#when he says 'in love with' he means in that superficial infatuated way you sometimes get

[hbdttg]

Part 1 / tag list below the cut

“I’m quitting,” Eddie declares, “I’m out. Call me a tree, ‘cause I’m leaving. Call me a banana, ‘cause I’m splitting. T-t-t-t-that’s all, folks!” he adds, doing his best impression of Porky Pig’s signature stammering.

Chrissy’s laser focus doesn’t stray from her monitor, even when Eddie bodily throws himself into the chair across her desk with a long, strangled groan. Wordlessly, she raises her left index finger at him in a silencing gesture. With her brows furrowed in concentration, she drags her mouse around on its pad and double-clicks something on her screen before nodding decisively to herself. After another few clicks, she finally lowers her finger, raises her eyes, and meets Eddie’s gaze.

“Would you mind grabbing what I just printed? Please?” she asks, smiling at him imploringly.

Chrissy could ask Eddie to bleach his hair and shave off an eyebrow and he’d do it. She’s actually who he has to thank for landing such a cushy job with HHH—a referral from a trusted associate like her goes a long way in a place like this.

And despite Eddie’s many complaints about becoming a corporate sellout, he can’t deny that it certainly has its perks. The office is only a ten-minute commute from his apartment, the compensation agreement he signed amounted to more money than his last two jobs combined, his benefits package is frankly ridiculous, and he gets to work with one of his best friends in the world. Overall, not a bad gig.

Even so, he makes a show of sighing, loud and longsuffering, before doing as Chrissy asks, leaving her office to grab her job off the printer. Eddie knows she works in HR and some of her stuff can get pretty confidential, so he doesn’t even try to skim the contents of the page as he walks it back over to her.

“Here,” he says, thrusting the paper at Chrissy facedown.

“Thanks!” she says. She makes no moves to take it from him. “That’s for you, actually.”

Curious, Eddie takes the paper back and flips it over. In the center of the page is a graphic of safety sign one might find in a cartoon factory, though Chrissy had edited the original from “[___] Days Since Last Accident” to “[___] Days Since Eddie Last Threatened to Quit His Job”. There’s a big red zero in the counter box.

Eddie tries to glower down at Chrissy, but it’s sort of hard to maintain when she bursts into laughter. It’s been years, but the sound of Chrissy laughing like this, all bright and breathless and unrestrained, never fails to transport him back to his (third) senior year of high school, when they first became friends over a failed drug deal.

“Don’t be cute,” Eddie says with a laughable lack of authority, dropping heavily back down into the chair.

“Do you know who you’re talking to?” Chrissy counters, brow raised archly.

Eddie rolls his eyes, crumpling the page into a ball and lobbing it in between them.

Chrissy lets the ball land harmlessly on her desk before sweeping it into the trashcan by her feet.  “Just so you know, I’ve had that saved on my desktop since Monday—and I haven’t had to edit the days count a single time.”

Eddie scoffs, but it’s hard to defend himself when this current visit marks the fifth day in a row he’s floundered into her office, vainly announcing his resignation. “Yeah, well,” he says weakly, “printing it seems like a gross misuse of company resources.”

“What are you going to do, report me?” Chrissy says with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

“Let me guess: you’re the one who receives those reports?” Eddie says dryly.

“Yep!” she says cheerfully. “Now, go on and tell me about your latest trainwreck of an interaction with Steve Harrington.”

“Christ, Chris!” Eddie hisses, leaping to his feet and immediately spinning around to check if anyone was around to hear her damning words. The coast is clear, luckily, but he still scrambles to shut her office door before falling back into his chair. “You can’t just go around saying his name all willy-nilly.”

“He’s not gonna suddenly appear if you say his name three times, Eddie. See, watch. Steve. Steve. St—”

“Don’t risk it!” Eddie squawks loudly, cutting her off.

“You’re an absolute mess,” she says through a laugh, shaking her head at him.

And well, Chrissy’s not wrong.

Eddie’s been a mess since Monday morning, when he unknowingly produced, directed, and starred in The Roast of Steve Harrington. He blames his shitty memory for forgetting what floor his new office was on—if he’d known he was sharing the elevator with someone he could have potentially worked with (let alone someone whose surname made up a third of the company name), he wouldn’t have opened his big, fat mouth in the first place.

When he finally gathered the courage to make it back down to the fifty-second floor and show his face at the HHH office, he kicked off his onboarding with Chrissy with a strangled, “I know it’s my first day and I technically just started ten minutes ago, but I quit. Thank you for the opportunity and good-bye forever.”

Chrissy, the traitor, spent a full five minutes laughing in his face over his shamefully recounted story before patting him twice on the head and informing him he wasn’t allowed to quit for at least six months. The overly saccharine tone of her voice alone told Eddie there was no room for argument there.

Still, that didn’t stop him from following her into her office after the all-hands meeting on Tuesday, all the while whining in her ear, “I can’t thrive in these conditions, Chrissy. Please, I beg of you—accept my sincere and humble resignation from this cursed hellscape.”

‘These conditions’ consisted of any rooms and/or conversations that contained Steve Harrington. Eddie hadn’t been expecting to see the guy doting over the catering when he walked into the conference room that afternoon, and he certainly wasn’t expecting his supervisor and trainer, Murray, to lead him over to Steve to introduce the two of them (though that was likely just an excuse to head straight for the sandwiches that were laid out for the meeting).

While Eddie choked on his own tongue trying to spit out some generic, inoffensive greeting, Steve merely watched him with an amused smirk before thrusting his hand out and offering a perfectly friendly “It’s nice to meet you, Eddie, I’m Steve”, as if Eddie didn’t have Steve’s name and face (and stupidly fit body—who the fuck looks that good in a pair of khakis?!) burnt into his memory from the day prior.

Afterward, Murray, who most assuredly did not have a filter of any kind, bluntly commented on Eddie’s awkwardness, then spent the next five minutes trying to determine if it was normal, strangers-meeting-for-the-first time awkwardness, or something more sensational. Eddie stubbornly kept his mouth shut until the meeting started.

Wednesday followed a similar pattern, with Eddie flouncing into Chrissy’s office with a dramatic “I choose to break my blood oath. At this point I’d welcome the sweet release of death if it meant I didn’t have to work here anymore.”

Chrissy just corrected him, patiently explaining that he was employed at-will, rather than by blood oath, and that if he left before his sixth month, she’d personally skin him alive. Eddie had to pause and weigh the pros and cons of being skinless. Surely it couldn’t be worse than his latest exchange with Steve—via email this time, mercifully.

He’d just learned how to field helpdesk tickets and received one from Steve Harrington himself. It was a simple enough software request ticket, so he assigned it to himself and replied with next steps, asking Steve for a code so he could remote into his computer and install the program.

Steve replied back, asking where he was supposed to find the code. It was an innocuous enough question, but then Eddie noticed something a little off about his email signature: his last name was bolded.

Eddie ignored it, assuming it was a stylistic choice—nothing to read into, surely—but then Steve sent another email shortly after to let him know to disregard his last email; he’d found the right app and was just waiting for it to generate a code. This time, Harrington was bolded and at least two sizes bigger than his first name.

Then, in Steve’s third email, sent not a minute later with the requested code, Harrington was bolded, two sizes bigger than his first name, and highlighted yellow—a tactic Chrissy found so hilarious that she had to shoo Eddie out of her office with tears in her eyes so that she could compose herself and actually get some work done.

Thursday was a blessed reprieve from Steve’s unique brand of psychological warfare, but Eddie still somehow managed to royally humiliate himself in front of him. After he slunk into her office and silently pushed a scribbled-on napkin across her desk—

Please accept this letter as my formal resignation from my position as Systems Analyst II at HHH, effective immediately. Effective yesterday. In fact, I’ll pay you back the entirety of my wages earned if we just forget I ever worked here.

—Chrissy tutted at him sympathetically before taking the napkin and reaching over to dab it at the large wet stain on his shirt.

He’d been walking back to his desk from the breakroom when he rounded a corner and bumped into Steve in the hallway. Literally bumped into, bodily contact and surprised yelps and everything. And it probably wouldn’t have been such a big deal, really, if not for the fact that he had a newly refilled mug of coffee in his hand.

“Eddie, oh my god, are you okay?”

No, Eddie wasn’t okay, because he just splashed himself with hot fucking coffee and now Steve Harrington was worriedly fussing over him and tentatively trying to mop up the liquid with his own fucking hands for some reason, and he was embarrassed (and a little turned on?) and he had to get the fuck out of there now.

“I’m okay, sorry, it’s fine—” he managed to squeak before whirling around and scurrying to the bathroom.

So yes, Eddie’s been an absolute mess the past few days, and today is no different.

…Actually, scratch that. Today is different. Today is worse.

“Okay, now spill,” Chrissy says. “What happened?”

With another drawn-out, pitiful groan, Eddie sinks down in his seat and lets his neck hang off the backrest, blinking up at the ceiling.

“Talk to me, Eds,” Chrissy says, concern starting to bleed into her voice. “If he’s actually bullying you, you can file a complaint. I have a form here somewhere.”

Eddie hears her open one of her desk drawers and reluctantly sits up. “He’s not bullying me, Mom,” he says with a huff. “We actually…we talked.”

“You talked?” Chrissy asks, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, about the elevator. Buried the hatchet and everything. I said sorry, we laughed about it, it’s over and done with.” Eddie’s gaze darts around Chrissy’s desk, searching for something to distract him from the warm and fuzzy feeling growing in his stomach at the memory of their conversation.

“That’s great, I’m so proud of you!” Chrissy says cheerfully. “But wait, if you two are good now…”

Eddie doesn’t want her to ask what she’s about to ask, because the answer might be more embarrassing than all of his other Steve stories combined.

“Why are you still going on about quitting?”

Eddie drops his face into his hands, feeling totally and utterly pathetic. “Um, because I think I’m sort of, kind of, just a little bit…in love with him?”

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

tbh I didn’t think I’d be writing a second part, but if strangers on the internet validate me enough, I guess I’ll do anything~

Y’ALL. I’m blown away by the response to part one of this silly lil au. I didn’t reply to any of the lovely comments or tags, but please know if you engaged in any way (or even if you just read the fic and snorted a little through your nose at a bit you found funny) I love you with my entire heart and you’ve made my entire life.

[Now for the tag list, which I’ve never done before. Sorry if you didn’t actually want to be on here! Or, sorry if you’re stumbling upon this post on your own after asking to be tagged and I missed you oops.]

@messrs-weasley @n0-1-important @bornonthesavage @thing-a-ling @eddiemunsonswife @changenamelater @ispyblu @thesuninyaface

@invisibleflame812 @4nemo1egend @ikolanatari @mavernanche @songbird-garden @trashpocket @original-cypher @over7joyed 

@commonxsenss @justdyingontheinside @mojowitchcraft @maya-custodios-dionach @justmiiriam @imzadidragonfly @lillemilly @gay-stranger-things @child-of-cthulhu @bleedingoptimism @lemanzanabizarra @melaniehere91

@iswearitsjustme @silver-snaffles @csinnamon-fox @paint-music-with-me @epicsteddieficrecs @sweetcreaturetm @hxneyfarms @bossyknow-it-all @vecnuthy @stevethehairington @anything-thats-rock-and-roll @nburkhardt

@gayngerthings @patchworkgargoyle @violetsteve @henderdads @2btheanswertothequestion

[grammmarli]

「 THEIR LOVE LANGUAGE 」

synopsis: the ways that they show their love

— characters: gojo satoru, fushiguro megumi, okkotsu yuta, nanami kento

— contents: fluff, a lil bit of angst and comfort in nanami's, gn reader

part two | masterlist

GOJO SATORU ➽ words of affirmation & gift-giving

This man is rich. Plain as day, there is no doubt about that. There is nothing that Satoru won't do to go to the ends of the earth to get you. The number of times you would receive gifts from this man would have Ieiri, Utahime, and even Mei's eyes widen in horror. And maybe even perhaps jealousy—to see a man so high up his ass so utterly devoted to his partner.

His mornings and afternoons would often be spent teaching his young students at Jujutsu Tech, but it didn't stop him from diving into a whirlwind of activity, all stemming from his blatant infatuation with you. Whenever he had the chance, perhaps luring his students for a "trip" with the promise of going to Roppongi, he inevitably found himself scouring the markets for any trinkets that caught his eye. But who could blame him? After all, they were virtually beckoning him to buy it for you—a delicate necklace, a quaint keychain, or a colorful bouquet of wildflowers. Each item held a piece of his heart, a token of his affection waiting to be shared with you and only you.

Satoru wasn't deterred. Hell, he was hardly even fazed by the indifferent stares or the murmurs of disdain that often followed his well-meaning gestures—mostly by his colleagues, probably thinking he was processed by a cursed spirit, God forbid, but I digress. Love wasn’t just a word to be said but a sentiment to be expressed through actions, however small or grand they may appear. But if that was what Satoru really thought a relationship was, then God may as well have struck him down at that moment. It didn't matter what people thought of him or even what material possessions he bestowed upon you; you're his entire world and don't deserve any less. 

To be able to feel pampered by his kindness and love through gifts. It warmed your heart to know how special you really were to him. Satoru may be rich, but he also knows about the superficial aspects of a relationship and tries to avoid them. But in the end, if that’s what you want, he'll do whatever it takes to make you happy. All he wishes for is your happiness and nothing more. As the strongest sorcerer in the world, Satoru knows he has a lot of power, and he is willing to put that all on the line for you to flourish. The man, to the surprise of no one, had a knack for flirting, effortlessly winning hearts with his smooth talk and irresistible charm. He can even be a flirt at times, for sure, but Satoru despised that label. To him, it's his way of showing that he is all yours. He's a tease who knows how to use his words to woo you—though it can sometimes be a bit much. You know that what he's doing is just trying to cheer you up.

FUSHIGURO MEGUMI ➽ acts of service & words of affirmation

From the very beginning of your relationship, moments of vulnerability and intimacy were always scarce and few in between. He would never do or say something that you were uncomfortable with. He respects your boundaries and expects the same in return. Megumi, quietly and reservedly, sometimes has trouble articulating his thoughts. His words often fall short of capturing the depth of his feelings. Yet beneath this rock-solid exterior lies a heart that yearns for your happiness above all else—even his own. His emotions are conveyed not through words but through subtle gestures and actions veiled behind his typical stoic demeanour.

As much as Yuji and Nobara would tease him for it, their jests and blatant remarks were all rooted in good faith. Because in the end, when they would see just the way that he would gaze at you and how he would constantly be attentive to your well-being during missions—contrary to popular belief, not smothering you with overprotectiveness but ensuring that he's always there to support you—they would realize how committed Megumi really was. They understand that Megumi's silence speaks volumes. Gojo, for one, would disagree and instead say he was "utterly and completely smitten" with you, his eyes seeing the world through rose-colored lenses, but if that is the case, then so be it. 

When he extends a hand to help you out, whether it's on a mission to exorcise cursed spirits or simply going through the strains of daily life, it's a gesture that speaks volumes. To you, his short and sincere words were his way of showing that he cared. He is your protector, and he will ensure you know this about him. You don't have to lift a finger; he's already on it. His presence alone makes your cheeks flush pink.

OKKOTSU YUTA ➽ quality time & physical touch

Yuta cherishes the intimacy of being close to his loved one, especially when it's with you. Throughout his life, he's often felt isolated and disconnected from the world around him. Having someone he's genuinely close to fills his heart with a sense of completeness. And to him, you are everything—his entire world.

Quality time, to Yuta, means all the time—whether you both are on a mission, training, or even just together in the classroom, you best believe that Yuta will be following you around like a dog with its owner. But he doesn't do it just because it's expected. He knows his strength and wants to protect you no matter what. And if he can't find you? Without a doubt, Yuta will be deploying all of his nerves and anxiety to the forefront of his very being to see you.

You understand that, after all the trauma that Yuta's been through in his life, that is what makes up his anxieties. The scars of his past linger and still continue to haunt him—those memories of loss and loneliness. It's a burden he carries with him always, and that hurts. But unbeknownst to you, your presence alone healed him far more than any reverse cursed technique could. It would heal physical injuries, but internal ones? That was all you—the solace in his once dark-lit life.

Yuta's love language becomes evident. Not even the most oblivious people could look at the way Yuta looked at you and assume it was anything other than pure adoration. It's in the gentle brush of your hand against his, the comforting warmth of your embrace, and the way you lean in just a little closer when you speak, just to be able to hear him a bit more clearly. His affection is expressed through subtle touches and lingering gazes. He loves you, and you love him—just the way he is.

NANAMI KENTO ➽ quality time & words of affirmation

Straight up, he's one of the more mature men out there. Nanami is stone-cold, but he is painstakingly thorough in his care in practically everything he does. He can be a workaholic at times, for sure, but he knew what would become of him if that was all that he did. Despite his dedication to his work, he always made a conscious effort to prioritize his relationships and to nurture and cherish the time he had with you. He wanted for both you and him to live a proper and healthy life. Whether you were just feeling off about yourself or going through a tough time, Nanami would be right by your side in a matter of seconds to comfort you. 

If he were at work, he would drop everything he was doing, call you directly on his cell phone regardless of the weird looks he was getting from his colleagues, and immediately put on his jacket and drive to where you were, only to see you alone in your shared home curled up on the couch, and that made him angry—more than that. But he knew that, above all else, he needed to comfort you, and perhaps, even himself…

No questions would be asked of him, as he would then lift you up in his arms and reassure you that you didn’t have to tell him now but that he was here for you and would always be. He'd then take you somewhere in hopes of taking your mind off whatever was haunting your thoughts because, in his mind, you didn't deserve that burden while he could help. Even just his words alone would soothe your troubled mind. Every action and gesture he made to guarantee your well-being demonstrated his undying dedication to you. And if those words weren't enough, Nanami would drop everything and show his love through quality time spent together. Whether it was a quiet evening at home or a leisurely stroll through the city streets, he cherished every moment shared in your company. 

You cherished having him by your side, and you wouldn't have it any other way. And it didn't matter to him if you were feeling down or struggling with something, down to the littlest thing. And it didn't matter to him if you thought it was troublesome to tell him.

Because he always knew what to say.

©grammmarli. please do not modify, edit, copy or reproduce any of my works.

