#sorry for @ ing you bog but it was

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

hey have i brought attention to your tags yet??? not just these but Every Piece of Commentary you've left on my lights out posts??? cause damn. Dude. my guy. you're the only mf who truly understands the assignment

if you do kill wally its gonna ruin me.

the poor man has lived and survived and suffered for so long. desperate to save his friends.

and it just gets cut from under him.

especially if he doesnt die alone.

... *nervously kicks plot document under the rug*

[susandsnell]

For the musical ask game: Carrie or Phantom of the Opera (whichever you’d rather do)? 😁

Send me a musical in my ask box:

Hey anon! Just for you, I'll do both! Beneath the cut it goes, as it's a little long.

Phantom of the Opera

Listened to It | wtf is that | LOVE IT | meh | um…hate it | heard of it | yes!!

Rate 1-10: Solid 10. Sorry. I have not progressed since the age of twelve and I never will.

Favorite Lyric: Angel, oh speak / What endless longings / echo in this whisper? I mean, you don't get much more gothic romance perfection from this (though the entirety of Wandering Child is perfect.)

Favorite Song: Oooh, tough one. Favourite to listen to is probably Masquerade, favourite to watch is probably either Down Once More/Final Lair for the sheer high octane melodrama of it all (and some truly phenomenal performances at its best), or Angel of Music for the Megstine goodness.

Favorite Character: Christine Daae!

Best Moment: When Meg takes her top off while congratulating Christine in the restaged tour When Christine gives her "tears of hate" speech to Erik and defies him at every turn in the Final Lair. When Erik comes diva-ing down the stairs in the Red Death muppet mask during masquerade.

Something that makes me angry: Carlotta did nothing wrong!!!! She's an aging woman in the entertainment industry whose career is being threatened by a skinny girl half her age and a fucking serial killer, of course she's mad!! She has every right to be a diva! And Piangi just supported his wife!

Gives me the chills: The entirety of Raoul I've Been There, especially the gorgeous high notes Christine hits, but I'll also hand it to the Don Juan Triumphant rehearsal scene because the self-playing piano into the terrifying Transition to the Graveyard is so endlessly iconic.

Overall opinions: One of the all-time greats. Perfect costumes, perfect plot, perfect ending. Christine and Meg are in lesbians and there's nothing you can do about it.

Carrie the Musical

Listened to It | wtf is that | LOVE IT | meh | um…hate it | heard of it | yes!!

Rate 1-10: 7, but the best moments really do stand out. Unfortunately the original is kind of unwatchable outside those moments and the redux got bogged down in ballad hell and spent wayyyyyy too much time humanizing Margaret. Kudos for the Sue's interrogation framing device and devolving into pure lesbianism between her and Carrie!

Favorite Lyric: I felt/As though/This girl revealed herself to me/And now/I know/That once you see/You can't unsee... For a cult classic that keeps pendulum swinging between camp and boredom (especially in the 2010s retooling), this lyric proves to me that Gore, Pitchford and Cohen completely and totally understood the character of Sue Snell, her trauma, and her relationship to Carrie. Honourable mention to God has seen your sinning/just beginning/pray for your salvation/from damnation/pray or/He will burn you, but only when it's Carrie's reprise in versions of the Destruction that keep Eve Was Weak.

Favorite Song: The World According To Chris is an absolute bop and campy fun, but A Night We'll Never Forget is such a fantastic full-cast counterpoint song before the storm, and musically hits the sweet spot the 76 film nailed so perfectly balancing a teen coming of age Cinderella comedy vibe and a deep, eerie sense of foreboding for characters we've been told from the beginning are all, in one sense or another, doomed. The build, the swell, the way it evokes the rays of sunlight in the last weeks of the school year with a horror movie twist...I love it I love it I love it.

Favorite Character: oh gee i wonder who it could possibly be could the favourite character of tumblr user susandsnell be Susan D. Snell herself

Best Moment: The Destruction!!!! Even though they kind of nerfed it orchestrally in the retool, I am a staunch believer in the horror musical, and I love watching various productions go wild with effects and acting as Carrie takes bloody vengeance in the unforgettable prom sequence. Honourable mention to the musical getting the closest of any adaptation to the book's ending with Sue being by Carrie's side as she dies, and, unable to quite adapt their telepathic final communication, they settle for the sapphic A Little Fall of Rain because these two are soulmates.

Something that makes me angry: At the risk of sounding like those cringe Steven Universe "all conflict in media is problematic" type of posters, I really think it does the story a disservice to overly sympathize with Margaret and give her so many songs. Don't get me wrong, I have no moral qualms with stories that humanize abusers in an effort to meaningfully explore and understand familial violence, cyclical or otherwise -- obviously, given I've been hyperfixated on IWTV this year, and Hereditary is one of my other favourite works of horror.

The problem here is that it's not executed particularly well. Margaret White is, whether played more human or more monstrously, a force of nature, and part of the sympathy we have for Carrie is that we share in her terror of this figure that looms so large that this sweet girl has to become a monster herself to overcome her, and even then can't quite. Rather than having us understand yet still fear and hate Margaret, the musical goes so far in her humanization as to almost afford her tritagonist status to Carrie and Sue, which utterly defangs her. We do not need to know her interiority that well, and in fact seeing that much of it and that she's "trying to help" Carrie from her perspective feels somewhat icky and more importantly, unnecessary. To be clear, I'm someone who thinks the Johanna (Mea Culpa) bit from Sweeney Todd is superfluous despite musical beauty and the sheer chutzpah of Sondheim trying to write the first instance of a man self-flagellating to orgasm in a broadway show. With villains, less is often more so they have more impact and menace.

Also, while I understand that it's usually a big star that plays Margaret (Betty Buckley and Marin Mazzie to name a few) and you obviously want to showcase her talent, her songs, with the exception of Eve Was Weak, are among the dullest and most skippable of the show. Like maybe in the show called Carrie we could spend more time with Carrie? Maybe more Sue? I'd even take giving Chris more character development than her being kind of sad at the end of The World According to Chris. I don't know, but all in all, where the show absolutely got Sue, they really whiffed it with Margaret.

Gives me the chills: "Doesn't anybody ever get it right? Doesn't anybody think that I hear?" Hits painfully close to home, especially with those stunning high notes; this followed by versions that keep the Eve Was Weak reprise with Carrie spitting her abuser's words back at her bullies, declaring herself the only God she trusts in, is incredibly powerful.

As well, stagings where Carrie's spirit during the epilogue pauses and gives Sue a last, lingering look on those ending lyrics I quoted above are heartrendingly beautiful.

