungguk huffed as Taehyung slipped inside the small room. There was already an easel set up for him.

“Got held up with Jimin. Just a bit concerned with how I was this morning.”

“You’re okay, though? Not contagious?”

Taehyung laughed. “Only if I bite you.”

Jungguk rolled his eyes but didn’t respond. Taehyung watched him dip his brush into a deep red oil paint, making his mouth water. It looked like blood. He stepped forward, eyes not leaving the color, his nose picking up the smell of something metallic. He could hear a resting heartbeat, pumping delicious blood; Taehyung wanted to hear it; he want to feel blood trickle rhythmically into his mouth with his teeth clamp hard on Jungguk’s neck.

“You sure you’re okay, hyung?”

Taehyung blinked and stared at Jungguk for a moment. He cleared his throat and nodded. “Yeah, just a lot on my mind. Sorry.”

He pulled out his blank canvas. He stared at the few faint pencil lines of the gravestone he’d been staring at the night before, when his biggest fear was still death. Taehyung was pretty sure his biggest fear was his own reflection now, a creature he didn’t recognize anymore, a creature that wasn’t exactly alive.

He set it on the easel, taking in everything he remembered about the night before. He was so sure he’d finish, so inspired by the name and dates on the stone. Then she showed up. Taehyung touched his chest as she flooded his mind. She was so sexy, so easy to talk to, so easy to trust. She told him it was a big mistake to trust her, but he didn’t think so at the time.

The text message came back to mind. She had to have been the one to send it. He didn’t remember anyone else that night, not even a security guard. She had to be the one that turned him. And she wanted to meet him at eleven.

He pulled out his phone, looking at the time. 9:45. He could leave and come back. How long would Jungguk be there? Would he have time to finish his assignment if he left? Why should he even go. He didn’t need anything explained to him; he had Choa that did that. Right?

He glanced at the canvas again. Painting a headstone, painting death as his greatest fear, it seemed foolish now. He dipped into his toolbox, pulling out his eraser. He’d paint what he had become. He’d paint her.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

EVERY FOUNDER SHOULD KNOW ABOUT START

One problem with saying there's no such thing as good taste. For example, there might be things that appealed particularly to men, or to people from a certain culture. Working on small things is also a good way to learn. Tests are least hackable when there are consistent standards for quality, and the way to ensure that would be just as great an achievement as the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel to a blank canvas is that the people likely to make angel-sized deals, because if angel rounds become more legitimate, then startups may start to opt for angel rounds even when they could, and most would be better off. You don't have to satisfy committees. I disagree with it. Work like a dog being taken for a walk, instead of being impressed that you're half way through? In fact, it may be slightly misleading to say that angel rounds will increasingly take the place of investor-controlled rounds. Immediately Alien Studies would become the most dynamic field of scholarship: instead of avoiding this work, this will be what you do as a way to generate deal flow for series A rounds.

Hacking something together means deciding what to do next. People's preferences aren't random. You're thinking out loud. So if investors want to get rich. But is that more important than that they learn to write well? No, because one audience is the set of all possible humans. I write one. Make something people want applies to us too. The most likely source of examples is math. It's no wonder if this seems to the student a pointless exercise, because we're now three steps removed from real work: the students are imitating English professors, who are merely the inheritors of a tradition growing out of what was, 700 years ago, writing essays was the ultimate insider's game.

It's this end that gives rise to phrases like those who can't do, teach. When in doubt, have a man come through a door with a gun in his hand. And both are good bets for growth: cheap things spread faster, and lightweight things evolve faster. Essays should aim for maximum surprise. I knew this empirically, but I had till then managed to avoid facing it. Pretty much all the groups who had dealings with big companies found that big companies do their best thinking when they wake up on Sunday morning and go downstairs in their bathrobe to make a lot more independent than others, or would everyone be this way if they were indications of character rather than talent—as if having a stupid idea made you stupid. I figured I'd get around to that later, when I was ten I used to be very impressed by airbrushed lettering that looked like shiny metal. I'm pushing this metaphor a bit. We would have been happy if just one of the reasons was that, to save money, he'd designed the Apple II, in either hardware or software.

Throw them off a cliff, and most will find on the way down that they have better taste than people who didn't. But there may not have needed VC money the way they were 10 years ago. Almost everything is interesting if you get deeply enough into it. For many, perhaps most, graduate students, it is stuffing a square peg into a round hole to try to explain why. And the customers paying so much for them were largely the same government agencies that paid thousands for screwdrivers and toilet seats. The way to do it. And I think I've shown that. These qualities might seem incompatible, but they're not. I knew this empirically, but I never took another English class.

In fact, it doesn't seem to help, not as much as, say, making masterpieces in comics might seem to the average person, brand dominates all other factors in the judgement of art. Investors may end up with less stock per startup, but few do. The one possible exception are things like working in fast food, which have deliberately had all the variation sucked out of them. High schools imitate universities. They want to get the fastest possible standing quarter mile. But my main conclusion from the summer is that there's more environment in the mix than most people think. So if you're an outsider, your best chances for beating insiders are obviously in fields where corrupt tests select a lame elite. In fact, programming didn't get done by well-dressed people at clean desks during office hours. It's much safer to invest in do things a certain way, what difference does it make how many others there are? Be careful to copy what makes them good, rather than their flaws. The distribution of investors should mirror the distribution of startups, the biggest source of stress for the founders is not competitors but investors.

Nearly all wanted advice about dealing with future investors: how much would I pay for this if I found it at a garage sale, dirty and frameless, and with no idea who painted it? So don't worry about the suspension; just make that sucker as big and tough-looking as you can. And because they were so short, nothing really had to happen; you could just show a randomly truncated slice of life, and that one should just go to grad school. The groups then proceeded to give fabulously slick presentations. But by the modern era such questions were answered as well as they were ever going to be one investor who gives them the first check, and his or her help in recruiting other investors will certainly be welcome, this initial investor will no longer be the lead in the old sense of managing the round. Another surprise was that the hypothesis we were testing seems to be built into our visual perception. Better stick to the standard cartoon version that the Civil War, so that's what it would have better taste than others: they're the ones who actually taste art like apples.

They may be surprised how well this image has stuck. If everyone wants in, they want in too; if not, not. Being able to take risks is hugely valuable. Though rarely asked out loud, this question lurks uncomfortably in the back of every art student's mind. The kind of people who make good startup founders don't mind dealing with technical problems—they enjoy technical problems—but they hate the type of problems investors cause. The government knows better than to get into second gear. At first they're always dismissed as being unsuitable for real work. If I had to go back n paragraphs and start over in another direction. Young hackers can start viable companies.

The worst variant of this behavior is the tranched deal, where the investor makes a small initial investment, with more to follow if the startup does well. An essay is something you write in school were even connected to what I was doing now. You may feel you don't need investors' money. In a real essay you're writing for yourself. But if angel investors become more active and better known, they'll increasingly be able to take either side of an argument and make as good a case for it as they can easily change their valuation. More precisely, the hypothesis was that success in a startup depends mainly on how smart and energetic you are, in theory, explaining yourself to someone else. Having to retrofit internationalization or scalability is a pain, certainly. And I think I've shown that.

[dindadeel]

Character / Storyline / Whatever-you-called-it Analysis: Mystic Messenger

I really want to credit the artist, but unfortunately I, too, stumbled across this image on the web. If any of you know the owner of this picture, please let me know. Oh, and if the artist does not allow me to repost this picture, please let me know to as I’d be more than willing to take this image down if the owner does not allow me.

Oh my darling,

If only I dare to publish my (twitter) second account here, (will not happen, since I want to say things under privacy, too) you guys would’ve known my obsession over this Korean game called Mystic Messenger.

It is a female-oriented otome (dating) game. You’ll play as this Main Character (MC), so far Cheritz (the developer) has released 6 routes, which you can play depending on which character you want to choose.

So after playing each route and finishing the secret ending, here’s my thought overall.

(lol I actually already wrote a review on my 2nd account, but I’ll write a repetitive thing here lol don’t mind me).

This is a long ass post btw, if you’re not up to that, then you’re free to browse anything else. But if you do want to stick around, feel free to grab some ice tea (I’m recently into honey lemons) and some pockys.

