#boys in groove wallpaper

[loversofthegrave]

teenage sammy grappling with his intolerable attachment to his big brother one shot<3

1998, South Carolina

Summer hits full on like a hammer, shrivelling the last spring grass into whiskers of pale straw. John has them situated this time in South Carolina in the middle of a buttfuck nowhere trailer park. Sam huffs out a whoosh wafting a strand of his shaggy, greasy hair and scuffs his knock-off beat up converse into the dry dirt, the path leading up into their new home for the next week or two.

John recites his customary speech, Dean nods, ‘Yes sir’ as Dean always does. He’s John more often than dad these days. John gave Sam a name when he was born then left, like a background actor in a movie, cut from the film roll. The rumble of the impala and he’s gone.

Spider plants hang from pots on the wide trailer porch. Chipped ceramic ornaments of butterflies and lizards were placed outside. Inside, the shabby floral wallpaper and checkered armchair. The tattered cotton curtains blowing gently, and the cross hung on the wall, wonky. It was like a polaroid from the 70s, all orange hues and clashing patterns.

“What a dump,” he said gritting his teeth.

“It’s not so bad,” Dean shrugs “Kinda cozy,”

Dean’s eyes like hawks observing their new home, finding quick exits, salting the windows and doors. Safety first, look out for Sammy, like the good toy solider that he is.

Sam knows Dean can’t help it, the urgency, the attentiveness, to keep safe, guard his little brother. Sam would be lying if he said he wouldn’t want it any other way, he hopes it’s a two-way street.

Truth is, being in each other's pocket is all they’ve ever known. Dean is Sam’s brother as much as he is his only friend, his father, his mother, all rolled into one. Dean's hands being a caress and a fumbling worry of a mother’s. Dean who changed Sam’s diapers, who soothed teething pains with nimble fingers, tender rocking's and forgiving scoldings. It was all him, not a woman with satin blonde hair and porcelain skin nor the man with the grief-stricken furrowed brows and whiskey sighs. No, it was the kid with the goofy grin and the shoulders weighed down heavy with more liability than a kid should ever know, now turned leather jackets and calloused hands, felon fingers, summers caress dotted upon the bridge of a nose. Summer has always been extra generous to him, he thought, kind of face that weighs heavy on a teenage boys heart.

Looking at Dean is like hallucinating like looking through the lenses of kaleidoscope, soft orange and pink hues from the sun dipping into the horizon of the late summer dusk framing his head like an angel but an angel in the flames. An angel that could be Gabriel but an angel that could be Lucifer too, like he would readily delve into the deep, dark hell as he would fly up to the lofty, illuminated places. And Dean would for Sam.

Dean was Sam’s first everything, and it’s no surprise Sam would want that forevermore.

Sam can’t help it, this craving, it’s insatiable, like an itch irritating him under new stretched teenage skin. If he itches and itches, scratches with blunt anxious bitten nails until he draws blood. But the blood he revels in, the curving, cutting and slaughtering himself to fit into the groove of Dean’s heart, he would do anything, and he knows Dean would do the same but not in the ways Sam yearns for. Sam knows, he knows it’s twisted, he knew as soon as he was enrolled in school and how not everyone else feels that way about brothers. But he doesn’t care, not when Dean is the only grace he was given in his world of destruction and ruin, his pure drop in an ocean of chaos. Damn it if the lord doesn’t forgive him, heaven and hell are just words to a hopeless boy like Sam. When his brother looks at him, he decides to wage holy war.

But Dean doesn’t know, not really, he knows Sam loves him but no more, no less, too frightful Sam would scare him fiercely, that he would leave Sam here, loose his grace, and what is Sam without his grace? Just an empty vessel, an angel damned from heaven, forever. Think he’s sick, corrupt, disgusting. Only Sam can be the one to know this about himself, swallow the key if he must. He tries his best to shelter away these parts from Dean, distancing ever so slightly, it just makes the craving worst, he thinks, withdrawal.

So, he lives with Dean, in his shadow. Watches him, envies him, wants to be him, wants to be with him, under him. Watches him waltzing around the kitchen with sultry hips after this week's easy fuck. Probably some white trash bimbo Sam thinks harshly, doesn’t know what it truly means to have him, a boy, a man, like Dean. He goes for anything with legs and a mouth in a 1-mile radius, puts it out to anything, anyone but Sam.

“You stink Dean,” Sam mumbles under his breath

“That’s the smell of champions Sammy” Dean grins, easy and careless, throwing a wink over his shoulder. Sam shoots daggers into his back.

This is their dance, Dad goes on a hunt for a couple of weeks, Dean and Sam are holed up in a shack and they pretend that this is their normal, habit, but it’s not, they we’re and forever born in motion. Dean enrols Sam into the local (another) high school, Dean gets a short-term job working with his hands to hold them over until Dad gets back, this time at the garage. They make small talk with strangers when necessarily and act according to their roles, relocates the suspicious eyes on Sam’s stitched up hand me down t-shirts and Deans violet blooming bruises from training and hunts, keeps social services off their back. But they fit in OK around this truckers town so Sam holds it rigid, this vexation, lewdness, this jealousy brimming. Puberty is fucked, Sam likes to blame it on that.

~

It’s Friday, the shutters of the trailer are open and wide. Sam’s in makeshift shorts that were once jeans that he cut at the knees one town ago. The radio is static, and The Mama’s & The Papa’s is being carried through the thick-cut air, ‘you've got everything I need, and nobody can please like you, you baby and who believes that my wildest dreams and my craziest schemes will come true?’

Sam’s growth spurt mixed with food stamp fed spindly legs are propped up on the coffee table barefoot, toes wiggling, as he shovels spoonfuls of store brand cornflake knock offs in his mouth. Dean comes in wafting of oil and summer sweat after being outside tinkering with the ford pick-up truck Dad sorted out with a local hunter before he briskly left. He slaps the bottom of Sam’s foot with his greasy rag. Sam grunts.

"Up and at 'em or you're gonna be late" Dean lectures, parenting.

Sam rucks on an old 1975 Black Sabbath tour shirt that used to be Dean's that used to be Dads, now faded grey and bobbling. Pokes his feet into socks with his right toe sticking out of the hole, laces up his shoes and climbs into the passenger seat of the pick-up. Dean drops Sam off at the Pine Springs High and told him he'd pick him up, told him to ‘give ‘em hell’.

Pine Springs High was full of scraggy kids, Beavis and Butt-head boys, girls busty and leggy. Sam befriends one friend, a skinny freckled boy with thick rimmed glasses. His name is Davey. They were sat next to each other in science, dissecting a frog. Sam figures cutting open this frog is harder than the ghouls they slaughter. What did this frog ever do to anyone? Davey was informing Sam on the anatomy, pointed out the chambers of the heart, the ventricle. He seemed interested in trying to impress Sam with how smart he was. "You know a lot," stated Sam.

He smiled. He was a boy who wanted to be seen. Sam suspects with certainty he’s not in these careless halls of teenagers reeking of hormones and wariness of social status.

High school is not as gentle with kids like Sam and Davey. But Sam can tackle it, give as good as he gets. That’s what he’s been trained to do, what their dad trained him to do, those sparring sessions with Dean every other day doesn’t go to waste, as much as Sam likes to grumble and whine. The decomposition ghost of a girl in a tatty white dress with fine needlepoint lace trimmings from the 1820’s has more oomph in her thump than any of these teenagers.

Even in a Gas-mart town like this one full of greasy kids with dirty fingernails Sam still is stared at by clusters of kids. Maybe it’s the adequate collection of bruising on his body from said sparring and Victorian decomposition, or maybe it’s the fact he’s an outsider (he’s always the outsider) but Sam doesn’t mind. Cleanliness and godliness are deceptive, he’d rather wear his wounds, his ugliness. No fooling, he was torn and stitched.

~

Dean picks Sam up, sees the mop of brown hair and downcast face amongst the sea of chattering high-spirited kids. It reminds Dean of when he encouraged him to go to a classmate's birthday party in kindergarten, timid little Sammy protested but Dean encouraged his little brother to go, nervy on all he was missing out growing up. When Dean went to pick him up at McDonald's he spotted him, dejected, eyes glazed over. Other children around him screaming and sliding into pits filled with coloured balls. It splintered Dean to his core.

When Sam is in arm reach Dean tousles Sam's hair, and he gets a whack of the hand and a gruff in response.

“How’d it go Sammy?” Dean asks, hefting himself up into the driver's seat.

“Fine.” Sam replies, quick, sharp. “And it’s Sam,” he stresses.

Dean doesn’t know what it is these days but there’s a slight ache, a gnawing. Sam used to look at Dean like he hung the stars just for him. That Dean was God’s own reflection but now there’s a distance, an interspace and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. At first, he thought maybe it’s teenage hormones or pheromones or whatever the fuck, but Dean never remembers being that sulky as a teenager. Maybe he never got the chance. When he tries to touch Sam, he flinches, scurries away like he just spooked a rodent. Used to revel in it, they practically grew up in each other's arms. Was still sharing a bed in the motels until two years ago.

Dean would never admit it out loud to him, but he misses Sam. Misses that constant comfort of touch and affection.

They stop off at a local diner on their way back to the trailer park, Sam questions if they have enough money for the month to eat out, Dean tells him not to worry. All wooden panels, red and white checkered table clothes, a sign that reads, ‘lumber jack pancake special for $5.95!’ Dean eyes it up, breakfast at dinnertime, their lives never have rhythm or reason anyways. They slide into a booth of worn leather, Sam on one side, Dean on the other.

Sam orders a panini with ham and cheese and fries, Dean the lumber jack pancakes. When they arrive by a shy petite waitress with inky dark eyes and blushing blotted cheeks, Dean swipes a fry off Sam’s plate just to receive another swat. Any touch is better than no touch, bad attention better than none.

Sam doesn’t miss the way the waitresses' eyes linger on Dean’s profile. If he shoots a frosty glare her way Dean doesn’t have to know.

~

The sun with no forgiveness, a parched sky, the hillsides with purple wilting drifts of milkweed, dotting the cracks of the gas-station and garage. It was Saturday, Sam was at the garage while Dean worked. Tucked in a corner sheltered from the suns ruthless beat with his library copy of Catcher In The Rye he couldn’t return when John dragged them out of the motel inn at dawn a town back. Sam said he felt guilty, Dean told him to stop being such a law-abiding citizen.

He gazed at Dean, could smell his sweat, sharp and strong, a man, Sam’s brain applied helpfully. He was wearing overalls, wiping workman sweat from his forehead. Sam wanted to lick him, taste the salt and summer kissed skin. He knows he’s disgusting. At this rate Sam thinks he should stab his eyes out, so he can’t look. Burn his skin off, so he can’t touch.

~

The next Sunday, Sam sleeps in late. He finds Dean slouched on the floral couch, stretched out like a housecat watching TV. It’s always a rarity to see him in a relaxed stance, undisturbed, a recess to the constant chaos of their lives. It settles something steady and peaceful within Sam with just a hint of sadness. He mumbles a drowsy good morning and trudges to the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

He pisses in the toilet, sluggish, holds himself up steady with a hand against the tiles. The splash of his piss hitting the water too loud in the quiet murmur of their trailer.

Washing his hands, he moseys around in the medicine cabinet above the sink. Inside, aimless trinkets left behind by previous owners. Tweezers with a single gemstone on them, antibiotic ointment, outdated eyedrops.

Sam finds a small capsule behind an empty bottle of aspirin. He reaches for it, revealing a lipstick, the cheap kind you pick-up at Walmart for $5.

He holds it in his hand, stares. Turns it in his palm, opens the lid with a subtle click and rotates the base.

The lipstick itself is a cherry red, obscene kind of red. The type he sees on hookers lingering around the corners at motels when he slips out at dusk to buy Dr Peppers from the vending machine with the quarters Dean made him pocket.

The garish fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, whirring like insects as he watches them showcasing their chests and unveiled legs. They always look cold, Sam thinks.

Sam looks up and scans his face in the mirror, holds the lipstick close to his nose, sniffs it. It smells like wax and chemicals, half suspected it to smell like strawberries and an angel's kiss or something, screws his nose up.

Without much reflection he smears the cherry red lipstick onto his lips, it's messy and askew not as neat as he sees on the girls in Dean's skin mags. He sets down the lipstick onto the sink and looks at himself, really looks.

The glaring red on such a boyish face like Sam's feels lewd and indecent. He feels slightly silly, embarrassed, his cheeks stain a weak scarlet. He wonders what others would think of him like this, Dean, his dad.

God, dad would probably be appalled, call him a sissy, punish him by making him do triple the training. Make him run for miles under the blazing sun.