Honorary mention to Carrie scaring Margaret slamming the windows the first time, but that's more an awesome moment than chilling!

Overall opinions: The sheer insanity of the original version is wildly entertaining, but once you get past the whole delightful mess of the legendary flop, what you have his a very uneven, meh show as far as horror musicals go, especially with the retooling taking out some of the best stuff or softening it questionably. With this being said, it absolutely has its moments, both musically and otherwise. The show adapts certain parts of the book other versions haven't that I was so delighted to see, and recognizes that the story is in fact about Carrie and Sue (I mean, Sue's final song to Carrie is a reprise of the melody of her love song with Tommy, come on!), so I can't help but love it for that.

[pedros-mustache-main]

when your love reaches me (i)

summary: 1978 is decidedly not 2020. nor is your life ever the same when you meet a guitarist, curly haired, soft spoken, and true.

word count: 9.3k+ (i am abundantly sorry for how long this is. curl up with a snack, my dudes)

warnings: required: total suspension of disbelief. also: screwed up historical timeline, slight angst, language, innuendo, suggestive moments and blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smut (not 18+ but be mindful)

a/n: hi! a day late, but i wanted to respect the ‘out of time’ epilogue which came out yesterday as this is very much inspired by @perriwiinkle​ and her lovely fic. this is my take on a similar theme, only with brian and just three (3) parts. thank you to @deacyblues​ for your beta-ing help on this mini-series; i heart emoji you. anyways, let me know what you think. enjoy! xoxo!

in this chapter: something—be it fate or otherwise—transplants you to a place you do not belong.

it’s raining hard, thunder and lightning battling for dominance in the gray sky. you clutch your textbook to your chest and duck your head against the onslaught, feet nearly slipping on the flat stones of the sidewalk. london weather has always been unpredictable, but you’ve never seen a storm like this, never been caught in one either. it’s too far to make it back to your flat without catching pneumonia and the library feels just as far away so you push forward. the sky turns bright white followed closely by a boom of thunder, and you squeak, picking up your pace. 

across a muddy patch of grass stands union concert hall. it’s likely to be locked on a saturday evening, but it’s worth a shot. you squelch through the mud and run the remaining hundred yards to old brick building. your hands, wet with rain, scrabble against the brass doorknob, which, to your surprise, turns with ease. muttering a prayer of thanks, you wrench the door open as a gust of wind turns the rain sideways. you slip inside, breathing heavy, and fall against the door as it shuts.

silence. blessed silence.

you heave a sigh of relief and run a hand through your drenched hair.

the concert hall is empty, but the lonesome rows of chairs and desolate stage come as no surprise. with fall break around the corner, imperal college is largely devoid of students on the weekends. there’s parties to be had, memories to be made; no one wants to be cooped up on campus. you, however, don’t have that luxury. there’s too much to be done in too tight a span of time.

as the rain pounds the roof and slides down the windows, you take a seat at the back of the hall. the plastic chair creaks underneath your weight, and each time you move a soggy squish echoes about the room. your textbook—creating exhibitions: collaborations in the planning, development, and design of innovative experiences—rests open on your lap. the laminated binding curls as it dampens, but you’re soaked to the bone. there’s no avoiding the damage. if you must, you’ll pay the thirty pounds at the end of the semester to turn your rental into a purchase.

if you think about it, it really is quite sad, the way you’re sitting on your own on a saturday night, highlighter clamped between your teeth, eyes scanning the pages of your textbook with far too much interest. if you think about it, you know you should be out with your friends. this morning rachel had tried to convince you to come out after your shift at the museum, but you’d said no—again. you’ve been given a full ride in the masters of science communication program, and you’ll do nothing to jeopardize the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. rachel insists that a simple evening at a local pub is harmless, and you know she’s right, but your answer is always the same: no. it’s easier that way.

you read for awhile, highlighting the text and annotating the margins of your textbook with the thoughts or questions that flit through your mind. as you dry, the legs of your jeans turn stiff, and your hair feels frizzy with humidity. not for the first time, you wish you’d remembered the pink umbrella leaning against the coatrack in your flat.

an hour passes, maybe two. with a heavy sigh, you shut your book and meander through the rows of chairs toward the bathroom. the washroom light flickers a muted yellow when you switch it on, an incessant electronic buzz filling the room. crossing to the counter, you stare at yourself in the mirror. you look atrocious: tired bags under your eyes, streaks of mascara on your cheeks, hair unruly, clothes sodden and weighed down on your body. you’d laugh if it wasn’t so damn depressing. you look like a madwoman, like some sort of victorian nightmare. in an effort to clean yourself up, you splash cold water on your face and scrub the makeup away until your cheeks hurt. you wet your hair, run your fingers through the tangles, and attempt to dry yourself under the hand dryer. 

it’s still raining outside. there’s a single skylight in the bathroom, and when you look up, it’s a funny sensation, watching the rain slam against the window but never hit your face. you smile faintly; there’s just something about being inside when it rains. it’s similar to a warm hug or a—

a crack of lightning breaks you from your reverie. the sound goes straight to your heart, stopping it with the force of its blow. with a gasp, you clamp your hands against your ears, eyes screwed shut, and you’re suddenly six years old again, scared of a simple thunderstorm. white light pours through the skylight, drowning the room in an almost heavenly glow. thunder trips over the heels of the lightning in an effort to make itself known. the thunder is more like a roar, and you swear you can feel the foundation of the building jostle.

then all is quiet. even the sound of the rain on the roof has stopped.

you pull your hands from your ears, breathing heavy, and look around the bathroom. maybe... maybe you should call a cab or an uber. you’d rather not be stuck in the concert hall overnight, and the storm feels eerily close. 

grabbing your bag from the counter, you fumble for your phone in its depths. you come away empty-handed, but you must have left it on your chair alongside your textbook. you pull open the bathroom door and step into a crush of bodies.

your heart stutters in your chest, confusion stealing the air from your lungs.

there’s a crowd of people in the concert hall. it’s hard to move, to breathe, to think. the room is dim, lit only by orange and white lights on the stage. there’s music pounding through the room, and it sounds vaguely familiar, but you’re too stunned and confused to place it. a haze of smoke filters over the heads of onlookers; the air smells like cigarettes and sweat. where had everyone come from? how long had you been in the bathroom? surely not long enough for a band and a crowd and—

a thought strikes you: this is not the union concert hall you were just sat in seeking shelter from a bad storm.

a hand circles your arm, and you startle, head twisting to the left. “you okay, love?” a voice asks. the man is short with warm-toned skin, his hair like a dark halo around his head. he stares at you in earnest, and you’re sure you’ve gone pale.

in lieu of answering, you stumble backwards, back into the bathroom. the subway-tiled walls of moments past have turned a dull green, and the hand dryer has been replaced with a paper-towel dispenser. the linoleum under your shoes is grimy, unwashed and stained. the air is heavy with cigarette smoke thanks to the women lounging around the open stalls, dripping ashes to the floor with a simple flick of the wrist. the scent clings to the inside of your nose, and you blame the tears pricking the corners of your eyes on the smell.