[ristoranteivorykeys]

the thrill of tragic tales — oneshot

it's another one of your late nights with malleus draconia, when he asks you a question you thought you'd never hear from him. ft. reader and malleus draconia

╰┈➤ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: reader is referred to as they/them; mom look i'm posting again after 84 years owo; this is born out of the stress real life is putting me through, so the style is also slightly different and a bit experimental. nonetheless, i hope this might be enjoyable =w=

“I do not mean to intrude on any… intimate matters, Child of Man.” Dry leaves and fallen branches crunch and crackle under his feet, a tiny show of a power no mortal can seek. “But I am curious on one thing about you.”

His question does not stop their walking pace, but they turn their head to his pale visage and shining green eyes. “What is it?”

“Why do you set your sights on him?”

They don’t respond, except with the raise of their brows and a tiny momentary jolt of knowing who exactly he is alluding to.

“I’m… surprised that you of all people are asking me that.”

“Why so?” He doesn't hide the small smile on his face. It amuses him that even an indirect mention of him can unbalance you.

“You never struck me as the type to be curious on matters like love and crushes.”

He chuckles. “You aren’t mistaken, Child of Man. I never cared for them. After all, it was that very same infatuation that brought the Almighty Fairy of Thorns from the heavens to the ground.”

“Did Lilia ask you to ask me?”

“… Again, you are not mistaken." Briefly, he wonders how long have they known him to recognize Lilia's involvement in his life. "Lilia brought me here to learn more about the human world in preparation for my future ruling.

“But I also ask out of my own curiosity," he adds. "You are not expecting an arranged marriage, so I assume you have the option to choose who you want to spend the rest of your years with. You have many choices within the school, friends that you laugh with. But that boy. He is…” He hums, looking for kinder words to continue his sentence.

“I understand,” they answer with mirth. An understanding smile blooms on their face, colored with a faint note of sadness. “I know that I haven’t quite spent much time with him, and the few stories you know seem so superficial. Truthfully, I don’t understand why either. It frustrates me, and sometimes, I wish to find a way to end it. But I see his gait and his grin, and I feel it again.”

“Human emotions... how contradictory."

“I sadly can’t disagree.”

“... Is that all?”

“Not at all." They shake their head. "There’s a lot I can say, but after pondering about it, I think it all boils down to one thing.”

He doesn’t speak. The floor is completely hers.

“You are a string player. You should know Brahms, yes?”

“Of course.”

“Have you heard of the story of him and Agathe von Siebold?”

He blinks. “That, I never have.”

“Agathe von Siebold was Brahms' lover. He had proposed marriage to her, but one of his concertos had an unsuccessful premiere. It worried him that he would not be able to provide for her, so he called off the wedding.”

“I... see.” He nods slowly. He knows what they say is sad, but he does not know how to react.

“Mhm. Then years after, he heard that Agathe moved away to another country. At that time, he was working on a composition. That experience molded that composition into what it is now. Have you heard of String Sextet No. 2 in G major?”

“A familiar title, yes.” But he cannot remember the melody—there are many compositions with a similar title, and it must have been ages since his last listen.

“At a certain part—bars 162 to 168 if I recall correctly—there is a climax where the notes spell out Agathe’s name as A-G-A-H-E. H was the name for the B key in his local nomenclature.”

“Ah, how creative,” he smiles. "H is rather rare to hear of, and for him to use it to form a word in his song speaks of his genius."

"I agree. It's honestly touching to find a way to write someone's name to your song."

"But why do you tell me this story, Child of Man," he asks.

"So I bring up this story because it is one favorite love story of mine. Something about it tugs at my heart the way that most stories don't. I always wondered why. Maybe it could have been because I never understood it. I never had to go through that sort of experience. Or maybe at the time, I never understood love of that magnitude."

They place a hand on their chest. "But I understand now. It’s the fact that he did not have her. He wanted her. But life couldn’t let him have her."

They face him. Their eyes sparkle of a spirit that had been hurting inside. A fiery frustration, an ice cold sadness, a whirlwind of bitterness. For the first time, he understands why eyes are the windows to the soul. They're young, yet their gaze holds an intensity of a hundred years' worth of hurt.

“You don't understand how many things in this life I wanted but cannot have for myself." A shake of their head accompanies their words. "This love that I have right now, this silly little love," their hand clenches into a fist as they turn away from him, "irritates me for that reason. I can’t have him, I don’t think I can. Yet why do I want to grasp for one more thing that I can’t have?"

They pause. They put their hand down.

"Child of Man," he speaks up. "Why don't you just leave him behind? It sounds as if he tortures you."

They let out a chuckle. It's breathy, it's hard to tell if they were amused or annoyed. “Because see, there is so much more to it. You know Oedipus?"

"Of course I do." The question almost offends him, but he lets it slide. They're a dear friend, after all.

They nod. "Oedipus, the man fated to kill his father and marry his mother. There was something he wanted, what was it?"

"To deny that the prophecy foretold about him came to light. His mother and father also took measures to ensure that the prophecy does not come to light."

"Exactly. And he failed."

They stop. The door to their dorm stands in front of them. It surprises him for a moment. He didn't realize how invested he is in the conversation until now.

"I've come to realize that at their core, tragedies are what they are because it's a story of someone who wants to go against family, community, or divinity, but does not succeed. He can be stopped, but he'd refuse to let what they say rule over him. And you know? There’s something oddly thrilling about that."

He raises both brows. "Really now?"

"Knowing that you’re fighting a losing battle, yet willing to fight in hopes that you can grasp a slim victory. Maybe astrology class will tell me to give up, but why should I? Maybe I am not meant to be with him. Maybe I'm destined for something else. But who is to stop me from seeing how far I can truly go?"

He says nothing.

“Maybe liking him hurts me. Maybe pursuing him is torture. But..." They look at him directly once more. There is something else in their eyes now. The frustration, the sadness, the bitterness remain, but there's a new light. A glint of determination.

"I don’t care what destiny has planned for me. I want to see how much I can fight it until the curtain call. I want to fight against an ending that seems set in stone.”

They blink. Suddenly, the sparkle from their eyes disappear. Away from their emotions, awake to their reality. "Ah! Sorry, tsunotarou. I rambled too much. I hope you weren't bothered by my answer."

“Worry not,” he answers. “Your answer was not bothersome at all. In fact," he smiles, the widest he's smiled tonight, "I find you rather intriguing now.”

[imkylotrash]

Take Me Back To The Night We Met

Pairing: Kaz Brekker x reader

Requests: Hello could I have reader x Kaz brekker with this prompt: "How are you feeling?" "Like someone who was shot." Anonymous And Hello could I have reader x Kaz brekker with this prompt: "So do not wait too long, okay? "What? "To tell him that you love him. " Anonymous

Warnings: Blood

Tagging: @bitchwhytho @music-of-melody @shadowhuntyi @bshelley322 @alice-the-nerd

"You're lucky Kaz is sleeping," you say catching Jesper in his walk of shame. The sun rose up an hour ago but you have a feeling Jesper hasn't slept yet.

"I've done nothing wrong," he says but even he doesn't believe that. You both know he's done a little gambling, a little betting, and he's definitely lost some money. Otherwise, he would've come home sooner ready to celebrate.

"I know your wicked ways by now. You don't fool me," you tease. In all honesty, you couldn't care less if Jesper likes gambling, but you know Kaz hates it - especially when the money is meant for something else.

"Luckily, you're not the one I have to fool," he replies tipping his hat. He's about to walk past you when he spins around.

"Perhaps you could fool him for me? He'd never get upset if it were you." You make a sound that falls somewhere between a snort and a laugh.

"Did you not hear him berate me the other day when I misplaced some of his documents in his office? He went on about that for the entire day," you chuckle remembering just how upset he'd been that someone would dare create, what he considered, a mess in his office.

"I heard him. But if it had been me, he'd gone on for a lot longer than a day," Jesper counters but you're not sure what he's getting at. For as long as you've known Kaz, he's been infatuated by Inej. He doesn't give you special treatment and he certainly doesn't feel what Jesper is insinuating.

"I think you had a little too much to drink last night if you're thinking Kaz would feel any sort of affection towards me. Or that I feel something for him," you say but your blushing cheeks give you away. Jesper sees right through you.

"I'm not going to get involved in that all I'm saying is don't wait too long, okay?"

"What?"

"To tell him that you love him." He pats your shoulder as he passes you, but you're too dumbstruck to react. What do you even say to that? You can't tell Kaz you love him, it would ruin the entire dynamic of your relationship. You work well because you keep it professional. You can't pine over him, it's the kind of thing that will get you killed on a heist.

"I need sleep too," you mumble locking the doors of the club before you head upstairs. Your head hits the pillow just as someone wakes you up again. Three hours have passed, but you feel like you haven't slept at all.

"Sorry to wake you, but I need your help." Kaz leaves your room before you can say anything, which is probably a good thing considering what you and Jesper talked about last night. You get ready and walk to his office where Jesper and Inej are already waiting.

"What's going on?" you ask taking a seat.

"We have a mission. But we're not the only ones interested." That mission becomes your doom. You're in the room that night when Pekka stops by.

"Maybe you need a little incentive to do the right thing." His goons are holding Kaz in place when Pekka turns to you.

"Maybe if I take one of your little crows, you'll know I'm not messing around this time." He's shot you before you even have time to reach for your throwing knives. It's one of the only times you've ever been caught off guard - too busy being mortified by the way they grabbed Kaz.

"You let this go, Mr Brekker. Or we'll have a real problem." You fall to your knees feeling a burning sensation right around your lower ribs. The bullet must've hit something vital because there's no way you would be bleeding this badly if it wasn't fatal. You've been shot before but it's never felt like this.

"What can I do?" Kaz asks immediately by your side. You drag yourself closer to the wall so you can lean on the cold surface.

"Kaz..."

"No! You're not dying, do you hear me? Tell me what to do." You tell him to bring the first aid kit but there won't be anything in there to help you. You don't have to be a medic to know that your laboured breathing means damage to the lungs and nobody comes back from that.

"How are you feeling?" he asks when he returns with the box filled with bandages meant for superficial wounds and creme meant for burns. He won't find anything in there that will help him remove the bullet or stop the bleeding.

"Like someone who was shot." It's safe to say, Kaz doesn't appreciate your inappropriate humour right now. But you've already accepted what he's refusing to. You're going to die and he can't do anything about it because that's the way life is sometimes.

"It's not going to help, Kaz. You really want to help me? Get that vodka I like from the bar." It offers you precious minutes alone where you can feel the anger of having to leave behind the people you love. You don't want to go but by the time, a medic can come here you'll be long gone. You don't want to die in pain while some stranger searches your insides for a bullet.

"Here." You didn't even notice him come back, but he's holding two glasses. You surprise yourself when you're able to lift your arm and accept the glass. It doesn't hurt as much anymore, and you have a feeling that's not a good thing. The burning feeling in your throat from the vodka distracts you if only for a few seconds.

"Sit with me." You look over at the boy you've loved for years now, and you loathe the fact that this is how it ends. You haven't truly lived yet. But there's no point in telling him when you know you won't even survive the night. You have to let go of him so he can find peace once your soul leaves him. You spot Jesper and Inej standing in the doorway to Kaz' office. They're looking over at you with tears in their eyes, and you hate having to leave them all behind. There's so much you still want to do and experience.

"No mourners," Kaz says sitting right next to you. His fingers graze yours in an attempt to comfort you but even now, he feels the terror of past events haunt him.

"No funerals," you finish with a taste of metal in your mouth. You won't make it. A fact both of you know but refuses to acknowledge.

You die and Kaz Brekker never finds out that you loved him the way he loved you.

[threewaysdivided]

How do you feel about Pink Astronaut. Personally I feel like Paulina deserved a little better than the writers gave her.

I'm 99% sure that's the ship name for Danny x Paulina, right?

(Which probably says a lot about my engagement with the shipping side of the Phandom 😅.)

TBH I don't have any strong thoughts or feelings about it either way.

In all cases I'm a very gen-focussed fan - my interests tend run more in the direction of character psychology, non-romantic platonic/ familial relationships, lore, mystery and theme. It's a personal thing but I just don't read romantic/sexual intent/attraction into character interactions unless they're explicitly framed/intended as such and the way much of the shipping community seems to do so goes completely over my head.

Which isn't to say that I avoid all ship-fics, or that there aren't a number of noncanon ships that I enjoy across different fandoms, but for the most part I favour genfic and when I do read shipfic they tend to be the stories that focus on personality, emotional chemistry and personal/emotional compatibility. And when it comes to thinking about "ships" myself I tend to lean more towards times when characters have canonically expressed that kind of interest, the reasons why they would be compatible/ find each other attractive, how they feel about it and what it says about them.

But back to Paulina:

I think you're right - as a character she (along with basically every human character outside of the main trio, the Fenton family and sometimes Valerie) suffers massively from underdevelopment because of the show's nature as for the most part an episodic kid's superhero-comedy with an ooky-spooky gimmick. Danny Phantom the show is a place where The Status Quo is God and the Rule of Funny/Cool/Drama supersedes everything, up to and including the characters and their consistency.

(You can even see this and the obviously conflicting visions of different parts of the creative team effect the main characters too. Danny suddenly carrying the Jerk Ball in service of a generic "don't be superficial/ materialism is bad" story in Livin' Large, how Tucker is basically learning the same lesson twice across What You Want and King Tuck, the multiple times where Sam's more abrasive negative traits are used as a source of plot/conflict but are never meaningfully addressed or developed because the writers want to keep using those traits for drama and eventually to use her character as the Morally Righteous Generic Love Interest Behind Danny's Heroism... et cetera et certera et cetera.)

Literally every character in DP is done a disservice by the show's writing and Paulina runs into the same problem. She's chained to the post of a very specific narrative function/ character archetype and never intentionally developed beyond what's needed to serve the Plot/ the Joke.

She's clearly written to be the Rich Plastic Mean Girl à la Regina George, and while there is a potentially very interesting character beneath that surface appearance - which we can see in places like Parental Bonding where she shows emotional intelligence by immediately clocking that Sam is actually jealous of Danny's attraction to her, and in her "if my skin is perfect, I'll be perfect" line from My Sister's Keeper which hints at some potentially significant appearance-based self-worth issues - the show itself basically only ever uses her "Pretty Girl" and "Popular A-Lister" status as a source of surface-level character drama for the trio and as a rare plot-convenient situational ally in dire circumstances. Her actions show a consistent characterisation but it's so rudimentary that it barely clears that archetype to become its own thing.

I think if Danny Phantom had taken more structural and tonal influence from Spiderman (or even something like Disney's Kim Possible) rather than Fairly Odd Parents - still keeping things mostly light-hearted but with some extra focus on character consistency and layering some ongoing character arcs over each season - there could have been a lot of potential to develop and flesh out Paulina as a narrative foil/ ongoing rival to Sam and her own character arc. It also could have added some more meaningful non-stereotypical female character dynamics, which are disappointingly but perhaps not surprisingly lacking from a "for boys" Nicktoon headed by a man who named himself "Butch". But as it is she unfortunately falls into that No Man's Land for me, where she isn't developed enough to have much deeper canon worth investigating and isn't really thematically/narratively significant enough that I'd want to develop her myself for story purposes.

As for the Pink Astronaut ship itself, all I can say is that, at least for me, canonically it... isn't really one. At least in terms of what I personally characterise as a 'relationship'. It's stuck at a very shallow level; Danny has a superficial surface-level infatuation with Paulina because she's pretty and popular, and Paulina looks down on "geeky dork loser" Danny Fenton while having a superficial surface-level infatuation with Danny Phantom as "the cute ghost-boy who rescued her". There's no real sense of actual personal chemistry based on them knowing, appreciating or even seemingly caring to know who the other is as a character. None of their "romantic" hijinks really involve them learning anything meaningful about each other or even having a proper conversation. Paulina "dates" Fenton purely to piss off Sam, then "Paulina" shows personal interest in Danny but it turns out to actually be Kitten trying to piss off Johnny, and when she does show interest in him after the reveal in Reality Trip it's kind of obvious that it's because she's interested in dating Phantom and his secret identity wouldn't have mattered either way. And meanwhile Danny spends most of his time either too busy with ghost stuff to properly pay attention to her as a person, or he never really shows any interest or understanding beyond his fantasies about how she's very conventionally pretty (which he finds attractive/desirable) and popular (which he wants to be).

So while there's a lot of potential for people to write that ship in terms of them being two very different characters from different backgrounds who come to learn about each other as people, come to appreciate each other on a personality level and develop an actual romantic/emotional connection based on that... within the show itself that surface level is sort of where it starts and ends.

And like I said, I'm not a shipper. Even with the bigger, more canonically-substantiated ships I look for the personalities moreso than the romance.

So I don't really have any strong thoughts or feelings about it either way.

Sorry if that's not a satisfying answer.

But I do agree: like most DP characters, Paulina Sanchez has a lot more character potential than the writing allowed her.

[putseraphinaonthaphone]

Chromatic

Classical Pianist Katsuki Bakugou has a favorite coffee shop on the short walk from his studio back to his apartment. It's small, 24 hours, and has a stage that's always free for musicians to use. And it's run by you, a would be musician who's a better baker and coffee maker-that he can't stop coming back to see.

@nanamisbento & @hanji-is-life both made a world of difference in making me feel confident enough to write this as a full drabble, so thank y'all <3 y'all are sweethearts and I love this au so muchhhh

~light angst, slow burn, black!queer!reader, musician au~

"Cross my heart hope to die, I ain't got no love to give," you plucked at the guitar strings lazily your eyes focused on nothing but the strings and trying not to cry- and if felt like your alto voice was fighting through gravel. Huskier than normal, verging on tenor like you always dreamed about, and you were too fucking sad to enjoy it.

You missed your friend, you missed talking to him. Teasing him, making him laugh. And worse, you knew the home he went back to wasn't the healthiest. You knew all too well how a house could be so much worse than the stress of school.

"Baby boy so goddamn fine, swear you give me a peace of mind," and it was true. Just being near him, talking about poetry, anything, made you feel so calm. Fuck you missed him.

"Swear you make this young girl go crazy," If some tears fell onto your fretboard at least it was late enough that no one would come in until the morning rush.

"Now how could a man like you want somebody, so incredibly immature, insecure just like me?" Because he was just as insecure as you. It's why you two would talk on the phone for hours on end, about all your fears and worries, as much as your happiness. He was the friend you could talk about the lowest lows with because neither of you were afraid or unfamiliar with rock bottom- mentally, emotionally.

You slipped the strap of your electric guitar over your head and put it back on the rack (you left it out for musicians of all kinds to play when they felt inspired by your shop's vibes) and wiped your aching eyes. You didn't see or hear Bakugou slip back out the side door he'd came in through.