But Dean, what would Dean think of his little brother like this? If Sam just waltzed right out of the bathroom now and stood dead in the line of Dean's vision. Would he stammer? Get all flustered and struck-dumb? Would he look at Sam and think of him as those girls he promenades to the impala, the motel room when he thinks Sam's asleep and not hanging onto every grunt and sigh coming from Dean's throat. Stores them in the hollow of his heart, imprinted on it just as sacred as the Holy Bible is to a priest.

Would he want to tenderly caress the shape of his mouth, smear the lipstick, make Sam looked wrecked? He inspects the long plains of his body, like scorched landscape, bronzed from June’s boldness.

Sam’s been trying to get used to it, his recasting body. Finally losing his baby fat, almost catching up to Dean in height much to Dean’s dismay. Just he doesn’t carry the newly stretched limbs well, feels like a puppet and someone else is yanking the strings. He hasn’t thought about it much, how others perceive him, how Dean perceives him.

Sure, Sam’s had his first kiss and fumbled under a girl's shirt in Indiana last year, let him touch her boobs. She wore lots of eyeliner, wore black bulky boots and liked Alice In Chains. Sam creamed his pants as soon as he got a soft plump handful, she didn’t seem to mind so he tried not to feel too embarrassed. He couldn’t wait to tell Dean (lied to a reasonable measure) for him to be proud of him. Dean let Sam have his first beer after he told him, “Since you’re a man now,” Dean announced, “Don’t tell Dad,” He winked. Sam never tells John their secrets.

But other than that, he’s a bit clueless, still bashful when girls look his way. Isn’t fabricated like Dean, heavied bottom lip into effortless grin that make’s girls drop and fractures their porcelain hearts, little unconsciously brutal but never intentional to be so. Sam would let Dean smash him into smithereens, shards of broken ceramic all over the tiles, if he’d wanted.

He thinks about the woman who supposedly left the lipstick here, he decides it’s an older woman, barefoot in a simple dress in the tail end of summer, her feet and the palms of her hands showed pale pink against her sunburnt skin, looked ornamental. He decided she had many lovers, wore it for them, wonders if Dean would be one. Wonders what she would think finding out a gawky teenage boy was trying on her bygone lipstick.

Wonders what it would be like to wear this for Dean, his lover.

Dean compulsive, gluttonous with the want of Sam, gushing his hands over the sides of his body, the pull of his rutting teenage hips. The neediness he sometimes gets in that platonic brotherly way bordering on hysteria whenever Sam’s hurt. All his senses submerged entirely by Dean Dean Dean, his touch, his smell, his hot breath.

Sam shoves a frantic hand down his pyjama pants and briefs, wrenches his dick with crazed tugs. Comes that exact same time there’s rough banging on the door, Dean shouting, “Come on Sam, you’ve been in there forever!” rattling the door with his presence.

Sam leaps, grimacing at the mess he made in his pants, swiping a towel and cleaning himself up in rapid motions. Rubs off the lipstick with the back of his hand, scouring his mouth.

“You jerking off in their little brother?” Dean calls out, muffled slightly through the thick wood of the bathroom door, amusement laced in his tone.

When Sam is sure he’s cleansed himself of any misdemeanours and removed all crucial evidence he swings the door open and shoulders past Dean muttering, “No Dean, I wasn’t jerking off.” How much of that Dean believes is out of his control. He pockets the lipstick.

[seiya234]

for @dril-cipher because this is your fucking fault. also @marypsue for giving this perfectly good ape anxiety.

-----

Ian looked around.

Well, this certainly wasn't his beautiful house, that was for certain.

It looked uncomfortably like one of the designs for Grauntie Carla's house that Worris did for MTM. He sat at a kitchen table that had clearly been handmade by someone who mostly knew what they were doing; the table had been sanded down and sealed, but the surface was still bumpy and uneven. The walls were dressed with plaid wallpaper and covered in pictures, paintings, taxidermied creatures both real and unreal, old bottles, and a Bobby Big Mouth Big Boi Big Bass that had been popular when his grandparents were alive. The rug underneath him was a t-shirt rug, but Ian never knew they could be made big enough to cover an entire room. There was a cup of coffee poured for him, in a cup that read "Eye miss you!"

Ian sighed. This place was practically crumbling under the weight of all the meaning.

"I am getting a little tired of the Symbolism Room," he muttered to himself.

"Have you considered that a plain, empty room is in and of itself also imbued with symbolism?"

Ian whipped around.

A cartoonishly tall man walked into the kitchen. He was dressed in all black- black jeans, black dress shirt, black belt with a small silver and turquoise buckle- save for the white priest's collar around his neck. He had hair just like Ian's, albeit curlier, bare feet, and-

"Antlers?" Ian asked. It was probably rude but he was getting really tired of the Dreams of Great Import so....

"A long story," the man said with a grin, sitting across from Ian at the table. He too had a mug, though his read "I'm horny!" He caught Ian looking at it and smiled wanly. "My wife loved puns, though to be honest this isn't a pun so much as a bad joke."

(past tense)

Ian took a drink of his coffee; it was aggressively mediocre. "Alright, can you tell me why I'm here, so we can resolve whatever emotional issue has come up again, and I can get back to my regularly scheduled nothingness?"

Ian's words didn't get the slightest rise out of the other man which was... concerning. He worked best when people were mad.

"Certainly. I'm here because you're scared."

"I'm scared of a lot of things, you're going to need to try harder than that."

The man paused to take a drink of his coffee, grimacing slightly at the taste, then leaned back in his chair. "I'm here because when you get into the groove for Mizar the Magnificent, everything feels right in a way you don't feel most other times. I'm here because sometimes you turn off your prosthetic because it feels... right to only have the one eye. I'm here because... despite everyone assuring you that Bill can't come back, that you can't bring him back, you know that's not true." Another drink. "It would just take you fifteen minutes, if that."

Ian felt the blood drain from his face, spread his hands on the table to keep them from shaking.

He hadn't told even Mira about the first two things.

"Congratulations," Ian managed to drawl, "you know my deepest, darkest fears. Have a fucking cookie." It took some effort but he pushed himself back from the table, got out of the chair. "I'm done with this little game, so snooze you later, hit the road Jack, GO-"

The antlered man held up a hand. It was wreathed in blue flame, like the fire from a room he tried not to think about, like Alcor's fire

(like MY fire)

like the fire he felt blazing in lieu of his implant.

"Who are you?" Ian asked.

"I'm Henry. Henry Pines."

"I- oh." Well that was all the wind out of his sails right there. "Okay, wasn't expecting you to actually just tell me that, I thought there would be at least another two pages of banter before we got there. Thanks?"

"Of course."

"Though that name means like, nothing to me."

"Ah. I should have k-"

Henry disappeared. Ian was still in the room.

A minute passed.

He drank his coffee, which was now getting cold and sludgy.

"Oh, sorry about that."

Ian jumped, again, and turned around to face Henry, who was still barefoot and all in black, but now had laundry hanging from his antlers. "Seriously, I know this narrative calls for jump scares, but can you try to stop that?"

"My apologies. I'm still being digested."

"Digested-" Ian paused.

The blue fire.

The antlers.

The girl told him about one night.

"You're... you're Paloma."

A flash of long dark hair and flowering antlers and back to the man in black. "Among many other names, but yes."

"So when you say digested..."

"Di-Alcor ate me."

"He what."

Henry very primly sniffed. "I can see how my phrasing can be taken as a reference to oral sex but could we please attend to the matter at hand?"

"Which is? I feel like we're wildly off track."

"Fair. More coffee?"

Ian held out his mug and Henry poured from a handmade pitcher that somehow managed to perfectly recreate the effect of googly eyes in clay.

They sat for a moment, and drank their coffee, which was slightly better this time.

Finally, Henry began. "M-Mira is pregnant."

"She is... Oh stars is this going to be a weird fatherhood talk? Because full disrespect, I've gotten one of these from Alcor and that was bad enough."

"What on God's green earth did Di- Alcor have to say to you about that?"

"I think he was trying to tell me I would do a good job, but he ended up damning me with faint praise for about fifteen minutes and then ghosted me so, a solid 3 out of 10, points for effort I guess."

Henry frowned. "I am a little concerned that my- that he hasn't learned any social graces or niceties in a thousand years, or has willfully forgotten them-"

"It's not that," and now Ian just felt... cold. Empty. "It's Bill. It's always about Bill, always fucking WILL BE-"

"Your hair is on fire," Henry calmly noted.

It didn't feel like it was. That probably wasn't a good sign.

"Every time I think we're done with him, done and gone, something comes up, and we have to have the same conversation over and over and OVER-"

Ian ran a hand through the flames on his head. "And the worse thing is, this time it's all me. I can't stop thinking about Bill. And the baby. And what that means. Maybe it means nothing. Or everything. And Bill, Bill is like an itch under my skin

(a fire)

and the more I itch it, the itchier I become, and I can't. Stop. Thinking. About Me. No. Shit, wait. Him. Do you See?"

The room was silent for a minute.

"I held a knife to her throat once," Ian finally managed to get out. "Infants, they're so, so much easier than adults. Their bodies are so soft and squishy." He looked at Henry, who had been patiently listening, hands folded, collar white as bone. "I have no idea why I'm telling you any of this."

"I have been told by my wife before that I have a 'secret telling kind of face.'"

"Sounds like something Mira would say."

Henry smiled wanly, but went on. "I'm here because I know what all of this feels like."

"I sincerely doubt that."

"No, honestly, I do. I thought you could use an ear and some advice-."

That old familiar feeling of squirrels eating his brain, of his heart stuttering in his chest, the great massive snarl barely contained in his skin up and out and "You have no idea what I need to keep inside of me."

Henry reached across the table, and laid a hand on Ian's arm and-

(ian was in a forest. it was dark and he tried to walk, tried to run, but he couldn't he was pushed down face first into the dirt from the feeling of anger, anger that at one point may have had a reason behind but that reason was long forgotten and now the anger was a self feeding, self regulating beast

ian was in a forest and he felt small, so horrifically small, so viscerally aware that there were things (people) that could hurt him, hurt him and even kill him, and nothing or no one in the forest would DO anything about it.

ian was in a forest and rising above him was a tree but haha not really that wasn't a tree that was a beast a monster a thing no it was

Death.)

-patted it gently.

Or at least, Henry would have if Ian was still sitting at the table, and not, say, with his back against the wall and his chair toppled to the side of the table.

"You're-"

"I was. He came from me. I birthed him."

Even shit scared, Ian must have given Henry a look, because Henry said "Metaphorically. I've never gotten the full details about how that works because to be perfectly honest, Alcor doesn't even know."

Henry got up, and walked around the table.

"Hand up?"

"You going to inflict yet another horrific mental scar on me?"

"No. And my apologies. I really need to be better about telling, not showing." Henry paused. "Or is it the other way around? I am a little embarrassed to admit that despite my occupation, I am not well versed in the mechanics of storytelling."

"It depends," Ian said, and let himself be hauled up.

"It's... hard," Henry began as they sat back at the table. "To have to control yourself. To feel like if you loosen that control for even one second, all hell will break loose. Especially when you have had all hell break loose before."

A dark look passed across Henry's face, and Ian remembered that there were limbs on those limbs in the forest.

A lot of them.

"I tried, for several years, to keep myself as tamped down as firmly as possible. And even before-" he waved a hand to indicate the antlers, the weird dreamscape symbolism bullshit room- "all of this, I kept fighting myself, every single day, to stay in control. Because control was all I had. Because control was the only thing that could save myself, could keep me from harming others."

"Okay, so what extremely traumatic life changing event happened to you that made you change your mind?"

"I won't bore you with the details, save to say I have never liked trophy hunters. But I realized in that time that my control.. it was brittle steel. It was weak from having to hold in so much, for so long, and then it shattered under stress."

"Okay, but most people don't have monsters tucked up in their souls."

"Fair but look. The point is, the power you have inside of you. It's not inherently good or bad- let me finish Ian Thomas Beale-"

(Ian's mouth audibly snapped shut)

"- it just is. Bill used his power for ill. Just because that power is there doesn't mean you have to use it. Or if you do, that it would be for ill."

"That's too much like temptation for me," Ian finally said, quietly.

"I know. I'm not saying you have to. Hell, I'm not even saying that this dream is going to magically cure you of your fears and control issues-"

"Because that would be too easy."

Henry nodded. "Oh of course. My apologies, I am all over the place today-"

"On account of being digested."

"Yes, lets go with that. No, I guess I just wanted to say, as trite as it sounds... try to relax."

"What if I hurt them?"

Henry rolled his eyes, which was a little incongruous with the impression Ian had gotten from him. "There is no universe where Ian Beale as he is now, would hurt Mira Ramachandran, or their baby. Honestly, you're more likely to hurt other people who hurt them, which probably is not great, but I am certainly not one to judge."

