#fucking klein bottle nonsense

[jazzeria]

Sewing a purse with a lining, and it feels like I'm sewing a fucking Klein bottle. I showed this fuckery to my partner.

"You hate it, but you love it, don't you?"

"YES?!"

All sewists who do shit like this are honourary topologists, whether they know it or not. Sewing is practical topology, you will not change my mind.

Pattern: Estrella Bag by Oro Rosa

(Yes I know it's not actually a Klein bottle, or even an R3 immersion of one, I'm describing a feeling dammit)

[ghelgheli]

Afab people can also develop a gendered subjectivity in response to transmisogyny, whether they've been victims of it or not, just as amab people can develop it as a result of misogyny. So, if transfemininity is also defined by this characteristic, afab transfem also fit into it. Your objection to this fact is just a bias based, at best, on ignorance.

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It's is a bioessentialist prescription because you're adopting a conception of transfemininity that dictates that to be transfeminine, you have to fulfil to expectation of being male assignment at birth. this is no different from someone who uses the bioessentialist conception of womanhood which require female assignement at birth. Both are form bioessentialism that we should not perpetuate at our level, but rather we should re-thinking these gender categories in a way that doesn't align with bioessetialist conceptions

whoops! you caught me out aha. I forgot that afab trans people have subjectivities shaped by transmisogyny. I also forgot that cis womanhood is defined in large part thru transmisogyny: the fear of being clocky, constant affirmation by distancing from the tranny-object except when it's hot to have a bit of a jawline now, palatability as opposition to the monstrosity of being the shemale. I guess cis women are transfeminine too!

let's remember, while we're at it, that transmisogyny is the spectre that haunts the subject of the cis man. the gendered border policing lest one take a step too close to sissification, the prohibition on behaviour that could threaten to make him a girl—oh! cis men are transfeminine too!

in fact, we're all transfeminine! transmisogyny, as the recognition and attempted correction of the tranny-glitch that undoes the threads of gender, asserts itself against all of us. it is impossible to be a gendered subject without having contours shaped by the domineering pressures of transmisogyny, because that is what demands we all fall in line to the gendered nightmare. oops! all transfem!

but wait. a certain group, deprived now of unique identification, has just lost the ability to describe its gendered situation. it has been swallowed up by the seas of inclusive thinking or whatever. I guess that's okay :) I guess we'll drop our complaints :) we were a nuisance in the first place, weren't we? sorry. so sorry for existing this way.

listen to me. listen to me not as your fucking ephemeral gender oracle telling you what you want to hear before being thrown away, not as your bullshit mouthpiece granting you entrance to this mystical domain you want to claim for yourself, but as a god damn person for once—an impossible thing to ask of the transmisogynistic tranny wannabe, I know, but try!

you cannot escape hegemonic gender and its violent devices with flaccid platitudes about "re-thinking these gender categories" as though by changing the names of things you can change the things themselves. transmisogyny is the bioessentialism, and transmisogyny is why I am a failed man—the faggot embodied—something less than both man and woman—a gender traitor specifically against my assignment itself. and if you cannot recognize the unique ways that transmisogyny is deployed unrelentingly and irrevocably against the ones who will never be able to resort to birth assignment as a defense—against the ones who cannot throw their hands up and say, "I was never supposed to be a man in the first place!"—you have not understood the first thing about the root source of transmisogyny, and it is no surprise to me that you have no sense of transfemininity as a political category, a(n un)gendered class.

[pasteljeon]

handcrafted | heartbeat 1

When you put out a roommates ad for your newly purchased house, the only requirement you set out had been cleanliness.

The last thing you’d expected was for the 7 most eligible bachelors of your university to come calling.

Throw in school, crazy fan girls and the most sought for men suddenly chasing after you with heart eyes, comes a college experience of a lifetime.

Would it be so wrong to want them all?

1: handcrafted

summary | they needed a place to stay. You needed money. You are so fucking screwed. They want you to screw them instead.

series index.

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“I’m sorry,” comes a high-pitched, exasperated whine for the umpteenth time.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you say, suitcase dropping unceremoniously onto the gravel floor with a sad thud. You stare up at the building with dread, a knot forming in your stomach. Now that you think of it, it does seem to loom overhead rather ominously. And you liked the design so much, too.

“You’re telling me that I just dropped half a million into a house and now I have no one to room with and no way to pay off my mortgage?”

“It was last minute,” Ahri tries to explain feebly, but you close your eyes.

“So let me get this straight,” you say slowly, sucking in a long breath, “All seven of you magically got offered the very same jobs you have right now … in the same city?”

“…Yes?” She coughs. “Same company, just a different branch. And, uh, just not this city.”

Silence.

You tap your foot impatiently.

“___?” You can already imagine the way your best friend is cringing, voice meek as she asks mildly, “Are you okay?”

“Just peachy,” you say through gritted teeth as you drag your luggage to the front.

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With the autumn leaves stirring in your wake, every step is heavy and dredged with defeat as you make your way to the coffee shop on campus.

“I’m sure there are still plenty of people looking for rent,” Ahri says sympathetically, rubbing your shoulder as you slump over the table.

“How am I going to find seven people to fill the spaces before the semester starts?” You wail, banging your head against the glass. “Classes start in a week and I need people now so I can pay the obnoxiously inflated mortgage.”

“Are you sure—” Jisoo starts, but you throw up a hand instantly. “Never gonna go down that alley. If I have to, I’ll sell the house and live on the streets. Since you’re all basically abandoning me anyway.”

“Not all of us,” Ryujin reminds you as she takes a seat, sliding your signature drink across.

“Yeah, just 90% of us,” Ahri supplies helpfully. You glare at her playfully as you sit up, taking a tentative sip from the cup. Letting out a sigh, you lean back into your seat.

“No, but in all seriousness. How am I going to find replacement roommates in time?” You trace the lid absently, propping your chin up with the other hand.

“We still have a week before we leave for our co-op terms. We can help you out until then. We’ll find people,” Jisoo promises. She’s already pulled out her phone, tapping away at the multitude of chats she’s in to put out word for you.

“I’ll ask a friend to make a mock up of an ad,” Ryujin offers. Ahri nods vigorously.

“Okay. Thanks guys, you’re the realest,” you say gratefully. Perhaps all hope is not yet lost, you conclude rather miserably.

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Despite the collective efforts of all your braincells, skills and networking circles pooled together, the week is drawing to a close. Every decline is for the same reason: it’s just too late.

Between your unpacking, shopping, arranging furniture and rearranging décor (with the help of Dara, the interior design major, of course), suddenly it’s Thursday and you’re looking pretty fucking doomed.

“How is it everything fell through so fast?”

“Mhmm. You tell me,” you say absentmindedly as you straighten a painting.

You can feel Dara’s amusement as she readjusts the frame you were fiddling with. “Stop touching. It’s fine.”

“It’s crooked,” you protest.

“You know, that reminds me,” she says thoughtfully as she steps back. “Jiyong’s been working on his new album, and there’s these new singers he’s scouted out. It might be a long shot since classes are about to start, but he’s talked about how much they complain about their residence. I can ask if they’re still up to moving.”

“Yes, please,” you nod. “It honestly doesn’t matter anymore. I just need money. I don’t even know why this was a good idea in the first place.”

“It was a good idea. When we were all going to be here,” Dara amends.

You exhale. “Fuck me in the ass.”

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“Uh … who are you?” You blink, cocking your head to the side curiously.

There’s a … person standing at your door, awkwardly gripping a suspiciously familiar flyer. He’s … someone you’ve never spoken to before. He’s grown his hair out this summer, brushing away the curls as they frame his big, doe eyes. The scar on his cheek is hidden by the makeshift ebony curtain. He’s clearly been busy, veins and muscles rippling under golden skin virtually straining to explode from that tight pair of black jeans he’s wearing.

You are not charmed. You are not charmed. You are not fucking charmed.

“Um … are you ___?”

You nod, waiting for an explanation. The bags in your hands are getting heavier with every passing second and you silently beg him to hurry it along before your arms snap clean off.

“M-my hyungs asked me to check you out,” he stutters.

A beat, and then –

“Ah! I-I mean check the place out, not you, that would be weird, why would I ever check you out,” he corrects quickly. You raise an eyebrow warily. The sheet crumples in his whitening fist.

“I-I mean I check you out all the time so that’s not really new, i-it’s just y-you have vacancy right,” he’s word-vomiting, cheeks ripening furiously and he looks like he’s about ready for the ground to swallow him up.

“We want to move in,” he practically screams. You recoil, the bags hitting your thigh painfully.

Huh.

This is … unexpected. Every time you’ve ever encountered him on campus, he’s never been so … clumsy. Is clumsy the right word to describe this?

“Oooookay,” you say. “Yeah, I can give you a tour and answer any questions you have, just let me unload first.”