~

He'd first started coming in April, when the Washington rain was too torrential not to seek cover. He'd walked in soaking wet and spitting curses as he shut the door behind him. Ash blond hair and garnet eyes plus a jawline you'd cut yourself on meant you were half way infatuated before he even ordered.

"Black coffee with extra raw sugar, and whatever bread you have that's not sweet." It was a rumbling bass of a voice and damnit now you were officially in love- but then you noticed a case that you guessed carried an electric keyboard by the shape at his feet and in your excitement (that distracted you from his stunningly pretty face enough you could talk to him without tripping over your words like you were sure you were going to when you first came to take his order) you grinned at him so genuinely he forgot he was pissed.

"Sure thing, but just so you know- we have a permanent open mic set up here. You can play whatever instruments of mine you'd like to use, or you could set up your keyboard. It's great to see more musicians in here." You meant it, he could see in the way you seemed to light up like fireworks just talking about it.

"..Maybe next time." He tried to say hell no I'm never coming back to this tiny ass shop, do you know the size of the stages I usually play?!

But how could he regret his grumbled words when you clutched your small notepad to your chest and asked him in a rush (with a sparkle in your big doe brown eyes that didn't match your shaved head or heavy silver rings and earrings but was adorable nonetheless) "You mean it? You'd play here?"

It wasn't the same eagerness of ochestral directors prepared to embarrass themselves for a chance for The Katsuki Bakugou, classical pianist prodigy, to play with their ensembles. It was just a person who loved music and ran a tiny well cared for shop that was full of second hand furniture and mismatch cutlery and china, that was excited at the thought of music being played at all.

"Why not? I could play some of my own compositions for once instead of another goddamn Bach piece." You must have been imagining the blush on his cheeks because it was gone in seconds, and he was glaring at you with only the slightest of smiles taking the sting out of his words. "But am I going to get that coffee before I catch a cold from the fucking rain currently soaking my fucking clothes?"

Now it was your turn to feel heat burning in your cheeks as you sheepishly saluted "Right, coffee," and ran back to your bar to start his order. You found some fresh plain yeast rolls on the top shelf of your display case and an old towel in your supply closet. And if you didn't think about how much of a dork you made of yourself in front of your hottest customer to date your hands didn't shake when you put together his coffee in the largest cup you could find.

"Least sweet bread I have, black coffee with a fuck ton of raw sugar.." You winked to (hopefully) let the blond know you were kidding, "and a towel to make sure you'll survive long enough to play for me sometime."

He snorted and snatched the towel from your hands, starting to rub it vigorously over his hair with a blatant lack of fucks for how fluffy and wild it made it hair, but it seemed to you that there was humor in his voice as he sighed, "That depends on how good your shitty coffee is."

~

He started coming in on the regular after that. Sometimes dressed in a suit, that he was all but ripping off until he could roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt and unbutton the collar so he could breathe. (The first time you saw the bare column of his throat and the obvious strength of his chest meeting the delicate structure of his collar bones, you had to blame lifting heavy bags of coffee beans for your breathlessness.)

Sometimes he came from the opposite direction, dressed in jeans and old tshirts when it finally started warming up. He brought in his keyboard on those days and played a range of compositions you knew were his without him having to tell you. His left hand was more comfortable in the lower octaves of his keyboard when it was his own work, and there was more grief mixed in the bombastic anger that fueled the more staccato and forte phrases that had everyone in the small shop falling quiet to listen. Because it wasn't just hammering at the keys, it was complex harmonies of thirds and major sevenths that haunted the air even as he was moving on to the next phrase that was more of a murmur of echoing themes that passed back from hand to hand.

But your favorite times to see him was during your night shifts, when the shop was mostly deserted except for your quieter night owl regulars. Then he'd play pieces that were.. lullabies. Soft melodies and less minor chords than his daylight pieces. He'd take breaks in between pieces to come talk to you at the bar, ask your opinion on his playing- the genuine way he listened to your comments and compliments making your heart melt more than his good looks could have done alone.

And some nights, especially when it rains, he's telling you about the superficial nature of the classical music world and how sometimes he wishes he'd never gone into orchestral piano and just stayed in his old tiny but cozy apartment.

"Maybe we would've met anyway, and you'd still have this place and I'd come play for scraps on the weekends." And damn the wistfulness hits him hard, you can see it in the way his eyes soften for the first time in knowing him.

"I wouldn't let you play for scraps, it's tiny but it's my place. And your music would only add to the atmosphere. You'd get full employee wages and free coffee on the house." You're wistful too, and maybe it's the rain but you'd love for this dream to be real. Even for a moment.

~

You were sure you'd actually walk into being head over heels in love if he did one more sweet thing for you with his signature grumble and glare. But it was weird, ever since a few weeks back he'd stopped coming by as often. Looked at you strange when you teased him like you were both used to, and played pieces with more anger and sorrow than you'd ever heard from him before.

It was turning into the longest you hadn't seen him by the end of the week, so you were fucking furious when he strolled in one night.

Obviously coming from one of his bigger performances with the coattails and tuxedo tie, but no smile to show for it. Not even smugness in his eyes from a performance well done. He looked a little like shit actually, dark circles under his eyes and something indescribably sad in his garnet gaze that sought you out as soon as he walked in. It was the only thing that stopped you from completely ignoring his order when he came to the bar.

But you couldn't stop the obvious way your jaw was clenched while you worked, the hurt in your eyes when you set his coffee down in front of him.

He said your name, low and questioning, confusion growing on his perfect stupid face and that's when you couldn't take it anymore. He looked like shit, but you felt it. Losing one friend in a year was more than enough heart break for you. Having a friend, who you were already half in love with, start ghosting you on top of that? You weren't strong enough to take the highroad.

"Don't you fucking dare look at me like you don't understand. I don't understand why you decided our friendship doesn't mean shit to you anymore. If you were going to fucking ghost me I would've preferred if you'd done so before I started waiting for you to come by." You were glad no one was in the shop but the two of you when you realized somewhere along the line of yelling at him you started crying. Kat was looking at you with his mouth open in shock, and you didn't want to wait around to drag out your embarrassment.

But you were surprised when he came after. Calling your name again, moving quickly to get around the counter to follow you.

"Wait. Wait." His hand grabbed your wrist, the first time he touched you with no pretenses or excuses. The strength and gentleness of his hold only making it harder to stop your tears.

"I didn't mean to make you cry." You almost wished he'd go back to his more brash daylight self, you can't handle how quiet and gentle he gets in the early morning hours. Your heart was too soft on him already- even in your anger, you didn't resist when he pulled you close and cupped your cheeks. The pads of his thumbs wiping away your tears.

"You were crying that night too, when you were playing. I'd never heard you sing before." His fingers were on your lips, silencing you before you could even ask what the hell he was talking about. It was too much. Being unable to escape the way his eyes watched you, the way his voice got quiet- confessional.

"Let me finish. I heard you sing, and I saw you cry, and the thought of you crying for another man made me so angry I thought I'd die from how much I hated him. Whoever he was. So I stopped coming by as often. I didn't know that would hurt you.. I didn't think you would care if you were still heartbroken over some asshole." It was starting to make sense, starting to make you hope that maybe.. maybe he felt the same way you did.

"I get heartbroken over friends you know. Just friends." Your words are slightly muffled by his fingers, but its worth it to see the hope flare to life in his eyes.

How had you both missed it? All these months of longing.

"But the way you broke my heart by just not coming by? When I didn't even know what was wrong? That's worse than anything I've ever felt before-"

Your first kiss with Katsuki was salty from your tears, but it was okay.

He wanted your tears, your lips, you to be his and only his.

~

[kneamet]

Delusion (1/5)

Trigger Warning: references to alcohol

Summary: she was the only girl in his band whose singing he loved so much. She was the person he truly respected. Andy Miles was someone Hank Williams had an unrelenting obsession with.

Chapter one: Delays

POV Hank

His head was pounding. A haunting rhythm beat against the light pounding in his head. It hurt, and Hank just didn't understand how he'd ever woken up. He had never been so drunk before, not even counting the fact that he was a huge alcoholic drinker.

Yet last night he had exceeded even his own expectations. A slight dryness in his mouth was present even after he had drunk the whole glass of water that his mother had placed in front of him.

Closing his eyes tightly, straining his lids, Williams suddenly opened them, trying to blink before entering the studio where he had to play early in the morning for a small pittance.

Not that he complained much about it. No, he certainly did not want to get up from the cozy bed that kept warm and free himself from the embrace of his "beloved" wife, but his youthful heart still warmed the dream that one day he would step over the threshold of an ordinary musician and be able to achieve something worthwhile. Perhaps he wanted a confession?

It was lucky, at least, that the nausea did not reach him, since he was sure that the alcohol in his stomach would definitely be able to get out, only in an unusual way. And he didn't want to be crouching by the toilet, trying to control himself, and hearing his mother talk about how irresponsible he and Audrey, his wife, were that she didn't even have simple pills.

Pushing the brown door open with the shoulder of his free hand, Hank had already guessed how loud Mr. Pill's voice would be when he complained about being late. It doesn't matter, though. Will these few minutes play anything for airtime?

"Hi," Hank says hoarsely, feeling very tired. Yesterday he came back so late that he just couldn't do anything anymore. How long had he been asleep? A couple of hours?

Williams looked from the black-and-white tiled floor to the boys, his mouth slightly open. They looked a little rumpled, as did Hank himself. It was obvious that they were hungover, too, especially since some of them were smoking. He breathed in the smell. Marlboro? Or Chesterfield? His mind was still too foggy to accurately detect the smell of cigarettes.

The guy blinked a couple of times, as if trying to make sense of what was happening. It seemed that something was missing for an ordinary morning. It was always the same and repeated day after day. The audience apparently liked his program too much.

"Good morning, boss," came the soft voice of Sammy, who was sitting on a dark brown sofa propped up against the wall, his feet propped up on a small table. A young guy who was a guitarist in his band. He was very young, but Hank immediately considered him a good addition to the group.

"Hi, Hank," Don said, looking at the guy standing there, lighting a cigarette and rubbing his light red hair; parallel to that, the hand holding the cigarette, adjusting the glasses that were sticking up on his nose.

Williams grabs a small white mug and takes a sip of coffee. His eyes narrowed slightly. Cold coffee. Although, it is worth noting, it was refreshing, but so disgusting. Who can drink coffee cold?

Setting the cup down on the dark piano that didn't seem to have been used for a long time, Hank set the guitar case on a small, flimsy chair, taking out the instrument.

"Where's Andy?" the man asked as he took the guitar out of the hard gray case that barely fit in his car.

Andy Miles was the only girl who played in his band. She was the only one who comforted him after another quarrel with his wife. She was the only one who understood him. She was the one he had fallen in love with.

Hank didn't know if his feelings for Audrey were real, or if it was all just a multi-second infatuation. A joke that later turned into endless quarrels that always ended in nothing. However, meeting Andy definitely changed a lot in his life.

Hank could have been lyrical, but why? What is the point of expressing yourself in beautiful speeches, if you can convey it in light, superficial words? Although, if it were up to him, he would definitely dedicate the odes and all the songs that he allegedly composed for his wife to the girl of his dreams.

Clearly lost in thought, Hank was completely distracted, not even noticing that the guys were already tuning their instruments, preparing for the mat to fall on them.

"She's not here," he always had to bring his wife into the studio, pestering him about what she wanted to sing on his show. As if she could sing. As if she could do anything at all.

Hank sighed, lifting the guitar to the top and running his long fingers along the strings, wanting to adjust the rhythm and hear the sound he wanted to achieve.

I wish Andy would come soon.

"Williams," comes the loud voice of Howard Pill, heading toward the fearful Hank. He knew that his boss would speak loudly, but he did not foresee that his steely voice would be a headache. Why can't he keep his voice down? "You decided to spend 12 minutes of airtime? This shit won't go away, and you smell like a beer barrel; you all stink," Williams saw how angry the man was. Not that he would care about his anger. No, he would definitely take into account everything Howard was saying and try not to be late, but who knew this would happen today?

Do people have the right to choose what condition they wake up with in the morning? Anyway, at least let Mr. Pill take into account that he came at all. Otherwise, Hank could just drop the case and stay home.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Pill," the empty words coming out of Hank's mouth were just a defensive reaction. No, he was by no means sorry that he was late. Although listening to loud voices was a problem.

Still, it was a good thing that his mother had woken him up so early and made sure that he didn't disturb his wife's sleep. He certainly didn't want to have an increased headache when Audrey was hitting the high notes in the pen. The man blinked, looking up, trying to meet Mr. Pill's steady gaze.

"To me, these are empty words," his gaze was stern and he was clearly trying not to lose his temper. "We're working here, you idiot. And where is Miles?"

Williams pursed his lips, unable to find an answer. He knew about her love of being late, but even so, Andy was always on time. Maybe five minutes late, but Hank had the songs that could be played without another extra guitar. Although the sound of the girl's instrument has always been excellent.

"I'll throw her out of the show, I swear to God," Mr. Pill muttered softly, shaking his head and sighing. Did he dislike them that much? Or was he just jealous of the show's success? If that success ever existed.

Hank's attentive gaze followed his boss as he made his way to the recording department, a certain booth where audio tuning and recording takes place.

Right now, Hank wished Andy was here. Because I would have covered for him, going against Mr. Pill and his rules. Sometimes it seemed to Hank that she didn't care if she was on time or not. Hank was slightly weaker.

He could listen to all those menacing words being uttered against him, endure all this unthinkable humiliation, knowing that his boss would not remove this show. He knew how many listeners he had. But still, he rarely dared to say anything against his boss.

He was definitely attracted to Andy. And for the most part it was in the moral sense, because Williams himself rarely thought about the girl he loves physically. He wanted her, yes, but not in terms of sex. He didn't want a simple one-night stand. He wanted something unthinkable. He wanted pure and pure love. The kind of love his mother had told him about.

"Start the countdown," Howard Pill says, nodding his head in Hank's direction, and he just lifts his lip.

"Three, two, one," comes the clear voice of the DJ, who is already wearing headphones and completely immersed in his work, unlike the musicians, who are still hungover and intoxicated. Hank continued to feel sick.

With a deft step, Hank walked over to the microphone, smiling slightly, as if he didn't want the audience to know about the quarrels that were going on at the place they loved so much.

"Friends and listeners, I wish you a good early morning. This is Hank Williams and the Drifting Cowboys. We are very sorry that we started a little later. But yesterday we were picked up by the cops on Route 31..."

There was a slight chuckle. Hank turned his head in the direction of the sound, grinning slightly, already guessing who it was.

***

POV Andy

Feeling her legs begin to ache from running so fast, trying to get to the studio, Andy had never felt so anxious and overworked in her life.

The hangover after alcohol, she always endured steadfastly and her mind almost did not react to it, apparently already so accustomed to the dose received. No, of course, her head still ached, and her hands were constantly shaking from the alcohol, but she never felt an immediate nausea.

Her hangover was accompanied only by a headache and shaking hands, which would soon have to caress the strings of her favorite guitar, wanting to please the boss and the audience.

Pursing her lips, Miles took a quick, brisk step toward the necessary door. Unfortunately, the distance from her home to the studio was huge and so she had to wake up very early in the morning to at least have time to get there, which certainly did not please her.

She had never been flattered by the prospect of having to sleep through the early hours of the morning. And wake up for what? For the little money she lived on? Although, most likely, only the desire for the love of the public did not stop her.

She always wanted to be loved by people. She had always wanted to feel this need for human attention, for human adoration.

Blinking a couple of times, she paused at the dark door, knowing that she would probably hear Mr. Pill swear at her and threaten her when he told her that he would fire her from the show. Although these moments didn't really bother Andy.

She didn't give a damn about his opinion, which was completely out of line with hers. She would have taken it into account, but she would have continued to do things her own way. Besides, isn't that the beauty of life? Do whatever you want and not listen to people who write you some rules?

Andy chuckled, shaking her head and feeling her hands begin to shake. Again this period, if only to endure. She wished long ago that she had bought a cigarette, though she could have used one now.

"...But yesterday we were picked up by the cops on Highway 31... " came Hank's tired voice, and the girl chuckled, letting out a light and slightly hoarse chuckle. She immediately felt her friend's gaze on her and his reflected grin.

His band, which has so graciously accepted another under-performing musician into its already overstuffed line-up, dreaming that he could become famous. And this feeling in her never disappeared.

No, she often began to have feelings that it was worth putting a bolt on all this and stop, but what kept Miles from doing was believing in herself. Confidence had to be nurtured, but Andy had never felt humiliated in her life. The main credo in her life was that it was not worth giving up. Otherwise, it can turn into a disaster and bad consequences. Just like when I was a kid.

Quickly shaking her head in different directions, the girl mentally gave herself a slap on the head, feeling the burning gaze of Mr. Pill directed at her. Pulling out her guitar, the case that was currently laid on the bed, Andy looked at her boss, smiling a tight smile and walking with easy grace to the second free microphone.

"With my alcohol resistance," Andy suddenly chimed in, pulling her guitar over her neck and taking off her hat, exposing her short dark hair and running a hand through it, " I also apologize for starting so late. To be honest, my head is splitting."

Miles looked at Hank, as if telling him to continue. He nodded.

"I don't think you knew this, but yesterday we were performing in a small bar on the outskirts of town and, fortunately or unfortunately, we couldn't refuse the free alcohol offered," Hank chuckled, and there was a light laugh from the guys.

Andy grinned as she began to wrap the gauze around her fingers, not wanting them to hurt any more. It wasn't for her at all. Wrapping and protecting your fingers was an extremely important decision.

What would she do if her right hand wasn't protected? Her fingers would have been damaged.

The girl wrapped her arms around the guitar, leaning even closer to the low microphone.

"And now, anticipating your wishes, we will perform the song “Honky Tonkin'' for you. Hank wrote it not so long ago and we are sure that you will definitely like it."

Hank was a genius, and if Miles heard that, she would definitely say it was true. He was the man who continued to inspire her. The man who kept her on the case. The one who replaces her older brother.

[murdertrialimagines]

Sleepover Spies

“Can I request a Kazuichi x Fem! S/O x Fuyuhiko imagine where she is having a sleepover with the rest of the DR2 girls and whilst that is happening the boys are spying on them and she ends up revealing she likes both Fuyuhiko and Kazuichi and not soon after the boys would get caught? (It doesn't matter who she ends up with ^~^ nwn)”

I took a five week break even thought I had this typed in my phone for three weeks...I’m so sorry. Here it is! (Story under the tag)

PS: I wrote separate endings for each boy bc I could’t choose one!