“excuse me,” you mutter, shouldering past a lithe woman with blown-out blonde hair. she gives you a once over, her brow furrowed, before leaving the bathroom.

at the sink, you brace your hands against the edge. the sink feels like cheap plastic, easy enough to rip from the wall. where the sturdy white countertop has gone, you aren’t sure. for the second time in one day, you splash water on your heated face.

“hey. are you okay?”

you look up and meet the doe eyes of a short girl standing behind you. her hair is bobbed at her neck, her eyes lined with a deep purple liner. her appearance is warped by the faded mirror, but you can see the way she’s looking at you, and you don’t blame her. you’re sure you look as crazy as you feel.

you straighten at the sink and shut the water off. “i’m just...” you flounder for a good excuse. your insides feel like mush, and your brain has paused, as if the loading symbol is looping over and over in place of producing any coherent thought. “do you have a phone i could borrow?”

“there’s a payphone around the corner,” she says, her words slow with apprehension. “did something happen out there? you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

there’s a pounding in the back of your head, hard and steady, and you rub your temples. “i was studying and then i was here and i don’t really remember the rest.” you pause. “it’s been a long day.”

the girl’s face softens as she smiles. she moves to stand beside you and withdraws a thin tube of lipstick from her clutch. “i know what you mean. i can get pretty bogged down and feel like the time’s flown by and i’ve been asleep the at the wheel, but, god, it’s queen! they started here, you know, in this very concert hall. and now they’re back, just for us! how bloody exciting is that?” as she speaks, her irish accent grows stronger, in tandem with the excitement lighting her face.

you frown, unsure if you’ve heard her correctly. “queen? like... the band queen or queen elizabeth?”

she pauses in her lipstick application. “the band queen, silly. are you really that knackered?” with a grin, she puts the lipstick down and takes your shoulders in her hands. “you’re at a queen concert, love. it’s friday, september first, ninteen-seventy-eight. has been all day, ever since you woke up in your jammies.” she laughs, her blunt bob swaying as tilts her head to the side. “you gonna be fine?”

your first thought: no, absolutely not. 

the only answer you can give, punctuated by a weak smile: “yeah. yeah, i’m gonna be all right. thanks.”

the girl puts her makeup away and gives your shoulder a final squeeze. “i think they’ll be finishing soon, so i’m gonna pop back out so i don’t miss it. try and get some rest, yeah? you look like you could use it.”

she exits the bathroom, a song momentarily pouring through the door, and you find yourself alone in the empty room.

before you can stop yourself, you twist on your heel and lunge for the nearest toilet. you vomit, heaving what little remains in your stomach, until there is nothing left to unearth. dropping back against the stall, you duck your head between your knees. 

this is just a fever dream. maybe you got scared during the storm, hit your head, and passed out on the bathroom floor. there’s no way in hell—no way in hell—this is nineteen-seventy-eight. that’s preposterous. and sure, queen might have gotten their start at imperial college—everyone knows that—but that was eons ago. freddie mercury is dead, john deacon is retired, and brian may and roger taylor are well within their seventies. the girl must be mistaken or strung out or high or all of the above.

or maybe you are. you can’t be sure anymore.

your legs tremble beneath you as you stand. if any good has come of this, it’s that you’re dry now—suspiciously so. despite the pale sheen on your face and layer of sweat on your forehead, it’s as if you were never drenched to begin with. your cream pleated trousers have no wrinkles along the back after you spent all afternoon stuffing and unstuffing boxes on the floor. your navy top is void of the stubborn coffee stain you’d gotten this morning as you rushed into the museum ten minutes late. it’s almost as if the day never happened.

it’s almost as if the day—saturday, september fifth, twenty-twenty—is still forty-two years in the future instead of thirty minutes away from ending.

“all right, we’ve got one more for you lovelies tonight! this one’s new, so keep it a secret ‘till the record comes out, okay?”

you turn at the sound of a familiar voice amplified over a loudspeaker.

freddie mercury.

though you’ve never been a huge queen fan, you’re positive anyone with even a passing knowledge of classic rock could hear his voice and pick it out in a lineup.

heart in your throat, you sling your bag over your shoulder and squeeze out the door. the energy in the hall has heightened tenfold since you last stood in the bathroom doorway. perhaps it’s due to the fact that the concert is rapidly drawing to a close and everyone wants to drink in the last moments before it’s all over.

perhaps it’s simply because it’s queen.

as your eyes slide to the stage, you can’t help but feel a giddiness rise in your chest. your throat goes tight, eyes misty, as you weave through the crowd on auto-pilot. you’re drawn to them; who wouldn’t be? the floor shakes beneath your feet as the music surges around you. he’s magnificent—freddie. he commands the crowd with ease, and you feel at home, relaxed, like you’re watching a friend goof around. seeing him there—whole, well, happy—is nothing short of a miracle.

“aren’t they marvelous?” you turn to see the girl from the bathroom. she holds your bicep tight in her fingers. her smile is radiant, her face glowing with unbridled joy. “i’m glad you made it out for this!”

you nod dumbly, swiveling back to drink in the final moments. matthew at the coffee shop you frequent would kill for something like this. you want to text him, to rub it in his face with a good-natured wink, but he hasn’t been born yet, has he? seeing freddie mercury on stage confirms it.

you’re not in twenty-twenty anymore.

the song draws to a close, and you find yourself smiling despite the uncertainty of your current situation. you can’t help but applaud alongside the rest of the audience. someone shouts “encore” but freddie waves him off with a laugh.

“we just did a fucking encore!” he says.

they take their bows—all four of them—and then disappear backstage. a moment passes before the house lights flicker on, and the crowd begins to disperse. trash litters the floor, and the room doesn’t feel as magical as it did seconds before, but you find it hard to breathe nonetheless. try as you might, you can’t tear your eyes away from the stage.