When starting Mystic Messenger, there’s 3 options to choose; Casual Route (free), Deep Route (80 Hourglasses), Another Story (300 Hourglasses). Hourglasses is basically like coins that you can exchange to unlock features throughout the game. You can still proceed with the game without it, but you’ll definitely get more benefits with these hourglasses (e.g.; unlocking new routes like Deep Route, making phone calls, participate in chats that you missed, etc).

You can find more about Mystic Messenger here if you’re a beginner to the game.

Now on to the analysis!

(WARNING: SPOILER ALERT)

If you’re hoping for your-typical-shoujo-storyline-i-met-a-prince-of-my-dream, well you’re wrong because Mystic Messenger is here to fuck you up and make you emotionally attached to fucking fictional characters.

I’d like to think each and every route is a different universe every time I chose a new route (believe me, you’ll have hard time restarting your day after the 11th day). But I cannot help to feel that every route is actually linked to one another and the final ending is Seven’s route. (Yes you can fight me but thats the fact because Seven’s always have this additional thing in his route and he even owns the secret ending, technically).

However, another story (aka V route) is another different universe, because the storyline is a little bit distorted than the original 5 stories (well, it is an additional story).

The reason why I wrote a Tumblr post is because I got a bunch of bullcrap I need to write after finishing V route and Secret Ending.

First of all,

What the actual fuck?

Okay, everything was all good and jolly when you start playing Casual Route. I guess they called it Casual Route because it literally give you the tiniest bit of the secret of RFA. It literally means nothing if you compare it to Deep Route, Another Story, and Secret Endings. In actual fact, even in Jumin’s route, it don’t give as much information.

On casual route, it is very fitting to the name; very casual. It just gives you all these simkung moments with your character of selection. Sure, every route all-in-all asking the MC to ‘help’ the character from their wounds.

(list is based on my recommendations on taking which route first)

Jaehee - To choose her dreams or live on social prejudice

Yoosung - Dealing with his depressions and confusion after Rika’s passing

Zen - Overcoming his insecurities and his past

Jumin - Expressing his emotions when the world seems like tangled threads

Seven - Making sure he is belonged in this world and to be a place where he can call it home

V - Letting him know that he should love and put himself first

Tbh after finishing all routes, I cannot help to think that this whole mysme universe is started as a couple quarrel. But it is a twisted and complex couple quarrel. Basically it all turned murky when  — turned out both the couple did not realized that they’re in a toxic relationship.

 I’m gonna talk not only about any specific route, but the universe as a whole. Mainly towards Secret Endings in which branched from Seven’s, but the inputs came from every route regardless.

Rika had an illness to begin with. She struggles with depression, anxiety, paranoia, and (paranoia induced) delusions. Now this woman (haha please note on how I address her because I put my whole feeling on it) tried to hide it (and she succeeded) from the rest of the member, except V, who’s her fiancee and the one she trusted wholeheartedly. I guess her intentions are good, because she don’t want the rest of the member to worry about her. All she ever wanted to do was to create RFA in hope she could help people with her charity parties and where people with different background and social status could mingle. But again, she’s dealing with a mental illness and I guess she needs someone to know her as a whole, which is V.

This is where everything went wrong, I guess.

Rika does not represent people with mental illness. Cheritz just need a character as an antagonist, or there won’t be any storyline, hahaha.

Don’t get me wrong. V is a loving man. His intentions are also come from a good heart. V loves Rika wholeheartedly. He loves Rika with her flaws, too.

But their actions were like a ripple in a calm water. A single drop could disturb the whole surface.

V comes from a wealthy family, alongside Jumin. He was brought up to act like one. His father brought him up so that he could continue the family business, like Jumin. However, V’s mother was a musician. In fact, his family business related a lot in art & creative industry. So he have this ‘artist blood / tendency’ within him. I think his father opposed him on being an actual artist, so instead he became a photographer. This is where he encountered Rika.

Rika, on the other hand, did not came from a good childhood memory. She was adopted. However, turned out the adoptive parents regretted adopting Rika (that’s a fucked up parents to begin with. I mean, you HAD a choice to PICK your child for God’s sake. You’re not stuck with whatever-God-gave-you on your womb but you GET to choose, either the gender nationality race whatever suits you best and you STILL regret it?). She always felt that she does not belong anywhere and don’t have any place to harbor. She always feel empty.

Now when Rika met V, it felt like a faith to both of them. Rika was the empty canvas. She never knew how it felt to be loved. V, on the other hand, does not know how to give love, as he was always brought up in prince-like manner, and his mother was not able to be there to teach him how to love. So when he encountered Rika, I guess in his artistic mind, his love was like this massive artwork, ready to be painted on Rika’s blank canvas.

Both of them thought that their love was like the sun in the sky.

Why the sun?

Well, the sun is the source of living being. No matter where you are, it will shine. Even when the clouds are there to cover it, the sun is still there, giving you all the warmth. But the thing with the sun, in my opinion, yes it is warm, but there are times where you can get burn to crisp if you stand too long below it. You can get blind if you stare too much. Why, you can even get skin cancer if you’re not well protected.

Both of them could not express their love... as a couple. One wants to accept everything and one is willing to give everything. But the thing is... everything has its own limit. Sure, it feels like they’re meant for each other, however I think it is a toxic relationship as no one in that relationship know how to say no and to stop. V being too philosophical attracted to Rika’s innocence. Back to my canvas-paint theory, it is like Rika is the blank canvas, and V is willing to paint every single space within Rika. So much it turned into obsession. So much that Rika’s actually suffocated from it. Rika’s running out of space.

Sally’s death was the trigger. Rika was in the verge of breaking down. She said it was her fault. Said nobody would love her if they know how dark she is. She is actually ashamed of her illness and struggles, and she wants people to see her as a savior instead. V, who love her so dearly, instead of stopping her, said;

“Even if you strangle my neck, blind my eyes and break my limbs... I will still love you.”

THAT IS FUCKED UP OKAY. Now, if you have a loved one that’s struggling with these conditions, you do not add fuel to the fire. Don’t encourage them to hurt people! What V did was to turn the switch in Rika. In her innocent thought (at first I could not believe Rika was this stupid, but then again, she had her condition), it is okay to be abusive, as V said, he will still love him regardless. THIS. WAS. THE. FUCKING. TRIGGER.

Rika hurt V on purpose due to him trying to stop Rika on creating this cult where she force happiness onto people, drug them so that they would not know any pain. I know V had a good intention trying to stop Rika but I cannot stop thinking that he’s the one who made Rika to had this thought. It was the seed he planted on Rika. He was expecting a beautiful flower to bloom from it, but a monster sprouted instead because of the way he tended the seed.

Due to that, Rika left V for three main reason;

V opposed her idea on creating this everlasting paradise

She thought that V did not love her anymore because she thought V is disgusted with her monster side and the last thing she wanted was for V to leave her side

She knows what she did was wrong. She might be distorted, but she is good by nature. So when she realized she injured V severly, she is actually scared of herself. What if she hurt V even more in future?

And this is where everything went from what the fuck to what in the actual motherfucking fuck?

So instead of spilling the truth, V, being a chivalrous man he is, decided to keep it as a secret. He stated that the reason he kept it as a secret because he did not wish to put Rika under a dark impression. He wants Rika to be seen in her glorious days, as a brilliant young lady which everybody love and adore.

He decided to make Rika’s departure from RFA as her passing. He made up this story that Rika decided to take her own life. Jumped out the cliff, he said, so none of her remains were to be found.

I know RFA trusted this man 100%. But there’s a reason why Yoosung always doubt him, because I will certainly do, too.

First, do you think it is fair for the rest of RFA to be treated that way? To live their life in lies? I mean, come on, she’s basically everyone’s center. If someone that was that close to me, suddenly her fiancee come to us and said she took her own life but her body was never to be found, I would use every measure to fins her (I believe Jumin was loaded enough to do so). 

That aside, does V never consider the rest of RFA’s feeling in the first place? Does he think it was okay for him to lie to them? If only they did not discover the truth in Seven’s route, he will even keep it to himself. I could not help to feel that V is selfish, in a way he wants to keep Rika to herself. He is the one who Rika trust as a whole, and he’d like to keep it that way.

In Casual route, there’s no sign that Rika’s still alive. At the end of each casual route, V is always nowhere to be found. He is either not attending the party, announcing that he’s about to be blind, or just ‘let’s not discuss it now” / “I cannot tell you now”.