Warning: Cussing!

Fuyuhiko knew you were at the sleepover that night 

Peko informed him of the occasion as she packed a small bag of belongings, along with a bag of snacks she had been picked to provide

He thought nothing of it until a note came under his door, telling him to go to the beach at 8pm

Fuyuhiko honestly thought it was plot for a murder, and almost asked Peko to stay back with him

But he saw the rare childish gleam of joy behind her glasses, and said fuck it

Who was gonna kill him on a day where at least half of the group had an alibi?

And hell would freeze over before he ruined a night for you two, as he knew you wouldn’t let Peko go alone if there really was a murder awaiting

So at eight he headed to the beach, a small switchblade from the market concealed in his pocket

But when Fuyuhiko arrived, all he found was an exasperated Hajime and a yelling Kazuichi

“C’mon, this is our chance to see the girls in their natural habitat! Pillow fights and truth or dareeee! Kazuichi fell to his knees dramatically, grabbing Hajime’s pant leg

Fuyuhiko made his presence known with a forced cough, both boys looking at him

“Fuyuhiko! The man I wanted!” Kazuichi got up and ran over. “You’ll come with me, right?”

Fuyuhiko shot Hajime a look, Hajime throwing a tired one back

“He wants to spy on the girls. Everyone else already left.”

Kazuichi put his hands together, trying to give the shorter boy puppy eyes

“Pleaseeee?”

“What kinda guy spies on girls when they’re at their most vulnerable? Seems kinda creepy ya know.”

“Fuyu~!”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Just a few minutes!” Kazuichi got up, attempting to cup his hands over Fuyuhiko’s who pulled his hands away in disgust

“You’re gonna go whether I go or not, right? I’ll go with you just to make sure you don’t try any shady shit.”

“Thank you!” Kazuichi grabbed his hand. “Let’s go!”

When they arrived at Mahiru’s cottage, the music being able to be heard from a few houses down

Sneaking up to the window, Kazuichi peered in while Fuyuhiko stayed behind

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious, though, each time he heard your voice he noticed the urge to peer in becoming more prominent

And then Sonia cheerfully suggested truth or dare, much to Kazuichi’s delight

At least, Fuyuhiko thought that was where the mechanic’s heart was

In reality, Kazuichi had his eyes on you the whole time, instead of the princess. He would never tell anyone, but he was infatuated with you, He was known to be superficial when it came to women, but you were just different, somehow

And it pulled him in fast

Be barely noticed Fuyuhiko standing next to him now, nor did he care

He was invested in the questions you girls were throwing at each other; asking if Sonia was betrothed or if Peko had ever killed someone, the last one causing Fuyuhiko to let out an airy laugh

And then the questions turned towards you

“Y/n! Truth or dare?” Hiyoko asked with a smirk on her face

“Truth no way am I taking a dare from you”

“Boooring! Fine, who do you have a crush on? If you say Nagito I’m kicking you out!”

Both boys felt their breath hitch

Did you even have a crush? Who was it? Could it possibly be them?

Kazuichi

“I, uh...I like Kazuichi?” You said it like it was a question

Gasps came from both boys, luckily covered by the gasps of the girls as well

“Kazuichi? Am I hearing you right?” Akane asked sheepishly

“Yeah, he’s a total idiot!” Hiyoko huffed. “I’d never look twice at a guy like him.”

“I think he’s cute!” You defended, cheeks red. “He’s a dork, yeah, but once you get to know him, he’s quite sweet!”

This got a small giggle of euphoria from the boy in question, and both boys had to duck when heads turned their way

“Well man, good job,” Fuyuhiko stated, slight disappointment etched onto his face. “Just don’t treat her bad, because Peko’s answer to her truth or dare question still stands, and she’ll do it again to whoever hurts Y/n.”

“T-thanks man!” Kazuichi gave Fuyuhiko a wide yet nervous smile

“Y/n~! Your man is here!~”

Both boys looked up to see Mahiru leaning out of the window, beaming. An exaggerated “Oh~!” from the other girls. “Usually I’d chew you out but this moment is too perfect!”

Mahiru left the window, and a few seconds later you were seemingly shoved into it, staring at the boy, blushing

“K-Kazuichi! What’s up?” You asked nervously, eyes darting anywhere but his gaze

Kazuichi had thought about asking you out to many times, but never thought you might actually like him back. Sure, he acted a fool when he was around girls he thought were pretty, but when he realized he was serious about you, he wanted to ask you out formally

And what’s more formal than outside a window in the middle of the night?

“So uh, I was wondering if maybe I can - I mean if you want - uh, we could possibly go on a date? Like a picnic or something, or maybe you would like something more-”

Kazuichi stopped when he noticed you were finally looking him in the eyes, the slight redness on your cheeks now deepening and spreading to your ears and neck

“Y/n?”

“Yes! I mean, sure - I’d really like to go out with you.” You gave him the teeniest smile, but he saw the world in it

Cheers erupted from the room, you looking back at all of your friends

“I’m so proud of you Y/n,” Chiaki said with a sleepy smile

“So cute!”

“Be nice to her now!”

“GET SOME Y/N!”

“IBUKI”

Fuyuhiko

“I, uh, I actually like Fuyuhiko?”

Both boys froze at this, the only sound was the girl’s “aww!”s and Peko’s small chuckle

“I already knew, Y/n” Peko said with a soft smile. “I think you should ask him out, the outcome just might be favorable.”

But outside the window, two different reactions were occuring

Fuyuhiko never thought you would like him

Yes, you two held hands, and went on picnics, or stayed up late talking, but that was because you saw him as a close friend, right?

But the more he thought about it, the more he realized how wrong he was

He had confided in Peko about his liking to you, and lately Peko has been excusing herself from the activities you three usually did together, leaving him with just you

‘Well, shit’ Fuyuhiko thought. ‘Thanks for playing wingman, Peko’

The boy to his side, however, was in a different state

“She likes you?!” Kazuichi hissed, looking at Fuyuhiko. “How?!”

“Maybe because we’re actually close and spend time together, and I’m actually decent around girls.”

“You two practically live together, right? I know you three have sleepovers often,” Kazuichi’s eyes lit up. “Just tell me, how’s she look under those clothes? You have to have seen her after a shower, right?!”

“I suggest you shut the fuck up.”

Kazuichi put his hand on Fuyuhiko’s shoulder, the shorter boy tensing up. “It’s a boy’s natural response to look at girls when they shower, biological code! I bet she’s got sweet-”

Fuyuhiko turned around and punched Kazuichi, causing him to yelp. When Kazuichi retaliated, the boys fell, both scuffling on the ground, yelling at each other

After only a few seconds both boys heard a familiar voice, causing their actions to stop immediately

“Fuyuhiko? Kazuichi? What are you guys doing?”

Both boys looked up to see you peering out the window, with Peko next to you. She looked ready to hop out of the window, glaring at Kazuichi with a gaze that made his blood drain from his face

“Y/n!” Fuyuhiko stood up, brushing himself off. “This bastard made some wrong decisions that ended in his getting his ass beat.”

“You’re bleeding! Hold on, I’ll be right there”

This was when Fuyuhiko noticed the feeling of something dripping down his nose and off his lip. He didn’t need to touch it to figure out what it was

A few moments later, you arrived with a napkin, holding it to his nose. “Peko, can you take Kazuichi back to his dorm? He seems pretty out of it.”

With a nod, Peko came out and picked up Kazuichi, and you and Fuyuhiko started to walk back to his room

“What on earth were you doing out there?” You asked the boy, who was now holding the napkin to his nose himself

“I was making sure Kazuichi didn’t do anything, but he did, so I kicked his ass.”

You let out an huff of air in amusement, looking at the ground. “Always starting fights, aren’t you?”

Fuyuhiko stopped walking. “I heard what you said earlier.”

This caused you to freeze, turning your head away from his stare. “What do you mean? I didn’t do a-anything.”

Fuyuhiko walked up to you, but refused to look you in the eye. “You said you liked me. It wasn’t a lie, right?”

You wanted to refute him, but you just couldn’t lie to the boy. “It wasn’t a lie. I just didn’t want you to find out...who needs the drama of unrequited love and awkward friendships when you’re in a freaking murder game for gods sake?”

“But it’s not one sided, Y/n.” Fuyuhiko stated, his voice louder than it was a moment ago. “I...like you too.”

“You do?” You snapped your head up to meet his eyes, both of you blushing at the sudden contact. “I never thought you would.”

“Would you like to go out sometime? I mean, do the things we usually do, but with a different feeling?”

You giggled at his words, taking his hand in your own

“I would love to.”

I actually did it. Back from the dead. I have two more requests in my box before I will take more! See you soon (hopefully!)

[survenante]

A List of Confirmed and Probable Reasons Why Ian Loves Mickey

Prior to season ten, we didn’t really get to see Ian make big declarations of love for Mickey. Ian had heart eyes for him right from the beginning, but teenage infatuations don’t last forever, and Ian is a man now.

Add to that how superficially the show depicted the resolution of Ian’s internal struggle with marrying Mickey, and it’s been easy to forget that the connection between these two is founded on so much more than force of habit.

Here are the reasons why MICKEY IS IT FOR IAN…

1-      Ian likes how Mickey smells, and the sex is “fucking fantastic” (duh!)

2-      Mickey is definitely not an ugly motherfucker: his impeccable hair, his soulful eyes, his full lips, his toned arms, his round ass… Even with the occasional bruises, he’s not far from being a good old Trophy Husband

3-      Mickey’s had “that look in his eye” for years, and it never went away despite having had his heart broken by Ian a few times along the way. Depending on the situation, the lookTM will include: love, tenderness, concern, lust, awe and pride

4-      Mickey is selfless and fiercely loyal when it comes to Ian (Sorry I’m late [5x8]). When he heard he was about to be incarcerated, Mickey threw away the new life he’d made for himself in Mexico and came back to face the rest of his sentence by his side

5-      Mickey’s a rough motherfucker, and you don’t want to mess with him (Oh, look at that… We must shop at the same gun show. [10x11]). That’s appealing to Ian who, like all Gallaghers, is not averse to chaos and danger. Mickey has no qualms fighting dirty to stay on top, and he can easily drop a guy bigger than him with one punch, a great asset to have in any South Sider’s toolkit. Sure, Mickey’s got quite a temper, but Ian knows how to read and manage him by now (You gonna make me hit you again? [10x12])

6-      Mickey is indeed South Side, through and through: he’s tough, gritty and resourceful. Despite Ian’s past forays into more cultivated social circles, there’s no doubt he intends to settle down in the neighbourhood, so it’s good that Mickey doesn’t bat an eye at the messiness of life there. Also, Mickey fits right in in the Gallagher household (his home life was so much more fucked up than Ian’s, so apart from the water pressure, Mickey’s got no complaint…). Bonus point: Mickey gets along okay with Ian’s brothers and sisters and has banded with them in the past when Ian’s health required it

7-      Mickey shows up – really shows up – whenever Ian needs to be comforted or appeased. He’s been there for Ian ever since Monica made a reappearance in his life in season one

8-      Mickey is protective (Even if you're propositioned, it's probably just a setup. Guys want to find out if you're gay and pound the shit out of you. And not in a good way [3x6]). That being said, he appreciates that Ian’s a tough guy who doesn’t need a motherfucking defender, mental health aside

9-      Speaking of which, Mickey repeatedly protected Ian against himself in season five, and that required a lot of strength, quick-thinking and flexibility on his part. If anyone can deal with future bouts of paranoia and mania, it’s Mickey

10-   Because Mickey really gets the Bipolar diagnostic (he did after all have a front-row seat when it all started, and he’s been to the clinic with Ian, so he knows what it means long-term) and is prepared to deal, because he wants to be with Ian

11-    Mickey is a romantic at heart and has a way with words, sometimes (Ian, what you and I have makes me free not what these assholes know [4x11])

12-   More often than not though, Mickey is inappropriate, sarcastic (Must really clear your mind watching a sunrise after a long night of gargling old man balls [4x11]) and just really entertaining. You never know what’s going to come out of his filthy mouth (and though half the time Ian probably wants to hide his face after Mickey drops his bombs on unsuspecting people, it sure is not boring…)

13-   Mickey came out for him, in a spectacular way

14-   On a related note, Mickey’s now out and proud (Guess what we've been doing, daddy! [4x11]; -So you're h-homosexuals? -No, well, he is. I just like having another man's dick in my ass [10x11]). He has zero issue telling anyone how he feels about Ian (-You must really love cock. -I definitely love one [10x11])

15-   Mickey is an uncomplicated person who has no appetite for bullshit (-Yeah, you got beer? -I've got some Craft Brews, a Stout, IPA, Winter Wheat. -How about beer? [4x8]). Also, he is an open book and often quite vocal about what he wants (You want to chitchat more, or you want to get on me? [2x2]). Chiavari chairs aside, it doesn’t take much for Mickey to be happy (Motherfucker needs to be able to rock Livin' on a Prayer, acoustic, hard [10x11])

16-   Mickey really gets Ian and pays attention when he opens up (He isn't afraid to kiss me [3x5]; When you get over this whole "I'm not worthy of love" bullshit, why don't you give me a call? [10x9])

17-   Ian and Mickey have known each other since they were kids, but even after all these years Mickey still manages to surprise him (We're having a wedding wedding? [10x11])

18-   They like some of the same shit, including 90s’ action movies, manhandling each other, and Pat Benatar

19-   Mickey takes care of Ian: he feeds and hydrates the hell out of Ian (About time, man. Your Panda Express is getting cold [10x7]), buys him vitamins, holds doors open for him, etc.

20-   Mickey comes from an abusive household, but he was able to grow into a man who can be caring and tender when it matters. Speaking of which, Mickey gives the best goddamn hugs in probably all of Chicago

21-   Ian wants a family of his own and, for many of the reasons listed above, Mickey is great father material (he already has the dad dance moves, as seen during the wedding!). Even if Mickey says he doesn’t want kids, Ian’s got him wrapped around his finger, so he’ll have him change his mind in no time

Okay, am I forgetting anything??

[rozsapalota]

The Most Random Questions About Your Muse.

*Copy and paste. Do not reblog*

Name: Gábor Szilvás.

1. Do they believe in true love? Absolutely. His attention span is generally rather short and he will drift from one infatuation to another, however when he loves he always does so truly, and has never been dishonest about his feelings. He holds some terribly poetic ideas about love, any kind of love be it platonic or romantic; and if he feels it, if he really feels affection for someone, then that is all he needs to know it is true.

2. Do they believe that their life has meaning? In a personal and emotional sense, most definitely. Not in the grand scheme of things. He values the simplicity of there being no greater meaning, no real divine plan other than for this world to be here, and for us to have the means to experience it. He really doesn’t regard himself as important, and would be quite honestly overwhelmed if he were. Probably in line to some extent with Lestat’s Savage Garden ramblings.

3. What first impression do they give when they first meet someone? He looks and feels quite frail, gentle. Long-limbed, fresh-faced, a graceful and sensitive youth of alluring innocence and girlish beauty. Now more than ever he might appear a bit removed from time, perhaps due to his choice of clothing which often reflects his own era in one way or another. He is very well-mannered and soft-spoken, carries himself like a noble and most certainly gives the vibe of old money, silver spoon in his mouth.

4. Do they believe in Heaven/Hell? By default, yes, or at least he used to. For a long time now he’s been thinking that there might be nothing, and he doesn’t really know what to make of it. You tend to contemplate death a lot, when you’re a vampire.

5. FIVE things that irritate them:

   1 )  low quality materials    2 )  poorly translated poetry    3 )  rudeness    4 )  any form of animal cruelty    5 )  out of tune instruments

6. First Kiss? He used to have the cutest crush on one of his older sister's friends back when he was maybe 7, and it was painfully obvious to everyone who spent any amount of time around the two. He couldn’t look her in the eye for longer than a couple seconds, and so of course when they all played charades and later on truth or dare, he was immediately dared to give her a kiss. Fortunately she was endeared or else he wouldn’t have had the courage, and she came to cradle his face in her hands and give him a kiss herself.

7. What do they find funny that other’s usually don’t? Hungarian puns can be too hard to explain sometimes ( say “Nagy Árpi” quickly and repeatedly, and don’t ask why he’s struggling to hold his laughter ). Blame Lotti for having taught him that.

8. Biggest Regret? That he was so naive as to fully trust his sire. That he never thought or had the nerve to press for answers before the irreversible took place.

9. THREE words that best describe them:

   1 )  graceful    2 )  affectionate    3 )  gullible

10. Their most attractive feature. It would have to be either his eyes, or his hands. There is at times a truly disarming expressiveness to his gaze, those long lashes of his, the colour an uncertain middle ground between light hazel and green. The eyes really are a mirror to his soul.

11. The feature that they find most attractive? It’s still the eyes. They’re one of the first traits he notices and nothing works him up quite like intense eye-contact.

12. Favorite Song Lyric: He’s more into instrumentals honestly.

13. Best advice they’ve ever received: “Do not become so perverted that you would disobey your own nature. Therein lies the path to ruin.” ( you know who you are, mystery advisor. )

14. Worst advice they’ve ever received: Nothing deep or meaningful here, but he was once told that eggs would make a great ingredient for a homemade hair mask. And they are. Except he went to rinse with warm water and somehow it never occurred to him the egg would begin to cook as a consequence. Sometimes I swear there's only white noise in his head.

15. What makes them cry? It really doesn’t take a lot to make this boy cry. Try raising your voice at him and you’ll see what I mean, generally however he will get emotional over anything from films to poetry, music, sad pet adoption or life insurance commercials on TV.

16. Hardest decision they ever had to make? Permanently leaving his family home. He’d killed a stable boy the night after his birth to darkness, entirely without meaning to or really knowing what he was doing. A maid would soon share the same fate. He realised at once, of course, that staying was out of the question; but that never made the decision any easier.

17. What makes them fond of someone? Kindness, kindness has its way of ensnaring him without fail. Joie de vivre, rather like his dear Lotti, hearty and contagious laughter. Generosity, honesty. Just being nice to him or having a sense of humour. Believe me when I tell you it is very easy to get him to like you.

18. Do they believe in forgiveness? He most certainly does, though he struggles even now, to some extent, to really understand or forgive his maker.

19. Biggest TURN ON. A dominant partner, that’s what does it for him. He has a very strong preference for men in this department and likes nothing more than being courted, the spicy back-and-forth of flirting where you can sense an underlying intent. He likes to play coy after all, and baby if you’re charming and a little bit intimidating, he might as well do anything you ask him to.