“O-oh, I can take those for you,” he stumbles over to relieve you of your physical burden. He ducks his head, scores of pink still marring his expression as you unlock the door.

“Come in.”

“Sorry for the intrusion,” he says shyly, slipping off his sneakers and trailing behind you to set the groceries on the counter as you indicated.

You shrug off your jacket before rummaging in one of the bags to pull out a bottle of banana milk. His eyes light up instantly when you slide it over the counter to him.

“Thank you, noona!” He tears open the lid and gulps down the concoction eagerly.

Noona? You squint. Are you really older than him? You’ll have to check later.

“So will your … hyungs be joining us today, or would you guys like to book another time to come altogether?”

Just as he’s wiping his mouth with the back of his hand to reply, the doorbell rings.

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“Dara,” you hiss into the phone, cupping the microphone close to you as you huddle in one of the upper floor bathrooms. “You didn’t tell me there were seven of them.”

“Huh? But wasn’t seven the exact number you needed?” She answers innocently.

“You said some and singers! None of them are singers or new! They’re the fucking guys from the Calvin Klein underwear ads and that one Gucci perfume commercial!”

“Technically, they are singers. A couple of them are composers and they all have really good voices. According to Jiyong anyway, no one else has had the privilege of hearing them,” she states.

“I’m going to die,” you say flatly. You’re pacing, practically wearing the new carpet you just bought. “I am going to die a horrible, horrible death. Fangirls will hunt me down, I’m going to get death threats and I’ll have to live in the shadows for the rest of my life. There are a lot of rich people here, and they’re going to hire hitmen and I’ll –”

“– Die a horrible death, yes, I heard the first time,” Dara cuts you off dryly.

Your eyes widen. “You knew!” You accuse. “How could you do this to me?!”

“___,” she sighs suddenly, sounding disappointed. “This was the best I could do, okay? It was the perfect opportunity. Look, just go downstairs, gauge their characters and all that jazz, and if you still think it’s not a good fit, just tell them that and keep looking. You’re not locked in on this.”

You rest your head on the wall. “… Yeah. Okay. True. Thanks a lot, Dara.”

“Of course. I always got your back. Let me know how things go and what you decide,” she reassures you.

“I will.”

You stare at yourself in the mirror for a moment, phone gripped tightly in your hand, before groaning aloud. Splashing water on your face and smoothing out your disgruntled locks, you make your way back to the living room.

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It’s awkward. Oh fuck, it’s so awkward you think you’ll die of sheer awkwardness instead.

There are seven men smiling up at you, all crammed in the three sets of sofas you’d recently purchased. They have such long legs. One of them has really broad shoulders.

“I know you,” you say stupidly, pointing at the man with dimples. He waves.

“___,” he says pleasantly. “How has your summer been?”

“You were my TA,” you continue, finger quivering. You’re downright flabbergasted. “Isn’t there like a … like a rule or something against TAs moving in with previous students?”

“We never officially met,” he replies smoothly. Why the fuck is he still smiling?! This is so freaky. You can’t do this. Holy shit.

“In fact, the TAs for that course were never formally introduced. We only marked your exams in random groups, nothing more. I can’t say I’ve had the privilege of marking your work.”

Liar. You know he’s marked one of your essays. You can easily tell his thick strokes and thoughtful feedback scrawled in the margins apart from all the other cursive nonsense the others liked to write.

You move on. “You,” you say, examining the peculiar orange locks and disappearing eye smile. “You’re one of the dancers. You and … you,” the one next to him nods, his grin heart-shaped.

“You make music,” the one with mint hair and catlike eyes. What is with them and their rainbow styled colours? He shrugs noncommittally.

“Photos,” the one with a boxy beam. The camera looped around his neck was pretty self-explanatory, but you’ve seen him around.

“You … are old,” his plush lips instantly downturn.

“Excuse me?” He harrumphs. “Is that how you speak to your elders?” There’s no real bite to his tone, just a tinge of annoyance. The rest of the boys are hiding laughs.

“Didn’t you graduate a while ago?” You ask instead.

He uncrosses his arms, slumping. “… Yes,” he says guiltily. “I’m getting my Masters.”

“Hyung doesn’t like being called old,” the one still clutching the milk explains, mirth dancing in his eyes. “He’s old, but not obsolete. Not yet, anyway.”

“Shut it,” he snaps, pouting. He certainly doesn’t act old, you remark silently, stifling a giggle.

“We should do formal introductions,” the dimpled boy offers.

“My name is Kim Namjoon. I’m a Philosophy and History double major. I do TA for a couple courses.”

“Kim Taehyung! I like taking photos, so photography. Obviously. I’m thinking about picking up media arts or something on the side, though.”

“Jeon Jungkook. Graphic design and Photography.”

“Contemporary dance, Park Jimin.”

“Performing dance, Jung Hoseok! My stage name is J-Hope.”

“Music composition. Min Yoongi.”

“I’m Kim Seokjin, though you’ve probably already heard of me,” he smirks, puffing his chest out proudly. “Film and Acting.”

“Oh!” You say, nodding very seriously. “You were in that one fried chicken commercial, right?”

Seokjin stares, unimpressed even as the boys are falling into pieces beside him. “It was for the new Palisade.”

“Oh. They’re cool, too,” you agree. You don’t know much about cars.

“I’m ___. Do you guys want a tour?”

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“So? Spill the beans!”

“On what?” You quirk an eyebrow as you flick through the menu. Ahri looks like she’s almost bouncing from her seat in excitement.

“Were they as handsome as they say?”

“What do people say about them, now?” The menu hasn’t changed, this restaurant is just as overpriced and basic as it’s been the past two years. You don’t even know why you bothered opening the damn thing. With a sigh, you toss it to the side.

“I heard Jimin looks like an angel when he sleeps. Rumour has it, once you’ve kissed Jin once, you can never go back. Have you seen his lips? God, they’re to die for,” Ahri moans.

You give her a look. “You’re kidding. And you believe that crap? They look like regular people. Albeit yes, handsome, really good looking people.”

“Hi, are you ready to order?” A soft, timid voice interrupts your gossip session.

“Jungkook,” you say, surprised. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

Okay, fuck, you have to admit he looks so very delicious with that rumpled look of his, ruffled chestnut hair, the return of those killer black jeans, paired with a fitted black turtleneck. A red apron is tied around his unfairly thin waist.

“Ah,” he says, scratching his neck. Already reddening as he fiddles with the pad in his hand. “Um. I just started today, actually. I needed money … you know, for-for rent and stuff.”

“Oh no,” you say immediately, concern colouring your tone. “Was the rate too high? If it’s unaffordable for you, we can always figure something else out—”

“No, no!” Jungkook says hastily. “It’s not that. I was planning on getting another job anyway, regardless of where I ended up. I’d have to pay rent no matter where I lived.”

“Oh,” you nod. “In that case …”

Jungkook excuses himself as soon as your orders are scrawled down, still seemingly unable to meet your gaze for long.

“He’s just so cute,” Ahri swoons. You choke down the bile that threatens to hurl itself up from the mere sight of her exaggerated love struck expression. “Uh huh.”

“Okay, so what did you do? The tea, the tea,” she demands.

“There is no tea,” you throw your hands up. “I gave them the standard tour, copies of the lease to take home, but they said they wanted it so they signed them on the spot, paid the deposit and everything. It was super quick and they all just left right after. That’s it.”

“Wow, they must’ve been desperate,” she comments. “Though the house is really nice. It’s huge, totally worth the price you paid. I’m glad they came through, though. It would’ve been a death sentence to pay it all off yourself.”

“Yeah, especially since I don’t start my own co-op term till next year,” you grouch.

“Mhm. All that aside, it’s time you started living above that rock of yours,” Ahri says seriously. She pulls out her phone as the food arrives.

You push aside the trickle of disappointment that filters in when the waiter that delivers your respective meals isn’t Jungkook.

“Crash course on your hot new roommates,” she starts, passing the device to you. An unfamiliar YouTube page is opened to a video.

“Jung Hoseok and Park Jimin. Hoseok’s stage name is J-Hope, named after his sunny disposition. He has a YouTube series called Hope on the Street. Jimin runs it with him, and the two do all kinds of dance challenges and covers. They’re also the Co-Presidents of the school’s dance committee. They join the national competitions every year since they took over and have been winning ever since.”

You would think it would be a bit disconcerting seeing the two very diverse dance styles on two very different people on stage, but they don’t fight. They complement each other so brilliantly, it’s hard to tear your eyes away. You can’t decide who to watch, just sitting back to observe the entire frame.

“Jeon Jungkook and Kim Taehyung. They have a vlog series called House of Bangtan. Mostly just random shit with the other guys, but it’s super entertaining and hilarious. Like the kind of content you know is genuine and makes you willing to die just for a chance to be a part of it. That’s how you know the seven of them are really good friends despite the age gaps. They also do challenges and giveaways.”