IMAGINE how betrayed everyone was when they found out that Rika was still alive and V decided to keep it as a secret. To make things worse, Rika even created this illegal cult. If they truly cared for Rika, I bet they would even love her and help her from her darkness. Hell, Rika was their savior in some way. I just don’t get the logic behind V keeping it from the rest.

For Zen and Jaehee, it might not be a significant lost, just a sense of disappointment. They’re not directly involved in Rika, emotion wise. Jaehee was merely Jumin’s assistant and she respected Rika. Zen was a bit closer to her, as Rika was his fan and the who ‘discovered’ Zen and help him with his career. But other than that, they did not share any emotion bond with Rika.

Yoosung though, he saw Rika as his own big sister. He saw her as his role model. He looked up to Rika a lot. So it is understandable that he was struggling after Rika’s passing, in the most unreasonable reason ever. Especially when Rika only showed her good personality. Who could accept that reason?

Sometimes, people said ignorance is a bliss and that is exactly what happened to each of their routes. They NEVER know. But that is the sad thing. They WILL never know. But if they WERE know the thing that happened behind their back, imagine how hurt they will be? Especially in Yoosung case, where he even get depressed over Rika.

Anyway, it gets even more disappointing for me for the deep route guys. If I were to talk in detail, it will take another dedicated post because it is a deep route hahaha I guess I was deeply attached to them (lol).

By know I guess everyone can grasp on how hurt Seven would feel. His brother was taken by someone that he trusted could take care of him. HIS FUCKING FAMILY. The only person in this universe that he share his blood with and his very existence is the most precious thing. Due to this stupid lover quarrel, Rika just fucking took him and drugged him so that he could work for her and made him hate his own brother. 

WHAT THE FUCK. This is a one sick lady. But whats even sicker is the fact that even knowing this, V did not give Seven any information. He just stick with “I can do this myself, so that none of the member will get hurt”. ITS HIS FUCKING TWIN BROTHER FOR ALL THE GOD’S SAKE. How stupid you could be?! He is more than entitled to know anything about Saeran. Even if love my s/o to death, if he done anything as outrageous as this, I would definitely call for help. This even involved other person’s closest relative!

Another thing to point out is why can’t Seven left any note to Saeran? I know it took awhile for Rika to take Saeran out of Seven and Saeran’s mother. But afterwards, when Saeran was under Rika and V’s care, he could leave a note to him. A simple post-it will do, if he was that scared to be traced. Let Saeran know that the reason he left first is to protect him. Why can’t he do this? I mean, its not like Seven never met V, if in this sense we put Rika under bad light.

Why does V think he is entitled to keep this as a secret? I could see why Seven was in rage when he found out about the whole truth when he about to rescue MC at Rika’s apartment. His reunion with his long lost brother was suppose to be sweet, but no, he was brainwashed and hate him to the core. And even when Seven asking for the truth, V still dare to lie.

But what is even more saddening is Jumin position. Surprised? Well, I guess it is unexpected as he is not a part of Secret Endings. He is constantly suppressing his emotions too. But that is even worse.

The fact that Jumin is V’s closest friend. In his route, Jumin even told MC that the only people that he could trust was V and Rika. I get that couple only share some things among themselves, but imagine how Jumin would feel when he knows two people he trusted the most turned out hiding such big secret? 

He trust V decision, always. When everybody seems to doubt V, he will be that very last person to agree with V. He will never hide anything from V, and even when V hides something from him, he will always said that “V’s always like that. I will trust his decision nevertheless”. The only thing that he didn’t tell V was probably he had feelings for Rika, too (fuck this thing. Jumin’s my man don’t you lay your hand on her Rika (lol)).

Speaking of that, Jumin was in fact treasure Rika, too. He claimed that Rika was that very few people that was able to make him open up and let him expressing his emotion.

He had feelings for Rika, but knowing that Rika never saw him that way and only love V, he suppressed his feelings and decided to just watch from far.

He even treasures Elizabeth the 3rd. Elizabeth the 3rd was so dear to him because it was from Rika, and V named her. The Jumin that we know now is head-over-heel over cat, but in his conversation with Rika on his route, he was not particularly interested in cats to begin with. Jumin’s fucking loaded, if he really likes cat, he could’ve bought the rarest breed of all and enjoy its beauty. But everything changed after Rika gave him Elizabeth the 3rd. He treasured every fragments Rika left him with. He didn’t even finish the book that Rika gave him.

So imagine, imagine it, my dear friend, how unfair his situation is. He already decided to be a bigger man and root for his best friend’s relationship. But turned out his most treasured people are keeping this huge secret. Imagine how disappointed he would feel when he knows Rika was brainwashing Saeran. Imagine how he would’ve felt when V decided to quit RFA on Seven’s route. Imagine how confused he would feel when V is always out of reach on everyone’s after ending. Imagine how painful it is for him to see Rika was beyond repair on V route, the two people he wished for happiness, turned out to be destroying each other?

Imagine how broken he would’ve felt when he attended V’s funeral at Secret End, knowing that his best friend’s own fiancee was the one who lead him to death, and the fact that he has to stay composed in this situation?

There’s a reason why I like Jumin so much. Not only his capability on stay logical (though sometimes can be interpreted as emotionless), but the fact that he never beats around the bush. He never sugar-coat his words (except during his route when he acts like a stupid love bird—no complain about this tho). 

Yes, he is not perfect, even on his route he could be irrational sometimes with his obsessiveness. But knowing his upbringing and his background, its understandable he’s acting this way. But in the end he even tried to overcome it and when V came, he believed in V almost immediately. Even when MC’s life was somewhat along the line.

That is how much he trusted V and how deeply he cared for him.

V, on the other hand, was so drowned on his own ideology of protecting everyone to even notice this. Do you think its fair? Does he thinks its right for him to keep the truth from everyone, when Jumin’s always there for him?

Jumin is even willing to go extra mile for V. I guess sadly V doesn’t see Jumin in the same light.

I know this post somewhat treating V as the main villain. I swear, on V route I tried to save him like everyone else. Rika was truly a sick woman on his route. I really loathe her. As Seven said, she was beyond repair. But again, I couldn’t help to feel sick over the fact that both Rika and V are still hiding Saeran/Ray’s existence, even when Saeran blow himself, ON SEVEN’S AWARENESS.

Even under this fiasco, V never tell anything to anyone. He didn’t even tell MC as far as I know.

Ray... he was the main victim. He was tossed here and there without him able to control his own consciousness due to the drug.

I don’t want to blame V. I really want to hate Rika because Cheritz created this character for us to hate to begin with. But then again, I can’t help to think that the root of this problem is both of them. Both of them acted like they want to save people, how they don’t want to bring pain to innocent souls, but in the end, with their lies and their acting like a goody two shoes,

how many souls did they hurt?

[cosmichobi]

art lesson (m)

in which your forgetfulness leads to perhaps the least innocent art lesson of all time

Member: Taehyung

Word Count: 2.3k

The fact that you had practically carried your friend from the cab up to her apartment, all while in heels, was a testament to the strength of your relationship. You muttered something to yourself about not being paid enough for this shit, which you didn’t think she’d hear.

“Uhm, you’re my best friend, you’re not getting paid at all!”

“But I should be, that’s the point.”

The door opposite hers swung upon before she could respond with whatever awful, unintelligible retort her drunk brain would come up with.

“I’d ask you guys to keep it down, but I like hearing you bicker.”

You didn’t have to look up to know that the voice belonged to Kim Taehyung, because who else would happily bask in your misery at – you checked your phone – 4am?

“I don’t know why you’re awake at this time, nor do I want to know.” you started, pausing only to watch helplessly as your friend slid to the ground, her back against the wall. You blinked before turning back to Taehyung, deciding to at least finish your sentence. “Seeing as you’ve decided to grace us with your presence, at least help me get her inside.” Taehyung gave you a once-over before responding, the intensity of his eyes always sparked something inside of you.

“How are you still so eloquent when drunk?” He offered his hand to your friend, who took it as graciously as she could.

“I’m not drunk. The alcohol wore off the second she threw up on the bouncer.” You dug into her purse, grabbed her keys and opened the door. With you holding one hand and Taehyung holding the other, the two of you walked (perhaps ‘dragged’ would be more appropriate) your friend to her bed. You told Taehyung to watch her while you went to pour her a glass of water.

“Yeah, she fell asleep.” Taehyung announced, walking into the kitchen. Your brows furrowed as you wondered how the hell she managed to fall asleep so quickly. Regardless, you made sure to leave the glass of water by her bedside table before the two of you left her apartment.