20. Biggest TURN OFF. Bad manners, rudeness, callousness. Ostentatious vulgarity in general.

21. Any fetishes/kinks? Power imbalance probably tops the list. Being someone’s submissive, being told what to do. A bit of hair pulling / biting / manhandling when it gets intense, but nothing extreme. Orgasm denial / edging is another big one, and also lots and lots of praise. Otherwise he’s reasonably vanilla, except maybe for blood sharing on occasion?

22. Do they have a perception of God? Vaguely so. He was raised Christian, but he is one only at surface level. Nobody in his family was a devout believer and the existence of God was rather passively accepted as the conventional truth. He doesn’t question it, and yet religion has never plagued him or caused him any great turmoil, as it was not a very significant part of his life save for the obligatory Sunday masses. If he were to pick a label he would probably call himself something of a deist.

23. A memory from their childhood that shaped them. He was a very pampered child growing up, always complimented left and right for being pretty as his sisters, often mistaken for a girl himself. It’s a dreamy place of his past to revisit, and he’s still young for a vampire; the memories feel fresh to him, recent to his preternatural mind. He remembers well the evenings of those long gone times when the house was alive and full of music, his mother putting on her pearl earrings before the mirror of her bedroom wall. He remembers leaning against the wooden balcony railing when he wanted to trace constellations, long before they’d ever left for Budapest. He remembers hearing the wolves there, and feeling safe where he stood.

24. Birthday and zodiac sign: October 1st, he’s a Libra.

25. Do they agree with said zodiac sign? He thinks zodiacs are a lot of fun and does relate to many of the traits associated with his sign, but he refuses to believe that he is superficial. :(

26. What is ONE thing that they wish they could change about themselves? He’s pretty comfortable in his skin, as well as comfortable with his own personality. That said, he would tone down the sensitivity if he could, he genuinely cannot participate in an argument without being on the verge of tears.

27. A dream that they have never told anyone. He won’t tell this to anyone because he realises how pathetic it is of him, a product of his heartbreak. It makes him feel miserable to even think about it. He just wishes there could have been some way to be happy alongside his maker, some way to have made him realise that bringing him into this immortality would ruin everything, everything they had. Maybe what he truly needs in order to forgive, is an apology.

28. Do they believe in fate? Not really, but there’s definitely a romantic appeal to the idea.

29. Favourite season: Spring.

30. FIVE favourite singers/bands/performers: Chopin, Tchaikovsky, Liszt, and more recently ABBA and Lana del Rey.

TAGGED BY: @desanctii ( thank you ! ) TAGGING: once you see this I’m sorry but you’re it, no takebacks

[greennct]

a cut above the rest | lee taeyong

for chlo~

hair-stylist!au honestly taeyong was the only member i could write this au for, because he’s so overworked & dyes his hair so damn much lol 🥴🥴🥴 if any rich nctzens are reading this pls bring him some conditioner and a kingsize bed at the next fansign

omg also I have no idea how a hair salon works so i’m so sorry for my inaccurate descriptions of how to dye hair sksksks

fluffy, two idiots in love my favourite kind tee hee, 4.5k words

song rec: lucky strike by trove sivan

Today was going to be a long day. 

Usually, when you dyed hair, you were allowed the luxury of dealing with only one client over a series of hours, or days if necessary. However, your salon was well-known, and highly respected, meaning that you received frequent visits from kpop groups. Each and every time the idols came in, your usually tranquil hair salon was thrown into chaos. 

The colouring needed to be done as quickly and discreetly as possible, to avoid the public catching wind of any spoilers for their potential comeback. Unfortunately, this meant shutting the salon down for at least 24 hours, and running all over the place attempting to complete about thirty odd jobs at once. As one of the senior members of staff there, you usually had the luxury of picking and choosing your clients, however whenever idol groups came in, you were expected to oversee each and every member, in order to ensure that they all received the exact treatment that their company entrusted you to give them. 

To be honest, you didn’t mind tending to idols if their group was small. They were usually starved for conversation outside of their tight inner circle of mangers and staff members, so always provided you with fun stories and easy chatter. However, this relaxed and friendly attitudes only applied for groups with at most, six members. Since not every member would have a full-on bleach and colour, you had time to stop for a cup of coffee now and then, and still get the job done on time.

Today, however, you were not going to be granted that luxury. 

Today, NCT 127 had been booked.

Nine members, though notably much more polite and charming than your average kpop idols, were still nine members, and that meant your day would be spent without hope of even sitting down. What’s more, SM had informed you that morning that every member would at least need a toner to alter their shade a slight amount. Essentially, your workload had just been doubled. Great.

You had barely polished off the breakfast your colleague had grabbed from the café next door, when the boys, accompanied by two managers, tumbled through the door. One of your interns then immediately pulled curtains over the shop front window, turning the sign in the door to read CLOSED. The boys immediately displayed signs of relief, cracking smiles as they pulled off the caps, glasses and masks that prevented them from being recognised, and loped over to their respective chairs.

You caught eyes with Lee Taeyong right away, and looked away to hide the faint blush that dusted your cheeks.

Unfortunately for you, hopeless infatuation with a more or less stranger was a much more common occurence than the average person. You had the tendency to fall in love, or at least into some type of temporary, superficial lust with the idol customers who visited the salon. Chan from Seventeen, Wonpil from Day6, and most recently, Taeyong from NCT. However, this crush on him was bothering you a lot more than your previous ones had.

Usually, your passing fancy was exactly that; passing. Usually intense, but still extremely fleeting. You could hold a coherent conversation with them within months, sometimes even weeks. However, with Lee Taeyong, you had found yourself stuttering for almost half a year now. It certainly didn’t help that he was definitely the most frequent client at your salon, changing his hair colour practically every month.

Though you two knew each other by name now, you were honestly too scared to actually spend a significant amount of time with him, since you knew how quickly your social skills fell apart around someone you liked. So, today you were determined to avoid spending time with him at all costs.

Of course, fate had other ideas. You quickly spotted two employees who were attempting to bleach Taeyong’s hair. No matter how awkward you felt around him, you were not about to let your incompetence get in the way of your profession, and so practically sprinted over to the chair he was sitting in. 

“Guys, guys!” You tried not to whine. “If you start the bleaching process at the bottom of the head, you’re going to have to go over your original strips when you put the colour in.” Grabbing a brush from one of their hands, you ignored their bewildered expressions, to collect the strands falling over his forehead, just brushing his eyelids. He looked up from his phone when you did so, and gave a lopsided grin of recognition when he saw your face. He graciously ignored the blush blooming on your cheeks from stroking his face so boldly.

“Hey! It’s been a while, huh?” 

“Uh... Yeah, I guess.” You attempted to play off your nervousness at replying to him as being entirely focused on his hair.

“How are you?” He continued, switching off his phone, and looking at your reflection in the mirror opposite you.

“Can’t complain.” You tried to smile back at him, but it came out as what looked like a pained grimace. “Er, you?”

“Tired. Always tired.” He chuckled, but you frowned slightly.

“You should get some rest. Sleep in the chair if you want, no one will mind.” Your parental instincts allowed you to forget how to be awkward for a while. concern taking over from the butterflies in your stomach.

“Maybe.” Taeyong didn’t sound convinced. “I’ve got to monitor our dance practice, but I’m, like, genuinely fine, otherwise. Like you said, I can’t complain.” He smiled again, but it didn’t meet his eyes.

It was obvious your worry made him uncomfortable, so you tried to scale it back, smoothing the frown lines off your forehead. “Whatever you say,” your tone was much more lighthearted. “All I’m saying is, I’m sure your fans would prefer it if you were conscious for your next comeback, not falling asleep on stage.”

“I won’t be falling asleep anytime soon.” He assured you, letting out a wry laugh while looking away from you. 

“All I’m saying is, no one’s going to judge you if you take a ten, twenty minute power-nap.” You chided gently. 

“You’re so sweet.” He turned around to look up at you, eyes soft, slight smile tugging at his lips.

You let out something that resembled a squeak, and thrust the bleach-covered brush at the coworker standing next to you. 

“NicespeakingtoyouTaeyongbye!” You managed, before rushing off to the sinks to calm yourself down. It was almost embarrassing how affected you had been by one single look.

You did not manage to talk to Taeyong again that day. You were surprised how disappointed you were by the fact, however all your resentment washed away, when you caught him snoring softly in his chair, dance practice still playing in the phone in his hands.

-

You didn’t end up seeing Taeyong for a few months after that. Unsurprisingly, that made you even more curious as to his whereabouts. You found yourself refreshing your social media much more frequently, constantly checking NCT update accounts for any kind of news. You told yourself that it was all due to concern for his health, and it was true that you did fret over the eyebags that were prevalent even through his thickly made-up face. However, you also caught yourself smiling at candid photos of him taken by fansites, and giggling at his group’s appearances on variety shows. 

You were worried about your crush. It had never gone further than harmless attempts at flirting with any other customers you had before, and something told you that the intensity was not going to fade any time soon. And that sacred you. You tried to occupy yourself as much as you could with things to keep your mind off Taeyong. Extra clients at work, reconnecting with old friends, clubbing every weekend. However, each time you thought that you were finally getting over your feelings for him, you would be reminded of his presence. 

Sometimes it would be a huge billboard on the subway, however it was mostly something small and stupid that reminded you of him. A stuffed bear with huge eyes just like his, laughter heard from across a crowded restaurant that sounded like his, even the red of a balloon tugged along by a little boy that was the exact shade that you had just dyed Taeyong’s. In other words; you were screwed.

However, that morning, you barely had enough time to think of anything, let alone your illicit crush as you shoved a banana in your mouth, scrabbling to lock your front door. You had slept in, and woken up to around fifteen missed calls from your boss. You ran to your car, putting your phone on speaker, and then reversing out of your parking space as you called her back.

“I’m so sorry, I completely overslep-”

“Finally!” Came the shriek on the other end. “Listen, we’ve got NCT coming in today.”

“Oh.” You blinked, immediately regretting not taking a few extra minutes to pick a cuter outfit. “W-which unit?” You tried not to make your nerves noticeable.

“All of them.”

“What?!” You squawked. “All units?!”

“Did I mention the three new members they’ve added? With no notice to us at all? And that they’re expected in fifteen minutes!”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I wish I was.” 

You didn’t even bother to hang up before you let out your groan

-

Just under twenty minutes later, you almost knocked down the doors to the salon. Immediately eighteen boys, five staff members, and twelve of your colleagues stopped what they were doing to look at you. And of course, you could only see Taeyong. Staring at you with a good-natured twinkle in his eye, perfect as always. Great.

You waved to your boss apologetically, as you ducked into the backroom to put your coat away. And then, you got to work.

The day was one of the hardest that you had ever spent at your job. Not only did you have to organise everyone’s hair colouring, which meant attempting to have a eighteen individual fifteen minute consultations within five minutes, you also had to coordinate who would be doing what when, ensuring that there wasn’t a seven-person queue at the sinks, and that no one’s hair fell out from bleach being left in it for too long.

It was actually coming towards the end of the day when you finally got a chance to even be near Taeyong. You saw him sitting in one of the sink chairs alone, and decided to rinse out his final round of toner, since you figured even the interns needed a break. You admired the dusty pink hue that he had chosen silently, as you made your way over. Though it was true that the two of you usually engaged in conversation, no matter how awkward while you did his hair, by the time you managed to get to the salon chair, his softly rising and falling chest showed you that he had already fallen asleep, head lolling in the sink attached to the head of the chair. You smiled, in spite of yourself, and turned the hose on softly, testing the temperature with your hand before starting to wet his scalp. 

You made sure to do your job gently, but meticulously, massaging his scalp slightly to ensure that all of the excess product was washed out his hair. You hummed under your breath, simply out of habit, enjoying the welcome break from the madness your day had been so far. 

However, you were barely two minutes into the job when Taeyong let out a soft moan. It was so quiet that only the two of you could have heard it, yet the noise startled you so much that you dropped the hose with a loud clang, spraying water all over both Taeyong and yourself. The salon was immediately thrown into pandemonium, as stylists abandoned their posts to mop the two of you up. You apologised over and over to Taeyong, unable to even look him in the eye. 

Later, when your boss asked you what had happened, confused since you had, up until then, been such a reliable and talented employee, you were unable to vocalise what had happened. You had barely had time to even breathe since the incident, but had accidentally caught Taeyong’s eye as he swept a cursory glance around the salon to check that all the members had left before walking out himself. As soon as you locked eyes, he blushed an even deeper shade of crimson than you did.

As if your life could get any worse.

-

Over the next few months, you came to the harsh realisation that Taeyong was avoiding you. Whenever NCT came in to your salon, he mysteriously always had a schedule, or some kind of last minute commitment that the staff members assured you he absolutely could not back out of. Even though it had technically been him who had let out that sound, it seemed that you were the one being punished for it. 

However, you knew that you did not have ownership over Taeyong, after a while, begins to come to terms with not ever seeing him again, as it seemed he was extremely determined to make that happen. He stopped popping into your thoughts as much - some days he didn’t cross your mind at all, and you breathed a silent sigh of relief to yourself that your crush was finally coming to an end, convincing yourself that his hiatus was in no way because your feelings were mutual. 

That was, until a fateful stormy Wednesday evening, when you were left to close up the shop by yourself. Until, sopping from the torrential rain outside, an all-too-familiar figure burst through the door, breathing heavily, as if he had ran all the way from his dorm to your doorstep. Until all of your buried feelings resurfaced in full force, with one look at his face.

“Taeyong?” You almost whispered, incredulous. “What are you doing here?”

He stood, motionless, dripping water onto the floor. “I have to dye my hair.” He grunted.

“W-well, um, I’m closing, so if you could come back in the morni-”

“No.” He shook his head fervently. “I have to do it now.”

Something about the way his voice broke slightly on the last word in the sentence, shook something within you, and so, instead of refusing, or even asking him why, you simply sighed and pulled out the nearest salon chair.

He seemed slightly taken aback at how quickly you had complied, his demeanour immediately changing from intimidating, to the much more neurotically polite Taeyong that you knew. “Are you sure? I mean-”

“What colour do you want, Lee?” You called from the other side of the salon, already mixing bleach in a bowl.

“Green, please.”

“Green?” You raised your eyebrows. “How green?”

“Have you ever seen our lightstick?”

-

Three and a half hours later, you were exhausted. It was God-knows-what-time at night, and you had been on your feet for the entire duration of you bleaching Taeyong’s hair about three times, colouring it twice, and adding in enough toner to last a lifetime. What’s more, you had completed your tasks in complete silence. Not even on his phone, Taeyong instead opted to stare determinedly at his own reflection, avoiding your curious gaze, and remaining stoically voiceless. Instead of your usual friendly conversation, all you could hear was the howling of the wind against the windows of the salon, and the rumbles oft under that seemed to be coming even nearer to you. 

Though you weren’t particularly afraid of storms, you had to admit that being in such an uncomfortable situation so late at night made you much more wary than you were usually. However, you were much too nervous around Taeyong to even giggle at the awkwardness that hung thick in the air, let alone confide in him your nervousness about the weather. You were beginning to realise that he had an effect on you that no one else ever had before. You were tongue-tied.

However, your ordeal was now finally over. You rolled your head around, stretching out your neck as you walked Taeyong to the door after he had paid, still with neither of you saying anything. You fumbled with your keycard in order to open it, incredibly conscious of his close proximity in his eagerness to leave, breath fanning the back of your neck. You slotted your electronic card into the door’s lock, and watched the light by the handle turn green with a small beep. You then attempted to push the door open, but were prevented by the definitive sound of the lock rattling.

“What?” You muttered under your breath.

Swiping the keycard once more, you tried to open the door again, but were met with the exact same stubborn lock, and a distinctive sinking feeling in your stomach.

“What’s wrong with the door?” Taeyong asked.

You could tell he was impatient, shifting his weight from side to side, and attempting to surreptitiously check his phone for the time.

“I don’t know, it’s... it’s not opening. The lock is jammed or something, I think it might be because of-”

“The storm.” Taeyong finished your sentence. “But that doesn’t make sense. All the other electricity in the building would be fucked up as well. If it’s only the door then-”

Just as he uttered those words, as if by some sick twist of fate, the lights in the salon flickered a few times, before suddenly shutting off.

“Shit.” You said, more to yourself than anyone else.

“Shit is right.” Taeyong huffed. He was already pulling his phone out, dialling a number. You toggled the light switches by the door, but were met with no response.

You both waited with baited breath for the familiar sound of the regular beeps of Taeyong’s, signalling that it was calling someone, that you had a chance at escaping. However, the phone was silent, refusing to follow it’s owner’s instructions. Taeyong tried another number. Then another, then another, and soon he was going through what looked like his entire contact list whilst pacing up and down in the dark.

“I don’t think we have service, Taeyong, there’s no point-”

“I’m trying to get out of here!” He whipped around, snapping at where he had last seen you standing. “Some of us have places to be, you know!”

You couldn’t help but let out a tiny gasp. This was a new, short-tempered and just plain rude side of Taeyong that you had never encountered before. 

He didn’t respond in any way to your small reaction, instead finally stopping his pacing. Your eyes still weren't used to the dark, and so you squinted in an attempt to work out where he was, having realised the sounds of him moving had stopped, until you heard his voice right by your ear.

“Sorry.”

You jumped about five feet in the air. “Jesus!” You exclaimed. “You scared me!”

Even then, with both of you still so awkward with each other, and in such a terrifying situation, Taeyong managed to laugh.

“What?” You huffed. “That was terrifying! I can’t see anythi-”

Taeyong switched on the torch on his phone. You resisted the urge to shove your face into your hands. By this time, you had slid down the wall into a little ball, wrapping your arms around your legs. You could now clearly see Taeyong sitting a short distance away from you.

“Oh.” You almost whispered, unsure of whether or not you should attempted to initiate conversation. 

After a short pause, in which you could physically feel the uncomfortableness of the situation seeping through the room, Taeyong continued speaking. 

“I am sorry though, seriously. I’ve just been stressed recently, ‘cause it’s awards season. I haven’t changed my hair in so long, because I’ve been so mortified about what I did, but the managers told me I needed to change my look, so I came as late as I could to avoid you, but you ended up being the only one here, which is why I’ve been so disgustingly awkward, and now we’re locked in, but I only have a few hours to practice my solo choreography until sound check, but now I don’t have anywhere to practice, not to mention how I definitely won’t get to sleep now, and the members are gonna kill me, since I’m now basically M.I.A., and I don’t-”

Taeyong cut himself off, when you reached over and grabbed his hand. It was an impulsive decision, that shocked you as much as him, however as soon as you did it, you somehow knew that you had made the right choice.