You’re watching Jin lose a game of charades, and he looks like he’s about to blow a fuse. The camera shakes uncontrollably as Jungkook runs way from his hyung, who’s screaming bloody murder behind him, chasing with the rubber duck he used to cheat with. Sore loser, the youngest mouths to the camera with a grin.

“Jungkook also owns a personal channel called Golden Closet Films. Pretty self-explanatory, but he makes movie clips of stuff like Hoseok and Jimin practising for the showcase and the like. He used to be part of the varsity volleyball team, but had to give it up when he tore his Achilles’ heel. It was pretty devastating for the school, too, since he was one of the best players. Taehyung has an Instagram page full of pictures for his photography collection. They’re super aesthetic. He goes under Vante.”

You scroll through the page, and you can definitely see why he’s so sought for by students and so famous in the department. He has a wicked eye and thinks so vividly outside the box. You also vaguely remember Jungkook’s impromptu early retirement being a huge deal when it happened. You were never really caught up with the school’s news, more academic driven, but you had your share of intramural sports. You imagine ‘devastating’ is a rather underwhelming way of describing that kind of pain.

“Kim Seokjin, or Jin he likes to be called, is a Films major and he’s done a bunch of commercials and modelling gigs. He loves food though, and he has a cooking channel plus an Instagram page. He’s the campus Heartthrob. He’s had that title for over five years. I mean, who can blame him? Do you see the man? He’s fucking cut from the image of perfection!”

Yeah, okay. He does look fucking good. And his cooking looks amazing. You rub your mouth discreetly, making sure you’re not actually physically drooling. You have food right in front of you, for fuck’s sake!

“Min Yoongi, he’s actually the same age as Jin but started late. He used to be an underground rapper by the name of Gloss. Now he works at the studio here with Jiyong and Slow Rabbit. Rumour has it he has a composing deal lined up with BigHit when he graduates. He goes by Suga now. He has a Soundcloud for distributing his self-composed music. I heard he also raps, but no one knows his stage name for that.”

This man is talented. His lyricism is fucking beautiful. Your heart constricts a bit, even though it’s not his voice, it doesn’t soften the hurt. It’s real.

“Kim Namjoon, he was one of our TAs for Business History last semester. He’s really smart. I’m talking grade A book smart. Heard his IQ is somewhere between 140 to 160. He’s crazy intelligent. Okay, but get this – he also composes on the side. He works with Yoongi and they’ve produced some stuff together. Here, listen to this.”

Put two galaxies together, and what do you get? A fucking supercluster and that shit is no joke. Together, they are something else. Someone who sees the world beyond its manmade barriers, someone who criticises, someone who is unflinchingly honest in what lies in the heart. Someone that feels, empathizes. Dreamers.

“So basically, the next year is just going to be me feeling all useless and untalented in a house full of very attractive and single men,” you surmise flatly.

“Yep,” Ahri says cheerfully, stabbing at a lettuce leaf.

“Fucking awesome.”

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It’s the incessant knocking that wakes you. The doorbell follows soon after, buzzing loudly as you groan, rolling over.

“Who the f – oh.” You squint, the sunlight merrily blinding you as you open the door.

“___-noona, is now not a good time?” It’s Jimin that speaks, expression worried.

“What time is it?” You murmur, rubbing your temples. Fuck, you definitely drank too much last night. Dara dragged you to some frat party to celebrate your new roommates, who are, ironically enough, now all looking at you with palpable concern.

“It’s twelve,” Namjoon says, eyebrows furrowing. “But we can always come back later if it’s inconvenient for you.”

Oh, shit. Your gaze trails down to the multiple bags and suitcases they’re holding.

“No, no, of course not,” you croak. “Come in. Sorry. I had a long night.” Clearly.

You step to the side, allowing them to file in one by one, before locking the door behind them.

“Cute PJs,” Jin winks as he passes. You look down, horrified. Your pug print pajama pants and flimsy tee are on full display.

You slap your forehead, thoroughly embarrassed. You probably have awful bed head, too.

Running your fingers through the tangled locks, you follow them as they crowd around the living room. Grabbing a box you had the insight to leave on the counter much earlier this week, they tell you what room they’ve picked and you hand them their respective keys.

“Feel free to settle in and do whatever,” you call as you head back to your own room to get ready. “My only rule is that you clean after yourselves. This house is big enough as it is, so cleaning is a hassle. I don’t want to add personal trash into that.”

They make noises of agreement and you shut the door quickly, making your way to the bathroom to take a shower and to scream into a towel for five minutes.

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The semester returns with a full swing. You’re nearly knocked over on the first punch, when the syllabus for each class is dropped and you realize you have six assignments due on the same day two weeks from now.

You’ve managed to avoid any further embarrassing interactions with your new roommates, having been bouncing around the city with your soon-to-be-AWOL friends before the term began.

From what you can tell, though, they’re fairly polite and greet you whenever there’s an opportunity. Some try for small talk, like Namjoon, Jimin and Hoseok. Jungkook is still skittish and practically flies out the room if you’re in it for too long. Yoongi tends to disappear to his room for long periods of time, but Hoseok had told you it was because he was stacking up on sleep. You guessed his work would soon require much out of him, though how the hibernation storage thing worked was beyond you.

Jin was often out; Namjoon had informed you it was because he had a few other contracts to lock down for modelling and whatnot. Taehyung’s schedule was a bit flaky, since he liked taking impromptu trips around campus and the city whenever inspiration struck.

You said farewells to some of your friends, all boxed and hugged, they promised to call often and FaceTime, to which you knew they would hold their end of the bargain to. You weren’t worried, and wished them well.

Your real point of anxiety was how you were going to survive this year. Word had apparently spread like wildfire that the most eligible bachelors of your university had moved in … together … with you.

You’ve already gotten several rather disturbing messages from unknown numbers. You’re unsurprised but still annoyed. The content gets more disconcerting every time, and at this rate, you’re going to end up having to switch numbers. You’re broke, damn it! Broke. Why can’t people just focus on their own lives for once and chill the fuck out? Your wallet wails.

“Good morning, noona.” His smile is so warm for someone who’s just woken up. How does he look so good doing it, too? He’s got a pair of loose sweats and an oversized shirt on, hair mussed and eyes silted adorably as he yawns. It’s 8:30 in the fucking morning and you already want to run yourself over with a school bus.

“Jimin, hello,” you say distractedly, stuffing your laptop into your bag and snatching your keys from the bowl. “Can’t talk, got class.”

“Wait!” He says, rushing up to meet you. He’s holding a piece of buttered toast in his hand. “Eat something while you go. It’s bad to sit in lecture without a breakfast. You won’t be able to focus.”

“Oh,” you blink. “Thank you.” Your smile softens. Jimin scuffs his bare feet shyly in response. “You’re welcome, noona. Stay safe.”

You never eat breakfast. You either never wake up in time to make anything, or you’re too lazy. This is kind of nice, you admit. Have someone take care of you, or think of you. It’s sweet.

You could get used to this, you decide. But you don’t want to get too comfortable. You’ll only end up missing it when they’re gone.

The toast is oddly delicious.

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“There’s a showcase coming up.”

“Yes, and?” You say, phone squished to your cheek as you check the course code of the wrapped textbook you’re holding.

“So you’re going, right?” Ahri demands. You can hear her heels clicking against the concrete as she makes her way to her car.

You stand, huffing as you survey the neat stacks of books you’ve spent the last hour organizing. “You’re joking, right? What reason do I have to be at that showcase? I’ve never gone before and there’s no way I’m going this year,” you answer matter-of-factly as you dust yourself off.

“___, we need you at the front,” your manager calls, poking her head in to flash you an apologetic smile.

You give her a thumbs up before returning to the call. “Look, just because Hoseok and Jimin now share a living accommodation with me and we talk casually does not mean I’m suddenly their best friend. Have fun at work!”

You cut off her protests as you pocket your device decisively.

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Of course.

“___!” He beams. “Hi! I didn’t know you worked here.”

“That’s because I usually work the tech section. What can I do for you today, Hoseok-sunbae?” Speak of the devil, you crack a polite smile.

“Just Hoseok, please. I was wondering if you guys sell the code for a digital copy of behavioural economics?” Why are his eyes practically sparkling? How can he be so cheerful?

“Hoseok, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why are you taking a senior economics course as a dance major?” You ask bluntly.

Hoseok splutters, rubbing his neck. “Um. Namjoon said it would be good for me?” He tries.

You look at him strangely, but shrug. It’s not your business anyway. His loss. Though you’re certain he doesn’t care much about his GPA, considering he’s pretty much got a bunch of prestigious studios vying for him already.

“Anything else I can help you with today?” You say as you scan the code.

“Actually … I was wondering if you were coming to the showcase,” Hoseok says, sounding almost shy.