He stood opposite you in the hall, in front of his own apartment whilst you leaned on the wall.

“Thanks for that.” You smiled, as did he. “So, why are you up so late anyway?”

“I was working on a painting actually.” His eyes barely met yours as he responded. He always did get shy about his artwork, which you could never understand since as far as you were concerned, he was the most talented person you knew.

“Oh, can I see it?!” He hesitated.

“Maybe another time, I’m not too happy with it right now.”

“Alright then. You still owe me an art lesson, by the way.” Was this art lesson an excuse for you to spend more time with him? Absolutely. Was he aware of this? Probably. Did you care? Not at all.

“Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten.” A silence fell between you, but it was obvious that neither of you were about to make a move to leave.  You felt his eyes rake over you once more when you pulled out your phone, and he held eye contact once you looked back up at him.

“Kim Taehyung, are you checking me out?” He could only clear his throat in response to your teasing. He rubbed his hand behind his neck and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Well, you look nice tonight.”

“Just tonight?”

“You’re flirting with me more than usual, you must be tired.” He had somewhat of a point. “Are you okay getting home?”

“I live across the street, Taehyung.”

“So?”

And that was how he ended up walking you home. You hugged him goodnight, and he lingered longer than usual. You were so close to telling him to stay, but you held back. It wasn’t the time to explore your obvious attraction to each other, the both of you were better off getting some sleep.

It wasn’t until 9 the next night (or that night if you were being technical, but you had always maintained that the day didn’t end until you went to bed and didn’t start until you woke up) when you realised that your friend still had your bra. The need to go and get it severely disrupted your plans of doing nothing. Sending a glance towards the bowl of sweets you had planned on spending the night with, you pulled on your jeans and headed out of the door.

You knocked incessantly on her door for several minutes, but she didn’t answer. To save your knuckles from either bleeding or breaking, whichever came first, you pulled out your phone and called her. She didn’t pick up the first time nor the second time, and the third time she straight up declined the call.

When you heard a door swing open you already knew it was the door behind you, and you already knew who was standing there.

“She’s gone to the movies.” You pursed your lips into a straight line, all of a sudden remembering the exact conversation you had when she told you she had a movie date. How Taehyung knew, you had no idea.

“Do you just sit at your door and listen to what’s going on outside?”

“I wouldn’t hear anything if you weren’t so loud.” Touché.

You noticed his uncharacteristically plain t-shirt, which must have meant that he was painting and didn’t want any of his expensive clothes getting dirty. “You can hang out with me until she comes back, I’m just doing some painting.” He gave you a childish grin. “I can give you that lesson you’ve always wanted.”

You thought back to the sweets you had waiting for you at your apartment, but then you looked at Taehyung.

The sweets could wait.

“Sounds perfect.”

Taehyung pulled up a stool next to his and replaced the painting he was working on, which had held your attention as soon as you entered his apartment, with a blank canvas.

“Are you wearing anything underneath that?” he asked, pulling you back into reality. The corners of your lips curled upwards at his words.

“Who’s the flirt now?”

“No,” a smile broke out on his face, and he hoped you didn’t notice the heat that had rushed to it. “You probably don’t want to ruin your shirt, so I was gonna suggest you take it off.” You followed his advice, removing your shirt to reveal the tank top you were planning on spending the night in. He swallowed, having to tear his eyes away from you and your frustrating talent of making the simplest of clothes look sexy. He pressed his phone, and soft music began to fill the room.

He admitted that he hadn’t really given a proper art lesson before, and even though you were hardly looking to become the next van Gogh, he wasn’t sure where to start. He handed you a paintbrush, telling you to follow his lead. Soon, you were both laughing at your attempt at painting a simple figure, which paled in comparison to his.

“Hmm, maybe change the way you’re holding the brush.” You looked at the paintbrush in your hand, then the paintbrush in his hand, and you were adamant that they were in the exact same position. Noting the confusion on your face, he moved his stool to sit behind you. “Here, let me help.”

He reached around you to position your fingers and arm. You were about to thank him, before he put his hands on your waist for help as he scooted even closer behind you. His touch was delicate yet firm. Sitting this close to you was torture for him, and he could only hold back for so long. Even your scent was addictive, and he didn’t want to go anywhere.

“If you want me to get anywhere with this, you’re gonna have to sit further away from me.” He hummed, letting you know that he had heard what you said. One hand remained on your waist while the other travelled to your upper thigh. The touch was light, bringing goosebumps to your skin. “Seriously, I won’t finish the painting.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to finish the painting.” He placed the softest kiss on your shoulder, working his way up to your neck. “Maybe I want you to myself for tonight.” His fingers on your thigh travelled to the button of your jeans, threatening to delve even deeper. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

“Please don’t stop.” Your breath almost hitched in your throat when he used both hands to unbutton your jeans and teasingly played with the band of your underwear. You couldn’t help but moan when two fingers finally slid underneath and started circling your clit. Your hands gripped his thighs as pleasure rushed through you. You only became wetter as you grinded against his fingers, wanting all he could give.

You were weak in his arms, absolutely vulnerable to his control and in that moment, you probably would have agreed to anything – and you still had your clothes on!

“Fuck, kiss me.” He pulled his hand out from your underwear as you turned around, and he pulled you onto him. You briefly wondered if the stool was strong enough to support your combined weight, but that wouldn’t matter soon, and it was the last thing on your mind when his lips finally met yours.

Taehyung was a passionate kisser, which didn’t surprise you in the slightest. You could have spent all night kissing him, but you felt his growing hardness beneath you and you wanted to have some fun. He growled when you bit against his bottom lip and began to grind on him, fiddling with the band of his jogging pants. You got on your knees to pull them off, and took off your own top and jeans before fully focusing on him.

You licked him through his underwear, and his sharp intake of breath gave you the confidence to keep going. The excitement in his eyes didn’t go unnoticed when you finally discarded his underwear and took him into your hands. There was no break in eye contact when you traced your tongue around the tip of his penis, and his thighs clenched in excitement. He couldn’t take his eyes away from you, he knew you’d look so fucking good like this. When you finally took him into your mouth, he threw his head back.

Taehyung was only capable of a flurry of expletives and groans as you bobbed your head back and forth on his dick. It became very obvious very quickly where his most sensitive spots were, and you enjoyed hearing his expressions of pleasure, it only made you want to please him more. One of his hands reached to the back of your head, pushing you further down on him. “That’s it, just like that. I wish you could see how pretty you look with my dick in your mouth.” You moaned at his words, the vibrations making him thrust into your mouth.

You pulled away, a trail of saliva between your lips and the tip of his cock.

“Don’t you want to fuck me before you cum?” You needed him so badly it was almost painful. His eyes darkened, and just when u thought you couldn’t possibly be more turned on, you were wrong.

“Get on the couch.” You did as he said, sauntering over to the couch. You removed the final pieces of clothing covering your body as he disappeared into his room before emerging with a condom. Your eyes wandered up and down his body, appreciating it in full for the first time as he placed the condom on and climbed onto the couch. He lay behind you, placing a hand under your thigh to lift your leg. “Ready?”

“Absolutely.” That was perhaps the last coherent word you said, for as soon as he plunged into you, you lost all inhibition. His fingers teased your clit, and he watched with a satisfied smirk as you were overcome by pleasure. You swore, you grabbed at the couch, and you grinded against him. You even turned your head to place a desperate kiss on his lips.

“Does that feel good?” he asked, knowing full well that you weren’t able to answer. “Do you like the way I fuck you?” You hoped whatever you said in response sounded vaguely similar to ‘yes’. It occurred to you quite quickly that he liked the fact you were barely able to speak, that this was the effect he had on you. You grabbed at his thigh, gasping when he switched the pace and went slower.

“Oh my fucking god.” He thrusted deeply into you, and you almost came undone. “You’re gonna make me cum.” His fingers returned to your clit when you spoke, and it wasn’t long before you rode out your orgasm, a hand gripping the couch with all your might. He moaned against your ear, picking up the pace.

“Stay right there baby, fuck, that’s perfect.” He held you in place, not like you were planning on going anywhere. He grunted as he thrust into u one last time, releasing into the condom. You felt his breath against you as he tried to recover from his orgasm.