“Taeyong, I can’t imagine how you must be feeling right now.” You weren't exactly sure where you were going with this, but looking at how desperately his brown eyes bored into your own, you understood that you had to at least try to comfort him. "Everything must be incredibly stressful, so firstly, you do not have to apologise to me at all.”

“But-”

You silenced him with a look. “I think it’s amazing, and incredibly admirable that you have so many concerns for the others around you, and so much dedication towards your career. But, Taeyong, maybe this is a good thing. No one is going to be angry at you for getting trapped somewhere out of your control, especially when you were trying to follow orders. Maybe this is a sign that you need to take a minute to think about yourself.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Taeyong protested stubbornly, now staring down at your intertwined fingers. 

“When’s the last time you slept for more than an hour or two, huh?” You reasoned.

“I...” 

“Exactly.” You said. “You know what, you’re sleeping now.”

“What?!” 

“You heard me. I’ll watch our phones, and keep checking the door, but as long as we’re trapped here, I’m going to force you to finally get some rest, Tae!” The nickname slipped out, but he didn’t comment on it. It had felt so natural slipping off your tongue, and you felt a warmth bloom in your chest in spite of yourself.

“What about my dance practice? I only learnt it yesterday!” He protested.

“Then it’s their fault for not teaching it to you sooner.” You replied.

“I’m serious. I have to make sure it’s okay.” 

You knew Taeyong would not let it go, let alone relax until he had the stupid thing nailed. 

“Fine. Ten minutes.” 

“Twenty.”

“Fifteen, and no more.” You bargained.

“What’s the song? I’ll play it for you.” You offered, searching it up via his instructions, whilst he stretched. Since the room was so quiet, your phone was a sufficient speaker, with the tinny sound of the beat just loud enough to enable Taeyong to hit each move perfectly.

You watched him, enthralled by the way he made his body twist and turn, contorting himself in order to pull off the most seamless performance you had seen from him. Again, you found yourself in awe of the boy’s talent.

“Are you sure you learnt this yesterday?” You tease. “You’re amazing.”

You didn’t miss the way Taeyong’s face heated up at your compliment.

“I, um... Well, it’s only cause, you see, the thing is-”

You interrupted his stammering with a chuckle. “Admit that you’re talented and drop it, Tae. Now come to bed.” 

Taeyong almost choked at your provocative statement, and you realised that you enjoyed making him flustered.

“S-sure.” 

You laughed again when you watched him lie down on the floor. “I’m not letting you sleep like a homeless person!” You teased. “Put your head on my lap, it’s much softer than wood, I promise.” 

You had no idea where all of your newfound confidence was coming from, however you had an inkling that it might have had something to do with the way that Taeyong looked at you. Like you had galaxies collected in your eyes.

Barely able to look at you, he shuffled over, to rest his head on your jeans. Unable to resist, you started to run your fingers through his hair, blowing lightly on his neck, until he groaned.

“Please don’t. You’re too good at this.”

You blushed. “What?”

“This is what got me in trouble last time.” Taeyong was slurring his words slightly, and you realised with surprise, that he was already half asleep. “As if your smile, your smell, your personality wasn't enough, you’re so damn good as playing with my hair. It’s incredibly-” he paused to yawn, “-distracting.” 

You smiled. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I have a big, fat crush on you!” He mumbled. 

There was a few seconds of silence where you simply blinked, attempting to process what you had just heard, before Taeyong shot up.

“Oh my god, I didn’t just say that out loud did I-”

The rest of his sentence was muffled by your lips on his. It barely took a few seconds for Taeyong to melt into the kiss with a smile, cupping his hands around your face, and pulling you closer to him. 

You broke apart when the fireworks in your stomach became so agitated you could barely breathe.

“In case you haven’t realised,” you said, panting slightly. “I have a big, fat crush on you, too.” 

“Well, then,” Taeyong grinned, already leaning in again, “There’s only one thing to do.”

“Nuh, uh.” You shook your head. “You are going to sleep, Mister.” You pushed his head onto your lap again. “What kind of person would I be if I deprived you of an opportunity to actually sleep?”

“Are you serious?” He asked, gazing up at you with nothing short at adoration in his expression.

“Afraid so.” You replied, smirking down at him.

“Well, this is very upsetting.” He pouted playfully, and you couldn't help but to pinch one of his cheeks gently.

“There’s really only one thing that’s going to make me feel better.” He continued.

“Oh yeah?”

“Goodnight kisses. Lots and lots of goodnight kisses.”

-

The next morning, you were woken by a very flustered intern who had been sent to prepare the shop for it’s opening. The electricity had come back on at around five in the morning, but neither of you had been awake to notice. You sent the girl off on a mundane task in the back, whilst you typed your number into Taeyong’s phone. 

He apologised for having to leave, and then you apologised for having kept him so long. He thanked you for letting him sleep on your lap, and then you thanked him for being “Such a ray of sunshine.” 

The intern gasped loudly when she saw Taeyong kiss you goodbye, however you were so infatuated that you couldn’t find it within yourself to care. He was all yours now, and you couldn’t be more grateful that your crush hadn’t worn off in the slightest.

[chiseler]

The Chiseler Interviews Tim Lucas

Born in 1956, film historian, novelist and screenwriter Tim Lucas is the author of several books, including the award-winning Mario Bava: All the Colors of the Dark, The Book of Renfield: A Gospel of Dracula, and Throat Sprockets. He launched Video Watchdog magazine in 1990, and his screenplay, The Man With Kaleidoscope Eyes, has been optioned by Joe Dante. He lives in Cincinnati with his wife Donna. 

The following interview was conducted via email.

*

THE CHISELER: You're known for your longstanding love affair with horror films. Could you perhaps explain this allure they hold for you?

Tim Lucas: I suppose they’ve meant different things to me at different times of my life. When I was very young (and I started going to movies at my local theater alone, when I was about six), I was attracted to them as something fun but also as a means of overcoming my fears - I would sometimes go to see the same movie again until I could stop hiding my eyes, and I would often find out they showed me a good deal less than I saw behind my hands, so I learned that when I was hiding my eyes my own imagination took over. This encouraged me to look, but also to impose my own imagination on what I was seeing. Similarly, I remember flinching at pictures of various monsters in FAMOUS MONSTERS OF FILMLAND magazine, then realizing that, as I became able to stop flinching, to look more deeply into the pictures, I began to feel  compassion for Karloff’s Frankenstein Monster and admiration for Jack Pierce’s makeup. You could say that I learned some valuable life lessons from this: not to make snap judgements, not to hate or fear someone else because they looked different. I should also point out that beauty had the same intense effect on me as ugliness, in those early days at the movies. I was as frightened by the glowing light promising another appearance by the Blue Fairy in PINOCCHIO as I was by Stromboli or Monstro the Whale. I also covered my eyes when things, even colors, became too beautiful to bear.

As I got older, I found out that horror, science fiction, and fantasy films often told the unpleasant truths about our world, our government, our politics, and other people, before such things could be openly confronted in straightforward drama. So I’m not one of those people who are drawn to horror by gore or some other superficial incentive; I have always responded to them because they made me aware of unpopular truths, because they made me a more empathic person, and because they sometimes encompass a very unusual form of beauty that you can’t find in reality or in any other kind of film.

THE CHISELER: I'm fascinated by what you term "a very specific hybrid of beauty that you can’t find in reality or in any other kind of film.” Please develop that point.

Tim Lucas: For example, the aesthetic put forward by the films of David Lynch... or Tim Burton... or Mario Bava... or Roger Corman... or Val Lewton... or James Whale... or F.W. Murnau. It's incredibly varied, really; too varied to be summarized by a single name, but it's dark and baroque with a broader, deeper spectrum of color. I’ll give you an example: there is a Sax Rohmer novel called YELLOW SHADOWS - and only in a horror film can you see truly yellow shadows. Or green shadows. Or a fleck of red light on a vine somewhere out of doors. It’s a painterly version of reality, akin to what people see in film noir but even more psychological. It might be described as a visible confirmation of how the past survives in everything - we can see new artists quoting from a past master, making their essence their own.

THE CHISELER: Your definition of horror, to me, goes straight to the heart of cinema as an almost metaphysical phenomenon. My friend and frequent co-writer, Jennifer Matsui, once wrote: "Celluloid preserves the dead better than any embalming fluid. Like amber preserved holograms, they flit in and out of its parameters, reciting their own epitaphs in pantomime; revenant moths trapped in perpetual motion." Do Italian directors have what I guess you can call special epiphanies to offer? If so, does this help explain your Bava book?

Tim Lucas: The epiphanies of Italian horror all arise from the culture that was inculcated into those filmmakers as young people - the awareness of architecture, painting, writing, myth, legend, music, sculpture that they all grow up with. It's so much richer than any films that can be made by people with no foundation in the other art forms, people who makes movies just because they've seen a few - and maybe cannot even be bothered to watch any in black and white. I imagine many people go into the film business for reasons having to do with sex or power rather than having something deep down they need to express. The most stupid Italian and French directors have infinitely more in their artistic arsenals than directors from the USA, because they are brought up with an awareness of the importance of the Arts. No one gets this in America, where we slash arts and education budgets and many parents just sit their children in front of a television. Without supervision, without a sense of context, they will inevitably be drawn to whatever is loudest or most colorful or whatever has the most edits per minute. And those kids are now making blockbusters. They make money, so why screw with the formula? When I was a kid, it was still possible to find important, nurturing material on TV - fortunately!

Does it explain my Bava book? I don't know, but Bava's films somehow encouraged and sustained the passion that saw me through the researching and writing of that book, which took 32 years. When my book first came out, some people took me to task for its presumed excess - on the grounds that “our great directors” like John Ford and Orson Welles, for all their greatness, had never inspired a book of such size or magnitude. I could only answer that my love for my subject must be greater. But the thing about the Bava book, really, was that - at that time - the playing field was pretty much virgin territory in English, and Bava as a worker in the Italian film industry touched just about everything that industry had encompassed. All of those relationships needed charting. It would have been an insult to merely pigeonhole him as a horror director.

THE CHISELER: I discovered your publication, Video Watchdog, back in 2000 when Kim's Video was something of an underground institution here in NYC. I mean, they openly hawked bootlegs. There was a real sense of finding the unexpected which gave the place a genuine mystique. Now that you've had some time to reflect on its heyday, what are your thoughts, generally, on VW?

Tim Lucas: It's hard to explain to someone who just caught on in 2000, when things were already very different and more incorporated. VIDEO WATCHDOG began in 1990 as a magazine, but before that it was a feature in other magazines of different sorts that began in 1986. At that time, I was reviewing VHS releases for a Chicago-based magazine called VIDEO MOVIES, which then had a title change to VIDEO TIMES. I pointed out to my editor that his writers were reviewing the films and not saying anything about their presentation on video, and urged him to make more of a mandate about discussing aspect ratios, missing scenes (or added scenes) and such. I proposed that I write a column that would start collecting such information and that column was called "The Video Watchdog.”

In 2000, VW's origins in Beta and VHS and LaserDisc had evolved to DVD and Blu-ray was on the point of being introduced, so by then most of the battles we identified and fought had already been won and assimilated into the way movies were being presented on video. But in our early days, my fellow writers and I - were making our readers aware of filmmakers like Bava, Argento, Avati, Franco, Rollin, Ptushko, Zuławski - and the conversation we started led to people seeking out these films through non-official channels, even forming those non-official channels, until the larger companies began to realize there was an exploitable market there. Our coverage was never limited to horror - horror was sort of the hub of our interest, which radiated out into the works of any filmmaker whose work seemed in some way paranormal - everyone from Powell and Pressburger to Ishiro Honda to Krzystof Kiesłowski.

Now that the magazine is behind me, I can see more easily that we were part of a process, perhaps an integral part, of identifying and disseminating some very arcane information and, by sharing our own processes of discovery, raising the general consciousness about innumerable marginal and maverick filmmakers. A lot of our readers went on to become filmmakers (some already were) and many also went on to form home video companies or work in the business.

I'm proud of what we were able to achieve, and that what were written as timely reports have endured as still useful, still relevant criticism. Magazines tend to be snapshots of the present, and our back issues have that aspect, but our readers still tell me that the work is holding up, it’s not getting old.

When I say "we," I mean numerous writers who shared my pretentious ethic and were able to push genre criticism beyond the dismissive critical writing about genre film that was standard in 1990. I mentioned this state of things in my first editorial, that the gore approach wasn’t encouraging anyone to take horror as a genre more seriously, and I do think horror became more respectable over the years we were publishing.

THE CHISELER: My own personal touchstone, Raymond Durgnat, drilled deep into genre — particularly horror films — while pushing back instinctively against the Auteur Theory. No critic will ever write with more infatuated precision about Barbara Steele, whose image graces the cover of your Bava tome. Do you have any personal favorites in that regard; any individual author or works that acted as a kind of Virgil for you?

Tim Lucas: I haven't read Durgnat extensively, but when I discovered him in the 1970s his books FRANJU and A MIRROR FOR ENGLAND were gospel to me. Tom Milne's genre reviews for MONTHLY FILM BULLETIN were always intelligent and well-informed. Ivan Butler’s HORROR IN THE CINEMA was the first real book I read on the subject, along with HITCHCOCK/TRUFFAUT - and I remember focusing on Butler’s chapter on REPULSION, an entire fascinating chapter on a single film, which I hadn’t actually seen. It showed me the film and also how to watch it, so that when it finally came to my local television station, I was ready to meet it head on. David Pirie’s books A HERITAGE OF HORROR and THE VAMPIRE CINEMA I read to pieces. But it was Joe Dante's sometimes uncredited writing in CASTLE OF FRANKENSTEIN magazine that first hooked my interest in this direction - followed by the earliest issues of CINEFANTASTIQUE, which I discovered with their third issue and for which I became a regular reviewer and correspondent in 1972. I continued to write for them for the next 11 years.

THE CHISELER: I was wondering how you responded to these periodic shifts in taste and sexual politics, especially as they address horror movies — or even something like feminist critiques of the promiscuity of rage against women evident all throughout Giallo; the fear of female agency and power which is never too far from the surface. Are sexism, and even homophobia, simply inherent to the genre?

Tim Lucas: None of that really matters very much to me. I've been around so long now, I can see these recurring waves of people trying to catch their own wave of time, to make an imprint on it in some way. For some reason, I find myself annoyed by newish labels like "folk horror" and "J-horror" because such films have been with us forever; they didn't need such identification before and they have only been invented to get us more quickly to a point, and sometimes these au courant labels simply rebrand work without bringing anything substantially new to the discussion. Every time I read an article about the giallo film, I have to suffer through another explanation of what it is - and this is a genre whose busiest time frame was half a century ago. Sexism and homophobia are things people generally only understand in terms of the now, and I don’t know how fair it is to apply such concepts to films made so long ago. Think of Maria’s torrid dance in METROPOLIS and all those ravenous young men in tuxedos eating her with their eyes. Sexist, yes - but that’s not the point Lang was making.

I don’t particularly see myself as normal, but I suppose I am centrist in most ways. I don’t bring an agenda to the films I write about, other than wanting them to be as complete and beautifully restored as possible. That said, I am interested in, say, feminist takes on giallo films or homosexual readings of Herman Cohen films because - after all - we all bring ourselves to the movies, and if there’s more to be learned about a film I admire, from outside my own experience, that can be precious information. I want to know it and see if I can agree with it, or even if it causes me to feel something new and unfamiliar about it.

My only real concern is that genre criticism tends to be either academic or conversational (even colloquial), and we’re now at a point where the points made by articles published 20 or more years ago are coming back presented as new information, without any idea (or concern) that these things have already been said. As magazines are going by the wayside, taking their place is talk on social media, which is not really disciplined or constructive, nor indeed easily retrievable for reference. There are also audio commentaries on DVD and Blu-ray discs. Fortunately, there are a number of good and serious people doing these, but even when you get very intelligent or intellectual commentators, they often work best with the movie image turned off, because it’s a distraction from what’s being said. Is that true commentary? I'm not an academic; I’m an autodidact, so I don't have the educational background to qualify as a true intellectual, and I feel left out by a lot of academic writing. I do read a good deal and have familiarity with a fair range of topics, so I tend to frame myself somewhere between the vox populist and academia. That's the area we pursued in VW.

THE CHISELER: David Cairns and I once published a critical appreciation of Giallo, using fundamentally Roman Catholic misogyny — and, to a lesser extent, fear of gay men — as an intriguing lens. For example, lesbians are invariably sinister figures in these movies, while straight women ultimately function as nothing more than cinematographic objects: very fetishized, very well-lit corpses, you might say.

Tim Lucas: See, I admire a lot of giallo films but it would never occur to me to see them through a lens. I do, of course, because personal experience is a lens, but my lens is who I am and I’ve never had to fight for or defend my right to be who I am. I have no particular flag to wave in these matters; I approach everything from the stance of a film historian or as a humanist.

There is a lot of crossdressing and such in giallo, but these are tropes going back to French fin de siècle thrillers of the early 1900s, they don't really have anything to do with homophobia as we perceive it in our time. In the Fantomas novels, Souvestre and Allain (the authors) used to continually deceive their readers by having their characters - the good and the evil ones - change disguises, and sometimes apparently change sexes.

I remember Dario Argento saying that he used homosexual characters in his films because he was interested in their problems. He seldom actually explored their problems, and their portrayal in his earliest films is… quaint, to be kind about it… but it was a positive change as time played out. I think the fact that Argento’s flamboyant style attracted gay fans brought them more into his orbit and the vaguely sinister gay characters of his early films become more three dimensional and sympathetic later on, so in that regard his attention to such characters charts his own gradual embracing of them. So in a sense they chart his own widening embrace of the world, which is surprising considering what a misanthropic view of the world he presents.

THE CHISELER: But Giallo is roughly contemporaneous to the rise of Second Wave Feminism. Like the Michael & Roberta Findlay 'roughies', this is not a fossilized species of extinct male anger we're talking about here. Women's bodies are the energy of pictorial composition; splayed specifically for the delectation of some very confused and pissed off men in the audience. I know of no exceptions. To me it makes perfect sense to recognize the ritualized stabbings, stranglings, the BDSM hijinks in Giallo as rather obvious symptoms of somebody's not-so-latent fear and hatred.