“oh my god, wasn’t that brilliant?” bathroom-girl practically jumps up and down on her ballet-slippered feet. “i’m anna, in case you were wondering,” she says.

you hesitate. there’s too much going on around you, so many things you’ve only read about or seen in pictures: the fashion, the hair, the fucking band. you feel dizzy—dizzy with fear and excitement. it’s like you’re standing in line for a rollercoaster. you know what’s coming: the slow climb up the first hill, anticipation bubbling in your stomach before the first drop, then the madness of letting yourself plummet at incredible speeds. all you can do is laugh, just like you do on the rollercoaster.

“[y/n],” you say between fits of amusement. “sorry! i don’t know what’s gotten into me!” you press a hand to your mouth, shaking your head back and forth.

anna grins. “that was me when the concert first started.” she bends her head toward yours conspiratorially. “i nearly pissed myself when i saw john deacon walk out for the first time.”

your laughter turns to girlish giggles and holding her forearm is all you can do to keep from falling to the floor. you’re drunk, surely. drunk off what, you can’t say, but you’ve felt like this before.

“hey!” anna’s eyes go wide, and you can see the lightbulb turn on above her head. “i saw where they parked their vans. we could go have a look-see!”

your initial reaction is a resounding no. just the thought of standing mere meters away from queen makes you want to break out into hives. you’re sure to say something stupid and embarrassing or screw up some time-continuum-thing. you’ve seen enough doctor who to know not to mess about with time.

oh god, you must be really fucking crazy if this is what you’re life has come to, deciding what the right or wrong move is based on a children’s television show.

yet there’s still a sliver of your heart holding on to the hope that this is all a dream. you could wake up at any moment, still in the concert hall, yes, but where you belong and a soaked mess from the rainstorm. so, even though you know you shouldn’t, even though your heart of hearts tells you that you’re a girl out of place and far away from home, you nod and let anna drag you toward the a side-exit door.

outside, the air is chilly, but it soothes your hot skin. 

standing outside the concert hall is perhaps more strange than standing in it. you know this spot; you walk behind the building every day. if you follow the winding path toward the dormitories and then veer to the left, you’ll eventually reach your flat—or you would if this were some other time. it’s not a terribly long walk, and most of the time, you find it refreshing. but today, with the sun replaced by the moon and the evening air and anna’s nervous energy, you find yourself a mite too cold. the cold settles in your stomach, not on your body, and you catalog the area. the parking lot has been repaved, all the dips and cracks you know so well gone. the tree which overhangs a dumpster in the corner is but a small sapling, and the dumpster is nowhere to be seen. the cold in your belly spreads to your chest, and, for a moment, you forget what it is anna dragged you here for.

but then her fingers grip your wrist tightly, and you remember: queen.

“look,” she whispers. “there they are.”

you follow her eyeline to the gaggle of men descending a ramp propped beneath a set of double-doors. in the thin veil of darkness you inhabit, it’s hard to make out who is who. brian is unmistakable, what with his gangly arms and legs and tilted shoulders. freddie is easy to pick out, too; he walks with a swagger only he can pull off. everyone else is a jumble of faces obscured by the night and a cloud of cigarette smoke. they’re loud, but not rowdy, and it reminds you somewhat of a group of teenage boys out to make trouble.

“let’s go over.” anna steps forward, but you stop her with a hand on her elbow.

“no, we shouldn’t. i’m sure they’ve got security, and we really can’t just waltz up there. besides, what would we say?” you shake your head. “this is close enough, don’t you think?”

“fuck no!” her exclamation startles you, your eyebrows lifting, and she laughs. “this is likely the only time we’ll be able to meet true rockstar royalty. you can stay back if you want to, but i’m gonna go.”

“go where?”

in unison, you turn with anna on the ball of your foot. your movements are slow, hers hurried, but you both come face to face with roger taylor and you both inhale sharply. 

your first thought is foolish: he looks so young. but of course he does. he’s twenty-nine here, not seventy. half a cigarette hangs out of his mouth, and his blond hair brushes the collar of his jacket as he goes to remove the cigarette and puff a plume of smoke to the side. he wears sunglasses, despite the late hour, and if you weren’t so bloody unsettled, you’d find him attractive.

anna finds her voice first. she points her thumb over her shoulder. “well, we were gonna go and... that is, we thought we might...” she heaves a sigh, and her smile turns angelic. “you put on a great show tonight.”

roger grins, his eyes fixed on anna. “i thought i saw you in the crowd.” his voice is raspy and high and dripping with innuendo. you all know he did not see anna from behind his drum set, but that doesn’t stop her from pulling her lower lip between her teeth and batting her eyelashes. 

“oy, rog, can we get a move on, please?” 

roger frowns and slips between you and anna, his hand firm on her bicep. he shouts in the general direction of the disembodied voice. “don’t get your fucking knickers in a twist, crystal, jesus!” he rolls his eyes and looks back at anna. “sorry, he’s like a damn mother hen. i didn’t catch your name.”

“anna.” she’s breathless, ready to drip to the floor in a puddle of goo. it’s painfully obvious, and roger seems to like that. his hand rubs an untraceable pattern over her shoulder. 

“and your friend?” he doesn’t look at you when he speaks, just jerks his head in your direction.

you should be offended, but really you feel like crying. an overwhelming homesickness builds in your chest. everyone you know, every place you hold so dear, none of it is as it should be. those fleeting magical moments during the concert are quickly wearing off, and you feel yourself slipping back to the panic you’d fought in the bathroom.

“that’s [y/n].”

“would you gals like to join us for some drinks?” this time roger does look at you, his gaze soft but purposeful. he’s daring you to turn him down.

maybe it’s the homesickness. maybe it’s the idea that you can be anything, anyone, here with few personal repercussions. maybe it’s the haughty glint in roger’s eye. whatever it is, it finally gets you talking.

“lead the way,” you say, your eyebrow raised in silent challenge.

roger’s smirk widens, and he tugs anna against his side with an arm around the waist. “gladly.”

the inside of the tour bus is cramped. you suspected it might be so based on the outside, but you didn’t realize just how tight the quarters would truly be. you’re stiff, sat on a stool between two men with long brown hair and equally long faces. there’s a tremor in your leg, and you itch to steal the cigarette out of the man-on-your-left’s mouth and smoke your anxiety away. 

for anna’s part, she seems at ease, and you envy that. she’s wrapped around roger’s arm, pressed against him on the couch, and in that moment you feel a certain flare of hatred toward her. you’d always been jealous of the girls who could so effortlessly flirt and make a move and get what they want. you never had to the confidence to follow suit. sitting as you are near the back of the bus, crammed between two sullen and tired roadies, you’re reminded of secondary school lunches. a rush of discomfort heats the back of your neck, and you shift on the stool. your movement must disturb to the man next to you because he shifts, too. he leans away, twisting his neck to look at you.