You eye him suspiciously. “Do you want me there to support you or something? I thought this was only the preliminaries or something.”

“I … We’d really like it if you could make it. Jimin and I … we haven’t had much inspiration lately, to be honest,” he admits. His head hangs, like he’s on the verge of defeat. It doesn’t suit him, and you find yourself frowning.

“The last thing we want is to repeat stuff we’ve done before, but I’ve been stumped all summer. Usually I’d be done choreographing everything, but this year … I dunno,” he trails off.

“I understand that, but why would me being there help?” You tap your fingers against the counter. The campus bookstore is fairly empty today, given that you’re closing in half an hour.

“I just … I thought maybe you could be an unbiased third party, that’s all,” Hoseok says awkwardly. “If you don’t, I totally understand! It was just a suggestion, I guess.”

You sigh, pushing the terminal to him as he fumbles for his wallet. “What time is your practice?”

Hoseok’s grin is blinding and you can’t decide if you’re going to greatly regret or thank yourself for this later on.

“Thank you! Friday, at four in AR Studios. You know where the music department is, right? The practise rooms are on the hallway to the left.”

You manage a weak smile. “I’ll be there.”

.

.

.

It’s a Tuesday, and Taehyung’s fallen asleep on the couch.

You’re exhausted, running yourself a bit thin with the amount of work you’ve been putting in already. You perch on the edge, the soft material sinking slightly under your weight, but the angel doesn’t stir.

And you concede he might as well be one, given how ethereal he appears. He hugs a pillow to his chest, expression serene and limbs lax as he slumbers on. His dark-coloured curls obscure his forehead, pink lips parted lightly as he exhales slowly.

Before you can quench the urge, you reach over and brush his fringe from his eyes.

You’re tired. That’s the only explanation you can offer for what happens next.

Taehyung’s hand shoots up to grab your wrist tightly.

And you find yourself falling as he tugs you on top of him. A quiet oomph escapes you as you bracket his body, arms trembling faintly at the sheer proximity.

His expression, half-lidded and hazy, tells you he’s still flitting in and out of consciousness. Suspended, like he’s replaying his dream in real life.

His smile is lopsided as he cups your cheek, thumbing your cheekbones tenderly. His touch is feverish, so warm it startles you when he guides your palm to his chest, two buttons undone already.

“Heart,” he whispers, and you inhale sharply. His voice breaks, tone anguished and defeated. It both shocks and scares you.

“Taehyung,” you say shakily, ignoring the fluttering beat of his heart and the blood rushing in your ears to press your forehead against his. “Taehyung, you’re burning up.”

“I finally found you,” he sighs, and it alarms you to see he’s fading fast, eyes flickering as he sinks into the couch. “Where did you go, heart? You promised …”

“Promised? Promised what? Tae, what are you talking about?” You say frantically, shaking him lightly. His head rolls and he manages a weak chuckle. “You finally called me Tae again …”

Your eyebrows knit. “What …?” Before you manage anything more, Taehyung collapses.

.

.

.

“He’ll be alright. He’s got a pretty high fever, but it should break by tonight.” Seokjin sounds so self-assured and calm that you find yourself relaxing.

You’ve been fretting, pacing restlessly as you waited for the eldest to return. You contacted him the moment Taehyung knocked out, anxious and unsure of what to do next. The room filled with his laboured breathing, and you tried to alleviate some of the heat by resting a cool towel on his forehead.

The house was typically empty for the day, everyone off to their respective classes and work. The boys usually congregated at night, for dinner and the movies or games that followed. They’ve invited you several times, but you declined each time. You’ve been … busy.

You hesitated on doing more, considering how little you truly knew of Taehyung. You weren’t sure he’d appreciate you accidentally poisoning him with the wrong dose of medication. That, and invading his personal space.

Seokjin opted to buy some medication on his way back instead, and the photography major seems to sleep a bit easier now.

The eldest gives the patient one last once-over before rising to his feet.

“I might as well make dinner, then. Want to come along?” He asks lightly. You follow him to kitchen, shaking your head guiltily. “I’m sorry for making you come back so early. I just didn’t know what else to do. Everyone else was so busy, and—”

“—And I’m the only real adult, I know,” Seokjin says, chuckling. “I’m glad you called. I was about done with my shoot anyway.”

You linger at the island counter awkwardly as you watch him tie an apron to his waist and comb through the fridge for ingredients.

“Sunbae …,” you falter, but he beckons you forward with an encouraging smile. You’re relieved to see he doesn’t seem upset the slightest, though you honestly can’t say you know him enough to determine whether it was sincere or merely a practised mask.

“Jin, please. I’m not that much older, truth be told,” he tells you as you wash the rice.

“Then, Jin … Is Taehyung … with someone right now?” You keep your gaze trained to your task, draining the murky water so carefully you miss the way Seokjin tenses.

“Why? Do you have your sights set on our baby?” Seokjin says lightly, but his voice hints of strain, and he glances at you from the corner of his eye.

You snort unintentionally, coughing quickly to cover it up. “Hardly. I was just wondering.”

“Did he do something weird? Taehyung can act pretty strange when he’s out of it like that. He’ll say or do pretty weird things when he’s drunk or has a really high fever,” Seokjin explains as he pours the vegetables he’s cut into the pot on the stove.

“Oh,” you say as you plug the machine in. “I see.” The rice maker beeps, and you excuse yourself politely.

.

.

.

Thursday is a disaster. You’d hoped he’d keep his distance, given you’d been quite clear the last time you spoke. But of course - 

“You’re avoiding me.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Don’t lie to me. I know you’ve been dodging me since we moved in. Why?”

“Don’t you dare turn this on me. You’re the only person that’s been lying since we met. You made your point very clear that day, and you moving in? It doesn’t change a damn thing. Now tell me what you want or get out. I’m done with your shit.”

“You can’t mean that. You know I didn’t have a choice!”

“You did have a choice. Me, or that damn reputation of yours. You told me to go to hell. What more do you want?”

“You know that’s not what I meant. I didn’t know—”

“Didn’t know what? That it would mean I would lose everything? I didn’t mean shit to you. I don’t know why I ever thought I could trust you.”

“If I had known, I would’ve—”

“Would have what? Tried harder? Bull. Shit. You don’t care about anything but yourself and your career. You can tell yourself different, but you and I both know if I hadn’t trusted you, I wouldn’t be in this position. You did this to me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your weakass excuse for an apology. I said I was done with you and I am. This is the last time I’m going to sit here and listen to you pretend you’re the victim. For the sake of peace, I will play niceties with you in front of your friends, but make no mistake: You can’t turn back time. You cannot change what happened, you cannot fix it, you cannot make it better. So go away. Don’t talk to me. Don’t seek me out. We’re not friends. We’ll never be anything ever again. I hope, in time, I can forget you ever existed at all.”

“I’m going to make this right, I swear. I love you more than anything, and I’ll spend the rest of my life if I have to proving it to you.”

“Please just go.”

You stare out the window, the city lights blinding in the night skyline. The glass reflects the emptiness in your eyes, and there’s only deafening silence that’s shattered in the next beat by the slamming of your door.

Hugging your arms to your chest, you refuse to acknowledge the sharp sting in your eye.

You wish you’d never met him.

.

.

.

“Just … be careful,” Yoongi says quietly. It’s the first time you’ve spoken to him outside of their initial tour. “Housing wasn’t the only reason some of us are here.”

You stifle a sigh. All you wanted was some water, not another 2 am detox on everything wrong in your life.

“Why are you telling me this?” You ask carefully. His hand pauses on the doorknob.

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” is all he says.

You’re left to ponder his warning as he disappears into his room. Your phone lights up in your hand.

[01:25] Unknown: I need to see you. Can we talk?

[howlingday]

Jaune: Oof...

Whitely: What are you up to, Mr. Arc?

Jaune: I'm trying to learn old Atlesian so I can fit in better with your family. Some of this stuff is hard, though.

Whitely: I suppose I could help you with the more... advanced sentences.

Jaune: Really? That would help me out so much!

Whitely: Of course! Anything for a friend of the family.

Jaune: So, what did you have in mind?

Whitely: Well, some compliments will be a good start. I'll teach you how to say simple phrases to make yourself appear more gentlemanly around our family.

Jaune: Great! Thanks, Whitely! I owe you one!

Jaune: Think nothing of it. After all, I only want the best for you.

THAT NIGHT, AT DINNER

Whitely: (Taps glass) Everyone, Jaune has something to say. Jaune, if you would.

Jaune: (Stands up, Clears his throat) Um, ja, uh, guten abend. (Clears his throat) So, uh, I've been trying to learn old Atlesian so that I could get to know you all better, since you've all become like a second family to me. So, I've been studying really hard, and I learned some compliments to say, if I could.

Willow: Well, don't hold back on our account, dear. (Gestures with her hand) Bitte...