(so many limbs)

"I have literally been under tremendous stress my whole life, even before finding out about the past life murder triangle."

"Trust me, I know. But just... from one monster to another? It's okay to relax. It's okay to let that control loosen for a minute. The world won't end-"

"But it almost did. Twice. Maybe three times? It's hard for me to remember."

"But it didn't."

Ian... he must have looked as lost as he felt, because Henry smiled, sadly.

"I know you hear this from Mira, and from your friends, and even occasionally from Alcor, but I thought it would help to hear it from a stranger too."

Ian thought for a second.

"I think... it kind of did? Or maybe I'm just saying this to get out of this dream because I'm getting tired of talking. I don't know."

"You probably won't remember this dream up here-" Henry tapped his head. "-but you will here-" and he tapped his chest. "-and that's all that really matters to me."

"That's kind of corny."

"I was not a corny man when I was alive, let me indulge a little bit."

Henry leaned over, and gently kissed Ian on the forehead. "Keep her safe."

Ian realized, far too late, who he had been really, truly talking to this whole time, and it felt like his bowels were turning to water. But he managed to creak out an "Of course," before everything went dark.

---

The last few weeks had been hard for Mira, considering the massive amount of emotional labor she was doing for both her brother and her husband. Alcor was probably a lost cause at this point, but with Ian...

She sighed.

She understood, really, she did, but she was tired and-

"Hey."

She rolled over, to see Ian looking at her. "Hey back. You seem... relaxed?"

Ian smiled, and laid a hand on her stomach, which was still relatively flat.

"Yeah. I don't know I think... I think I've had my head up my ass for the last month, about all of this."

"You have."

"And I owe you an apology."

"Apology accepted if you can grab the peanut butter for me before I throw up."

"Of course."

Ian got up. He wasn't sure why it felt like the fire under his skin had died down, why it felt like he could handle his shit a little better today than even yesterday, but for once, he was not going to look this gift horse in the mouth.

[dakotawritesif]

OC’S AS PLANETS

Tagged to do this uquiz by @stephschoices who also drew the art featured for the characters below except Cier, Emil, and Dima done by MirageIllustrations on Etsy 🪐

I’ll tag @grapecaseschoices @kalorphic @illbealive-nextyear @ot-hoe-me @icanmakewords (no pressure tho)

Did my Fallen Lights (@fallenlightsif) boys this time ✨

SATURN

patient. stable. reliable. preserving and diligent. your capacity to hold focus on something you choose to is unmatched by all other planets. you were made for hard work that you love and that you know is rewarding. you are the shoulder that everyone wants to cry on, so remember you can lean on yourself when it seems there is no one else. there is nothing wrong with being self sufficient. you are justice and evenly balanced scales.

URANUS

innovative. unpredictable. resourceful. imaginative. creativity in science and disruption. oh, uranus. you were dealt the cards that don't have much to offer, but luckily you can always make them work. you are acrylic paint that has been plastered over the same canvas so many times that it is starting to have those little grooves of texture. you are ever-changing and suddenly it stops. and starts again. keep moving. nothing is wrong with not wanting to sit still.

VENUS

passionate. romantic. loving to be loved. courtship. adoration and taste. you are your own personal aesthetic. you are hand written love letters in copper ink. you are "let me show you just how much i can love you." you are royalty and class. love has no bounds with you. your heart is wrapped in chocolate tin foil. you attract what you manifest so keep believing in love. it is you and you, it.

MERCURY

clever. intelligent and witty. wisdom, sharpness, anxiety and indecisiveness. you are the comedian. the "make someone laugh if they are crying" kind of lover. you dont want to think too much about anything because that stops you from just having fun, but your brain doesn't ever shut off. you are curious and never ending. forecast and shadows. the smell of clean sheets.

EARTH

nurturing, generous and caring. introverted, tolerant, honest and trustworthy. you are "my phone is always on, call me any time." you are "i feel like i'm everyone's therapist." you are impressive with your stability and peacefulness. you are wallpapers of cows and fields of ever-growing seeds. you are the best friend. mother nature. ice cold water and the smell of rain.

JUPITER

optimistic. hopeful. generous and compassionate. you are the guardian angel. you are 4:44 am and a sense of being watched over. you enrich the lives of others just by existing and caring for them. you give as many blessings as you receive and there is always more to go around. careful not to become too over-confident in these abilities. what makes you jupiter is your belief that ego has no part in caring and love. you are softness and the smell of almond coffee.

[gale-dekarios]

⚠️ NEW WHITE BOY ALERT ⚠️

This is Alastor Hhune, who was my Descent into Avernus character!

Backstory Under Cut

He had a rough start to life, the tiefling (yes, tiefling!) son of Percival Hhune, who had made a deal with an erinyes previously. Unbeknownst to him, the next child he accidentally bore with a secret Mistress would turn out as a tiefling due to his brush with the Hells, clearly marked a bastard child from birth.

He wasn't allowed to associate with the family, being kept as a servant to his older half-brother, Eoin, until one fateful evening during a formal dinner among the other patriars it was revealed by Nysene Eomane, Gods knows how she knew, and in blistering shame, to restore his family's honour, Eoin challenged Alastor to a duel.

It was a bloodbath. The boys ripped ceremonial rapiers from the walls and turned them on each other. Chic wallpaper curled under the weight of splattered viscera, golden finery seeped with red, pooling into the grooves like veins, and it ends with a final stand in the front garden.

It was a cool night, or maybe Alastor was just dying, but with a final surge forward, he caught his brother, his tormentor, his master, right in the stomach, and it was too much for him to bare. He felt the rush of victory, the satisfaction of survival, but with gritted teeth, and the determination to destroy, with his last breath Eoin thrust his blade high, hitting Alastor's lung, and they both fell, their blood black under the sliver of the moon high above their heads.

In that moment, a dark shape stood above him.

"I can save you," It said. "If you devote yourself to me."

"Who are you?" He gurgled, the words barely understandable as his lung filled with blood.

"Pledge yourself, Alastor, or die."

And with his final breath, garbled, he pledges.

When he awakes, he's different. Changed. Gone are his horns, his ashen grey skin, the weight of a tail balancing him.

He stands next to a devil, her head high, her brow aloof.

"You died. I brought you back. Your allegience has been given freely."

"What did you do to me?"

"You were too far gone. Your body had already passed. Your soul, however, remained. If I hadn't caught it and remade you anew from the Styx itself, who knows where you might have ended up?"

"Who... who are you?"

"I'm your Mother, Alastor. Or the closest thing to it."

For indeed the devil who had come to his aid in his last moments was the erinyes his father had made a deal with all those years ago, and she came baring a gift: that of life. What else is a mother than that?

And so Alastor, among a group of others, ventured through the Hells, pushing back to Baldur's Gate, although she -- his Mother -- remained at the back of his head, guiding his hand. He, a once sweeter man, broken by the City and those who lived within it, grew crueller and crueller, unquestioning in his submission to her authority.

Pulling himself and Elturel from the Hells was no easy task, but he had no time to bask in the glory of his heroics, no matter how selfish and self-serving they may be. He had just landed in Baldur's Gate when, once again, he found himself back in Avernus, the sulfur welcoming him back like a glob of spit to the face. Like a Groundhog Day, he despaired his misfortune, and even worse, he finds out not so long after touching back down in Faerûn that he once again will be undergoing a transformation against his will...

[discordapples]

PT. 19 Severance

Word count: 1.5k (7 mins read)

Characters: Ominis Gaunt, Sebastian Sallow.

Summary

Ominis searches the Room of Requirement for clues about the Collector and finds a strange book. When Sebastian confesses to his friend that he kissed Livia, the two Slytherin boys have an altercation that threatens their friendship's solidity.

Read the next chapter below.

Song list: We Are, by Hollywood Undead.

Ominis | Hogwarts, Early October, 1893.

The Room of Requirement has many seams, all of which Ominis spoors with the tip of his wand first, then with the pad of his fingers.

Aside from the standing mirror—that he is careful not to touch, for he knows this is how the entity gathers precious information on his marks—the room harbors a timeworn mahogany wainscoting, curls of flaking wallpaper and a kingdom of cobwebs lorded over by broods of scuttling spiders.

Cleaving through the stringy meshwork with his wand, Ominis searches and prods and pricks for a loose stitch in the Collector's cunning tapestry.

Soon, Sebastian and Livia will return from their trip to Hogsmeade and Ominis isn't eager to confess his solitary visits to the Room of Requirement.

Three he has made so far. Not only to poke holes in the veil of ignorance, but also to find a way to prevent entry to the Collector's twisted realm altogether.

If the entity can spin a nightmare on the loom of bliss, what can it weave with more sinister emotions?

For an hour, the Slytherin follows knots in the wood to inevitable dead ends; presses against the weathered paneling in search of a hidden contraption that could shift the walls; gropes his way along barbed edges and errant splinters, sighing in annoyance at his lack of success.

And when he is ready to surrender and plod back to the dungeons, his wand pierces through a crumbling plank and hits something with a thud.

Ripping chunks of decaying wood from the wall by the handful, Ominis digs until his fingers land on the spine of a book. His heart caroming in his chest, he pulls it from its improvised shelf, then sits on the floor, peeling it open onto his lap, his wand roving about the page.

Nothing.

His wand pulses feebly against the virgin surface, revealing no etches in the pulp, no pen grooves.

The book is misplaced. Has it been planted there by the Collector to toy with them?

Dragging a thumb along the leather, Ominis quests his mind in search of an explanation, but his conclusions are scant.

Livia described the drove of fingerprints staining the mirror's surface, and it is obvious other students brushed with the Collector the same way they did, which tells Ominis the sundry might belong to one of them.

But it also begs the question: who else at Hogwarts—or beyond—knows about this entity?

Ominis uproots himself from the dusted floor, then ambles out of the room, making for the dungeons with the strange book in tow.

He will stuff it under his pillow and, when the time is right, will interrogate the Mimic at length about it.

But for now, he walks back to the dungeons, his thoughts astir, scrolling by clumps of students and meandering ghosts and flocks of birds as they settle in the eaves for the night.

Outside, the storm is hollering, lapping at the sashed windows, and when Ominis makes it back to the shelter of his dorm, he settles before his desk, then scrounges through his drawer for a curl of virgin paper he endeavors to smooth before filling with letters.

Dear Mr. Dovetail,

My name is Ominis Gaunt. I am an eighth-year student at Hogwarts.

My friends and I gained access to the Room of Requirement through the method you described in your book. Within, we have encountered a sinister entity that branded itself as the Collector.

The presence asked to feed on our emotions in exchange for granting us an object we covet. Once, it has fed on our bliss, leaving us relatively unscathed, but despite the outcome of this first trial, I doubt the entity's motives are benevolent. My friends consider partaking in the leechings, but I know dabbling with this Collector is perilous.

I do not know what I expect from you, Mr. Dovetail, but if you have any information on this Collector, I would be indebted to you if you could share them with me.

With my sincerest regards,

Ominis Gaunt.

* * *

The storm has long thinned into a mizzle when Sebastian makes it back to their dorm. He brings with him the smell of sodden wool, the funk of soot, and a scud of bitterness that fogs over the room.

"How was your jaunt?" Ominis asks him, aware of Sebastian's festering mood.

A cloak puddles onto the floor; a sigh strangle out of a cinched throat. "You invited Livia to the ball."

Not a question. A statement. The kind meant to bludgeon.

"She said yes," is all Ominis offers as an explanation. "If she was yours, she wouldn't have accepted."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means she can make her own decisions," Ominis points out, his mood putrefying likewise. "She doesn't belong to me—or to you, for that matter—if she asks me to release her from her promise, I will, but if she won't, I'll go to the ball with her."

"I knew something happened during the leeching," Sebastian says, releasing, at last, the chimeras he gave shape to in his mind from their bony prison. "She was part of your bliss, wasn't she? Why?"

How Ominis aches to tell Sebastian what it was like to hold her in his arms, or share a slice of peace with her under the celestial canopy of the forsaken garden, or feel the silk of her skin against his palm, but instead he shakes his head, a gossamer line running across his forehead. "Why was she part of yours, Sebastian?"

"Don't deflect the question back to me. You always wiggle out of confrontation because you can't stand the fucking heat."

"What is this truly about, then?" Ominis snarls, the delivery resolutely sharp. "Let me paint the picture for you, Sebastian." He tilts his head, contempt bleeding through his features. "You're scared I have a chance with her, so you show some teeth the minute you feel her slipping away from your grasp. Am I getting hot?" He doesn't wait for an answer before notching another arrow and letting it loose. "You saw us at the lake when she peeled the shirt off my back. You heard her joke around with me in the Undercroft. You're angry I got closer to her than you ever did and now you pathetically ask me to back down. Well I won't."