“you good?” the smoke that leaves his parted lips circles around your head, stinging your eyes.

“i wish everyone would stop asking me that,” you mutter. it comes out before you can stop it, and when you realize what you’ve said, you sink down further on your stool. your hand comes to squeeze your forehead. “oh god.”

but the man just laughs. “here.” he hands you an unopened beer. it’s cold to the touch, dripping with sweat. “you look like you could use it.”

you lift it slightly in a sign of thanks before popping the tab and taking a swig. it’s cheap, and that surprises you considering it’s queen, but you drink it anyway. 

“so, who picked you up?”

your eyebrow arches, and you look at the man on your left with a mixture of shock and distain. “no one, thank you. i came on my own accord and i’ll leave in the same way.”

out of the corner of your eye, from his place on a low bench in front of you, you think you see brian turn slightly, his curls swaying with the movement. but he doesn’t face you after all, so it must have been your imagination.

“okay, okay!” the man holds his hands up in surrender, mirth etched along the lines in his face. “sorry!”

you resist the urge to huff, cross your arms, and pout like a child. you pull at your beer instead.

the man nudges you with his elbow. “chris taylor, by the way. crystal.” he points to the man on your right. “that’s ratty—pete.”

pete looks tired enough to fall out of his chair. all he can do is raise his eyebrows in greeting and drop his head back against the wall. 

“i’m [y/n].”

crystal mirrors ratty’s movements and stretches his legs out underneath the card-table. “well, i must admit that you might be one of the most level-headed lasses we’ve had in here—and we’ve had plenty of girls grace this bus.”

you aren’t sure if he’s bragging or simply making conversation, so you ignore the comment and say, “i’ve had a... strange day. it’s a lot to take in.” 

you’re not lying. really, it is a lot to take in. the tour bus is hot and sweaty, but conversation is quiet, like a background hum. it’s not what you thought it would be; nothing is.

“didn’t think you’d end up here?”

you shake your head. “absolutely not.”

crystal smiles, and you find yourself smiling back, the truth in your words humorous to you and you alone.

the bus door opens, and a flurry of sound enters the already-cramped space. crystal sits forward; ratty seems to wake up. at once, the energy is higher. you feel your heart begin to pound against your ribcage. 

freddie enters the bus in all his post-concert glory. you’d been a baby when he died, but now you sit at the back of his tour bus, watching as he laughs and jokes and lives. it makes you want to throw up all over again.

he stands in the center of the bus, hands on his hips, surveying the jumble of roadies and groupies and band members. “well?” the corner of your mouth quirks upward at the sound of his voice; you can’t help it. “have we decided where we’re crashing yet?”

“uh, yeah.” john deacon pipes up from his spot at the front of the bus. you hadn’t noticed him all night, but there he stands, leaning against the driver’s seat, a map in hand. “i think we’re gonna—”

“oh hell, we don’t need that!” roger slaps the map out of john’s hands. it crumples between his fingers, and he all but pulls anna onto his lap. she squeals in delight. “we’ve got our own personal tour guide right here. not to mention brian. he’s got to know his way about.”

“don’t forget [y/n], roger!” anna says, ever the good friend.

no, please. please, for the love of god, forget [y/n].

as one, the tour bus turns to look at you. this time bile does rise in the back of your throat. 

sitting in the back of the bus you can handle. crystal is nice, and simply being in the presence of music royalty is sure to be the peak of the rest of your life—whatever that may look like. but having them all look at you, expectantly, waiting for you to giggle or blush or say something, it’s that too much you told crystal about moments earlier. only this time, it’s so much you feel like your head might explode.

even though it feels like decades, only a few seconds have gone by since everyone began waiting for you to make a peep. so when you look at anna and say, “i’m sure you know better than me,” it doesn’t sound awkward. it sounds like a comment shared between friends. you’re thankful for that, at least.

“okay, fine.” anna claps her hands together. “what are you in the mood for, freddie?”

your eyebrow lifts at her familiarity, and beside you, crystal chuckles behind his hand. god, she’s good. you are... decidedly not.

“anything fabulous. we’ve just had a good show, if i do say so myself, and i want to have some fun before we really have to start working.”

“we are working, fred.” it’s the first thing you’ve heard brian say all evening. you can’t see his face from where you’re sitting, so his voice sounds far away. far away but ever so nice to the ears.

freddie waves his hands dismissively. “you know what i mean.”

“there’s a disco club a few blocks from here,” anna offers. “it’s not garishly disco, but it’s fun.”

there’s a pause before freddie says, “it’s late, so it’ll have to do.” he turns to brian with a grin. “do you think we should call ahead?”

twenty minutes and three phone calls later, you’re walking side-by-side with crystal and ratty, hands twitching at your sides, desperately wishing for the comfort of a pair of pockets. if you’d hazard a guess, you’d say there’s about twenty people headed for the club. you know you should feel happy, exuberant at the chance to party with queen in the 70s, but your head hurts. it really, really hurts, and you haven’t the faintest idea where you’ll spent the night. you have no money, no contacts—nothing but the clothes on your back and the half-empty purse thrown over your shoulder.

“[y/n], where are you from?” ratty asks. his questions is harmless enough, but it breaks your underarms out in an uncomfortable sweat. how can you explain that you’re from here, the very here you’re walking on, without also explaining why you have no idea where the disco club is or where the charming flower stand on the corner has gone? 

you settle on something vague, but passable. “not from around here.” the toe of your shoe kicks at a loose pebble, which skips forward, nearing the long strides of brian. 

“on holiday then?”

“something like that, yeah.” you smile to soften the blow of your unsubstantial answers, and it seems to appease.

you chat with the roadies about inconsequential things—roger’s horrible morning breath, the oil crisis and its impact on the upcoming tour, whether or not pigeons lay eggs. it’s small talk, and you ask more questions than give answers, but it relaxes the ache in your shoulders. you have to remind yourself breathe, drink in what you can while you can. you’ll be okay. 

you have to be.

the group rounds the corner like an amoeba, all uneven edges and uncertain direction. though the hour is rapidly closing in on one a.m., the road is filled. a few of the cars closest to the curb honk and frenzied arms reach out windows to wave as queen passes them by. a girl flashes her tits from the sunroof of her car; roger gives her a thumbs up.