Jaune: Alright. (Clears his throat)

Whitely: This term is for my mother, so try to say it with the most confidence and respect you can.

Jaune: Okay, so what is it?

Whitely: It's "Would you like some tea, Mrs. Schnee?"

Jaune: Oh, I see! To butter her up!

Whitely: Exactly! So say it like-

Jaune: (Gestures to Willow) Haste bock auf dübeln?

Weiss: (Facepalms) Fick mit!

Winter: (Wide-eyed) Wie bitte?

Willow: (Drinks from her glass) Nein, dankë.

Jaune: Bitteschön! (Reads from his note cards) Um, uh, Winter!

Winter: Oh, nein...

Jaune: So, what should I say to your oldest sister?

Whitely: As I'm sure you know, my sister is a hardened soldier. She takes no nonsense, on or off the battlefield. But, I know her secret.

Jaune: Her secret?

Whitely: Yes. (Places a hand over his chest) Deep inside her hardened exterior tested by the mettle of war, lies the pure, innocent heart of a maiden.

Jaune: (Writing notes furiously) Really?

Whitely: (Nods) Indeed. So, you must be gentle with her by first asking, "Are you well, tonight?" Or-

Jaune: (Proudly) Lass uns mal fesselspiele austesten? (Winter's mouth is agape) Mach's schon schneller und härter! Fick mich durch. (Whitely chuckles into his hand, Weiss' head is on the table) Und Weiss!

Weiss: (Groans, Willow is now chugging her wine bottle) Nein, bitte!

Jaune: Weiss is gonna be hard to please.

Whitely: Why do you say that?

Jaune: I went through Beacon with her, and if I'm being honest, I still have a huge crush on her.

Whitely: Ah, that could be a problem. But, luckily for you, you can use that to your advantage. You know Weiss better than most, so tell me what you'd say to her if she were interested?

Jaune: (Eyes closed in thought) I guess... I'd tell her that I would do anything for her.

Whitely: (Smiles) Well, my friend, it just so happens I have just the phrase for you. It literally means, "I would storm the castle gates for you."

Jaune: Wow... (Excited) How do I say it?!

Whitely: All you have to say is-

Jaune: (Hand on his chest, Romantic tone as possible) Ich hole meine handschellen.

Weiss: (Red-faced, Stands up and screams) HALT'S MAUL! Spinnst du oder was?! (Grabs her hair, Whitely laughs his ass off) Ich kann's nicht-!

Willow: (Drunk) Weiss! Whitely! Schluss damit! (Weiss stops, Whitely sighs)

Winter: (Walks to her mother) Come, mother. Let's get you to bed. (They leave)

Whitely: (Stands up and follows) Pardon me, but I must help my mother.

Weiss: (Glares at Jaune) What the fuck was that?! Do you have any idea what you just said?!

Jaune: Um... Compliments?

Weiss: For Yang, maybe! But what you said to my mother and my sister and me! (Covers her face with her hands) Brothers only know what you'd say about Whitely!

Jaune: Oh, he said there was no need for me to compliment him. He's just too modest for that!

Weiss: Wait... (Lifts her head from her hands) When did he tell you that?

Jaune: After he told me what to say tonight. Why, did I get something wrong?

Weiss: (Eye twitches) Oh, I see. Well, Jaune, next time you need a tutor, ask either myself, Winter, my mother, or, if he's available, Klein! Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to have a word with my brother. (Storms off)

Jaune: ...Was it something I said?

@glyndasmutwitch Did I get this right? I'm not very good at German, but I had this book of advanced German I wanted to use, and since there's this trend of "Old Atlesian is German" going around, I thought I'd give it a try.

[sorrylatenew]

prompt, autumn morning in the kitchen after the first time they fuck

Lol, so, this isn’t exactly what I thought it’d be when I started this prompt fill weeks ago, but it is technically an autumn morning in the kitchen after the first time they fuck. Takes place after Thursday’s loss on 10/10/19.

***

When Jonny used to let himself consider this, back when all he thought about was hockey, being able to get to sleep that night, and the couple of unacknowledged handjobs in the middle of their second season, he would make himself panic.

He’d lie there like a fucking psychopath and let the idea of Kaner voluntarily—enthusiastically—sprawled out in his bed wash over him until his resting heart rate shot up into the hundreds.

Right here, now, the reality of it: this pressing quiet, Patrick wrapped up in Jonny’s comforter, warm at his side like it’s normal, the replay of last night like a movie, Patrick’s forehead pressed to the small of Jonny’s back, arm working for so fucking long the rhythm of it feels punched into him, stuck as deep as Patrick’s voice slurring, “Tell me when you think you can take me,” into Jonny’s overheated—

The reality of it is somehow worse.

“Gonna make some coffee,” Jonny whispers, even though he’s sure Patrick’s still out, and he rolls away from him, creaks up to his feet and across the floor on sore legs, slips a pair of underwear out of his dresser.

His body’s still half convinced it’s the middle of the afternoon, but it’s dark out in Chicago, no sun at all yet, just soft city glow and the quiet of being up this high.

He watches the traffic lights below pulse red while the coffee brews, STOP, STOP, STOP, STOP, and he draws in a slow breath, takes a mug out of the cabinet and waits there, palms curled around the edge of the countertop.

When he was twenty-two, he probably would’ve left. He’d have left his own apartment, would’ve stayed gone long enough for Patrick to get out, and it feels stupid now, because that might have been the right time for this kind of bullshit. Something they could’ve burned through and exploded out of instead of—this.

He pours his cup, lets it warm his hands and lets the honesty in his thoughts run loose.

He’s not sure the ache used to be this bad.

He’s not sure the want was this deep.

Back then, god, the hockey wouldn’t have mattered like this, they were fucking unstoppable, and now what? In five years—what? He’s not guaranteed Patrick’s proximity. He’s not guaranteed they’ll even—

He startles when Patrick appears in the entryway, disheveled, frowning, drawn into himself in his open dress shirt and boxer briefs.

He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t bother tossing Jonny even the most cursory glance, just crosses to the fridge and takes out some water, drains the whole thing while Jonny looks on with his heart in his throat—his entire stomach, all of his fucking insides crowding up his esophagus.

He watches Patrick walk the water bottle over to the sink, unscrew the lid and and lay it all under the faucet. “Just so you know,” he says, with his face half turned in Jonny’s direction, “I’m not in the mood for whatever the fuck is going on in your head right now.”

Jonny doesn’t know how to respond right away, taken aback, feels an immediate spike of temper. “No one told you to come out here,” is what leaves his mouth, heated. “I’m not in the mood for whatever snotty ass little bitch shit that is.”

Patrick lets out a low laugh, shakes his head and lets his chin dip down against his chest, stays like that for a good long moment.

“We shouldn’t have fucked after losing,” he says, quiet, amused, nonsensical. “I knew we shouldn’t have fucked after losing, but you know what? I wanted to feel good, and I waited all of fucking Europe because we weren’t home, and it would’ve been nice—” he stops, smiles, Jonny can see the edge of it, that dark, sharp curl in his cheek while he lets the cut-off sentence linger there, then, “I don’t know,” he continues, more amused than before. “I just wanted to wake up with you I guess. I don’t know why I’m so fucking mad that you got out of bed.”

Jonny closes his eyes fast, taken aback again, swallows down against the rush of feeling that tries to shove its way up into his mouth. “Why—would it—”

“Tell me you didn’t think about leaving,” Patrick interrupts, accusatory, and Jonny’s eyes fly back open.

“What?”

“Tell me right now that that’s not what you were doing.” He’s still turned towards the sink, and it very suddenly makes Jonny want to march over to him, spin him around to see where any of this is coming from.

“What are you talking about, Patrick?”

“Just answer.”

“Is there—some reason you’re strolling in here so ready to fight?” Jonny says, hand tightening around his mug, involuntary. “Would you have burst into the bathroom if I’d dared to get up and take a shit?”

But Patrick’s locked into it, doesn’t budge. “Tell me it’s not what you were doing.”

Jonny doesn’t feel like budging either, plants his feet as though readying himself for some kind of attack. “Why don’t you tell me why you get to act like you’re the only one who’s been waiting. You been living in some kind of fucking dreamland I wasn’t aware of?”

“Just fucking tell me, Jonny.”

“I wasn’t,” Jonny answers, fierce. “I wasn’t going to leave.” He puts his coffee down, too shaky to hold it, thrown off balance. “I would’ve at one point, back when you would’ve done the same fucking thing, but I didn’t—wouldn’t—not now, even though it’s probably a better idea to now.”

“Why would it be a better idea to now?” Patrick finally turns to face him, crosses his arms, his features carrying sleep in a way that makes Jonny want to smooth him out, pass fingers underneath his eyes even though he’d like to fucking deck him.