Sebastian gives an arrogant scoff. "You're wrong on that account, Ominis. I kissed her today, and she reciprocated in full."

The blow lands.

It isn't the hurt that knifes right through Ominis' heart, it's watching the handful of elated memories rot and fall away from his clutch.

Was their time at the lake a lie?

Livia's touch on his skin felt real enough.

Was their moment in the derelict garden a ploy?

Her smile did blossom under this touch.

Was her answer to his request just another falsehood?

Her consent was eager enough.

His jaw tightening, Ominis shakes his head. "You're petty, Sebastian. Imelda was right about that."

"Then join the fucking club," Sebastian bites out, before setting to rummaging through his sundries.

There is the sound of mistreated leather as Sebastian yawns his trunk open, then the hiss of clothes being wrested from a dresser. Books are piled. Drawers are plundered. Hangers are stripped.

He is packing.

"Where are you going?" Ominis asks.

"Why does it fucking matter?" Sebastian shoots back.

Ominis knows he should be pleading with his friend.

But he is spent; smoked to cinders.

For once, he doesn't want to bend to the Slytherin's juvenile impulses.

For once, he'll let him go.

Sebastian lugs his trunk to the door, then yanks it open.

Before he can exit, Ominis angles his face to him, his anger still smoldering behind his cheeks. "I won't be participating in the Collector's other leechings."

He has toyed with the notion for many nights now, laying awake in his bed, tearing scenarios asunder.

If he is ensnarled in the Collector's schemes, he won't be able to pull his friends from its skein.

No.

He will hunt for answers in Hogwarts' murkiest corners.

Sebastian stops under the threshold. The words he serves Ominis are sharp with disdain. "Not even to protect your new flame?"

"I can protect her through other means," Ominis retorts. "Sometimes it's not about indulging someone, Sebastian. Sometimes it's about making the right decision for them."

"How chivalrous of you," Sebastian derides. "But I think you misunderstand her, Ominis."

"Enlighten me."

"She isn't the fragile little thing you think her to be."

Ominis wants to tell him Livia isn't the one he thinks fragile, but something keeps him from adding another score of blemishes on their bruised friendship.

Yet, the next words that leave him—even though intended to make Sebastian snap out of his delusion—only draw more strychnine from the injured Slytherin. "You're on your own, Sebastian."

"I've been from the start, Ominis," Sebastian spits back. "Your friendship was always conditional."

"And yours dependent on assent."

The trunk hisses out of the room and the knob squeaks softly in its socket. Sebastian lingers for another moment, then parts with two words that feel like a severance. "Goodbye, Ominis."

A period, not a comma.

A cut, not a bruise.

"Goodbye, Sebastian."

A candle snuffed out in their darkest hour.

Author's notes

I'm going out of town for 3 days on a little escapade with my mom, which means I'll be either drunk in a ditch or capering along, so I will most likely not have time to write. I'm coming back on Thursday, however, and I intend on making it up to you by posting our next leeching. 👀

If you haven't joined already, we have a charming little discord server that is growing like weeds. Don't hesitate to join on the fun. By the way, we have a roleplaying section that allows you to roleplay with Sebastian and Ominis in a scenario strangely reminiscent of this little fanfiction, so if you're interested it's happening over here: https://discord.gg/FCt7dp77

[yanderechips4]

I'll take it from here, then.

So, these are 10 of my favourite movie, in no particular order:

Puss in Boots: The Last Wish. This is such a great movie. Great characters, great story, great animation. This movie also has a very accurate depiction of a panic attack which is a pretty nice bonus.

The 3 Madoka Magica movies. Beginings and Eternal is just the original series repackaged into movie form with some animation fixes and changes but because Madoka is a great series, I don't mind. Rebellion is a bit controversial but I still think it's great and makes sense with the establish character. The animation is also simply divine, especially in Rebellion. You can literally pause Rebellion at any time and you will get a great wallpaper.

Princess Mononoke. A classic Ghibli film about the environment. Everything is phenomenal and presented in a very nuance way.

Legally Blonde. An iconic movie with an iconic protagonist. Trully ahead of its time. Unlike most movies, even those released more recently, it says that just because you are feminine and care about your appearance, doesn't mean you can't also be kind, smart and not a bitch.

Everything Everywhere All At Once. Literally the best multiverse story (at least, at the point I'm writing this). It will literally make you cry. The message of this film is also just great. Additionally, this is the only multiverse movie where every universe matters.

How To Train Your Dragon. Toothless is adorable and his bond with Hiccup gives me life.

Suzume no Tojimari. An extremely recent film that I literally watch 1 week before writing this post but it is so good. Also, the OST fucking slaps. The first movie that made me wanna look for the OST after it was done. All the songs are by RADWIMPS and are on their YT channel, btw. My favourite songs are Suzume (the main theme) and Sky Over Tokyo.

Mulan (1998). The original Disney animated Mulan is amazing and I will die on this hill. Additionally, it has one of the best transitions in movie history. When that silly A Girl Worth Fighting For song suddenly stops and we're faced with the actual horrors of war? Chills literal chills. The message that girls can do whatever boys can and that we should embrace both the masculine and feminine part of ourselves is pretty nice. And we appreciate bisexual legend Li Shang in this house.

The Emperor's New Groove. The best animated comedy. Absolutely iconic. Never seen anything commit to the bit as hard as this one. An absolute gem. It also gives us Kronk, the ultimate himbo.

The Devil Wears Prada. The slay to end all slays. Another iconic classic. If you are into fashion or the fashion industry, you should watch it. If not, you still should watch it.

Tagging (you don't have to reply if you don't wanna):

@tutut0 @gwyneverem @iluvmilkchoco @piedpiperart @mimigoey @portopasso @i-wanna-die-like-now @i-heard-it-from-a-friend @nylti @toastdee66

Thanks to the ever-astounding @finniestoncrane, I will be sharing with y'all some of my favorite pieces of cinema in no particular order. And yes, they are cinema.

Rules: post 10 of your favorite movies and tag 10 people.

Captain Marvel (2019) - The film that made me realize why guys like to watch superhero movies so much. I've never felt more powerful.

Curious George (2006) - For the era in which it was made, this movie has some of the best animation I've ever seen. Also, Jack Johnson popped off on the album for the film.

The Batman (2022) - I feel as though I'm contractually obligated to include this one. It's my current comfort movie, and, unlike most films, I can watch it over and over.

Happy Feet (2006) - I already know I'm going to get clowned for this one, but I don't care. I don't even like musicals, but I like penguins, stories of self-discovery, and Boogie Wonderland.

The Adventures of Tintin (2011) - This was the first movie I watched, not as a child, but as a partially fully sentient being all my own, and thought "that was a whole ass movie".

Lilo and Stitch (2002) - This one never gets old. Like, I could watch this movie for the rest of my life and still find joy in it. That opening song, He Mele No Lilo, it inspires something in my heart.

The Avengers (2012) - A classic. Whenever I see that it's on, I stop, smile, and think fondly on the joy that was. Interpret that as you will.

Howl's Moving Castle (2004) - One of my first Ghibli films, and my favorite one without a doubt. It never ceases to amaze and makes me cry when I go back and watch it.

Doctor Strange (2016) - This movie was one of the coolest things I have ever seen. Also, I love wizards.

The Secret of Kells (2009) - I found this movie on accident, but I was never the same afterwards. Like I can't describe it. Something inside me changed.

@rallazarthemagnificent @eagleflightdraws @hallowsden @heartsick-honeybee @vellamare @fallingpapersnow @finzphoenix @sillysamta

As always, no pressure to participate. Just thought it would be fun 💙

[kboysnopsd]

이건민 ; ♡

［ ♡  like or  © sixventeen  ♡ ］

[btsydtrash]

Euphoria [8]

bad boy jungkook x librarian yn

Jungkook was used to getting what he wanted. He was handsome, disgustingly so, and he knew how to flirt his way in (and out of) danger. He lived for and with his brothers. He didn’t know anything but his found family. Still, happening upon you was one of the best decisions he ever made.

Now… How to make you realize that your life was missing him as much as his had been missing you.

(angst / yandere / smut / gore / fluff)

Masterlist  /  i don’t have a tag list  /  find me on twitter  /  word count: 4.0k

author’s note: yn’s not going down without a fight tho, is she?

Chapter 8 ‘Mission’

When you wake up, you are stunned to realize that you had actually been able to fall asleep under the circumstances. Usually, you would have been too uncomfortable to truly relax, but here you were, slobbering all over their expensive-looking couch.

It wasn’t dark outside by any means but it was significantly later than you had expected it to be.

The sun was high in the sky hidden behind the film of heavy clouds, so you presume it to be around early afternoon. The world below you was alive and bustling, despite the gray and drab weather and, humorlessly, you realize that it seems to match your mood perfectly.

Your skin feels heavy from where it had been pressed heavily into the soft sofa and as you lift your head fully, you can sense that you aren’t alone. Pressing into the grooves of your skin, you slowly turn your head toward the source of the soft sound of turning pages.

It wasn’t Jungkook, thankfully.

Jimin glances over the head of his comic book and says, “Don’t mind me.”

Unconsciously, tension leaves your body.

Jimin, objectively, wasn’t any better than Jungkook to have around - both of them being your captors - but something about waking up to see Jungkook’s metaphorical wagging tail and puppy dog eyes would have set you off something fierce.

Your nerves are shot, trembling lightly where they fist the material pooling at your stomach, and you glare at the other man, annoyed by the nerve of his sunshine-like expression.

“I wasn’t going to,” you grumble, voice croaky and thick with sleep. You clear your throat and sit up, feeling the urge to relieve yourself. Begrudgingly, you ask, “Where’s the bathroom?”

Jimin looks up and asks, voice filled with sarcasm, “You aren’t going to try and climb out the window, right?”

You glare at him but he simply shrugs. Jimin explains, “I got put on YN-watch tonight, so I have to make sure you aren’t left alone. At all. Jungkook would kill me.”

You say, barely able to hide your pout, “This is insane, you know that right?”

Jimin nods in agreement. He explains, easily, “Sure. It’s also incredibly illegal. But that’s never stopped us before.”

You scoff, lip curling in annoyance, “Right. I shouldn’t expect decency from people like you.”

He laughs, loud and sudden, like the sound was shocked out of him. “Decency? Says the person who held a gun on me and threatened to cut my eyes out.”

“I wasn’t actually gonna do it,” you retort, dismissively. Jimin pins you with a look and you huff, “Okay. But, I didn’t do it. That’s the important part. Plus, you had assaulted me first. I was just protecting myself.”

Jimin gives you a dry look, not even the slight bit amused by your excuses. The pink-haired man gracefully moves to his feet, tossing the comic back onto the table with a couple others from the same series, and he says, shoving his hands into his pockets, “Come on. I made lunch. You can shower, get changed then eat.”

He leads you out of the library and through the ornately-decorated apartment, too quickly for you to be able to take note of much besides the fancy decor and messy living room. Jimin walks to a room and pushes open the door. The first thing you notice is an expensive-looking drum-set in the corner of the room, a pair of overhead earphones sat on the stool and a worn pair of drumsticks are on the computer desk.

Three of the four walls are dark, charcoal black wallpaper with a slightly raised design that you wanted to trail your fingers across. One main wall is ivory white, with a huge bed pushed into the corner, low with many soft white pillows piled at the head of the bed. The room is smaller than you expected but it seems designed that way, as if comfort and coziness was the aim instead of grand expressions of luxury.

You say, eyes sweeping around the area, “This is Jungkook’s room, isn’t it?”

You miss the bemused expressions that passes over Jimin’s face. He hums. “Yeah, it is.”

The floor is coated in dark gray carpet, soft but it feels reinforced under your feet. You suspect there’s a couple of layers of carpet to insulate the room. Two paintings are reclined against the white wall, and they don’t seem to be designer, but they could be hung in an art gallery somewhere. They fit the soft dark aesthetic of the room and you want to take a closer look but Jimin pushes open a door you hadn’t seen when you first entered.

“Jungkook won’t mind if you use anything of his,” he comments. He opens up a drawer and hands you a towel. It’s soft and it smells good, even when you hold it at a distance. One thing you have noticed about being in Jungkook’s space was that the freak was tidy - anally so. Contrary to the rest of the apartment that had dots of mess, clothes draped over furniture and dishes in the sink, showing it to be lived in, his personal space was pristine. You almost didn’t want to touch anything, in case you knocked it out of its perfect harmony with the rest of the room. “Wear something of his, a sweater or something.”

“I don’t want to,” you grumble. “Give me something of yours.”

He snorts. “You see this?” He points to his black eye. “I got this for just mentioning you. I refuse to lose a tooth because he sees you in something of mine instead of his.” Jimin lets out a small chuckle at the gentle shock on your face. “It’s that or you walk around naked.”