You didn’t return to your apartment straight away. In fact, you didn’t think to leave (nor did he want you to) until you heard your friend return from her date. Turns out it really was easy to hear everything from Taehyung’s apartment. Your phone vibrated against your thigh, ruining the embrace that you and Taehyung found yourselves in.

Before you left his place, he planted a longing kiss on your lips. When the kiss ended, he gently caressed your bottom lip with his thumb, licking his own lips in the process.

You knew you’d be back for more.

[kunsart]

I am the least constant, most confused person outside my safe rectangle of canvas. Safe because it is mine, my world, my rules, my flat Earth. ~ Steven Beercock.

Steven Beercock with his painting, Whoosh, on the easel.

Seeing his work is like finding your uncle’s paintings in a shed; then noticing how weird they are and how eccentric he is; and then slowly realizing they are really, really good, and he’s a genuine artist.

When I first encountered samples from Steven Beercock’s “Tall Man” series of 30 images, while swiping through my Instagram feed, I thought they were the wacky, oddball paintings of an amateur, folk art, surrealist painter. I said to my girlfriend, “What’s with the long-legged, big feet paintings?” Though I certainly liked them, literally and figuratively, I hadn’t recognized how complex and interesting they were, especially taken together, both technically and thematically.

#15, Shweep. Tallman leads the smallest sheep home, who is not a black sheep, but a white sheep covered with soot from being a chimney sweep.

The Artist:

He also does the occasional realist nature painting.

Steven Beercock is an English, 60 year old, self-taught artist, living with his Italian wife in Sicily. He only started painting in 2014, but has remarkably completed over 250 paintings so far. His original motivation was simply “the strange idea of filling the bare walls of his new home with his own, non-existent paintings,” but there was a deeper, underlying impetus:

I think the real reason I began painting was the desperate need for dialogue with the world. My – chosen – physical world is far too small and suffocating. Nobody wants to dream alone.

In my written correspondence with Steven, he expressed core ideas about art I happen to agree with. Painting is a means of communication, of sharing one’s inner vision, and of manifesting it in visual form within the rectangle of the canvas. The canvas, or “flat Earth” as he described it, is a place where one can recreate the world and the heavens, and is the only place where one has real freedom and control.

In these deceptively simple paintings, Steven realizes a dreamy, cinematic vision in which benevolent, headless giants roam the landscape performing bizarre but generous acts. The result, as unlikely the source and medium, is a unique and relevant vision of contemporary art.

The Tall Man Paintings:

Do you remember those wonderful scenes of Richard Dreyfuss in Close Encounters sculpting the mountain out of his mashed potatoes or shaving foam? I feel a bit like him. I see tallman everywhere in everything, like I have been “visited.”~ Steven Beercock.

The artist’s own analogy for focusing on the tallman theme also captures one of the most appealing aspects of his work. It has that quality of someone working obsessively, as a bit of an outsider, and in his own way, for the intrinsic worth of doing so, and out of a genuine love for painting. He’s had neither the benefit nor the limitations of a contemporary art education, and so he does something that’s anathema to it – he paints personal images from his imagination. It’s a direct and honest approach that one has to be naive, oblivious, or in defiance of the dominant art narrative in order to practice. His work is un-corrupted by the ideological excesses of contemporary art theory; postmodernism; conceptualism; and the anti-art legacy of Duchamp…  He made these paintings as if he didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to, and not even supposed to be able to. In that sense they are refreshing, honest, and innocent.

On first glance the tallman reminded me of Robert Crumb’s famous “Keep on Trucking'” cartoon of the late 60’s

Robert Crumb, Keep on Truckin’ comic, as published in Zap Comix, 1968.

This, however, is misleading. If we haven’t seen something before, we grasp at the first association. Crumb’s characters are goofy, groovy, nonchalant, self-satisfied, and strutting’. Beercock’s tallmen are benign behemoths making minor miracles only witnessed by birds, slugs, moths, sheep and fish…

Stories:

Each painting tells a story, if we can tease it out, though it doesn’t need to make sense in consensual reality.

Flightful

#16, Flightful.

In Flightful, above, ostriches, penguins, dodos, and kiwis go on a carousel ride for flightless birds, in which they are able to experience the sensation of flying for the first time. The realistic rendering of details in places is a bit rough, but more than adequate to tell the story, while the anatomy and various poses of the birds are rather elaborate. The idea is endearing, but the painting crystallizes it into memorable imagery. Perhaps only a headless person would think to give flightless birds the experience of soaring.

The Milky Way

#4, The Milky Way

The Milky Way is one of my favorites, but I can’t beat the artist’s own description of the painting:

I put it (the milky way) on canvas, stared at it like that night and was overwhelmed with a feeling of the need to express my love and appreciation of my amazing wife. I imagined him (me?) extracting milk from the milky way and filling an old copper bath. (note the pipeline to the stars) Then I thought her bath would need rose petals. So he suggested tickling the stars and they fell…as rose petals, of course. ~ Steven Beercock

Scoop

#5, Scoop.

The tallman gives a microphone to a chicken in order to give it a voice and let it tell the world its humble story. But more particularly, the tallman’s trying to, as Steven put it, “get the scoop of the century (if not centuries) and finally ask the damned creature why the hell he’s crossing the road!”

Debut Flight

#30, Debut Flight.

Multicolored slugs become airborne, floating in puffy individual clouds after scaling tallman’s legs, in Debut Flight. More naturalistically, we also witness “the flight of the fledgling song thrush with her parents.”

Blackpool Rock

#2 Blackpool Rock

In Blackpool Rock tallman gives treats to the gulls, but the one in the foreground takes advantage and makes off with a credit card. In the background Black Pool Tower mirrors the shape and color of tallman’s trousers. Several of his paintings so far feature sites from where he grew iup, and manifest a quality of longing for the lost world of his childhood.

Blackpool Tower in Lancashire, England. Constructed in 1894, and modeled after the Eiffel Tower, it was at the time the tallest man-made structure in the British Empire.

Black sheep just wanna’ have fun

#14, Black sheep just wanna’ have fun.

The black sheep in Black sheep just wanna’ have fun descend the hill in unconventional ways for sheep. A couple sheep parasail, one hang-glides, one can be seen careening down in a shopping cart; one does a back flip on a skateboard, and still another has made the trip in a tire… Here, the tallman is based on chalk figures in the hills of England.

The Long Man of Wilmington on the slopes of Windover Hill, near Wilmington, East Sussex, England. [Photo by Linda Sgoluppi]

The underlying meaning, and why tallman is headless.

I have always (drowned myself and others in a swirl of meaningless words. Was it Hopper who said something like, “If I could explain it, I wouldn’t have to paint it”? ~ Steven Beercock.

Not all the painting are as whimsical or charming as the ones I shared above. Some are more somber or have political undertones. All are tied together with the presence of the headless entity. While I was pleased with the variations on a theme the body of work presented, I was also drawn to the mystery of what the recurring figure represents. Surely he is a metaphor for something: an underlying philosophical orientation, psychological state, or spiritual dimension…

#29, Saturday Matinee. “My fetish for high redbrick walls; yearnings for home and childhood, I suspect; Current reflections on liberty, imprisonment, contrasts between 1st and 3rd world “values.” ~ Beercock.

An artist doesn’t make 30 images of such an unusual subject without there being a compelling reason, and in this case it’s an artist who’s produces over 250 images in just 6 years (which is about a painting a week). I asked him point blank, a couple times, why tallman is headless, and I don’t think he really knows, or hasn’t yet figured out precisely how to verbalize it. Perhaps that’s why we have 30 paintings so far.

Headlessness and exacting abstract language don’t appear to go together. Can we even expect language to be able to encapsulate everything? It’s one of the dire mistakes of the late 20th century art paradigm to reduce all art to ideas, when visual art is its own language that takes place outside of linguistics. Unlike written and spoken language, an image doesn’t unfold in time, but is eminently still. It’s a different kind of communication, which can leap the over usual language barriers, and communicates a unique terrain of substance that may not be expressible via any other means.

Art has freed my from the shackles of constantly expecting or even needing a explanation for everything. The great thing now – perhaps it’s my age – I no longer care two pennies about whether it “makes sense.” Paradoxically, this frees up my imaginative flow. Basically, anything goes. I can wait to find out why – if ever – it went.

That was a long-winded way of saying “I am now trusting my instinct.” 🙂 ~ Steven Beercock

All that said, I’d still like to make of go of it, and try to hammer out some sort of interpretation. The artist, while he may not be able (or perhaps willing) to nail down his tallman, can tell us how it all started, and that’s with the painting, Swift.