He doesn’t want to answer the question with Patrick’s gaze on him, a bubble of nervousness in his blood that saying it aloud will make Patrick realize it’s right, that they had their night and they should shut it down before it grows into something that’ll take chunks of them with it. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “Our contracts are up in—”

“Jesus fucking christ, Jon.”

“Don’t,” Jonny says, a spike of fury in his chest. “Don’t act like that’s not a factor.”

“Our contracts are four years away.”

“Four years.” Jonny mirrors Patrick and crosses his arms too, wishes he was in more than fucking Calvin Kleins. “Four years is nothing, Patrick. That’s fucking nothing.”

“That’s a fucking eternity in hockey. This is why I knew it shouldn’t have been after a loss. You’re talking about fucking contracts after two games.”

“You know the same shit about this team that I do.”

“Alright, Taze.” Patrick pinches the bridge of his nose, rubs at his temples. “Glad to know two games is what it takes for the captain to give it up.”

It’s a low blow, hurts like one, and Jonny knows he deserves it, but it’s also unfair because,

“It’s a lot easier,” he says, voice thicker than he wants it to be, “to throw everything into this—to just—not even think about it, just work and push and wait to see where shit’s gonna land—if you’re not riding on it for me too.”

Patrick doesn’t answer, drops his arms to his sides.

“If we start something up,” Jonny goes on, shoving past the shame lurking in the back of his head at that admission, “I’m not gonna want to stop, and if we have to stop, if we—”

“How,” Patrick starts, slowly, carefully, “are you so convinced we’d make it more than four years at the same time as thinking two games is enough to say how four years of hockey and contract negotiations are gonna go?”

“I didn’t say I think two games is enough.”

“And yet here I am, freezing my fucking nuts off in the kitchen instead of getting to roll over and lick you awake.”

That sends sharp heat rushing through Jonny’s limbs, up to his face, a shock of it, and fresh anger. “Oh,“ he says, flustered, and even madder because of it. "So you’ve decided it’s just easy now, huh? Since when do you say that kind of shit to me?”

Patrick’s face has definitely gone a little pink too, but he doesn’t look away, leans against the counter. “Like I said, you’re four years down the road here, and I can’t even tell you I want you.”

“God, Patrick—”

“What, Jonny?”

He’s so infuriating, every single part of him, including the part of him that looks cold, and the part of Jonny that wants to bombard him with body heat.

“I didn’t mean it like—” Jonny starts, turning back to coffee that’s lukewarm at best, fingers fidgeting at the handle. “I didn’t mean you can’t tell me you want me.”

Patrick’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly.

“Don’t,” Jonny says again, eyebrows pulled together. “I just mean—by all of this—I’m not saying I don’t want it. I’m just saying it’s—important.”

“I know.”

“It’s really fucking important.”

“Jesus Christ, I know.”

“And I’m not giving up on the fucking team.”

“I know, Jonny.” Patrick rubs at his face, flushes himself up, looks out through the window and then gives Jonny a tired smile. “Don’t make me mad at you and I won’t get mean.”

Jonny rolls his eyes at him, but turns towards him just a little more, and they stand there in the quiet, still and strung tight.

The lights below have switched now, turned onto their regular timer.

“I’m not gonna leave,” Jonny says on a careful breath, once the silence feels laid over them in a thick layer. He knows Patrick, knows him arguing means something about how far he’s waded out. “I don’t want to. That’s—why it feels like this.”

Patrick turns towards him too, the side of his hip tilted into the lower cabinets. “I want to be done letting it feel like this,” he says, tongue pushed into his upper lip, a thinking tic. “I’m ready to start letting it feel good. Right now. If you’ll come get back in bed with me.”

Another shot of heat zips through Jonny’s body, settles low.

They’ve kissed five times ever—distinct ones. Three last night.

He’s not sure which of them moves first, maybe both of them, unrushed, and the sixth happens right there, soft to each other’s mouths, fingertips little points of ice to each other’s bare skin.

It stays slow like that, pliable, enough that it’s a surprise when Jonny finds he’s backed them into the wall.

“At any point in the next week,” Patrick whispers, pressed up close, his stubble a nice hurt against Jonny’s chin, “if you’ve gotta shit before I’m awake, just fucking hold it.”

And Jonny laughs, pained. Tries to steel himself against this good kind of stomach ache, the worse one underneath. Wraps his arms around Patrick’s neck.

[horrible-monstrosity]

the rabbit hole is more like a klein bottle, there's no end to it and it keeps sucking me back in

- Who has to get over it and who doesn't? The typical... excuse for Shkanon being acceptable is that Jess is just, like, a retardled teenager and she'll just like get OVER the guy she likes and seems to worry about just vanishing into thin air. *The entire crux of the plot hangs on Yasu just not getting the fuck over a boy saying words to her when they were like ten years old six years ago and then not coming back to tongue her asshole after his mother fucking died.* But that's acceptable apparently. In other words, it's acceptable and necessary for Jessica to be discarded in service of Kanon being discarded, in service of Yasu being coddled and nurtured out of having to do the same thing that's being asked of Jessica. ... There's a whole other side to this I'm saving for another post I have coming up. It's so fractally bad. Furthermore, Jessica isn't some ickle babby 14-year-old. She's 18. It's not common, but people do straight up get married at that age. Even if we're not supposed to take her seriously, I'd take her more seriously than fucking ten-actually-13-year old Yasu.

- Who gets forgiven and who doesn't? Episode 8 has a (completely nonsensical and existing only for emotional manipulation, but what part of this series doesn't that apply to after a certain point) scene where Battler forgives Beatrice for killing hundreds(??) of people... *The entire crux of this story rests on Yasu never forgiving Battler for not coming back to tongue her anus because his mom fucking died.* People fucking died because Yasu was sads uwu but fowgib that, but Battler having a life outside of castrato incest anus-tonguing is the highest crime. Fucking hell. And then there's this cool line from Muh Confessions:

Literally just killing because of some dopey promise is fine but breaking the dopey promise is the worstest. I guess Battler just somehow has agency over his mom dying while Beatrice just has no agency over her decision to go around and kill people because of it. Well, that gets into the territory of the other post I mentioned, so I'll leave that aside for now...

Also, what exactly is the distinction between Battler breaking his promise and him forgetting it? It feels like a motte-and-bailey- someone calls Yasu out on his insane murder plot being completely over the top as reaction to a broken promise, he goes “oh but it wasn’t broken it was forgotten” like that even significantly changes anything. And then goes back to acting like it’s because broken promise anyway because there is no appreciable distinction between the two concepts here. I doubt somehow Yasu would have been a-okay with Battler coming back and going, yeah I remember that promise but I have no intention of keeping it and never did lolfuckyou.

- The handling of the "I'm not gonna tell you the solution so think about it forever ooo" thing also reeks of motte and bailey, except it's impossible to tell which is motte and which is bailey because they both fucking suck. One is the author abdicating responsibility for what he's written onto the audience and demand that they do his thinking for him, and the other is Shkanon. (Which still requires the audience doing his thinking for him to fill in all the holes it has, of course.) And he's gone on enough about Shkanon to make it clear it's the intended solution, somehow (it being so ludicrously unworkable despite the points that can supposedly only be answered with it is probably a big factor in him deciding never to "confirm" it, of course), but at the same time he's like "uh but if you're happy with your solution then it's the real solution too". This results in an infinite vacillation as thus: "Create your own answer whoo~" "Okay here's my Rosatrice or solo Shannontrice or whatever the fuck" "naw nope here's an outright confirmation of some Shkanon shit but I'm still being vague about it" "that's retarded, if you're going to tell us that can you at least tell us how the fuck that works?" "nope create your own answer lol"

I refrain from going to far into the weeds with theories (aside from the joke one about Beatrice gaslighting Battler or whatever) because I really don’t think there’s any answer behind this to be found. At least, if there was one it was lost somewhere along the way, possibly around when BT died. (Ghostwriting theory in three, two...) Even the Shkanon scenes used to be much more elegant and unsettling, compared to the blunt “IT JUST IS, ACCEPT IT, EAT MY SHIT” it turns in to. Whether it was hastily changed or Ryu never had a detailed answer is probably irrelevant to the outcome. So I don’t like, say, people desperately trying to downplay Kanon’s presence before the games/in “Prime” to make sense of things (well I also dislike that due to my own tastes kek); it seems clearly intended that Yasu was living a double life for multiple reasons, both thematic and character-driven, and the fact that this seems ludicrously impossible is down to Ryu’s shitty writing. As I’ve mentioned the fiction-in-fiction deflection doesn’t help; you can excuse just about as much bullshit as you want with “oh well so-and-so didn’t know Jessica knew such-and-such in Prime so they wrote bla bla bla” and oh wow look now the story has no need to be narratively coherent and actions don’t have to have consequences. - Much of this seems to ignore actual canon (canon Kanon ha ha) as well, since there’s a scene of Jessica reacting to seeing Kanon for the first time; not sure when it’s supposed to take place or if the time is even clear, but it never comes up in these discussions. Then again these discussions have to make things we’ve seen clearly, like parts of the school festival, into fantasy scenes to begin with, so it doesn’t even seem to matter. - It also helped that back then Kanon and Shannon seemed a bit more equal in how much they existed, with scenes where Shannon was the illusion and Kanon was the one actually there, rather than just him being some kind of afterthought.