“I’m tempted to take you up on that but I’d rather die than give you the satisfaction of seeing my perfect tits in real time,” you snark. You roll your eyes but bring the towel closer to your chest. “Go.”

Jimin smirks but disappears out the way you both came.

With the sound of the door closing behind him, you feel the strong wall you had built up inside of you collapse for a moment before your frown deepens. You slump against the doorframe leading to the bathroom and close your eyes, holding the towel tight to your chest.

You have to figure out how to get out of here, and fast. You have to figure something out before Jungkook gets back.

Jimin is on edge around you. He won’t turn his back to you. He was probably told to keep you in his line of sight every second. It’s a fortune he left you alone to wash your ass, but perhaps the risk of actually seeing a pair of breasts had the pink-haired maniac running for the hills. He didn’t seem averse to women, but then again, you weren’t one to judge, having found yourself twisted in the sheets with every flavor of the human-rainbow - some of them, more than once.

You walk into the bathroom and struggle with the knob of the shower. It comes out powerfully, and takes mere seconds to warm up. It was enticing, the urge to wash the last couple of days off. You have to be careful of your hand, the burn tingles a little but it doesn’t hurt - not enough to take any medication, at least. You stare at yourself in the mirror, watching your reflection slowly becomes absorbed by the steam filling the room. You wipe a hand across the surface of the glass, so you can see your own face, before you hang your head in surrender.

You had come to a wretched conclusion during these few moments of blessed freedom.

For now, you would have to play their game.

And that meant doing as they wanted, no matter how frustrated it made you feel.

You shower, taking care of your wrapped wrist, and dress in a pair of boxers fresh out the packet and a huge sweater. You practically drowned in the material, having to roll the sleeves up three times before you could see your own hands. Jungkook had a huge collection of socks and you grabbed the funniest looking pair you could find - yellow and green spots with a cartoon frog stitched on either side. You looked stupid, but it was better than nothing. And his clothes smelled divine.

Once you are done, you toss the towel in the dirty basket in the corner of the room and open the door, walking out into the hallway. Only to trip over Jimin’s body sat distractedly in front of the door and fall straight to the floor in a crumpled heap in his lap. The two of you look at each other for a beat, strangely close, before he shoves you off, sending you rolling.

“Holy shit,” Jimin gasps. “You’re fucking heavy.”

He swats at the invisible dirt on his shoulders and straighten out his pants as he moves to his feet. “You sure took your time.”

You roll your eyes and get up by yourself. What a dick. “Whatever. You said you made lunch. I’m hungry.”

He stares at you for a long moment before he glances away. “Follow me.”

Jimin leads you into the living room and nods to the comfy looking couch. “Sit.”

“I’m not a dog,” you snap but do as you were told.

He snorts and yells from where he had disappeared into the kitchen, “Dogs follow commands much better than you do.”

You bite down on the urge to bark back at him. Instead, you pull your legs up to your chest and glare at the huge TV across from you. The screen was showing a preview for a new romance drama that you had heard about but you had no intention of watching.

Love stories rarely moved you in a positive way. Instead, they filled you with a strange cloying sensation, like being stuck in a hot, sweaty room with barely a sliver of wind. You search for the sweet relief that the wind should give you, but the feeling of overbearing heat persists. In fact, it only gets worse the more you move around. So, you try succumbing to the temperature, but that only makes you feel pathetic.

Looking or not looking at love in motion - either way, you felt suffocated.

Jimin returns and drops down beside you. He nudges your legs so you make space on your lap for the plate in his hands. He says, “I hope you don’t have any allergies.”

You roll your eyes. “It would be a little late if I did.”

He pauses for a moment before he laughs, a little meanly. “You’re right. Eat up.”

He had made dakgangjeong with a side of yellow rice. It smells fragrant and your stomach gurgles in hunger.

Jimin had already started chowing down but when he notices you hadn’t begun eating, he tosses you a scathing look. “What? It’s not fancy enough for you or something, Princess?”

You roll your eyes. “You gave me a plastic spoon.”

He scoffs. “Should I have given you a pair of chopsticks so you can jab the end into my eye and make a run for it? Not likely. Figure it out.”

You struggle a little with the food, getting the sweet-and-spicy chunks of boneless chicken and rice into your mouth, much to Jimin’s amusement. He lets out odd snorts when bits of meat misses your mouth and falls back into the bowl or into your lap, much to your annoyance. You jab him in his side with your elbow, only one time, sharp and purposeful, and he lets out a gasp of air.

“Fuck, YN,” he whines, rubbing at the sore spot. “What are you, made of metal?”

“Only 69%,” you retort, rolling your eyes. You ask, “Can we change the channel? All this love shit is giving me the creeps.”

Jimin looks your way before he nods. “I don’t like romance stuff either.”

“Why? You had no problem being all lovey-dovey with misery-guts earlier,” you retort. “I thought you’d eat this love crap up.”

“You mean Tae?” Jimin laughs, but the sound is strained. “Nah, that’s just… I don’t know, it’s just that we aren’t together-together.”

You rear your head back for a moment, running each incident of stomach-turning PDA you had witnessed in the very few interactions you had with both men, and you can’t stop yourself from asking, shock evident on your face, “What the fuck does that mean?”

Jimin shrugs, running his tongue across his teeth a few times, contemplative, before he explains, “What Tae and I are can’t really be explained with words. He’s my person, you know? My soulmate. I look at him and I see everything.”

“You love him… But you aren’t ‘together-together’?”

Jimin nods, as if it explained everything.

“Why?”

“Our lifestyle isn’t really conventional,” he explains, a touch shyly. It didn’t suit the other man, who you had only ever viewed as sarcastic and cocky. He seems… soft. “Kookie, Tae and I are… fated. Right now, Tae and I have to stay as we are.”

You take a moment. “Isn’t that painful?”

Jimin looks at you, eyes a fraction wider in surprise. “A bit.”

“You’re being frighteningly honest,” you mutter. “Just date him. What the fuck could go wrong?”

Jimin bites his bottom lip. “There’s a lot we have to do before Tae and I can take that step. We… We just can’t.”

He’s being intentionally vague but you don’t feel like it’s your place to pry. You have your secrets, secrets that you would prefer to take to your grave if given the chance, so you shut your mouth and turn your eyes to the screen, leaving the pink-haired man alone to his rapidly-darkening thoughts.

Some time later

Jimin actually doesn’t leave your side for the whole afternoon. He walks you to the bathroom, to the living room, to the kitchen when you want a glass of water. It feels like you had grown a tumor overnight. If tumors made stupid comments, read comics at a snail’s pace or listened to female rap music a touch too loudly in its headphones.

You don’t even try to escape. The few times you were able to walk past the front door, with Jimin’s grip tight on the inside of your elbow, you noticed the lock there. It was a touchpad lock that required a passcode to leave as well as one to enter. You presumed both were different, but even if they had been the same, you hadn’t gotten a look at the password when you first got brought here because of Jungkook’s looming presence and Taehyung’s unnecessarily broad back.

Moments of absolute frustration flash through you during the few hours you spend lonely but not alone.

You feel bouts of sickening anxiety standing in the long hallway, seeing echoes of memories in the portraits and photographs lining the walls. Happiness is etched onto the faces of your three captors, making the trio seem friendly, approachable - kind, even. But, Jimin poking his head over your shoulder and giving you the backstory of each picture is enough to remind you of your involuntary incarceration and you are brought right back to the realization that these men are capable of more than you can even comprehend.

Barbs of nausea spike through your chest whenever you see a bird pass in front of the high windows, free in a way that you had taken for granted. It brings to mind your history, the one that you have tried so valiantly to forget, to escape, to out-run. The clawed hands of the ghosts of your past reaching out from behind a ragged and beaten door, one that is barely holding onto its hinges. One day, those same hinges were doing to blow apart and crumble into dust before your very eyes. But for now, you can keep those memories at bay and that’s enough.

It has to be enough.

You try to escape to the bathroom whenever this would happen to throw up, closing the door behind you while Jimin waited in the bedroom, pretending to be ignorant of the sickly pallor of your skin and the shallowness of your breathing. The bile in your throat tasted too familiar, waves of sickness crashing over you until you are left shivering. Jimin gives you a cup of green tea after, wordlessly. You don’t want to think of the pity that passes through his eyes that you caught sight of the one time you looked him in the eye.

Jimin texted a lot too. You didn’t have to ask who he was talking to.

Jungkook.

He comes back just before it gets dark.

The sky is cloudy, it had started to rain, and you had made a home in the armchair in front of the window, acceptance finally having settled like a blanket around your shoulders. You hadn’t moved for about an hour, staring listlessly out of the window, watching the people go about their lives.

The sound of the passcode being tapped in followed simultaneously by the scratching of paws catches your attention and Jimin perks up from where he is laying on his back, watching the flame flicker enticingly from the mouth of the intricately-designed lighter in his hand. He seemed to be enthralled by the flame, almost as if he were consumed by it.

“Bam!”

He hops up and opens his arms, only to be attacked by a huge, black dog.

The dog excitedly hops around Jimin, sniffing him all over, tail wagging in happiness. Jimin scrunches the dog’s face, giving him kisses all over the crown of his head, and he giggles.

He looks up from where he is patting Bam’s huge head and he says, “You got him back?”

Taehyung kicks off his shoes and walks into the room, grabbing Bam’s collar and tugging him gently to the kitchen.

“He wanted to come home,” he replies, simply. He doesn’t even acknowledge your presence in the house, and while it didn’t piss you off because you wanted to talk to him, you still felt uncomfortable with the ease in which he dismisses you. It isn’t like you wanted to be here either!

Jungkook walks in behind Taehyung, quietly. He shoves his hands in his pockets, his mask still covering the bottom half of his face. He approaches you slowly, and your pulse increases with each step he takes. His eyes are a little wide, as if he were wrestling with a caged animal.

He drops to one of his knees in front of you and says, resting his mask on his chin, “YN… Did you have a good day?”

Jungkook gives you a small smile, gentle, and he reaches for your hand but at the last moment, thinks better of it, dropping his hand and letting it awkwardly rest in his lap.

You stare down at him. “What kind of a day do you think I had, genius?”

His hopeful expression shutters into something guarded. “S-Sorry. I just- I thought staying out would make you feel a bit more… relaxed. It might let you get used to... used to being here without... I don’t know, without feeling suffocated.”

“You thought wrong.”

He flinches. “YN…”

“If you thought you being away would’ve made me feel even an iota better, you would have never come back,” you snarl before shooting to your feet. “Jimin, I’m going to the bathroom.”

Jungkook grabs your wrist, loosely, and says, eyes watery, “YN, I’m trying-”

“Trying to what?” You snap. “Trying to piss me off?”

He sniffles, staring at the floor. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

You slap his hand away and stomp off toward the bedroom, feeling rather than seeing Jimin awkwardly trail behind you. Taehyung and Jimin share a long look, the younger of the two tossing a hard look in your direction that promised retribution of you kept up these brattish antics.

Taehyung got it - he really did.

But Jungkook was like a big kid, and you were breaking his soft heart.

Taehyung watches as Jungkook pulls a small bouquet from his backpack and feels his chest tighten up. He had hidden them there just in case Bam had gotten too excited in the car and crushed them with his tendency to jump on Jungkook’s chest.

The youngest wordlessly hands the pale pink flowers to Taehyung and walks into the kitchen. He swipes at his nose with his sleeve, pulling out a bottle of something clear from the refrigerator, and pops the cap.

“Kookie…”

“Stop, hyung,” he says, after taking a long gulp. His voice sounds like it has been cut with a thousands shards of glass. “It doesn’t matter. Give it to Jimin. You know he likes the color pink.”

Jungkook spends some time sitting on the balcony, right under the jutted out roof, trying like hell to ignore what he knew was going on inside. He contemplates every decision that lead him to the situation he has found himself in - maybe he shouldn’t have ever walked into the library in the first place. Maybe then he wouldn’t know how painful it was to watch your beautiful eyes fill with such a degree of disdain.

Once it started getting too cold, the rain soaking his hoodie and making him shiver, he comes inside. He pulls the hoodie off, tossing it into the corner, leaving a trail of clothes behind him as he walks back to his room. YN is curled in the corner of the room, sleeping. You ignored the bed, choosing instead to wrap yourself up in his bedsheets and hide yourself away in the corner. Your hair is poking out from a small hole in the bundle of sheets and the steady rise and fall tells him that you are sleeping.

He showers quickly, leaving the door cracked slightly open because his anxiety wouldn’t let him leave you with an option to leave without him knowing.

Jungkook couldn’t even tell you how pretty you looked, you didn’t give him a chance.