“is it always like this?” you ask.

crystal laughs. “this is nothin’, dove. we’ve got this party planned for october in new orleans, and i am honestly a little bit afraid of what might happen.”

the club comes into view, music ebbing through the open front door. climax is written in bright yellow lightbulbs across the marquee, and someone squeezes anna’s shoulder with a laugh. the line waiting to enter is long, roped off in anticipation of your arrival. those in queue push forward as your party begins to enter. freddie signs a few autographs on the back of receipts. brain scrawls across the crest of someone’s hip with a shit-eating grin on his face.

the resounding thought that you shouldn’t be here flickers through your mind and not for the first time. you ignore it as crystal leads you into the club, a hand tucked in the small of your back. his touch is anything but sexual, and it’s a relief. he likely sees you as a lost puppy, out of her depth, and you might have to lean into that come closing time.

“do you want something to drink?” he shouts over the music and laughter and shouting. 

you nod eagerly. “yes, please!”

weaving through horde of dancers, you find a spot at a cocktail table tucked near a back corner. “boogie wonderland” plays over the louder speakers, and it grates against your headache. the disco ball in the center of the room spins and spins and spins, casting sprinkles of white light over the room. you can’t stop watching it, wondering what it would feel like to wrap yourself around the ball and stay there forever. it probably wouldn’t feel very different from how you feel right now, though your legs are planted firmly on the ground.

“lost in thought?”

you turn, expecting to see crystal with your drink, but you’re met with the incredibly tall form of brian may. you have to tip your head back to meet his eyes he’s standing so close. he must notice because he takes a fraction of a step backwards, his smile widening.

your mouth goes dry, but you manage a shaky nod. “yeah, i guess.” you blink and run your eyes over his face. like roger, he’s painfully young. his curls are dark and full, his skin smooth. he’s handsome, ridiculously so, and despite what some may believe, you think he knows it too.

“you’ve been awful quiet tonight.” he leans against the table with ease. the edge, which reaches your chest, seems to dig into his hip, and he adjusts himself to a more comfortable stance. “most girls are chatty.”

“that’s what crystal said.”

brian chuckles under his breath. “yeah, crystal would know.” he glances over his shoulder then looks back at you. “[y/n], right?”

you’re surprised he remembered or overheard or asked someone before walking over. it’s a simple thing, but just hearing your name grounds you. you don’t care who says it; it reminds you that you are, in fact, still human. and it doesn’t hurt that brian’s voice is like butter. it could put anyone at ease.

for the first time that evening, you feel a lightness in your chest as you smirk and meet his gaze. “brian, right?”

at this, he throws his head back to laugh. his reaction brings a blush to your face, and you duck your head, uncertain where your burst of flirty energy has come from. moments ago, you’d been yearning for the comfort of a good bed and solid night’s rest. now, you could stand in this dark corner and look at brian, hear him laugh, until you fall asleep standing.

when he’s calmed, brian looks at you again. there’s a shift in his stare, one you can’t quite place. “what do you do, [y/n]?”

this time, you decide to answer honestly. “i’m a student, most of the time,” you say. “but eventually i’ll be a curator for museums.”

his eyebrows lift. “a curator? that’s bloody brilliant.” 

you shrug. “i like history and photography and design. it’s kind of the perfect blend.” glancing at your empty hands, you fumble for your words then meet his eyes through the underside of your lashes. “a little birdie told me you’re pretty smart yourself.”

he tilts his head in a noncommittal manner, and you swear you can see a tinge of color rise along the top of his exposed chest. “i suppose.”

“what is your specialty again? besides the guitar, of course.”

“astrophysics with a concentration in interplanetary dust.” before you can make a quip about how much interplanetary dust is actually around to study, he leans close. he has to bend at the waist to lower his mouth to the shell of your ear, and when he speaks, it’s hardly above a whisper. “i’m good at other things, too, you know? besides space and the guitar.”

you draw back slightly, enough look into his eyes. his pupils are dark, overpowering the hazel tint of his irises. if you move an inch, your lips will brush his mouth; you stay still, your eyes darting back and forth between his.

you feel utterly ridiculous for a fraction of a second. he’s brian may, first of all, and you are decidedly not worthy of his attentions. but more than that, this isn’t your home, your time. the thought makes you cringe. 

fucking hell, you don’t belong here.

his long fingers skim your waist. the touch is feather-light, a mere whisper, but it pulls you from your thoughts.

“what are you thinking?” he breathes.

“not much.” it’s a half-truth; you can barely focus on your existential crisis with his fingertips working along your skin as they are. he’s brazen enough to dip underneath the hem of your shirt just enough to touch the skin of your hip. you bite your tongue. “wondering where you got the nerve to be so cheeky all of a sudden.”

he withdrawals his hand as if he’s been bitten by fire, cheeks gone red as flame. “sorry, sorry,” he stammers. “i just thought that—”

you know you shouldn’t, that it will only lead to trouble, but you do it anyway.

you grab his wrist and squeeze tight. “i’m only joking, brian.” your grip relaxes as you grin. “come dance with me.”

he huffs a sigh of relief, shaking his head. “damn, you really—”

you interrupt him again, your feet moving on their own accord toward the dance floor. there’s this strange desire in you—a desire to forget—and he seems willing enough to be the one to help you lose track of your troubles. “come dance with me.”

“i don’t really know how,” he admits, though his smile is wide, showing off his teeth.

“me neither! we can look like idiots together.”

somewhat reluctantly, brian follows you onto the dance floor. the music is louder here, the song changed to something you don’t recognize. you weren’t lying when you said dancing wasn’t your forte. in primary school, you’d stepped on the toes of every boy in your music class during the week of mandatory dance lessons. things haven’t changed much since then as you promptly land your foot on brian’s seconds into the song.

you gasp and clamp your hands over your mouth in an effort to obscure your laughter. “shit, i’m sorry!”

“it’s fine!” he yells, straining to make his voice heard over the thrumming of the music. “the clogs, they’re kinda like a protective shell.”

swaying to the beat, your hands slide along his forearms. “oh yeah? what do they protect you from?” 

“klutzy girls like you.”

looking back on the moment years later, you wonder if that’s when you fell in love with him first, on the dance floor, his gangly body unaccustomed to fluid movement. he makes you laugh with his two left feet, and you forget, like you’d hoped, that you do not belong in his arms. as the music ebbs and flows like the tide, you follow it, swinging, swaying, twirling in whatever way you can. you’re sweaty, and he’s sweaty, but you’re both smiling. at some point, you bump into anna who bumps into roger who bumps into freddie and then it’s some version of disco mosh pit, arms and elbows and feet tangled together. you’re laughing—truly laughing for what feels like the first time in ages—and, if you could, you’d stay in that moment forever.

the music slows. you breathe hard, nodding as anna whispers something in your ear about leaving with roger. you aren’t sure if you’ll see her again, aren’t sure if it matters, but you’re thankful for her nonetheless. hers was the first kind face you met, and for that, you can never repay her.

a pair of arms wrap around your middle, pulling you tight against a lean chest, dipping you side to side as the music trills in the background. he mumbles against the skin of your neck. “rog’s leaving with anna.”

you nod and curl your fingernails around his forearms. “i know.”