#1, Swift.

The series began here. Most of this scene is my recollections of a dream from the previous night. I dreamt I was flying through the tiny Yorkshire village of my childhood, Clifford, I was zooming along, at knee level when I came across something like this guy. I can’t say whether he had a head or not as it was misty, but there were hundreds of swifts zooming, a bit like me, and they seemed to be coming out of where his head should have been. What I have gleaned till now from my own reflections and from the feedback of many others who’ve seen it at some of my shows is that (wait for it, wait for it…the pretentious Freudian bit) this was myself as a child looking at myself today – hence the particular perspective. I get the feeling that I am telling myself what has happened and is still happening to me since I began to paint. My view of the world and of my place in it has changed dramatically. Moreover, art has made feel somewhat proud of myself for once. Walking tall at last, maybe.Basically. little Steven is looking up at (or to, I hope) big Steve.

One thing that is clear is that Steven has discovered or realized himself through, and in, painting. The Freudian business aside [ I think Freud is too concentrated on everything being sexual, and that’s only when he gets past anal fixations] I see escape here: not escapism, but liberation.

I lean strongly towards the idea that through art I have managed to trust my first impressions/thoughts/feelings and he is the standard bearer of this approach; the only approach that gets me as near as I can to the stars. I don’t need a head and eyes, I know they are out there. I can feel ’em.

Beauty, mystery, wonder and echoes of our childhood, the primitive are inside *us*, not just in our heads. Irrationality scares us socially, it is a must for me artistically in many moments. We have in our spontaneity, intuition, gut feeling and wildness those fabulous echoes.

As the birds are freed from the container of the body, the mind is unfettered by limiting concepts of self — especially as defined by others — and from the constraints of reason and even linguistic thought. The eruptions of the birds is the release of bottled up creative energy. The closest bird, almost threatening, is the picture of “spontaneity, intuition, gut feeling and wildness”. I counted over 300 birds, and these could represent the paintings the artist would make.

Outrageous Perspective

Steven’s rendering of certain details are sometimes a little vague or unpolished (hands, shoes, folds in clothing). This gives his paintings a deceptive resemblance to folk or outsider art, but other elements are very sophisticated and serve to elevate the paintings above the amateur. He repeatedly uses a picture-plane-busting device of extreme foreshortening, and the illusion of objects, including birds or the tallman’s feet, coming bursting through the canvas.

#28, Bananas.

Bananas is a perfect example of these curious, and dramatic pictorial strategies. Notice the charming yellow slug on the bottom left, and that his underside is as if sliding on the inside of the picture plane. Our point of view is similar to the slugs. The rows of corn and sunflowers converge on the horizon line at the vanishing point, creating an inverse V shape. At the same time, however, the tallman’s legs create a much higher vanishing point, and second suggested horizon line. This is a peculiar distortion, because we couldn’t be both looking up at the giant, and back towards the horizon, and way down at the slug at the same time. Further, the rightmost banana has been tossed through the picture plane.

Another recurring device throughout his paintings is a convincing array of positions or poses of objects and animals. Each bird in the flock in Swift took a different pose, and the same occurs here with the configurations of bananas.

Some people will see phalluses, — that’s inevitable, — but hopefully we can muster up enough brain power to go beyond our first knee-jerk reaction. This painting is about YELLOW.

I felt I had neglected yellow over these years and decided  to make up for it. Tallman acquiesced understandingly.  I basically went bananas.

Tallman is flinging the gift of yellow, in a field of yellow, and the extravagant display is all for the benefit of one, lowly, admiring, yellow banana slug.

#18, Bungeeee

The same compositional forces are at play in Bungeeee, in which small animals plummet down towards us, getting the thrill of their lives.

#3, Fish Leaves.

In Fish Leaves, our tallman brushes the tops of trees with his fingers, changing leaves into fish.  As with the other canvases, tallman’s legs make the large triangle, and the largest of the fish leaves swims through the surface of the picture plane.

Tallman’s adventures continue

There’s already one more painting in progress, and it’s coming along very nicely, though the artist reports he’s struggling to pull it off. Here’s we can see the progression, so far, in 5 stages:

We can already see that the split streams of the waterfall echo tallman’s legs, we have our flying birds, and some sort of rainbow emenating from a dog in the foreground.

The artist and his painterly, lucky doppelganger persist in making magic happen in the visual realm. When blue chip artists art spend millions to employ others to make their grand spectacles for them; and contemporary art is thought to be found in the radical, conceptual, and necessarily political works of young artists, I find these warm and whimsical, hand-painted images by a self-taught, 60 year old artist more engaging and enduring.

I feel better about the world knowing tallman is roaming out there, and his gifts to birds, slugs, leaves, and sheep are really presents for the collective visual imagination.

The Complete Series of 30 Paintings

The images are in chronological order, and each painting has a caption, supplied by the artist himself, to give a a clue as to what they are about.

“the dream that opened the door to the series.”

“Despite his efforts to give the gulls a nice day out, there’s always one.”

“How many times I’ve wanted to be able to do this. Turn leaves into fish? Why not?”

“Milking it, tickling the stars while caressing the moon. All for his loved one.”

“So, what’s the big deal about roads?”

“Why you should always take a baseball bat when camping.”

“I just can’t explain this one, Eric, sorry.” (Sometimes the artists doesn’t even know.)

“Here, he is lost, lonely and hoping his letters arrive, like the young WW1 soldiers in France and Belgium.  Tallman is a bit of a Zelig at times.”

“Note that it’s the only one which features human beings. I think he not only wanted peace, but company too. I think the elephant also served that purpose ‘wanting peace and company’. Sounds about right to me at least.”

“Tallman gets a little muddled at times and decides to chase the butterfly chaser.”

“ideas come to him like lightning. Handy ones at times.”

I think this was my dad in front of the fire warming not only his hands 🙂

“Crows can see right through him. They ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“the well-worn track of the average sheep probably forced the black sheep to think up a better way of getting around the hill. The tall white man was inspired by the chalk figures on hills in England , one being ‘The Long Man’.”

“tallman is in an  industrial town in my home county of Yorkshire as a chimney sweep. As always, he is very resourceful and there are millions of sheep.”

“fulfilling the ultimate dream of the flightless.”.

“Tallman may have been born when I visited Stonehenge at the age of 5. The looked like giant’s legs, still do. So I made them do what legs so best.”

“Animals rights.? Yes, even to bungee jump. Tallman got it sorted.”

“Dare, care, share! Fear is our only prison keeper. Tallman welcomes strangers sharing his apple.”

“allman, once more in stone, in his own world, in his headless mind. I see him everywhere.”

“‘Umbilicus Sicilae’ What the Romans called Enna, the town in central Sicily where I have lived for the past 30 years. Here,  I was looking at tallman from my weekend spacestation.”

“a sealife, copycat  chain reaction after a meteor passed by and tallman momentarily flipped and did the Fosbury flop in his flipflops over  its smoke trail…if you know what I mean, hahah!”

“A fly-by Chinese perspective on how the US and western economies are dawdling and tallman takes it upon himself to give them a ticket.”

“Laid back trip, quick thinking and a friendly swift kick up the backside of a porcupine who refuses to follow road safety rules.”

“Tallman saves Sicilian towns from Mount Etna eruption with quick thinking moondrop tactic, Local wildlife is impressed.”

“Everyone wants to join in when tallman is having fun. Barefoot water skiing being a favourite pastime.”

“‘Everyone  has a book in them’ – my father, Eric Beercock.  Every old person is a library. That was Grandad Pop, his father Victor Beercock. All children should learn from and about their own Grandad Pop.”

“Tallman can make anything fly, so he does…even bananas. Why not?”

“Tallman can see way over the walls of fear and exclusion and bring some joy to those most in need.”

“Yes, slugs dream too. A home, maybe a chance to fly now and then. Chase song thrushes, even. Tallman brings it on.”

You can follow Steven Beercock and the tallman’s journey on IG: https://www.instagram.com/steven_beercock/

and on FB: https://www.facebook.com/stevenjbeercock/

~ Ends

  And if you like my art or criticism, please consider chipping in so I can keep working until I drop. Through Patreon, you can give $1 (or more) per month to help keep me going (y’know, so I don’t have to put art on the back-burner while I slog away at a full-time job). See how it works here.