He had run through the conversation a thousand times in the car with Taehyung. What to say to charm you, to compliment you on your smile and your eyes, how not to look at you for too long in case it made you uncomfortable, but somehow within seconds he had ruined it with his stupid mouth and lingering gaze.

A fresh wave of tears silently fall from his eyes, already puffy and sore from all the rubbing. He tries to stop himself from making noise by biting down on his bottom lip and shoving his knuckles into his mouth like he used to when he was a kid to keep the frustrated cries from escaping, but it doesn’t work.

He keeps crying.

And it comes from the core of him. The knowledge that he might never see the corners of your eyes crinkling in that same warm way he remembers from the library. He doesn’t care if it was a composition of all your best parts that you left on display, hiding the shadows of your personality behind a brick wall. He feels robbed of the experience of you.

He’s angry and frustrated and in pain, and it just doesn’t end.

Jungkook tries to ground himself in the moment. He traces his favorite tattoos, he counts to a hundred five times over just to keep himself from screaming and disturbing your slumber. He counts his breaths and snaps bands on his wrist so he doesn’t think about worse things like the molly he stashed in his drawer or the way it makes him feel.

Maybe if you woke up to find him near dead, it might make you feel something other than hatred for him.

The both of you lay on the floor that night, with Jungkook laying on his side in front of the bedroom door and you curled in a protective ball in the corner.

It wouldn’t be possible for you to leave without stepping over his body and he was a light sleeper, even without the anxiety coursing through his veins. Still, he doesn’t get a wink of rest that entire night, every time he thinks he can relax enough to actually drift off, his body jerks and he’s back to being hyper-alert again.

Jungkook counts his fingers, he taps out rhythms on his upper-thighs, he paces quietly, peeking at you every once in a while to make sure you were still breathing - some hideous part of him worrying that you might try to escape him in death.

He would follow you, you know. He knows he would.

He even brings Bam into the room so the dog can sleep on his legs, knowing that he has always found solace in Jungkook since he was a puppy.

He pats his dog’s head and hums out the bare bones of a song that is forming in his head, the melancholy and anguish that has built up in his spine finally easing as his fingers tap out a perfect rhythm on his toned thighs, wishing, instead, that he could be laying beside you, holding you tightly instead of simply watching you, obsessively, from across the room.

- end -

[cerealkills]

roasting the stardust crusaders because why the fuck not.

btw this is inspired by a la squadra roast by @0coldphantom0 !!! pls check out their post it had me rolling this is really unfunny and not as funny as theirs so pls go check their post out 😰 Polnareff - okay dude what is that hair like actually what the fuck - he looks like a roll of damp bounty paper towels - he has middle school humour. i said it. - he looks like he still pisses the bed - he cat calls women in the street and cries when they punch him in the face :/ - dude lost the other half of his shirt in Cairo or some shit where the fuck did the other strap go 😰 - he's a sneaker head and all he talks about is nike shoes - his wallpaper is a red ferrari - dehydrated chad meme lookin ass - overall a 8/10 because something draws me to him and i dont know what Jotaro Kujo - my guy literally wore ALL BLACK TO EGYPT. - how does he not look like a dry sponge rn - i feel like he would be one of those lil' huddy clones on tiktok - ironically does the lip licking thing - why does he have a chain as big as my whole body on his jacket like???? - AND WHY ARE HIS PANTS 200 DOLLARS - no idea how he's still alive and didnt just pass out and die in egypt but whatever - wears hoodies when its 100 degrees outside - he looks like the llama from the emperors new groove - overall a 9/10 because why not 😓 Joseph Joestar - he looks so crusty dude - HE NEEDS HAND LOTION U CAN TELL HIS HANDS ARE SO CRACKED AND ASHY PLS BRO - he looks like the dude from curious george but if he got put in a food processor - he unironically uses 😂 in his texts - he tries to be hip and trendy with the times but just makes everyone cringe so hard their eyes are rolling on the floor - someboy needs to take the cologne away from him because he showers in that shit - he doesnt brush his teeth he looks like his breath stinks - his hair prolly lice infested bro 😰 - he doesnt shave his armpits so they smell like hot garbage and possibly some onion - overall 5/10 because he prolly eats his own earwax Avdol - not to be rude but he looks like a carpet - same question for him dude, WHY ARE YOU WEARING ALL THAT TO EGYPT - he only responds with a thumbs up emoji to anything you text him - uses snapchat filters like the sparkly one and shows fucking everyone 😭 - my guy looks like a lamp you would find at an antique store all the way in the back - he's so nice he's a walking door mat 8/10, overall i have no issues with him so Kakyoin - babe looks like a heinz ketchup bottle - he only makes "ur mom" jokes and u cant change my mind - he wears those "im a gamer try to keep up" shirts you find at target 😭 - he still watches PBS kids - dude looks like the bean cat from peg + cat pls 😭 - why is it when he does the rerorerorero thing he looks like he's about to doxx you on 4chan - he's so musty and prolly has cheeto dust all over his keyboard - one of THOSE boys who paints fucking van gogh and goes : "oh its so bad 🥺" - overall a 5/10 he's pretty boring and plain SO THATS IT LOL i know it was very unfunny but i tried my best :D another shoutout to @0coldphantom0 for the idea yeah thats p much it written by @heirophant--greenn

[burnyouwithacigarettelighter]

part i, autonomy in your coherence | c.g

With something like time that runs round with the world — ignoring it’s inhabitants and stealing things that you’d hidden away for safekeeping — you’ve taken up the hobby of art, furiously sketching faces that are six-feet under.

The skill is beautiful and horrific all the same, watching like a person with amnesia as the portraits begin to lose their depth, the freshness, the personality that came free with who you’d chosen to print on the page.

You’ve forgotten your feelings for Carl, because he didn’t feel the same.

You just wished you did a better job at it.

WARNINGS: mentions of death, suicide ideation

this is a continuation of watch you burn away and i recommend you read that, first! this is also part of a series, so here is the masterlist if you need it!

(cross-posted on ao3!)

Your father once told you he had a patient that died from heartbreak.

“Your heart can’t really break, though, right?” You’d said. A doctor for a father and a laboratory technician for a mother made you more than aware of things, seeing through the myths and pretty white lies of figures like Santa and the tooth fairy.

(They had gone through with it anyway, because although their child knew, it was a gateway to normality in such a busy home.)

Your father scratched his chin, unsure how to respond. “My patient had died from a broken heart, though the process wasn’t as simple as it’s term name. A broken heart — the nonliteral meaning — can be the cause and the domino toppling to many things that could lead to death.”

“Like what?” You’d said with little admission into the conversation, having been flicking through a novel you’d picked up a while back (which featured a one eyed pirate and his partner who’d ended up dying in the end — not that you knew, yet, at least.)

“I don’t know, er,” Your father swirled his coffee lightly, gesturing wildly with his free hand, “Mental health issues, for one. Erratic actions, depression, a lost sense of self. Obsession.”

“Huh,” You muttered, looking up at your father for the first time. “A lost sense of self? Really?”

“What is your father teaching you?” Your mother said, stepping into the kitchen with a questioning expression. The conversation ended there, without so much as a thought after.

You wish you pried your father for further answers. What you’d give to get the workaholic of a man to dump his duo psychology medical major thoughts unto you with little care.

The knowledge would be gold in your time of need, when pulling and pushing distance further between you was like venturing through a field of thorns.

(Perhaps you just missed your parents. But that couldn’t be it, right? They’d died and you had lived, their blood on your hands and the gun in your fingers, their glazed over eyes and your own that nearly matched, cold and willing without a drop of emotion.)

But you’d gotten through it for him— without him. Without anyone, quietly harboring scratches and bleeding from the field with little effort.

If someone asked, you would tell them with full and honest confidence that you harboured no more attachments. You were a naive teenager, running through your feet and over yourself for something that was just a crush.

Crushes are — in their whole singularity and purpose —  temporary.

They are brief, and momentarily something that causes ripples and waves in your thoughts, just the slightest mention or faint sight makes you detour down a road of sickly sweet dreams and fantasies.

He was first love (like? You didn’t love him, no, it was a crush and it was something for the unattainable and the inappropriate — in which with full truth, he was.) so you poured the honey glazed remembrances and rose coloured lenses over your memories, because he was a first love, and you know that those were cracks in the heart, growing vines and constricting the part that was him — the part that’d always, always be there, without a doubt.

(However much you didn’t want it to be.)

The leaves and the venomous flowers that sprout in decaying grooves come with age, and you are older now.

You bear fresh scars that litter your entire being and wear newly buried bones of people who were once not just that, the dirt still sitting in the crevices of your nails, and you seem to forget their voices with each passing day.

With something like time that runs round with the world — ignoring it’s inhabitants and stealing things that you’d hidden away for safekeeping — you’ve taken up the hobby of art, furiously sketching faces that are six-feet under.

The skill is beautiful and horrific all the same, watching like a person with amnesia as the portraits begin to lose their depth, the freshness, the personality that came free with who you’d chosen to print on the page.

More and more, the faces look like reference art rather than a taken from life picture, which was all telling them to sit still and watching their eyes crinkle at the edges when you show them the result, voices echoing and asking if they could have it.

Everyday, as it has become a peevish habit like biting your nails or obsessively reminding yourself your stove is off, you draw pictures of everyone.

If you are close enough with them, you ask the subject to sit and model for you, analyzing every breath and laugh they take when you crack a joke or engage them in meaningless conversation just to see how the light hits their brows when they raise, the shadows pooling in their aging lines.

Everyday, you wish and hope and even fucking pray that their portraits continue to be something of anxious routine, rather than trying to dump their image out of your head and onto paper so you can see their faces one more time.

His image seems to change with each moment he sits in for you, once a face with two piercing blues, then a patch and eyes that looked at the dusty wooden floor, and later, someone who looks at you straight, something that told you he was a survivor, who bore his battles proudly, the scar on the right of his face sitting ruggedly and bewitchingly.

You draw him, exactly the way you see him, and when you show him the picture, he laughs, and says “You made me look too pretty,” and you shake your head, “It’s exactly the way I see you.”

You do her, too, upon request. When she sits, you draw her almost like it was professional, drawing the curvature of her face with exact precision, intense shading, marking the features she holds. The dip in her nose, the straight of her hair.

(You often forget who you’re drawing in these moments, and when you step away from the canvas you’re hit with whiplash. It’s subconscious, the way you do these things to please him, wanting to see so clearly how his face spreads delicately with delight.)

It takes a little while for you to convince Ron. When you first propose the drawing, he gives you a confused face, before walking off to do shooting practice. He’s gotten better with the gun over the years, and doesn’t respond when you tell him you know why.

(His mother didn’t come out of it alive, and his brother didn’t come back without harm. The younger boy was alive, but would grow up with only his brother by his side and one less limb to account for.)

The second time, he makes a snide comment, albeit with no bite, about how ‘you must be a horrible artist, to ask me of all people to model for you.’

The third time, you’ve dragged him to the small office you makeshifted for the drawings in the garage. He studies every slit of paper you’ve ripped out of your book, the unfinished sketches or yet-to-be painted canvases piling up against the walls. Complete works sit proudly on your wall, displayed for the world to see.

His hands hover over the paints sitting on your desk, charcoal, dirt, sticks, paintbrushes, handmade dyes, wallpaper cut-outs.

“Why?” Ron says curiously.

“‘Why?’ what?” You echo, fiddling with a fork you grabbed from the kitchen, splaying out a thick lather combination of beet dye and cement onto your finger to check the consistency.

“Why do you draw these portraits? I get the others because,” He says, leaving the words “because they’re dead” hanging in the air between you two in mutual and regretful acknowledgement, “But you draw these everyday. You drag Carl and Enid off, or just sit on the benches and draw Maggie and Glenn knee-deep in the dirt.”

You sigh a dreadful breath, wiping the rest of the beet-cement mix onto the page with the pad of your fore-finger. “We’ll forget them one day.”

He looks at you, unblinking. The dead, the gone, and the soon to be long forgotten only existed in your memories, in your words, and when the time came that the world had moved on and stopped, they would cease. Their whole memory relied on the living, nothing about them able to reach and grasp life on their own. Memory was all that was left, and it was all you could do to wash away regret.

“And the rest?”

You bite your tongue hesitantly, your movements rigid, “You see their portraits. Everyday they get less and less coherent. When — when time comes , these drawings will be the only thing getting me by.” You whispered.

The ball had dropped. Coping and grief in it’s big and ugly form, preying on your conscious hungrily, taking shelter in your largest worries. Claws sunken in your flesh, the monster was a thing that felt like it would never go away, because it would loom right alongside death itself, watching and waiting for the moment they’d deemed someones time to have been enough.

(It would never be enough. Enough meant they’d pop in from next door and ask to borrow something, enough meant they’d swipe dirt across your face to make you angry — enough meant they would come in everyday and sit for their portrait once more.)