Tim Lucas: I think that’s a modernist attitude that was not all that present at the time. Once the MPAA ratings system was introduced in late 1968, all genres of films got stronger in terms of graphic violence and language, and suspense thrillers were no exception. At the time, women and gay people were feeling freer, freer to be themselves, and were not looking for new ways to be taken out of films, however they might be represented. Neither base really had that power anyway at that time, but at any rate it wasn’t a time for them to appear more conservative. That would come at a later period when they felt more assured and confident in their equality. Throughout the 1960s, even in 1969 films like THE WRECKING CREW and BEYOND THE VALLEY OF THE DOLLS, you can see that women are still playthings of a sort in films; there are starting to be more honest portrayals of women in films like HUD, but the prevailing emphasis of them is still decorative, so it makes sense that they would be no different in a thriller setting. There’s no arguing, I don’t think, that the murder scenes become more thrilling when the victim is a beautiful, voluptuous woman. It’s nothing to do with misogyny but rather about wanting to induce excitement from the viewer. If you look back to Janet Leigh’s character arc in PSYCHO, the exact same thing happens to her, but because she’s a well-developed character and time is given to explore that character and her goals and motivations, there is no question that it is a role women would want to play, even now. However, the same simply isn’t true of most giallo victims, which should not be seen as one of their rules but as one of their faults. In BLOOD AND BLACK LACE, I think Mario Bava shows us just enough of the women characters for us to have some investment in their fates - but when the giallo films are in the hands of sausage makers, you’re going to feel a sense of misogyny. It may be real but it may also be misanthropy or a more commercial mandate to pack more into a film and to sex it up. I should add that, because I’m not a woman or gay, I don’t bring personal sensitivities to these things, so I see them as something that just comes with the territory, like shoot-outs in Westerns. If you were to expunge anything that was objectionable from a giallo film, wouldn’t it be just another cop show or Agatha Christie episode? You watch a giallo film because, on some level, you want to see something with the hope of some emotional or aesthetic involvement, or with the hope of being outraged and offended. There is no end of mystery entertainment without giallo tropes, so it’s there if you demand that. Giallo films aren’t really about who done it, only figuratively; they are lessons in how to stage murder scenes and probably would not exist without the master painting of PSYCHO’s shower scene, which they all seek to emulate.

THE CHISELER: You mentioned Val Lewton earlier. Personally, I've never encountered anything like the overall tone of his films. There's always something startling to see and hear. Would you shed a little light on his importance?

Tim Lucas: He's an almost unique figure in film in that he was a producer yet he projected an auteur-like imprint on all his works. The horror films for which he's best known are not quite like any other films of their kind; I remember Telotte's book DREAMS OF DARKNESS using the word "vesperal" to describe the Lewton films' specific atmosphere - a word pertaining to the mood of evening prayer services, which isn't a bad way of putting it. I've always loved them for their delicacy, their poetical sense, their literary quality, and their indirectness - which sometimes co-exists with sources of florid garishness, like the woman with the maracas in THE LEOPARD MAN. In THE SEVENTH VICTIM, one shy character characterizes the heroine's visit to his apartment as her "advent into his world," and when I first saw it, I was struck by the almost spiritual tenderness and vulnerability of that description. Lewton was remarkable because he seems to have worked in horror because it was below the general studio radar, which allowed him to make extremely personal films. As long as they checked the necessary boxes, he could make the films he wanted - and I think Mario Bava learned that exact lesson from him.

THE CHISELER: I've always been fascinated by a question which is probably unanswerable: Why do you think it is that movies based on Edgar Allan Poe stories — even those films that only just pretend to sink roots in Poe, offering glib riffs on his prose at best — invariably bear fruit?

Tim Lucas: Poe's writings predate the study of human psychology and, to an extent, chart it - so he can be credited with founding a wing of science much like Jules Verne's writings were the foundation of science fiction and, later, science fact. Also, from the little we know of Poe's personal life, his writing was extremely personal and autobiographical, which makes it all the more compelling and resonant. It's also remarkably flexible in the way it lends itself to adaptation - there is straight Poe, comic Poe, arty Poe, even Poeless Poe. It helps too that a lot of people familiar with him haven't read him extensively, at least not since school, or think they have read him because they've seen so many Poe movies. The sheer range of approaches taken to his adaptation makes him that much more universal.

It also occurs to me that people are probably much more alike internally than they are externally, so the identification with an internal or first person narrator may be more immediate. But it's true that his work has inspired a fascinating variety of interpretation. You can see this at work in a single film: SPIRITS OF THE DEAD (1968), which I’ve written an entire book about. It’s three stories done by Roger Vadim, Louis Malle, and Federico Fellini - all vastly different, all terribly personal expressions of the men who made them.

THE CHISELER: Speaking of Poe adaptations, I've long thought it's time to confront Roger Corman's legacy; as an artist, a producer, an industrial muse, everything. Sometimes I think he's the single most important figure in cinema history. And if that's a wild overstatement, I could stand my ground somewhat and point out that no one person ever supported independent filmmakers with such profound results. It's as though he used his position at a mainstream Hollywood studio to open a kind of Underground Railroad for two generations of film artists. He gave so many artists a leg up in a business where those kinds of opportunities were never exactly abundant that it's hard to keep track. Entering the subject from any angle you like, what are your thoughts on Corman's overall contribution to cinema?

Tim Lucas: I can think of more important filmmakers than Corman, but there has never been a more important producer or mogul or facilitator of films. I said this while introducing him on the first of our two-night interview at the St. Louis Film Festival’s Vincentennial in 2011. He was largely responsible for every trend in American cinema during its most decisive quarter century - 1955 through 1980, and to some extent a further decade still, which bore an enormous influx of talent he discovered and nurtured. People talk about Irving Thalberg, Darryl F. Zanuck, Steven Spielberg, etc. - but their productions don’t begin to show the sheer diversity of interests that you get from Corman’s output. He has no real counterpart. I’ve spent a lot of the past 20 years musing on him, first as the protagonist of a comedy script I wrote with Charlie Largent called THE MAN WITH KALEIDOSCOPE EYES, which Joe Dante has optioned. A few years ago, I decided to turn the script into a novel, which is with my agent now. It’s about the time period before, during, and after the making of THE TRIP (1966). It's a comedy but one with a serious, even philosophical side.

You know, Mario Bava once described himself to someone as “the Italian Roger Corman.”  It’s incredible to me that Bava would have said that, not because it’s wrong or even because he was a total filmmaker before Corman made his first picture, but because Bava has been dead for so long! He’s been gone now almost 40 years and Roger is still making movies. And he’s been making movies for the DTV market longer than anybody, so he sort of predicted the current exodus of new movies away from theaters to streaming formats.

THE CHISELER: Are there any other producers/distributors you'd care to acknowledge, anyone that you think has followed in what you might call Corman’s Tradition of Generosity?

Tim Lucas: No, I really think he is incomparable in that respect. I do think it’s important to note, however, that I doubt Roger was ever purely motivated by generosity of spirit. I don’t think he would put money or his trust in anyone merely as a favor. He’s a businessman to his core and his gambles have always been based on projects that are likely to improve on his investment, even if moderately. I have a feeling that the first dollar he ever made is still in circulation, floating around out there bringing something new into being. I also don’t think he would give anyone their big break unless they had earned that break already in some respect. And when he does extend that opportunity, he’s got to know that, when these people graduate from his company, he’ll be sacrificing their talent, their camaraderie, maybe even in some cases their gratitude. So yes, there is some generosity in that aspect - but he also knows from experience that there are always new top students looking to extend their educations on the job. I wish more people in the film business had his selflessness, his ability to recognize and encourage talent. It may be his greatest legacy.

THE CHISELER: You introduced me, many years ago, to Mill of the Stone Women — I'll end on a personal note by thanking you and asking: Would you share an insight or two about this remarkable gem, particularly for readers who may not have seen it?

Tim Lucas: MILL OF THE STONE WOMEN was probably my first exposure to Italian horror; I saw it as a child, more than once, on local television and there were things about it that haunted and disturbed me, though I didn't understand it. Perhaps that's why it haunted and disturbed me, but the image of Helfy's hands clutching the red velvet curtains stayed with me for decades (a black and white memory) until I got to see it on VHS - I paid $59.95 for the privilege because my video store told me they would not be stocking it. It's a very peculiar film because Giorgio Ferroni wasn't a director who favored horror; the "Flemish Tales" that it's supposedly based on is non-existent, a Lovecraftian meta-invention, and it's the only Italian horror filmed in that particular region in the Netherlands. It looks more Germanic than Italian. I’m tempted to believe Bava may have had a hand in doing the special effects shot, which look like his work, but they might also have been done by his father Eugenio, as he was also a wax figure sculptor so would have been good to have on hand. He seldom took screen credit. So it's a film that has stayed with me because it's elusive; it's hard to find the slot where it belongs. It's like an adult fairy tale, or something out of E.T.A. Hoffmann. I can’t tell you how many hours I’ve wasted, trying to find another movie with the unique spell cast by that one.

[v-hope]

Superficial

Pairing: Jeon Jeongguk x Reader

Genre: Idk?? I guess angst if you really squint your eyes? If anyone knows what this is, please let me know.

Word Count: 1.4k

Request: Nope.

Summary: Sometimes superficialty comes right back to bite you.

Warnings: As the title itself hints at, there are mentions of the stereotypical beauty standards. Don’t forget that you do not need to fit on them to be worthy of love.

{Pt. 2}

You wiped the palm of your hands on the fabric of your black skinny jeans, hating how they somehow got sweatier and sweatier with each step you took forward in the line. It wasn’t because of the seven idols you were about to meet, no, it was because of one particular boy: the one with the bunny smile – that same smile you used to be so infatuated by.

Looking at him from the distance, you remembered why you used to have the hugest crush on him. On the outside he wasn't that different; the only difference being his face was more mature and he seemed to have gained body muscle. Of course, his sense of style was no longer the same, neither was his hair, which you thought came with the price of being an idol. You couldn't help but wonder, though, if he had changed on the inside as well.

You looked down at your sister and gave her a simple nod as your turn came, telling her to go first, mostly because that way you could keep an eye on her. You could feel her nervousness arise and a muffled squeal leave her mouth before walking up to the first one of them. You just smiled, not quite understanding how happy those guys made your seven year old baby. She had begged you to take her there and, although you had nothing to do with BTS, how could you say no to her when it clearly meant so much?

As she moved onto the next member, one of the guards allowed you to go to the table to talk with the first one. You hadn’t expected him to be that nice. In fact, they were all so fun and easy to talk to that they made you forget you were getting closer and closer to the maknae. It only hit you when you were already moving to be in front of him – and, when you were, you smiled. You thought it would’ve been a poor attempt of a smile but no, it was a very genuine one.

He, on the other hand, visibly froze for a second. Wow. “Hey” he greeted, tilting his head like he always did whenever he was uncertain about something, “sorry, your eyes reminded me of someone I used to know” he addressed his previous action, not wanting you to feel awkward.

You amusedly shook your head. “Of the girl you told you were gay when she confessed to you? Yeah, it’s happened before” you said with a shrug of shoulders.

Jeongguk’s body tensed. He knew your eyes were way too familiar.

“Y/N” his face fell.

“Don’t worry, I am not here to confess my undying love for you again” you joked, earning a halfhearted laugh from him. Why all of a sudden it didn't sound that bad anymore? “I’m just accompanying my sister” his eyes followed yours, both of you fondly looking to the seven year old waiting for you in the corner.

His astounded stare went straight back at you, taking in every single inch of your face. “Is it really you?” he breathed out, not believing the beautiful woman in front of him was in fact the teenager he had so badly wanted to romantically get rid of.

“Come on, Gguk, I don’t look that different” you teased, having to hold back a laugh the moment you saw him gulp.

The thing was, you were pretty different. Not only did you get rid of the awful glasses and the braces, having a perfect denture now and the brightest smile he had ever seen, but you were not the chubby, nerdy girl anymore. Your body was leaner, your curves screaming at him to check you out. Just like his, your face was more mature, your chubby cheeks being long gone. And your style? Let’s just say you knew what looked good on you.

You were gorgeous.

You were absolutely breathtaking and he didn’t seem to find it in himself to say something.

“I, uh-h” he stuttered, “I didn’t recognize you at all, y-you’re gorgeous” what was with him and stuttering today?

You raised one of your eyebrows, which made his eyes open wide, realising what he just said.

“I’m not saying you weren’t–”

“I know I used to be the complete opposite from attractive. It’s okay, really”.

“I’m sorry” Jeongguk apologised, running his hands through his face. “I am really sorry. I should’ve been honest with you”.

“It’s okay” you truthfully said. Yes, it did hurt when he turned you down and then it hurt even more when you found out he had done it by lying to you, but you were just kids when that happened. You were in your early twenties now, it was in the past. “But telling me you were gay? Really?” you giggled, the way your nose scrunched causing a smile to reach his lips before covering his face with his hands.

“I was young and awkward and stupid” his voice came out muffled, “and I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, I thought I was doing you a favour” he confessed, finally removing his hands from his face, only for a pout to form on his lips as his cheeks turned a strong pink.

“Oh, yes, because lying to me really did spare my feelings” his pout became more prominent at your sarcastic remark.

He reached for your hand over the table and wrapped it between both of his. Ignoring the electricity he felt at the touch, he softly caressed it with one of his thumbs. “I’m sorry” he whispered, the mere remorse reflected in his eyes let you know he meant it, so you just curved your lips up, letting him hold your hand for a bit longer.

“Please keep moving” one of the guards told you, snapping the two of you out of your own little world.

Panic rushed through his eyes, only intensifying the second you removed your hand from his hold.

“Would you like to go out some time?” he quickly asked before you could move away.

That took you by surprise.

It was funny; a few years ago you would’ve jumped in pure and utter excitement at his words. You weren’t even sure your heart could’ve taken it back then. But, now?

“That would be lovely, but I’ll have to pass” you replied, not sounding mean or even mad, just not interested. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to get back in contact”.

He didn’t know what he was feeling but he did not like it at all. Why did he feel like he needed to see you again? Was it because he felt guilty and wanted to make it up to you? Or was it because he wanted to get to know you all over again?

“I thought you forgave me?” his eyebrows furrowed.

You sighed. “I did forgive you. Honestly, we’re fine” you reassured him, “but I am not naive enough not to notice you only are interested in me now that I am ‘gorgeous', as you said”.

He pressed his tongue against his cheek, looking down, for he knew you were right. But why couldn’t you give him a chance to at least talk to you without having the counted seconds?

“It’s been years, Y/N” his eyes fixed on yours. “We’ve both changed. I’ve changed. I swear I am not that superficial teenager anymore. I–”

“Miss, you’re holding the line up. Please move” the guard said once again, drawing both your attention.

“Sorry, sir” you apologised, giving a look to the idol in front of you before taking a step to the side.

However, he grabbed your hand to prevent you from leaving just yet.

“You still have the same phone number?” he inquired. You remained quiet for a few seconds, not even bothering on questioning why he had apparently not deleted your number as your eyes travelled to the little girl waiting for you. “Y/N” he pleaded, his chocolate eyes desperately searching for yours.

“It was nice seeing you, Jeongguk. I'm happy you're doing so well” you gave him one last glance and a weak smile, taking your hand away from his before allowing the next girl in line to take your place.

[gahye0n]

Sticky Notes

pairing: nayeon / reader

word count: 1700+

genre: fluff

request: anonymous asked → can I get a story where the reader is a popular girl in the what is love school setting, and when nayeon starts getting more attention after her change , the reader gets jealous and confesses that shes always liked her?

-- 

Having the neighboring locker to Nayeon had both it's advantages and disadvantages, and you were lucky – or unlucky – enough to share the same space as her for two consecutive years. The first year was the former, brimming with butterflies and fluttering hearts. You had fallen for the ace student, too shy to reveal your crush so you found other ways to express your feelings. Overtime, you'd learned more than your fair share about her through her small talk with her closest friend, not that you were eavesdropping or anything, it was hard not to hear their conversations when you were right next to them after all. So, you took all the newly gained trivia – her favorite color, flower, candy, song – and secretly used it to charm her.

Slipping heart shaped purple post-its, sugar sweet confessions and garish poems written in black ink that you'd undoubtedly cringe at later, in the crevice of her locker became a customary occurrence. Sneaking peeks from behind the faded metal door, you watched as she opened every one with sparkling eyes and shy giggles. Slowly, your fleeting infatuation blossomed into true feelings yet you couldn't find the confidence to confess.

Even after months of covertly slipping the candies she liked so much onto her desk while she wasn't looking and taping sweet scented flowers to her locker, all you could manage was to adore her from afar. Her best friend, Momo, caught you in the act once, not hesitating to confront you about it. You begged her to keep it a secret and she urged you to confess in return, calling you a coward who only cared about status when you refused.

Truthfully, you found yourself dwelling on her words despite knowing that wasn't the case at all. Your entire world wouldn't come crashing down on you if you were to date a girl of a different social status – if anything your homecoming queen of a best friend would tease you endlessly about how cute you were together. No, that wasn't it at all. It was always just the wrong place and time and perhaps you were just too shy, always melting into a puddle of timidity in her presence.

You remembered that one time she'd accidentally dropped her pencil, the object rolling in your direction like fate and providing you the perfect opportunity to finally speak to her. And of course, like the confident, popular upperclassman you were, you took the opportunity and wasted it. You handed it to her no problem, even had a conversation prepared on the tip of your tongue, at least until your gaze met hers. Her half moon eyes turned to crescents and her lips curved into a smile, a natural blush spreading beneath the freckles that speckled her cheeks. You almost missed her lilted 'thank you' vaguely sounding over the heavy beating of your heart. Somehow you'd forgotten every word you wanted to say in that moment.

You promised yourself that you'd confess by the end of the year yet managed to squander every opportunity presented to you and – before you knew it – it came to an end.

During your break, you sometimes found yourself absentmindedly writing little heart shaped notes, worried that Nayeon would be disappointed not to find one in her locker, only to remember that school was on hiatus for the time being. The days had never dragged by so slowly before, the emptiness of something missing weighing like an anchor in you heart. Perhaps you'd become too attached to the girl you couldn't even find the confidence confess to. For the hundredth time, you swore that you'd spill your feelings once school began. What was one more broken promise after all?

You'd completely planned to finally do just that too, bounding into the school with childlike enthusiasm and setting your mind to finding Nayeon. At least three laps around the building later, you finally desisted, making your way to your newly assigned locker before you were late to class. 

Confusion circled your mind as you approached, a crowd of people blocking your path. Attempting to push past, you couldn't help but wonder what stood at the center. Maybe a fight between fellow classmates or, perhaps, Sana had chosen a new shade of lip gloss. You snickered at the thought of your heartthrob of a friend tugging the heartstrings of the entire school with such a simple act. If only you had her charisma, asking out Nayeon would have been no problem.