“is it too presumptuous of me to ask if you’ll do the same? not leave with him, i mean. leave with me.”

you could say something about his proposal being too forward after only a handful of hours together, but you don’t. you feel dizzy from dancing, dizzy with a sense of freedom. normally, you’d never follow a guy home after just meeting. it’s never been in your nature, despite the times you wished it were. tonight, though, you feel like you can do anything.

and if that means letting brian may take you back to his hotel where he’ll likely screw the daylights out of you, so be it.

you twist slightly in his arms, enough to look up at him. you repeat your words of earlier. there’s no hint of a challenge in your voice this time, only desire. “lead the way.” 

by the time you reach the door of brian’s hotel room, you’re fumbling with what buttons on his shirt are actually buttoned. his lips are pressed against yours, and you can feel his smile on your teeth as you struggle to both kick the door open with your heel and work the last two buttons.

“you know,” you mumble against his mouth. “you’d make it a lot easier for me if you just don’t button any of them. you’re halfway there, anyway.”

“so i’ve been told,” he replies, his own fingers pushing the three buttons of your blouse through the small holes.  

the comment gives you pause. your hands still on the warm skin of his shoulders, and you pull back. his eyelids are heavy, his lips parted and plump. you don’t know what it is about his words that make you stop. maybe it’s the idea of him in a similar situation with another girl. of course, you know you aren’t the first concert-goer he’s dragged home; you aren’t that much of an idiot. still, the thought niggles at the back of your brain.

his hands slide away from your shirt to cup your face, and he bends down to kiss you softly. this kiss is different from the ones he’d given you in the lift—hungry and demanding—and in the hallway—earnest and consuming. he’s gentle, painfully so, and tears spring to your eyes. you’ve never been kissed like this, not so tenderly. it makes your heart stop.

“just you and me, [y/n],” he whispers when he breaks the touch. “just you and me.”

you nod and finish pushing the white shirt off his shoulders. 

he doesn’t fuck you. he truly makes love to you, worshipping your body until you both are spent and sweaty, sheets tangled around your limbs. when he collapses beside you with a soft groan, you feel the overwhelming urge to cry. it’s embarrassing, really. but it’s been such a long day, and you’re tired—tired and happy and warm. you throw your arm over your eyes to keep from showing your emotion. you absolutely refuse to be the girl who cries after having sex with brian may.

you feel the bedsheets rustle as he props himself up on his elbow. his fingernail skims along your collarbone. “you’re so... divine.”

you drop your arm to stare at him, heart thumping in your chest. his eyes flick up to meet yours. he smiles and looks at you as if he’s known you his whole life, not seven hours. there’s nothing you can say that will capture how you feel in this moment, so you simply grab him by the neck and pull him down for a bruising kiss. 

later, when you’re drifting off to sleep, one of his sleep shirts swallowing you, his chest against your back, one leg pushed between both of yours, you wonder if you’ll wake up in the morning and find it was all a dream. it certainly would make for a good story once you make it home to your flat. even so, if it isn’t a dream, the part of you that so desperately yearned for home hours earlier is slipping away. 

you could stay here, like this, if he let you. 

shaking your head, you burrow against him. such silly thoughts. even if you have to stay here, out of place, for the rest of your life, this night was a one-time thing. you must know that. so, you’ll cherish his arms around you while you can and commit everything to memory. 

come morning, you find yourself still in nineteen-seventy-eight and deliciously sore. you’re embarrassed to say you smile at the revelation of both situations.

stretching your arms over your head as your eyes flutter open, you groan with your stretch. after your eyes have adjusted to the bright morning light streaming through the open curtains, you look around the room and find brian sitting at the small table in the middle of the kitchenette. he has the hotel phone cradled against his shoulder and ear and looks delightfully sleep-muddled. you slip from bed, uncertain how you should act.

will he send you away now that the night is gone? you wouldn’t blame him. your fingers twist the hem of his shirt as you sway from foot to foot at the base of the bed.

he looks up and waves you over. a good sign, at least.

bare feet padding against the carpet, you cross to his side, but don’t reach out to smooth the unruly curls on his head as you wish you could. the thought crosses your mind that you are painfully in love with him already, and it doesn’t even phase you. it just makes you laugh to yourself.

“what do you want for breakfast?”

you blink. “sorry?”

“breakfast? what do you want?”

“i don’t really care. anything,” you say with a shrug. at his pointed look, you concede with a roll of your eyes. “fine. a waffle.”

he adds a waffle to the order, thanks the person on the other end, then puts the phone down. he’s quick to grab your waist and pull you to his lap, his lips attaching to a sensitive spot on your neck. you giggle and swat his shoulder.

“i thought you wouldn’t be so keen about me come morning,” you admit, keeping your tone playful as you pull back to brush the hair from his face.

his forehead crinkles. “why wouldn’t i be?”

you shrug. “we barely know each other. plus, i’m [y/n] [y/l/n] and you’re brian may. not exactly an obvious match.”

he’s quiet a moment, eyes searching yours, before he says, “what do you think about plato’s allegory of the cave?”

you choke on a laugh. “i’m sorry?”

“you know, plato’s cave—what do you think about it?”

he’s being serious, something that absolutely stuns you into answering honestly. you settle on his knee, arms twisted around his neck, as you consider your response. “well, i mean, i think it’s a good metaphor.” you pause. “it makes me think of people and their cell phones.”

“cell phones?”

shaking your head, you backtrack. “i mean, just technology in general. when it comes to technology, we never really know what we’re getting, do we, usually until it’s too late. i know it wasn’t his intention, but the cave makes me think of that. the way technology can so easily take control and we’re powerless to stop it.”

your words hang in the air for a long while. then he dips forward and claims your mouth with his. you shuffle in his lap, surprised, a soft oh parting your lips. he kisses you with that same hunger you’d felt in the lift the previous evening. when he draws back, he presses his forehead to yours.

“come with me,” he breathes.

you still completely, hands dropping from his neck to his arms. the clock on the desk in the corner ticks, loud and annoying. “what?”

“come with me.” he draws back to run a hand over the hair framing your face. “on tour. we leave next month.”