You want something with well-developed ambiguity? Go look at Laingame. Fucking kino-ass, one of the best stories I've ever consumed, good fucking shit. Even though there's clearly an intended interpretation (in line with the anime story), it's so well constructed and dare I say carefully balanced that you could just as well read it as a completely mundane case of folie a deux, or something somewhere in between; other things like Misato-chan are written without an answer given, but it works because a) it has a clear purpose in the narrative by what effects it has on Lain and Touko and b) there's multiple clear possible interpretations that are supported by what we're shown, rather than being given absolutely nothing and told it's good literature somehow. Also Dimension High School was more smarter-er than Umineko ever was

[art-of-mathematics]

Yes, that is true. Often people get intrigued by it, and sometimes people become really curious about the stuff depicted.

I don't want to show off, but I still want to share some of my work, I actually enjoy, both from an artistic perspective and the ideas I put in them, as I am terrible to execute my ideas in practice (poor motor skills).

This one is titled Depiction of the clash of worlds - where microscopic probabilism and macroscopic determinism collide (alternately also Theory of Everything) | It is part of a project I named Toroidal Hypersphere (Whatever that may even be...)

*The identification of the artwork's elements are left as an exercise for the reader (merely the observer in that sense...) (These puns were incredibly lame, ik...)

My most complex (from an artistic view) project is Dimensions of a fractal Universe.

This artwork got the name The sphere in a hyper-cuboidal world.

Superposition of a klein bottle - may cause a big bang

The tangled hierarchy of multiverses in recursion (For this one I used my (not really) patented super-lazy-method™: alias: I photocopied a singular "cell" and inserted and slightly altered the copies - which fits the entire concept of this picture; As it is about a fractal pattern, self-similarity, self-replication... (// Yes I could have done that with the digital file, but I suck at the tiny improvements that are easier done on real paper // fucked screens are too slippery for me.)

Down to the maelstrom of polarized duality

Another project got the weird name Cubic extraction of the hyper-spherical plane. (And I don't know any shit how I came up with that nonsense^^.) ( And I understand why people think I might be high when I create such stuff...But no, that is my brain's normal mode.)

Recursive Infinity on a Möbius strip

Wormhole of recursive (id)entities

The main object for this^ picture was that thingy:

What is it? I didn't find anything related to that construction.... It looks like some sort of torus that actually consists of two conical helices. (may be a silly concept of a particle consisting of waves // in a somewhat abstracted interpretation at least (?or my brain has knotted itself into a pile of slime...))

ⅇ^(ℼⅈ) - Unipolar tripole of existence (Nice coincidence that e, i and p(i) literally shape the word EPI (center)...)

I uploaded them on my website imaginativum.org (Some parts of it are really silly, you are warned.)

And one of my favs that is quite minimalist:

The beginning of time

Yes, that was it now. Don't really want to spam here.

(Most drawings are from the time when I used the pseudonyme Dywiann Xyara, with whom I don't feel identified anymore. (damn that sentence sounds like sh1t most certainly. I don't know how to english rn...))

/sad robot rant/

The bad thing about being an artist who illustrates scientific/ mathematical concepts in a surreal way is the rejection in the art community... I get told constantly that my art doesn't convey any feelings and is therefore not enjoyable to look at... But that is not the actual point of art; It is a form of expression: And why should art be limited to express emotions? I literally feel like an alien.... well then, I take my shitty art in my grave if they despise it so much.

Engaging with the art community gave me nothing positive, it just made me realize even more that no one cares what I do...

[vdbstore-blog]

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New Post has been published on http://vintagedesignerhandbagsonline.com/how-fashions-new-obsession-with-office-dressing-made-me-feel-like-an-80s-throwback-fashion/

How fashion's new obsession with office dressing made me feel like an 80s throwback | Fashion

It’s a normal Tuesday morning in the office and people are staring at me. They look me up and down as I fill my water bottle. They give me side eye in the lift. This is not an anxiety dream. This is real life. My appearance is inspiring unspoken questions in my colleagues. Namely: what on earth is she wearing? And why?

What I am wearing is an Isabel Marant suit. It is woollen, grey and double breasted, with burgundy stripes and softly padded shoulders. In the Guardian’s proudly dressed-down environment, where jeans and T-shirts are practically compulsory, I am an aberration.

It’s not just scruffy journalists who don’t wear suits in 2017. The world of work is in flux, and the world of workwear with it. In an age of telecommuting and the gig economy, the old rules are eroding. Formal attire is not extinct, quite yet, but it is endangered. MPs are no longer required to wear ties in the House of Commons; titans of industry wear hoodies as often as pinstriped suits.

Hannah Marriott in a shirt, tie and tie clip by M&S, trousers by Acne Studios and trainers by Nike, available from Office. Hannah’s hair and makeup was done by Juliana Sergot using Laura Mercia and Kiehl’s. Photograph: David Levene for the Guardian

As we face these anxieties, trust the fashion industry, in all of its contrariness, to back the corporate look in a big way, with designers from Céline to Calvin Klein sending suits down the catwalk. Meanwhile, a wonkier take on office wear – shirts spliced with blazers, herringbone jackets fashioned into strapless dresses – has become the calling card of brands including Palmer//Harding and Monse. Menswear has gone managerial, too. At Balenciaga the concept has spread from the clothes to the entire brand aesthetic, with business cards used as show invitations and boardroom carpet providing the backdrop for ad campaigns.

Fashion’s corporate fascination has piqued my own interest in trouser suits for the first time since graduation. My usual work clothes are – and I deliberately employ a fancy word here to make this seem more aspirational – deshabille. The hard-cornered boardroom aesthetic isn’t part of my fashion vocabulary for the same reason that I don’t have a LinkedIn profile. Working in the dressed-down media is a big part of my identity, as is the lack of delineation between office and weekend clothes. On the moodboard in my mind’s eye is Kate Moss’s bedhead hair and the tousled insouciance of Carine Roitfeld’s casually misbuttoned silk blouse. Sadly, crumpled chic is rather less iconic the way I wear it – not least because I’m 5ft tall – but I’d rather be a bit of a mess than look as though I’m trying too hard.

Wearing a suit feels physically weird. It’s a lot more fabric than I would usually put on my body. I’m hot. So hot that I tug at my collar like a dodgy banker in a movie about insider trading. Meanwhile, my colleagues appraise me, coolly. “It’s a conspicuous look,” one says. Another adds that I look “intimidating” and “a bit like a carpet”. “You look fucking powerful,” another says. He is smiling, but I sense a chasm between us. The stiff wool boxes me in, surrounds me completely. I feel weirdly isolated, as though I have set myself up in opposition to the tribe.

Hannah Marriott wears a soft power shirt by Palmer/Harding available from Matches Fashion, trousers by Prada with a bag by Balanciaga. Photograph: David Levene for the Guardian

The next day I trot into the office in high heels and a Stella McCartney checked coat-dress and one co-worker trills: “Oh, here she is, executive realness has arrived.” This phrase, well-known to viewers of Paris Is Burning and RuPaul’s Drag Race, is pertinent. Wearing double-breasted power tailoring does feel like a form of drag; a fantasy and a performance. It’s also screamingly 80s – other colleagues compare me to David Byrne and Working Girl – harking back to an era when power dressing manuals such as John T Molloy’s The Woman’s Dress For Success Book advised females to smash the glass ceiling with their shoulder pads. Molloy’s manifesto makes exhausting reading. Blouses should not be too high-necked or too revealing. Haircuts should not be too long or too short. Suits should ape men’s tailoring but femininity should be subtly preserved. Women should avoid sweaters and floral patterns “which say ‘lower class’ and loser,” he writes, charmingly. The history of women getting dressed for the office is so fraught that it almost feels as though somebody didn’t want us there.

Still, power dressing has its benefits. I don’t feel small any more. The finer details of my body shape feel irrelevant, which brings with it a sort of confidence. Occasionally, I interpret my own behaviour differently. After work, during my customary sprint from the tube station to my son’s childminder, I feel less like an utter failure for resorting to running and more like a high-flying, productive individual for whom walking is not sufficiently quick.