A creaking on the floorboard caught your attention, eyes watching as Ron’s feet walk to the corner of the room, before hopping onto the wooden seat with little effort.

“I’m not going. I never will. But — do it anyway. I’d… like to see how I look on paper.” He said cheekily, picking up a thin pencil off your desk and handing it out to you.

So you did. Seconds turned to minutes and minutes snowballed into hours in the dim lighting of the garage, asking the blond to turn his body, stretch his head and make different expressions, fulfilling and destroying the little worm of worry sitting in your head.

When you’re done with the charcoal, turning it around for Ron to see and to inspect, he asks, “What about you?”

“And what about me?” You say. His questions never make sense without further discussion, but the boy always has to wait for you to pry and ask him to elaborate.

“You don’t have any drawings of yourself. You’re the artist, the photographer, the one who makes these things that will stay longer than the memories and the words — so what about you?”

It’s rare that Ron delves into his emotions and the things he really means, but when he does, it’s something that stays, for a long while.

“I,” You didn’t have an answer for it. You weren’t one to do a self-portrait, it not being the same as having someone to sit and take from. “I don’t want to.” You finished simply, an ice cold realization coming to reality in you.

“Why?” He says the same words as before, but the words hold a heavy weight.

“I don’t know.”

You knew.

Maybe one day, you’d wished that you’d wash away like seafoam on the beach. You wouldn’t leave a single portrait behind of you, and the memories and the words were left mum behind his lips, because you knew how he got in a loss.

Quiet and unfeeling, it was so selfish of you that you’d counted on how he got in that state to leave you behind, neglecting you like the fruits of your memories you’d never get to bear.

Ron’s gaze bore into you like he knew exactly what you were thinking, telepathically taking in every thought you’d conveyed at your dispense.

“You should.” Is all he says, before stepping off the wooden stool and out the door.

What was wrong with you? You feel so… entirely foolish. Obsolete. Embarrassing.

You walked past the remnants of those who were gone everyday, obsessively creating canvas over canvas of them and the only thing you could think was that you’d wish to position yourself beside them?

This world was catching up to you, and fast, but you’d just have to run faster than it could.

[luuurien]

DOMi & JD BECK - NOT TiGHT

(Nu-Jazz, Neo-Soul, Jazz Fusion)

Two of jazz's brightest prodigal talents link up for an energetic, if one-note collaborative project that attempts to bottle their explorative, technically complex playing styles into a cohesive album package. NOT TiGHT never quite figures out what it wants to be, but Domi Degalle's eccentric keyboard work and JD Beck's frenetic drum grooves keep things moving smoothly nonetheless.

☆☆☆½

I get why NOT TiGHT has gotten so much attention, but that's also part of my problems with it. Anyone who has been engaged with the contemporary jazz scene over the past few years has seen videos of Domi Degalle and JD Beck performing at one point or another, whether it be behind Thundercat and Ariana Grande on a cover of Them Changes, or the two of them making covers of   Madvillainy tracks, their incredibly impressive chops - Degalle performing on both keyboards and bass and Beck on drums - and ear on the pulse of hip-hop and electronic sounds that people love most made them two of the most relevant and talked about up-and-comers right now. On their debut project together NOT TiGHT, released on Anderson .Paak's own Blue Note imprint APESHIT, attempts to bottle their explorative, technically complex playing styles into a cohesive album package. At times, the magic of NOT TiGHT shines incredibly bright, but they pull themselves back so much throughout that oftentimes the album fails to be more than colorful, noisy wallpaper. While I don't find comparing artists to one another a particularly useful way of pointing out issues with an album or song, NOT TiGHT's sound sits at an intersection of modern jazz that can only be drawn out knowing the people on either side of it. There's the off-kilter, lo-fi haze of artists like Jacob Mann, riding on beds of fuzzy synthesizers and plucky electronic drum loops, and there's the explosive, colorful stylings of nu-jazz groups like Ebi Soda and High Pulp blending improvisation and rich jazz harmonic language into fast-paced grooves pulled from drum 'n' bass and alternative rap. NOT TiGHT's sound sits somewhere between those two styles, and Degalle and Beck, for the most part, do quite the stellar job at making expressive and intense jazz warm and accessible to a larger audience. The mixing is warm and focuses on a thick low-end and softer high tones, and Beck's fluffy drumset never smacks the mix too hard, always keeping things plush and mellow while having enough presence to provide forward movement - if there's one thing NOT TiGHT does best, it's tonal consistency. There's a certain pull to how tracks like WHATUP and U DON'T HAVE TO ROB ME so beautifully blend bubbly, bright jazz melodies into speedy, yet soft drum breaks, nu-jazz madness that still leaves room for you to breathe. It's intricate, but NOT TiGHT never gets so tangled that Degalle and Beck lose the sense of charm and personality within their demanding compositions. When they bring collaborators into the mix, things only get better: the aforementioned Thundercat brings his gooey basslines for two consecutive tracks on BOWLiNG and the title track, letting Degalle focus more on her keyboard work rather than trying to manage both melodies and a bassline; indie rock golden boy Mac Demarco hops aboard for TWO SHRiMPS; jazz legend Herbie Hancock appears drenched in vocoder for MOON while beloved guitarist Kurt Rosenwinkle brings smooth lovely guitar work to WHOA; Anderson .Paak appears on both the neo-soul highlight TAKE A CHANCE and posse cut PiLOT alongside Snoop Dogg and Busta Rhymes. There's tons of different ideas floating around NOT TiGHT, but Degalle and Beck have the focus and might to pull it all off. It never goes much further than that, though, and that's where many of my frustrations with NOT TiGHT lie. Everything sounds nice, and there's no song on here that's especially bad (SMiLE and TWO SHRiMPS are both repetitive and bland, but that's about it), but it never strays far from its low-key, playful jazz fusion, and it leaves NOT TiGHT as a full, 44-minute listen to feel underwhelming and unfulfilling by the end of things. Sure, it's nice to listen to, but apart from the few jumps in energy given by collaborative tracks like TAKE A CHANCE and PiLOT, there's not much of a difference in how they move from cozy nu-jazz to breakneck improvisation on WHATUP and SNiFF, or on the title track and WHOA, or any other combination of two songs here that check all the same boxes in different orders. It stops feeling exciting watching them go all out by the end of the album when it's already happened so many times before - a cool party trick someone's already done twelve times that night - and because of their constant reliance on that energetic, fast-paced nu-jazz style every time they need to pick up the pace, NOT TiGHT loses a ton of leverage it gets from having two of the strongest musicians out there today working together. They know their instruments well, but they're still figuring out exactly what that looks like in an album context, the looser environment of live performance allowing them to mess with things and react to things more organically than when trying to carve out the defined peaks and valleys of U DON'T HAVE TO ROB ME or MOON. By all means, NOT TiGHT's sound is a fantastic one, but it begins to wear thin as the slickness of it all gets rid of the antics and goofiness that makes watching them perform together at a concert or in a YouTube video so electrifying. It's the biggest thing keeping NOT TiGHT from going from being just a well-performed album to one that is both well-performed and consistently thrilling all the way through. Degalle and Beck have what it takes to keep moving forward together and take things further than they already have, and just because NOT TiGHT has trouble expanding on their sound doesn't mean the album isn't a successful outing in the slightest. More often than not, it's fun to listen to, easy to connect with, and with enough surprise turns to suck you back in when things start to get a little mushy. It might be missing that layer of grit needed to take things to the next level, but there's no denying just how exciting a start this is for the two of them, coming right out of the gate with a distinct sound and the concrete proof that their sound will never get old when it's this impressive to listen to. At the core of NOT TiGHT, it's two friends putting their all into making music that they love together, and that passion beams through everything they do here, no matter how exhilarating or banal things get.

[thetorchwoodarchive]

[Image Description: a banner for the Across the Bay Crossover Fics You Didn���t See Coming fest, featuring beach signs on a tropical island, reading “Cardiff by the Sea”, the name of the fest, “authors”, “torchwood” (partially obscured), and “one shots” (partially obscured), and a warning sign where Myfanwy chases a swimmer]

ACROSS THE BAY: CROSSOVER FICS YOU DIDN’T SEE COMING MASTERPOST

Thank you everyone for submitting your crossover and fusion fic  recommendations. Below are all submissions and some of our favorites! 

Is it Insensitive for Me to Say by aliciajazmin (EstherJohnTosh | complete | 2441 | T)

Toshiko Sato and Esther Drummond absolutely will make fun of their boyfriend for deciding to attend an audition, while also attending said audition with him. 

Crossover With: The Outer Worlds 

Golden Apples and Norse Gods (Or How Ianto Got His Groove Back) by blackkat (JackIanto | complete | 1592 | G)

Ianto finds himself back from the dead and, apparently, in the position to double-cross a power-crazed Norse god intent on conquering the Earth by taking out a team of superheroes. Must be a Tuesday.

Crossover With: Avengers/MCU

The Magic of Torchwood by Bella the Strange (JackIanto, IantoJohn, JackOther, Non-Torchwood Ships | wip |  546,512 | T)

The Torchwood team have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Set between Adam and Reset. Rated T because of Jack Harkness, swearing, mature themes, slash etc… it’s Torchwood!

Crossover With: Harry Potter

Welcome to Torchwood by Jackdaw818 (Gen | complete | 1601 | T)

A strange creature behind the Ralphs, a break-in at the Museum of Forbidden Technologies, and visitors in Night Vale. Overall, a slightly unordinary day for Cecil Gershwin Palmer

Crossover With: Welcome to Night Vale

Torchwait for iiiiit by lady-demacabre (Gen | complete | 3k | K+)

When Shawn and Gus are called in on a case for an eccentric collector of alien objects, they get more than what they bargained for. One shot, Psych oriented.

Crossover With: Psych

Theme and Variations by nemo_baker (JackIanto, GwenRhys, OwenKatie | 5817 | T)

Time Agent Jack Harkness is sent back in time to solve the mystery of a mysterious train bombing. The problem is, he only has eight minutes to do it.

Written for Reel Torchwood screening 8 on Livejournal. Movie Prompt: Source Code (2011)

Crossover With: Source Code 

Day Tripper by Croquemboucheballpit (Gement) (JackBessie the Third Doctor’s Car, Bessie the Third Doctor’s CarLightening McQueen (past) | complete | 2360 | M)

Bessie’s like any other companion: far from home, more than she appears, and always up for an adventure.

And Jack Harkness really will seduce anything that moves.

Crossover With: Pixar’s Cars 

An American Volunteer by That_one_kid (SteveBucky, BuckyJackSteve | Complete | 4395 | T)

What if Captain Jack Harkness met Steve & Bucky during the war? What if he ran into them again, present day?

AKA

Captain Jack Harkness and his mission to seduce the two gorgeous, capable soldiers who keep running into him.

Crossover With: Captain America/MCU

Statement #0041708 - Future Sight by Jackdaw816 (Gen | complete | 1690 | T)

Statement of Lisa Hallett regarding a peculiar mirror found at a car boot sale

Crossover With: The Magnus Archives

(Un)Welcome Aboard by Jaune_Chat (Jack | Complete | 4,154 | T)

To make ends meet, Mal listens to a suggestion from Inara than he rent out the other shuttle. She has the perfect candidate, a charming Companion named Jack…

Crossover With: Firefly 

Death and the Definitely-Not-A Maiden by Odsbodkins (JackIanto | Complete | 3,6K | PG-13)

When Jack dies, Death is there to meet him. Every time. Written in 2008 for the Doctor Who Crossover Ficathon. Takes in Torchwood to end S2, Doctor Who to end S3, Discworld to Soul Music.

Crossover With: Discworld 

Remarkable by snowwhiteliar ( JackIanto, IantoLisa | Complete | 20.971 | PG-13)

Summary: Once upon a time, in a small village in a distant province of a peaceful kingdom, there lived a boy called Ianto

Crossover With: Fairy Tales 

Got That Friday Feeling Again by NancyBrown (OwenOther, JackIanto, GwenRhys, GwenOwen | Complete | 18.3K | R)

HELP HELP HELP HELP

I AM TRAPPED IN A TIME BUBBLE

The magic marker all over the nice chintz wallpaper bled and smeared as Owen wrote in increasingly desperate lettering across the walls. Ls and Ps dragged down, wiggly at the end or drawn out in slashed strokes.

He ignored the pounding on the door frame. He’d shoved the wardrobe in front, which always kept Jack out for twenty three and a half minutes. He ignored the sweat and tears and snot dripping down his face, down his mouth. He ignored the high-pitched singing from his own throat, “If you want my future, forget my past,” chanted over and over.

HELP

Crossover With: Groundhog Day

Back, and Back, and Back a Little More (Future Optional) (JackIanto, JennyVastra | Complete |  32591 | M)

Accidentally shot into the past by a time-travelling car, Ianto has to fix his own mistakes or he won't have a future to go back to.