Or go directly to my account.

Or you can make a one time donation to help me keep on making art and blogging (and restore my faith in humanity simultaneously).

The Long-legged, Big-footed, Headless Giants of Steven Beercock I am the least constant, most confused person outside my safe rectangle of canvas. Safe because it is mine, my world, my rules, my flat Earth.

[always-andshewrites]

Chapter 3 : Deal with the Devil

| Peeta |

Using my free hand to open the door because my other hand is being held hostage by the death grip from Katniss’ hand, I slowly push the door open.  I tense up when I feel my heart begin to accelerate from the thought of some Capitolite laying their filthy hands on any of my things.  It’s true that this is my home, but technically, it is the property of the Capitol, and thus, belongs to President Snow.  However, the thought of him or any of his goons in my home sends a murderous rage festering inside me.

The moment my foot passes the threshold my head snaps to the left, meeting Katniss' stare.  Both of us immediately recognize the all too familiar rancid aroma of blood and roses filling the air, informing us, without a doubt, who our intruder is.

‘Snow.’ Katniss conveys, casting me a worried glance and gripping even tighter onto my hand.

No one appears to be on the main level of the house, so we tiptoe, quietly making our way up the steps and to the second floor.  Stealthily, we creep down the hallway, eager to face our intruder, yet anxious at the same time.  I instantly take notice of the door to my art studio, which is always, without fail kept shut and locked up tight; is slightly ajar.  It is what grabs my attention, confirming that something is amiss.  All of our friends and family; or really anyone who visits us knows to steer clear of that room, aware of what lies beyond the threshold.

Curiosity overpowers our fear, and together we make our way into that room.  This is the one and only room I ask Katniss to stay out of, not because I have anything to hide but because I know the sight of my paintings will most likely trigger her gag reflex, in addition to causing her now dormant nightmares to return.  They are not so much paintings, but a visual timeline of each of my nightmares, a vivid recollection of our time in the arena.  

When I glance down the row of paintings, for the first time I see them as an onlooker would and cannot help but notice how each one is more vibrant than its neighbor.  Most likely because the nightmares become more lucid and lifelike the closer the Victory Tour gets.

Katniss doesn’t want or need a visual to remind her of the horrors we faced in the arena. But for me, it’s like . . . like a form of therapy.  It’s like if I have the ability to remove the images from my mind and transfer them onto a canvas; by turning them into a still life portrait, something tangible, it grants me control; the power to lock them away forever, or even burn them if that’s what I wanted to do.

As much as I want to forget the horrors we faced and as much as I want to expunge the memories from my mind, at the same time I don’t want to forget.  If I forget, then who would remember Thresh and Rue?  And what about the other tributes?  No, I need to remember, it’s what gives me the motivation to continue living my life.  The drive to fight our battle.

Once the door is open, we see the backside of a man with fluffy snow-white hair.  He is dressed in a sharp, tailored suit, slowly pacing the length of the room.  His hands are clasped behind his back, giving a slight nod here and there, as if offering his approval at the paintings lining the wall.

“Dammit— Lucy . . . Kill . . . Mock—jay . . .” I think I hear him mumble to himself just as his body tenses for a moment.  I am instantly intrigued and wonder who this “Lucy” is.

‘Did you—’ I meet Katniss’ eyes, curious as to if I’m hearing things.  She nods, confirming my sanity.

'Peeta, I'm scared.'  She shudders, squeezing my hand a little tighter, if that is even possible.  I reciprocate, entwining our fingers, assuring her that I am not going anywhere.

'It's going to be okay; he's not going to hurt us.' I tell her, though not quite certain myself.  It is moments such as these that I am grateful for whatever forces have bestowed us with our telepathic link.  The ability to communicate silently while in the presence of others has proven to be more than . . . useful.

“Aghhem . . . Excuse me, can I help you?”  I announce our presence, clearing my throat to grab his attention.  I would recognize that snowy white hair anywhere, I do not need to see his face to know his identity, but I still need him to turn around and face us.

“These are quite remarkable.”  President Snow takes his time turning around as he compliments the painting behind him, presenting his face with an approving smirk.  This particular painting details one of his ferocious mutts from the arena; a squirrel foaming at its mouth fills the page, while Katniss and I are drawn as miniscule beings in the far bottom left corner of the canvas.  I am leaning over the side of the cornucopia gripping firmly onto Katniss’ calves while she aims the golden arrow at the Queen.  Why am I not surprised that this painting brings him pleasure?

On the other hand, I do not miss the way he sneers disapprovingly at the canvas portraying me and Katniss with our allies from District Eleven.  I have captured us high up in a tree with our friends, seeking refuge from those who mean us harm.  Katniss and I are settled in our sleeping bag on a branch; just below us are Thresh and Rue in an almost mirroring position.  I remember that night so clearly as we swapped stories from our district’s.

“President Snow, what an honor, what—” Katniss begins to offer pleasantries, but the deleterious man in front of us cuts her off before she brings it to completion.

“I think we’ll make this whole situation a lot simpler by agreeing not to lie to each other.  What do you think?”  Snow says with his affected Capitol accent and a hint of arrogancy. His lips are plump and full, the skin appearing painfully tight as he speaks, causing me to believe they must be surgically altered.  Lips that full just aren’t natural.

‘I think it’s meant to highlight his features.’ Katniss quips and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to mask my amusement.

“Yes, I think that would save time.”  Katniss affirms, her voice confident and steady as she stands tall.  She has one hell of a poker face but she can’t fool me.  She is utterly terrified, as am I.

Snow continues to marvel over the neighboring paintings for a moment before a sly grin appears on his face.  He follows it up with a nod of approval and then his eyes are back on me.  “I heard you were talented Mr. Mellark, but I just had to see it for myself.  I would never believe that someone from as lowly a district as Twelve could produce such . . . works of art.”  He begins, slithering to the far corner of the room and taking a seat in a chair behind a desk.  Wait a minute, where did that desk come from?  Before today, this room contained only my artwork, an easel, a handful of blank canvases, various containers of paint, my brushes, and a few other random art supplies.  Either I’m losing it or, or— did he bring this furniture with him?  Is it meant to . . . intimidate us?

'What do you think he wants?' Katniss presses, never removing President Snow from her line of sight.

“Please, why don’t you have a seat?”  Snow affirms, motioning for us to take a seat in the sophisticated looking high back chairs in front of him.  However, I get the distinct impression the “please” was not merely a request.  Katniss and I take a seat, refusing to release our grip on the other’s hand and scoot our chairs closer to the other so that our knees are brushing.

'I have no idea, but I have a feeling we are about to find out.  And . . . where did the desk and chairs come from?'

‘No clue.’ She answers without missing a beat.

Unsure as to how I should respond to President Snow’s remark, I say the first thing that pops into my head.  “President Snow, my paintings will be on display in the Capitol in just a few weeks, so I know you didn’t come all the way out here just to see them.  Why don’t we forgo the pleasantries, and you can tell us why you have chosen to grace us with your presence.”  I assert, holding my head up high, recalling my lessons on proper etiquette with Effie as I come off as unperturbed.  I really hope he can’t see how utterly terrified I truly am.

“My advisors recommended I steer clear of you both; that you would be ah . . . difficult.  But you are not planning to be difficult, are you Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark?”  He articulates each syllable, hissing at the tail end of Katniss' name and clicking mine as it rolls off his tongue.  I cringe from his condescending and taunting voice and suddenly, it feels as if my veins are filled with ice.

[writtenwordsoffic]

The Inquisitve Snake - Part 3 - Jughead x Reader

Part 1

Part 2

Masterlist

@idle-lanes @sgarrett49 @murderyoursoul @moonlight53

Music while writing: Red Hot Chili Peppers “Give It Away”, ELO “Don’t Bring Me Down”, Talking Heads “Take Me to the River”

Anonymous said: hi i love the inquisitive snake please write more ps: i’m demi so thx for wrting somthing i dont have to transform while reading

Thank you all for the response of this series so far. I hope you all keep reading. I really appreciate it. 

It had been a few days since I had last talked to Y/N - some gentle waves in the hallway occurred but that was about it.

I did however give Ricky some pictures of the gang and me. Veronica was fine for covering for her, Archie and Kevin. Even if there was a discount. And while a club in Midvale wasn’t exactly up my alley, I knew a night out with my friends was needed. That didn’t however stop my curiosity and thoughts of Y/N.