You almost couldn't believe what the center of attention was however when you finally saw it, in fact, you absolutely couldn't believe it. The vague visage of someone you knew stood amongst the crowd of chattering students – the visage of Nayeon. Gone were the tight curls and thick-rimmed glasses though and in it's place were powdered cheeks and straightened hair. Even Sana stood with her, complimenting how well her tight fitted suit flattered her, yet no one paid her any mind in relativity to the once overlooked girl you called your crush.

You realized you probably looked like fool with your eyes wide and jaw ajar but you couldn't manage to find composure in the midst of your surprise. Momentary astonishment quickly became something else entirely though. All it took was an underclassman tossing an arm around her shoulder, honeyed words dripping from his tongue like poison, to sprout thorns of jealousy in your chest. You could tell with just a glance that he wouldn't have spared her even a moment of his time the year prior. In fact, it almost made you sick how superficial all of their newfound interest in her was.

Her popularity only grew with time as well, even daring to rival Sana as prom queen. With growing popularity brought a growing amount of confessions too and, because you shared the locker next to her, you had the displeasure of hearing almost every one. You had even stopped delivering your heart shaped love letters, sure that they'd be lost in the mailbox she called her locker. No matter how much time passed, jealousy continued to constrict your heart, growing tighter and more suffocating with each passing day until it finally snapped.

Something about the look in his eyes as he regarded Nayeon sent flames racing through your veins, your vision turning red as he moved in closer, crowding her against her locker. The way she faked a laugh, pressing her textbooks closer to her chest as she attempted to put distance between their bodies washed away any restraint you would have normally held. Your books and folders fell to the floor with a harsh thud, drawing his attention in your direction the moment before your fingers curled around the lapel of his jacket, pulling him towards you and away from Nayeon.

Your eyes narrowed as you regarded the arrogant underclassman, venom dripping from every word and subtle movement. “Get. Lost.”

Smacking your hand away, his gaze dared to match yours. “Why should I? You think you can boss me around because your little miss popular's best friend? This is none of your business.”

He attempted to turn towards her once more and you grabbed him by the collar with one hand, itching to reconstruct his face and teach him some manners with the other. “This is all of my business.”

“Why? Are you dating her? If not then-”

“She is!” A sweet voice cut through the thick atmosphere. You broke the glare directed at one another to glance at Nayeon, surprise in both of your expressions. Scurrying over to your side, she tugged your arm away from his throat and interlaced her fingers with yours. “We're dating.”

He rolled his eyes, a scoff sounding in his throat before he was pushing past the crowd of students you hadn't even realized you'd amassed. Hushed whispers filled the halls as they pretended they hadn't just eavesdropped on the entire encounter. Slowly, Nayeon's hand left yours and you rubbed the back of your neck in embarrassment. “Great, now we have to fake a breakup.”

Her head tilted to the side, confusion in her voice. “Do we?”

You couldn't bring yourself to look her in the eyes, heat spreading through your cheeks. “I mean, if you don't want the entire school thinking we're dating, then yeah.”

“What if I do?”

Your gaze shot up, mouth agape. “What?”

“You heard me just fine and-” she stooped down to your discarded folders, finding the splotch of violet atop the scattered white paper. “I'm assuming you have no objections?”

You spluttered for words, strewed mind searching for an excuse for the heart shaped post-it between her fingertips “That's not – I mean –”

“It's okay. I already knew.”

“Y-You what?”

She grinned, placing the sticky note atop her books. “Momo already told me.”

“The traitor...” you pouted, gathering your dispersed belongings. “How come you didn't say anything then... perhaps... you don't share my feelings?”

Biting your lower lip and holding your breath, you awaited her response, afraid that her answer would attest your concern. Instead, she shook her head, hand reassuringly resting on your shoulder. “The opposite, I like you but I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. I was hoping you’d confess first.”

A giddy feeling replaced the heaviness weighing in your chest. Your words were filled with disbelief, “You like me?”

She nodded, her smile sending a familiar fluttering through your chest as her following words were lost to the chime of the bell sounding through the empty halls. Surprise spread across her face and you had to suppress a giggle as she rushed to get her books together, slamming her locker shut before rushing down the hall. Although her outer appearance may have changed, the ace student was still the ace student after all.

Halfway down the hall, she turned on her heel and rushed back. “I forgot something.”

You lifted your eyebrows as she rested her books in one hand, quickly scrawling a note atop it with the other. Transferring the note from her possession to yours, she momentarily distracted you with her raspberry lips pressed against your cheek. Watching as she disappeared around the corner, you almost forgot the note. A heart shaped purple post-it contrasted against the glossy coating of your folders. Scrawled in black ink was a question and a future promise that sent excited tingles down your spine.

' Date after class? <3 '  

[tateblog]

How does your character think of their father? What do they hate and love about him? What influence - literal or imagined - did the father have?/ How do they see themselves: as smart, as intelligent, uneducated?/ What were your character’s deepest disillusions? In life? What are they now?/ What do they want from a partner? What do they think and feel of sex?/ How are your character’s gestures? Vigorous? Weak? Controlled? Compulsive? Energetic? Sluggish?

001. TATE MIRRORS HIS FATHER’S APPROACH    to   his  family  ,   he’s   highly    apathetic   towards    the   man  .    as   a  child  ,    i   suspect   he   accepted   Hugo   and    (  dare  i   say )   loved    him   ,    maybe   blindly   and    to   an   oblivious     fault   .    but    like   most    psychopathic   children  ,   he  was   frighteningly   aware    of    the    dysfunctions    around    the    house   ;   between  his  parents    and   the   unusual   level   of   neglect   toward  himself   and    his  siblings   .   this   was   “normal”    to  him  .  the  Langdons    didn’t    have    a   happy    marriage   .   perhaps   they    tried   ,    to   keep    appearances   ,    to  force    things    to   work   ,    but  Hugo   was   unfaithful    and  an   alcoholic   .    mind  you  ,   incredibly   functional   ,    as  they    lead    a  very   comfortable   life   .    Hugo   was   a   successful     car  salesman   ,    and    married    Constance   when   she   was   very   young   .   though    Tate    remained   unaware   of  what    had   really   happened   to   his   father   ( murdered  by  Constance )  ,    he  knew   something  was   wrong  .    posthumously  ,    Tate   didn’t   get   to   see   Hugo   around    the  house   as a    ghost  ,    mostly   because  Hugo   is  not   aware    he   is   dead  ,    and   shortly   after   his   “disappearance”    Constance  couldn’t    manage   the   bills    and  she  ,   with   her   children  ,    had   to  move   out  .     Tate   ,   for    a  long   time   ,    held    a   grudge    against   Constance   for     driving  his   father  away   ,    perhaps    imagining  things    would   be    different    had   they    lived    with   his    father   instead   (  or   so   he   told    himself  )  .   begrudgingly  ,   he   moved  on    from     the  abandonment   (  so  he   thinks  )   .    subconsciously   ,    he    keeps   the   image    of    his   father  at  bay   .    as   he   grew   older  ,    Tate   acquired   mannerisms   and   gestures   very   reminiscent    of    his    father  .   facial  expressions   ,   body   language   ,   speech   patterns   ( sometimes )  ,   all   these    things    that    have    gotten    a   mixed    reception   from   his  mother  .    after   Tate’s   own   death   ,   in   the   house   ,    knowing   of    the   permanent   residents   already  ,    he   finally    discovers    what   happened   to   the   man  .    there’s   a   mix    of    anger   and    apathy    in   this   ;        anger   towards    Constance   ,    for   lying    to  him   .   apathy   toward    Hugo  ,    as   he   doesn’t   blame    Constance    for    killing   him   .    this   is    a   small   conflict   he    carries   toward   his    parents  ,   one  which    causes   no   ripples  in   him  .   as  far   as  Hugo   Langdon   is   concerned  ,   Tate   is  completely   unburdened  .   whether    the    shared    savagery    between    the   two    is   an    inherited  trait    or   not   ,   is   up   to   discussion  .

002. TATE HAS MOMENTS WHEN HE KNOWS    he   is   intellectually   capable   .    he  never    had    problems   excelling   in  school   ,    if   he    so   desired  .    instead  ,   he   sought   after    average   effort    for   average   results   .    he’s   smart   ,    undoubtedly   so  .    but   he   is   also   someone    who   needs    to    be    constantly    stimulated   by   whatever   his  attention    is    drawn    to  .   this   is   why    he   spent   much   of   his   time    at   school   in   the   library  ,    instead   of   spending   time    with   classmates   or   making    friends   or   talking  to   girls  ;   none    of    that    interested   him   in    the   very    least   .    so   he   read   and   absorbed    copious    amounts   of  knowledge   and    information   ,   some    of   it   aiding    his   early   demise   .     he   doesn’t    see    himself    as   being   “educated”    at   all  ,    though    he   is    well   read   and   was    capable    of    much    more    than    he    managed   to     accomplished    in   life   .   he    died   at    seventeen  ,   during   his   senior    year   of   high   school    .    in   his    mind  ,   this    makes   him    a   drop-out   .    and    in   retrospect   ,    something    he  contemplated   in    doing   when   the   dark    fantasies   of    killing   his    classmates    came    to    be   too  much   .   Tate  ,    occasionally  ,    has    moments    of   arrogance   when   thinks    of    himself   highly    and    in   askew    proportion    to    how    he    really   is  .   like   with   any   other    psychopath  ,   this   comes   from    having   narcissistic    tendencies   and  an   irrationally   inflated    ego   ,   despite     the   usual    cold  ,    objective    ,   realistic    view   of   himself  .    though   he  knows    he’s     not    the   brightest     bulb   in    the   shed   (  if   you   will  )   ,    there   are   moments    when   nothing    will    convince    him    otherwise .

003. DURING LIFE, TATE’S GREATEST DISILLUSION    was    the  way    society    worked  .    both  in    little   things    and  the   larger   picture  .    this   started   at   home  ,     with   his   mother   .    the   boy    started   off     well-mannered   ,    polite   ,    and   far   much   “mature”   for  his   age   .    he   did   not    keep   a   messy   room    nor    did   he   misbehave   for    the   sake    of    doing  so  .   despite  this   ,   he    was  ,  by   all  means    strange   and    intense   .   unbeknownst   to   himself  ,    he   repelled    kind    gestures   from   his   mother   .     a   reaction   to   her   obvious    dotting   and   overzealous   sheltering   of    the   boy   ,    in    contrast   to    the   mistreatment    his   siblings   had     either   via    psychological  means   ,    neglect    or   simply   by   physical    abuse   (  keeping   a   boy  with   special  needs   and   disabilities   ,   hidden   and   chained   in   a  room   is    hardly   good   parenting  )   .   he   then   began   to    act    out   against   his   mother   .   in   turn   ,    the   woman   kept   her    position   of   correctness   and     virtue   ,   “high   and   mighty”   .   from   his    perspective   ,    he     was   able   to  see    through   this   well-kept    persona    she  projected    to    the   world    around   them   ,   including    his   siblings  ;   addie  ,    his   sister ,   who   always  loved   and   adored    Constance    despite  the   way   she’d    put   her    down   with  small   comments  .   whether   this    was   intentional    or   not   ,    the   boy    saw    no   difference  .   when   Larry   and   other   men   showed   interest   in    the    woman   ,    Tate   was   nothing   but  appalled   .   how   could   he  ( Larry )    not   see   the   truth   of   her ?    it   was    so   obvious .    this   also    happened   in    school   .    the   boy   was    never    able    to   care   for   the    things   his    classmates    did  ;     socializing  ,    making   friends   ,    ignoring   school    and   simply    use   their    attendance    to   hang    out   with    others  .     their   behavior   sometimes   repelled   him  .   but   he    kept    quiet   ,    to    himself   ,   away  from   them    and   their   little   in-school   society  he  couldn’t    see   himself   being    a    part  of   ( unable   to   connect  ,   isolated  ,   this   had   little    to  do    with    his   classmates   but   rather   something   in    the   boy’s    psyche  –  unbeknownst    to  him  )  .   he   saw    their   interactions  ,   friendships  and    love   interests  as   meaningless   and    false  .    his   mind    could   never   understood    how   it   was    people    connected   ,   so  effortlessly  ,   with   one   another  ,  as   they  so   claimed   ,    and   still   could   be  so   brutally    ruthless   with   each  other  .  the   idea   of   this   only    magnified    itself    with    the   events   of   the   era  ;   brutal   attacks   on   innocent   people   by   supposedly   well-doing   citizens  ,    mass    riots   standing   up    to   acts   of    injustice   .    then   ,    his    brother    is    murdered   by   Larry   ,    as   per     Constance’s   wishes   and   instructions   .   the   final   straw  .    how   could    she  ,   who   claimed   to   love   her    children   ,   have   him    do  this  ?    nowadays  ,     Tate’s    disillusions     are    more    to  take    note   of   ;     his    failure   with   Violet   ,    his   own   premature   death   ( to   an    extent  ,    he   regrets    it ,   though   selfishly   so )   ,   to   name    a   few  .

004. DURING LIFE, AS AFOREMENTIONED, TATE    was    highly   disinterested   in   forming   any    type   of   relationships  ;    acquaintances  ,   friendships  ,   romantic    relationships  ,    none    of    them    seemed    important    enough  to   make   an   effort   and    construct   them  .    for    a  kid   unable    to    connect   to   another  human    being  on  an   emotional    level   ,   relationships   and    human   connections    seemed    rather   unimportant   and   disposable  .    he   didn’t   need    people   in   his   life   to    go   through   his  days   ,    he’d    never   needed   them   before   and   therefore    he   assumed   he   would   never  come    to   need   them  .    this  ,    of   course  ,    brought    moments    of   unbearable    isolation   and   loneliness  .   something    he   took   with     frustration   (  even   rage  )   rather   than   sadness   .   when   it   came   to  girls  ,   or   being   attracted   to    others   ,   it   was   merely   superficial   ;   not   in   terms   of   visual   attraction   but   in  lacking   depth  .   posthumously  ,   after  he   meets   Violet  ,   this   changes  .   for   the   first   time   in   his  “life”   ( or   afterlife )    he  saw    the   need   to  be   liked    by   another  .   he  was   instantly  captivated   by   the   girl  and   did    everything  he    could   to    become   close   to   her  .   it   was  a  whole   new    experience   to   him  ,   a  wakening  .    things    he    never   thought  he   could    feel   ,   a  level    of    excitement   and   childish  joy   to  be    in   her    company  .   to  be   equally    wanted    by    her   .   yes  ,    Violet   was  his   first  “love”   .    at   least   ,     in   the   way   he  is   able   to   experience    love  .    psychopaths  ,    by    their   own   nature  ,    aren’t   capable   to   experience   this   connection  in    the   way    most   people   can  .    infatuation   ,   lust   ,   obsession  .   and  after   their   relationship   “failed”  ( via  monstrous  acts   committed  by  him )   ,   he’s   no   longer  sure   love    is    real  .   when  it   comes   to   sex  ,    however  ,   he’s   always   been   disturbingly   blase  .    in  life  ,   as   a  child  ,   he’d    been   highly   aware   of   sex  .  this    to   an  uncomfortable   and inappropriate  level   .    during   his  young  adulthood  ,   he   experienced    a  rather   “asexual  phase”   .    though    he  experienced   physical   needs   ,   like   any   other   human   being  ,   he  didn’t   seek   out   sex   with   others  .   sex   was   nothing    but   a    human  function  ;   much   like   eating  ,  sleeping   or  breathing  .    it   was  something    humans   did  ,   with   the   sole  difference   that   one  could    experience   physical   pleasure   through   it  .   something   he   could   appreciate  .  by   no means   did   his   disinterest  kept   him  from  acting   on   his   impulses  .    but    his   sexual  experiences   mean  absolutely   nothing  .  it   was   sex   for   the    sake   of   sex  .   (  this   changes   when   it   comes   to  Violet  ,   however  ,     due  to   his   “feelings”   towards    her  .   though   sex   is  still   merely   a   physical  act  ,   he   knows  it   must   have    a  new   depth   when   it   is   between   two   people   who  love  each   other  .   whether   he   experiences  anything   differently  simply   because   of  his  feelings    toward   Violet  ,    it’s   highly   doubtful  )  .

005. TATE’S FACIAL EXPRESSIONS AND OVERALL    corporal   displays    are   incredibly   animated   .   this    is  usually    perceived   as   “quirky”   ,    charming   even  .   he   is  lively  .   but  know   that   ,   sometimes  ,   a   lot   of   his   gestures   and   body   language  is   controlled   .   he   transmits    what    he   wants  to   say   .   he   is   careful    and    secretive   .    this   control  ,   however  ,   has    lessened   with   time   .    as   a child  he  was   far   more   uptight  ,    discreet  ,   and    much   less   expressive   ,   unless   he  purposely   tried   otherwise  .   as  a    teenager  ,   during   life  ,    he’d    occasionally    allow   himself   to   soften   his   demeanor  .   slowly   learning   to   express   other    things   rather  than  just   discontent   or    anger  .   often    displaying   just   enough   to   remain   unnoticed  .   without    much   calculation  ,   his   eyes   tell   much   more   than   he   would  like  .   his   face  as   a  whole   is    well   versed   in   communicating   whatever    he   needs   it  to  .   unfortunately  ,   in   moments   of   stress   or  high   frustration   ,    he   can  become   much   less   contained  .   verbally   and  physically    explosive  .   his   gestures    betray   him    with   ease  .    and    like   with   most    people   who    experience   a   low   levels   of   empathy  ,   it’s   difficult   for   Tate   to   express   sympathy   if  it’s   not   rehearsed   (  feeling  bad   for  Ben   after   Vivien   dies   during   childbirth ?  not   his   best   performance )  .   because  of   this  ,   mournful   words   may   sound   mechanical   sometimes  .  empty  .   this  is   not   without   a  reason  .   whatever  Tate  doesn’t    experience   himself  ,   he   can   portray   it   because  he  is    observant   and   knows   what   it   looks   like   in   other   people   .   this   is  not    abnormal   to   him   ,   this   is   all  he   knows  .   there   are   certain   things   he   does   when   absentminded  or  under   stress  ;   biting   his   nails   ,   pacing   ,   fidgeting   fingers   .   by   “default”   ,    his    demeanor   is    relaxed   and    carefree   .   much   like   his  conscience  .

meme  /    character solidifying HERE !