I like this feeling of pulled-together efficiency. But the exaggerated lines of this outfit – the shoulder pads – are making me self-conscious. I feel like a throwback to an era when a different battle was being fought. Power dressing is still fraught with difficulty for women, of course, as the furore caused by Hillary Clinton’s scrunchies and Theresa May’s leather trousers proves. But the suit is not the neat solution that it pretended to be in the 80s. Author and editor Tina Brown, a keen suit wearer until recently, says: “When I look back I see how very overdressed we were with bigger shoulders. There was a sense that we had to be almost aggressively put together to make a statement, which is not where we are now or where we want to be.”

Hannah Marriott in a coat dress by Stella McCartney. Photograph: David Levene for the Guardian

The next outfit on my agenda is very different: a wilfully anti-fashion fitted shirt, tie and tie clip, inspired by the menswear catwalks of Balenciaga, Martine Rose and Gosha Rubchinskiy. This looked achingly cool on the catwalks. Recreated via an M&S shirt and Acne Studios trousers because my body is not long enough to do menswear, it does not look cool on me. Alistair O’Neill, professor of fashion history and theory at Central Saint Martins, reminds me that this trend is all about context. Fashion designers have long been fascinated by workwear – think of the lumberjack shirts worn in city centres, not forests. This time it’s white-collar work being mined for inspiration. True Gosha disciples, he points out, would wear this “to a club, or to go shopping, or when off to the skate park. The dissociation from office culture is what will make the clothes so enjoyable to wear by those who will consume them as fashion.” Sadly, I am not hip enough to make this look work. I feel a bit like Melissa McCarthy in Bridesmaids, with a touch of Melissa McCarthy as Sean Spicer, brisk and no-nonsense, as though I am holding an invisible clipboard. Or, as a co-worker says: “I’m scared that you’re about to make us do a team-building exercise.”

The fourth and final look is a breeze, literally and figuratively. It’s a billowing take on a striped shirt from Palmer//Harding. For the first time in days, I am not overheating. When I walk into the office my colleagues seem relieved. “I’m into it,” our stylist says – the ultimate compliment. Then she strokes the fabric of the cuff, appreciatively. I am approachable, again.

The shirt is the perfect soft power garment. I also love the bag I carry with it: a huge Balenciaga tote with corporate-style logos running across it diagonally. The logos bring to mind the branding of desk phones and photocopiers; the unglamorous insignia that permeated our lives before the sleek black and grey lines of iPhones and iMacs took over. It is these details – the little logos, the business cards and tie clips – that are so evocative. They remind me of how much has changed in office lives, in the 15 years since I started working, and how much will continue to change. You know, when the robots take over. Against this context, the mundanity of an office – its paperclips, staplers and tea runs – has become a source of nostalgia, something to be cherished.

Meanwhile, I’m glad that, for the most part, shoulder pads have gone the way of fax machines and Filofaxes. But I would wear a suit again.

This article appears in the autumn/winter 2017 edition of The Fashion, the Guardian and the Observer’s biannual fashion supplement

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[msarki]

The Shimmering Go-Between: A Novel by Lee Klein

The Shimmering Go-Between: A Novel by Lee Klein Paperback, 270 pages Published August 19th 2014 by Atticus Books ISBN: 0991546903 (ISBN13: 9780991546909) Edition Language: English

Yes, to be forewarned is correct. A shocking and delightful debut that will beguile you at every turn. Ah yes, but do the pages turn due to the gifted writer’s employ of skillful deceit and charm?  Lee Klein, in his relaxed and confident voice, always draws me into the world of his making, whether initially my really wanting to, or not.  The words he chooses always seem to be just the right ones, and well-thought out. When at first tackling the concept of reading his latest work I wasn’t expecting much plot, but right out of the gate it seemed like story to me and I was surprised as well as comfortable with this development. But, honestly, the beginning fucking scared me.  Little worms resembling voluptuous females also somewhat frighten me.  But you have to trust Lee Klein in order to read him because he writes all over you.

By page sixty I was completely engaged. A nonsensical work, yes, but extremely intelligent. A sophistication always expected of Lee Klein, but completely absurd within his novel rendition.  I quite understand that it takes one to know one, but his main character Delores is unlike any woman I have ever met. And until now, I hadn’t noticed she might indeed exist among us. A clue for me to be better aware of people, and to inform myself of every incrimination, if possible.  A reality Klein suggests as ludicrous to the world I am accustomed to.  

Creative visualization, most likely dismissed by other readers of this book but noticed by me immediately, is addressed early on.  But Klein employs it for self-pleasuring instead of a spiritual exercise that might typically be used to reinvent oneself, in respect to transcending from a reluctant and unconfident person with low self esteem to being realized as a whole person rewarded by all things imagined and wished for. Shakti Gawain actually started this movement forty years ago when she wrote a book under the same name. Creative visualization was the path I also chose years ago during the darkest days of my life while in the throes of recovering from a fifteen-year active alcohol addiction. Hours I spent recovering alone, soaking in a claw-foot tub listening to the cassette player with Gawain’s soft and gentle voice leading me to visualize my life as something it could alternatively be with diligent and religious practice.  In Klein’s shimmering go-between creativity becomes reality for his character Wilson, to a degree, for me at least, previously unattainable.  Never able to contort or stretch myself so far as Wilson does, or go so public in my efforts, my genie remains for me somewhat bottled and uncapped.

But being a gifted writer such as Klein is, with something to say and having a voice and personality engaging enough for a serious reader to attach himself to, is rare in literature. The sheer numbers of unskilled, uninteresting, unlikeable writers publishing these days is astounding and more often discomfiting to the ear. Through the years, Lee Klein has done his best as editor of his online lit mag eyeshot to limit these wannabes and perhaps dissuade them in his own way from additional attempts to further their dismal efforts.  However, a much greater working staff than just himself would be needed to achieve this momentous task. And as far as personality goes, Lee Klein, at least on the page, seems to be somebody I would definitely want to know on a more personal level than his fiction allows.

There isn’t anything easy about this book other than the voice of Lee Klein.  He makes his world seem possible in light of absurdities unheard of prior to this novel. I have been seeking truth in fiction the vast majority of my life, but there are times I thought this book might be too far out of reach for me.  Lee Klein does ask a lot of his reader. He insists I go out on a limb of his design.  So I scoot my ass out slowly and hold on for dear life.

Early each morning, no matter how distracted I become in my thinking, Klein holds court over me.  A crazy chapter here and there implores me to pay stricter  attention or he will lose me permanently.  He unerringly suggests I suspend more than just reality, or in other words, the most recent escape from life I might be currently constructing.  Reading used to be a good enough exercise.  But today I am thinking instead about how old I feel and to what degree aging and wrinkles will affect the lust I have maintained over forty-five years now for my wife Beverly who is still in bed sleeping.  She is also old like me. And I confess it feels as if our sexual fantasies have lost their hold on us as collaborators.  I am afraid this morning for what our future holds.  And unfortunately this fear has become my new and present reality.  I just finished the book Houdini’s Box by Adam Phillips when I was beginning to read Lee Klein’s offering.  Phillips said, among other things, that the absence of desire and real death, of which the death of desire is a foreshadowing, are the two great hauntings.  But Lee Klein, thankfully, has the power to spin me off my axis.  In my reading of him he is building worlds inside of worlds. Confusing is barely an adequate word for his constructions on the page.  Absurd comes not even close.  The key operative word here is inside.  And that is deeply where we are presumably headed.  I wonder if Wilson and Delores will eventually become secondary characters?  Trust, as I previously mentioned, is the one obvious requirement to reading Lee Klein. And that asks a lot of most people. Perhaps too much.  But I plod on, continually immersing myself in more of what feels like slime, and I am wondering if it will one day wash off me, or if I even will survive.  But this morning I was struck again by just what a great title alone his The Shimmering Go-Between really is.  

I cannot imagine being Lee Klein, or what played on in his head as he crafted this novel.  The discipline required to maintain insanity to a degree I have never shared as experience before.  A frenzied and parallel world of lunacy emerging on each ripening page.  Nearing the end of this work I feel less eager to open the book and continue to enter the fury.  Klein’s idea of epidemic hysertia is proving too taxing for a lightweight like me.  I am frightened to go on.  But will I will.  And with only nine pages left to read in this insanely rich novel of obtrusion I am impelled to take responsibility for my own confusion.  I did this to myself. But it’s really not so bad as I have made it.  

For years, as a young boy and then as a grown man, I believed, instead of Christianity, or something similar to it, that we were relegated to being little people caught in a miniature world of some gigantic stranger’s design. Who this powerful person was forever escaped me, but I knew that we were nothing more than puppets or little playthings he, or she, might hold in the palm of one hand. I reckoned the plastic figurines I treasured as a kid were nothing more than mere replicas of ourselves and how we were also being played. And just as we determined the fate of each plastic figure, the puppet master enacted the same for us in our small world down here.  Through this fantastical novel Lee Klein manages to rekindle those old memories of endless days and pointless belief.  And perhaps have another look inside.