I decided to once again ditch class - I had an idea where she’d be at least. I lead my feet to the art room that was once again mostly empty - and then I knocked on the door. She looked to the window opening and unlocked the door. Her music, albeit a little quieter than last time, once again playing. 

“Hey Jughead”, she went back to her stool, going back to her painting. I dragged a stool and brought it closer to her. 

“New painting?”, I stared at the canvas in front of me. 

“Yeah. Not sure where I’m going with it exactly but this part was in my head for a bit…did you want to draw again?”, she turned giving a slight smile. 

“Sure”. I took my jacket off and set it by my bag. She got out my paper and such, setting the bottles back up according to my drawing. 

She gave a smile. “I’m going to keep going on my painting but feel free to talk or whatever. I don’t mind”. She handed me some pencils and I leaned into the table - drawing what was in front of me. “So I saw you gave Ricky some pictures…”, it seemed for once she was questioning me. 

“Yeah. I figured Betty would want a night out of Riverdale and my friends want to tag along”. 

“Well they should be done tomorrow hopefully…”, I could tell her focus was first on the painting, her words second. 

“How do you do get that done by the way?”, my curiosity once again getting the better of me. 

She gave a small chuckle. “Well I transferred here at the start of freshmen year. And I surpassed ‘Southside Highs expectations’ of the typical student. So I just need to take some basic history class and math every year. I can technically graduate early but I honestly have nowhere to go after this. Anyway…”, she could tell she was getting off track. “Two of my periods are spent here but I’m also the office aid for the school. And well, I have certain accessibility to things to make Id’s. I have a template for the state and I just make them here. I never know when I can get in there alone though”. 

“Wow. So you’re like a genius huh?”. 

She laughed. “Maybe just for this school but I wouldn’t go THAT far”. 

I gave a small cackle. After that, a small amount of pause lasted over the room. She was focused on her painting while I maintained my eyes to the drawing and bottles in front of me. Although, I wouldn’t care to admit that my focus wasn’t solely on my drawing. 

After a little while, I decided to finally focus on a thought that had brought me to the room initially. “You should come”. My voice was trying to remain steady.

“Hmm? Come to what?”, she peered out of the side of her canvas as it had been evident that she didn’t have any thoughts on me. 

“To Midvale. We’re going to a club”. Honestly, I wasn’t all that excited about going to a club. 

“Um…I wouldn’t want to impose. That and going to a club isn’t really my thing. Drinking is fine and all, I’m just not big on dancing”. 

I chuckled. “You think it’s my thing?” She gave a soft giggle - and genuinely I was getting enamored by her laugh. 

“Hey now. I’ve been told not to judge a Serpent by his jacket. For all I know, you are quite the dancing queen”. She gave a smirk to me, knowing I was turning back to face her. 

I laughed to follow the jest. “Not a dancer. But in all sincerity you should come, new friends and all that”. 

She gave a soft sigh. “I don’t exactly make friends easily…”. A nervous tone came from her voice. 

“You’d be helping me not being dragged out to the dance floor as much”, I was guilting her now. 

She gave a small huff, “okay okay, I’ll come”. 

“Will you need a ride?”, I looked back behind me and noticed that she was approaching the sink - once again washing out a brush. 

She set her brush down, now wiping her hands with a towel. “I can take care of myself Jughead”. She gave thought. “You may not want to wear that in Midvale”, she pointed to my jacket. “Might give too much hint that you’re from out of town”. 

I pondered for a moment. “Thanks for the tip. So…Saturday?” 

She smiled. A face I was noticing lit up a little more each time I encountered her. “Yeah okay, you’ve convinced me. I really should get out more anyway”. 

I set my pencil down and handed her my phone. She arched an eyebrow - “to tell you where and when we’ll be there”. She took the phone and put her number in, coming closer to hand it back. 

She walked up behind me and looked at my progress. “This is getting to be great. I like how you fragmented the glass. Fairly surreal”. 

I arched my head back and gave a smile. “Thanks. I think I like drawing”. 

“Here. Hold on”. She went to a cabinet and rifled through some shelves. Then she went to a bookshelf and grabbed something. She handed me both a book and a small blank sketchbook. “You can keep the pencils. I have a ton anyway. When you see something you like, draw it the way you see it. And this is a book on surrealist artists. I think you’ll like it - give you some inspiration”. She gave a smile. 

“Thanks”, I felt as if I was surely smiling too hard but she really was genuine in her words. 

Something was too different about her to not find alluring. Just as last time - we both began to put everything in their rightful place and began to leave the room. She once again gave a soft wave as she walked to her next class. A sense of guilt once again washed over me - as I felt that I was to excited for Saturday night. 

*roaring music* 

“What?!?!?”. 

“I said I’m going to sit at the bar!”. I shouted to Archie. He gave a slight nod as he, Veronica and Kevin made their way to the dance floor. Betty accompanied me to a stool. “You really do look great”, I gave a kiss to Betty’s neck while she gave a smile in appreciation. She was wearing something a little out of place for her - Veronica’s clothing if I had ever had to guess. A tight black dress with a shoulder detail and an opened back. I held her close. “You want to go dance with them?” 

She gave a gentle nod. “You good here? I know this isn’t your thing…”. She bit her lip slightly. I definitely could never handle how gorgeous the beautiful blonde was. 

“Don’t worry about me”. I gave a small smile and she gave a peck to my cheek. She was off to find the rest of our friends. I sat there for a little bit, playing with my rum and coke. I still wasn’t a big drinker but something was better than nothing to partake in. 

“Come here often?”, I heard a familiar laugh and turned. There stood Y/N. Wearing some tight black jeans and a rather loose fitting top. Nothing all too different than the typical t-shirt and jeans I would usually see her in. 

She took the seat next to me at the bar. “White Russian please”. She caught the attention of the bartender quite quickly, flashing her ID. She looked at me gently, “didn’t take you for a button up type of guy”. 

 I laughed and took a sip. “It’s my friends Archie’s”. 

She nodded. “They all on the dance floor?” She somewhat peered up as if she was looking for Betty herself. 

“Yep. Told you I wasn’t a dancer”. The bartender set her drink in front of her. “So what is that?”. 

“Not a cocktail drinker eh? It’s vodka, Kahlua and cream. Sweet tasting but still packs a punch”. She reached over the bar and grabbed another small straw. She handed it to me as well as her drink. 

I took a sip. “Huh. I actually kind of like that”. 

“Stick around and I’ll share my knowledge”. She took the drink back - our fingers slightly touching and I couldn’t help but feel a soft tingle during the touch. She took the glass and began to take a drink. 

“I went through all of that art book you gave me”. A shy smile upon my face. 

“Oh yeah?”, her voice went up a little as the newest song was louder than the last. “What did you think?” 

“Honestly you were right. I very much like the whole surrealist movement. There’s something a little broken about it - a different view on everyday things”.

“Exactly! It’s how the artist sees something and surrealism really displays the unconsciousness with a dream like mold between ‘typical and abnormal’. She lit up - this was definitely a subject that she held dear. 

“So what’s the next movement you’d introduce me too?”, my question came out more coy than part of me intended. Another part of me just felt it as a natural response. 

She laughed. “Well while I would love to introduce you to Dadism - I don’t know if you’re ready for that just yet”. I gave a smile - one that was soon interrupted.

“Juggie! You should get out there man!”, Archie quickly put his arm over my shoulder and then looked at me oddly when he realized I was talking to a girl. I felt a little embarrassed. “Who’s your friend?”, Archie’s focus went to Y/N. 

“Y/N. I know Jughead from school”, without any fear, Y/N pushed her hand forward to Archie. “I’m how you got in here”, her voice came out quieter. 

“Ah. You a serpent?” 

She shook her head. “I just have business with them”, she set her drink down and once again caught the attention of the bartender. 

“Ronnie sent me to get drinks, go dance with Betty!”. I looked to Y/N and gave a reluctant smile. “I’ll be back”. 

She nodded with a new drink in hand, “tell her I say hi”. 

Y/N’s POV 

I felt Archie’s eyes look at me with a little bit of a glare. As if he was protecting Jughead. 

He hadn’t even told his friends that he had invited me. Maybe he was embarrassed by who I was as a person. 

I sat there drink in hand thinking how to start a conversation with the red haired ginger in front of me. I had a feeling in the pit of my stomach that this night wasn’t what I thought it was going to be.