Crossover With: Back to the Future 

Truth, Justice by NancyBrown (SupermanOwen | complete | 414 | M)

The green shit does not work. Warnings: dubcon (AMTDI)

Crossover With: Justice League Unlimited/DCAU/Superman 

Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodies, or, A Humourous Interlude Between Epics by  copperbadge (Gen | complete | 749 | T)

Ianto neglected to introduce himself as he informed the senior staff that Atlantis was now under the jurisdiction of Torchwood, whatever Torchwood is.

Crossover With: Stargate Atlantis 

Never Have I Ever by  st_aurafina (JackIanto, JackDoctor (past/implied), PepperTony (implied) | complete | 1714 | T)

Written for the prompt Ianto, Donna and Pepper end up at a secretaries'/assistants' conference and have a conversation about their bosses.

Crossover With: Ironman/MCU

Beware the Sparkles by elisi (JackIanto, JackEdwardBella | complete | 4793 | T)

It's terribly simple. The good guys are always stalwart and true, the bad guys are easily distinguished by their pointy horns or black hats, and we always defeat them and save the day. No one ever dies, and everybody lives happily ever after. Oh and Jack has sex with sparkly vampires.

Crossover With: Twilight 

The Death Note Discovery by KaibaGirl007 (JackIanto | complete | 18,992 | T)

“You’ve clearly just got a notebook belonging to some geek, a rather sick geek I’ll give you that, who likes to keep note of people’s deaths.” - Will the team resist the urge to use the Death Note or will one of them give into temptation? 

Crossover With: Death Note 

A Confluence of Personalities by  galaxysoup (JackIanto | complete | 4839 | T)

Conner Kent’s body might be dead, but his soul has apparently decided to take the scenic route.

Crossover With: DC Comics/Young Justice Comics 

Imposters Among Us by  gwendolyncooper (JackIanto, GwenRhys | complete | 9117 | M)

The Torchwood team (+Rhys) are out for a night of fun when they end up on a spaceship with no power, no info, and no crew. Known only as THE SKELD, the team tries to fix the ship and figure out what happened to its previous occupants.

But something out there is killing them.

Something that may be someone they know.

Crossover With: Among Us 

Traitors (Among Us) by princessoftheworlds (JackIanto | complete | 440 | G)

In a happy future, the team plays Among Us, and Ianto suffers.

Crossover With: Among US 

Tagline: I saw the VIDEO. Got the CALL? What Next??? by  BricklingGhost (TeamGwenee) (JackIanto, JackSamara | complete | 2424 | Not Rated)

'Tagline: I saw the VIDEO. Got the CALL? What Next???

Bollocks. That’s just a myth. Some git showing off and claiming to be the one person alive who Samara doesn’t bump off. He’ll be boasting that he’s been chosen to kill Voldemort next.'

When another unsuspecting victim falls foul of the cursed tape, he is pointed towards Captain Jack Harkness as his only hope for salvation.

Crossover With: The Ring

(My God, He Just) Came and Went by  Brokenpitchpipe (SteveBucky | complete | 1591 | M)

It starts on a cold, snowy September night in 1916, on the day Winifred Barnes walks to Doris Lindow’s house to see her new telephone and catches the eye of a handsome young man on the other side of the street. He tips his hat as she sees him, and she flushes scarlet and nods in return.

And nine months later, a little baby boy screams his way into the world.

But that’s not when it starts. Not really.

Crossover With: Captain America/MCU

Beast Inside by Flamingbluepanda (JackIanto, OwenTosh, GwenRhys | complete | 26934 | M)

"Argue with anything else, but don’t argue with your own nature.” - Phillip Pullman

Inside us all, there is an animal that expresses our soul. How would the world change were those animals outside?

Crossover With: His Dark Materials

Rifts and Robots by Paycheckgurl (JackIanto | complete | 3021 | G)

Jack and Ianto’s date at the movies is interrupted by two robots with no theater etiquette.

Crossover With: Mystery Science Theater 3000

The Jack and Ianto Show by Paycheckgurl (JackIanto | WIP | 7392 | T)

Jack and Ianto are a regular couple, living a quiet life, and trying to fit into the quaint Village of West Castle. Sure they're keeping the secret that Jack is an immortal time traveler from the future, with a fantastical machine called a vortex manipulator that can manipulate time and space around them, but they have much more pressing concerns. Such as strict bosses and nosy neighbors. Everything is perfect, a dream come true.

And Jack is going to keep it that way.

Please Stand By...

Crossover With: WandaVision 

Mutually Assured Uncooperation by  princessoftheworlds (JackIanto, OwenTosh, MarthaMickey, FitzSimmons, LincolnDaisy (past) | complete | 31547 | T)

Aliens, time-travelling, resurrections. These are all experiences familiar to not just one but two top-secret organizations that have a hard time keeping a low-profile. Figures that they would encounter each other eventually.

Or: the five times that SHIELD and Torchwood had an encounter that neither were pleased with, and the one time they had to work together when two of their own were taken.

Or: There's Kree running amok in Cardiff, including a murdered one, and Torchwood is on the case, but so is SHIELD. Also, don't forget the memory-manipulating aliens there too!

Crossover With: Agents of Shield/MCU

all i know is (infatuations) by  princessoftheworlds (JackIanto, JackJohn,  OwenTosh, LisaIanto | complete | 439 | T)

Seventh-year Slytherin Ianto Jones handles a break up, getting a boyfriend, terrible emotional misunderstandings with his best friend Jack Harkness, being miserable, and reconciliation. (Not precisely in that order.)

Crossover With: Harry Potter

[joyandcrown]

The Biographer — Carol Ann Duffy

Because you are dead,

I stand at your desk,

my fingers caressing the grooves in the wood

your initials made;

and I manage a quote,

echo one of your lines in the small, blue room

where and early daguerreotype shows you

excitedly staring out

from behind your face,

the thing that made you yourself

still visibly there

like a hood and a cloak of light.

The first four words that I write are your name.

I’m a passionate man

with a big advance

who’s loved your work since he was a boy;

but the night

I slept alone in your bed,

the end of a fire going out in the grate,

I came awake-

certain, had we ever met,

you wouldn’t have wanted me,

or needed me,

would barely have noticed me at all.

Guilt and rage

hardened me then,

and later I felt your dislike

chilling the air

as I drifted away.

Your wallpaper green and crimson and gold.

[mha-adore]

General HCs: Bakusquad

A/N: Part two to my first post featuring Dekusquad, enjoy!💗

Bakugou

* This man, this snack - nay, three course meal - is just a ball of touch starved. He's aggressive to hide his soft lil baby feelings. He may act aggravated when you give him affection but don't be stupid he wants all of it, he just doesn't want to look soft in front of The Boys(tm).

* He's a major showoff. If he can find any reason to flaunt you off he will. He wants all those other people to know damn well that you're his and he's yours. So of course his social media is just pics of you both.

* Though he's also very jealous. If you're talking with someone a little too friendly or someone is making a few too many gestures he has no problem stepping in. He trusts you won't do anything behind him but he doesn't trust others.

* He's the type to spoil you in a low key way. He won't be at your beck and call, but if you ask him for a snack he'll whip you up something he knows you'll love. Don't forget he's an excellent cook.

Kirishima

* He's obsessed with the idea of being a knight in shining armor for you. He'll catch you when you fall and sweep you into a dipped kiss. Yes he does it to show off.

* He's very physically active and, if possible, would encourage you to be the same, at least to an extent. If you're up for it he'd love to race you and have pushup contests with you. (Of course he'll let you win because he's whipped for you.) If you're not interested he won't push and will find other ways to spend time together.

* Like Bop It, for example. He's easy to keep entertained and if you hand him something that makes noise he's fixated. Would insist that titty is a word in Scrabble. He also loves crime shows.

* His lock screen and home wallpapers are just pics of you he took. Something basic like reading a book, doing homework, or training.

Kaminari

* Absolute crack head you can't take him anywhere. He's gonna short out the entire electric setup in a mall just to hijack it and make it buzz the morse code for penis. A lot of effort for a stupid joke.

* At least he charges your phone and other devices. If your quirk relies on electricity he's happy to give a helping jolt.

* Intentionally overuses his quirk so you and Jiro can laugh at him. He overacts a lot for the attention. Don't tell him you're aware of that.

* Will either plan pranks with you or against you. It ranges from tripping on a wire to a cupboard full of balls. He needs someone to either match his chaos or keep him in check.

Sero

* Tape baby is so underrated. He knows his quirk isn't as impressive or useful as others can be but he does his best to make you notice him.

* He absolutely has used tape to trap you in a hug. If he has a way to get affection from you he's going to do it.

* Is really into pet names. Honey, Sweetie, Hershey's Kiss...What you'd expect from him. He would love if you gave him pet names too but if you're not interested he totally gets it.

* He gets playfully offended when you use normal tape and not his. He'll fake cry all like "I can't believe you're cheating on me with that...That dispenser!!" It's hilarious.

Mina

* Our pink queen 😍 she is so energetic and lively and she would love for you to join her in shenanigans. She isn't a crack head like Kaminari or as active as Kirishima but she can be a lot of fun. She throws great slumber parties.

* She's very skilled at dancing. She can even do freestyle. Pls ask her to teach you she'd be over the moon. She wants to see you groove.

* Has a very sweet tooth and wants candy, candy and more candy. She loves peppermints and dark chocolate. Get her those and she'll do your chores for the whole day.

* She buys clothes in your size for herself and claims it's a mistake and gives it to you. She intentionally bought the wrong size. She just wanted to give you that stupid space cat shirt she saw on Amazon it was too good to pass up.

[mybigstuf-blog]

my fist post!!

       *ೃ❅,,. Like if your save or credits to @mionstax/ @bigtwtt  *ೃ∗

[serataenin]

The Dice album has me in tears from just how proud I am, the tracks are so so so beautiful. So groovy, so smooth, so fun, so emotional, so sweet, so sexy, so Onew. It’s a huge directional pivot after begging to get him out of the grandpa sweater vests and into a title track with bass and choreo and boy did they deliver - without compromising any of his identity! This album is gonna keep me company all summer long with such repeatable tracks and good energy throughout. My only gripe is that I almost miss a track with soaring vocals like the bad love outro they went so hard on every styling choice that I have no idea which fit/scene/track to turn into my wallpaper 😂

Initial impressions:

Dice - THE MV IM SCREAMING I love the whimsical elements and the MTTM call backs and actor Onew and oh lord does he look so good in every shot and the lemon woman at the end is sooooo precious and dancer Onew absolutely slaying?? And the fits and his smile and goo everywhere ugh I’m not saying anything of substance I just love love love it

Sunshine - I usually love the rnb jams the most but sunshine is so damn special. I’m partial to it esp bc it keeps the mttm/dice whimsy vibe alive and it’s just such a stylish arrangement, the joy and groove throughout the track is relentless. The verses are sexy and enticing, but it builds up to such a fantastic can’t-help-but-wiggle-in-your-seat chorus. Very likely this is one of the b-sides he’ll perform on music shows and I can’t wait! Getting ready with pina coladas in the Bahamas. 🍹🏝

On The Way - this song is written by Sam Kim, Cha Cha Malone, Adrian McKinnon, and Tay Jasper, it was already guaranteed to be rnb bop of the century before it even dropped. Because the other tracks have so many fun musical elements or intense vocal power, this one ends up feeling a little more chill and mellow on the album, but it’s welcome! True to the rnb genre, this track flows smooth and sultry, the harmonies are dreamy, the bass and claps the perfect amount of drive without overpowering the vocals, and onew’s tone is *chef’s kiss*

Love Phobia - WHEN I TELL YOU I WASNT READY FOR THIS ONE it knocked my socks off, it’s so colorful and dynamic and I’m always noticing something new even though it doesn’t seem like a powerhouse song on first listen. The pre chorus falsetto followed by those punchy chorus bass synths followed by the lil runs + yeahs? Scrumptious. Taemin liked this track for Onew too so it’s meant to be 😌

Yeowoobi - I haven’t even looked up the lyrics yet and my heart is so soft. The low notes and falsetto in the verse and pre chorus is exquisite as sets up the chorus well! Head over heels for the murky, layered bass esp in the chorus. THE BRIDGE IS EXEMPLARY this is where Onew gets to show off his range the most I believe, just a lovely track.

In the Whale - the 80s synths and velvet soft vocals I’m ascending. Onew wrote some of the lyrics and dedicated this track to shawols so I’m not sure if I’m ready to move from just vibing to possibly probably crying. This song is beautiful.

I am attempting to ahem small river for this one bc Onew really deserves the most, thank you for such a sweet gift jinki 💚