“you’re insane, brian.”

he shakes his head. “no, i’m not.” his words are resolute, anything but unsure.

“we’ve only just met and i don’t think you know what—”

“i know what i’m saying, [y/n].” his hands move to hold your face. “come with me. i’m crazy about you. say what you will about the timing, but i don’t care. you’re smart and funny and beautiful and i want to get to know you more, but i’m leaving. i’d kill to have you by my side.”

“brian...”

your head is spinning, your throat gone dry. someone knocks on the door in the hall—room service—but he keeps talking.

“it’s north america first, then europe, then asia. it’s long, i know, but you don’t have to stay the whole time. i couldn’t ask you to leave your studies like that. you can leave any time you want.”

“brian,” you say again, this time more forcefully, yet he continues.

“i just think that... after last night... fuck, i really like you, [y/n], and i’d hate to see some other guy swoop in while i’m gone.”

he stops at last, breathing heavy, his wiry frame practically trembling with anxiety. you smooth your hands down his neck and across his shoulders, smiling softly. and maybe you’re just as crazy as he is because you lean in, kiss his lips, and say, “okay, i’ll come with you.”

you don’t think twice. don’t have to, really.

he grins, his fingers squeezing your thighs. “really?”

you nod. “really. but only so long as we can go to a disco every now and again. i think john would like that.”

he laughs and delves his fingers in your hair, kissing you hard. you forget about the breakfast waiting in the hall. it doesn’t matter.

a month and a half later, you’re stood outside the record company’s london office, thumbing through your hastily-acquired, perhaps-not-totally-legal passport. crystal had gotten it for you. there being no record of your birth, you aren’t sure how he managed it, but you don’t ask any questions.

the last month and a half have been a whirlwind, to say the least.

you’ve been, largely, happy. any chance you get is spent by brian’s side, and he seems just as eager to pass his free hours with you. you were able to snag a job at a corner diner to make some money for basic necessities—a change of clothes, for starters—and anna, also invited on the tour, gave you free reign of her pull-out sofa without asking for an explanation. 

but despite spending more time in brian’s hotel room than anna’s living room, and despite the blissed-out evenings and comfortable mornings and long chats and shared moments of quiet, despite everything that makes you happy here, you still know it’s not right. it’s not where you belong.

so as you’re standing outside the record company, heavy suitcases at your feet, roadies and groupies alike milling about, you can’t help but feel on edge. it’s that same feeling you had the first night you arrived: your heart is in your throat, your chest tight. 

maybe it’s the clothes: the tight, flared jeans, white prairie blouse, chunky tan heels. it’s cute, but it’s not you. not yet, anyway.

maybe it’s the hair: you’d had to get it cut earlier in the month, anna dragging you to a salon after claiming your hair was too dowdy. when you look in the mirror now, you feel like farrah fawcett, and that’s not totally bad, but it’s taken some getting used to.

maybe it’s the lack of technology: you’re so used to your phone being attached to your palm, or your car keys jingling in your purse, or your earbuds falling out of said purse at inopportune times. now, you just have a bag with a book in it and a few pieces of really uncomfortable makeup. 

all of it serves as a reminder that this is not home.

“ready to go?”

you look up from your passport and squint as the sun hits your eyes. brian stands in front of you, and he moves to block the sunlight. you laugh. “you’re like my own personal sunblocker.” 

“it’s a gift and a curse.” dropping a duffle bag, he bends to unzip it and pull out a box wrapped in plain brown paper. “here, i got you something.”

you frown. “brian, that’s not necessary.”

he pushes the box toward you. “just hush and take it.”

with a sigh, you take the box from his hands. over your shoulder, gerry stickells, tour manager, calls for everyone to load the bus with their belongings. the flight to dallas doesn’t leave for several hours, but he likes to be punctual, and the band plus thirty-odd crew and three or four extra girls makes for a hard group to wrangle at once. you don’t envy him his job.

brian leans a little closer, dropping his voice as he watches gerry herd stragglers toward the bus doors. “open it before he comes to shout at us.”

“fine, but you still shouldn’t have gotten me anything.” 

you rip the paper from the box then slide your nail under the edge. pushing back the cardboard folds, you find a camera nestled amongst sleeves of tissue paper. it’s a small camera, the name canon etched along the silver rim. a thin leather strap is curled around the black casing. 

“brian,” you breathe. you meet his eyes, which shine and sparkle and send a thrill to your chest. “this is too much.”

“when we met you said you liked photography. i figured there might be things you’d like to take pictures of while we’re gone.”

cradling the box against your chest, you rise to your toes to press a firm kiss to his mouth. your fingers wind in the hair at the back of his neck, and his hands come to rest on your sides. as has become custom, you feel his smile on your mouth.

“does that mean you like it?” he murmurs. 

drawing back, you nod. your cheeks hurt your smile is so wide. “yes, of course! thank you!”

gerry’s voice interrupts brian’s response, and you turn to see him, red in the face, pointing to the running vehicle. “hey, you can do that on the bus! get a move on!”

by the time you find your seat on the bus, the tour is already running behind schedule. gerry blames brian, who only shrugs in apology. there’s a brief speech of general safety and schedule from gerry then one of excitement and giddiness from freddie. then the bus rolls out of the parking lot.

you’re nestled on brian’s lap, his arms around your stomach, a game of scrabble on the table in front of you. to your right, john pulls at a cigarette.

“fred, we haven’t even left the country. i don’t want to be sick of this game before tomorrow.”

freddie sticks his tongue out. he places a letter square down and rubs his hands together. “ha! that’s... sixteen points. deaky, write it down!”

brian shifts to glance over your shoulder. “no, that’s not a word, fred.”

“of course it is!” he points to you. “[y/n], please tell him it’s a word.”

instead, you smile and take a picture of him, consternation on his face, finger pointed in the direction of the camera. he groans and rolls his eyes, dropping back against his chair. brian snuggles you close, his breath ghosting over your neck. 

as the bus heads for the airport and the game of scrabble continues, crystal leaning over your seat to add his two-cents, you lean back and sigh. there’s a warmth in your chest, in your heart, that you haven’t felt in a long time. you intertwine your fingers with brian’s and squeeze his knuckles.

maybe... maybe this where you belong after all.

~*~*~*

taglist: @bhmay​ @grigorlee​ @teenagepeterpan​

[thechosenburrito]

The Heart Gambit (Dennor): 5-Too Clever by Half

Word Count: 1,460

Description:

Lukas and Mathias agreed to go to the park together, but are bogged down thinking about personal issues.

Author’s Note:

Yessss more Dennor.  I’m having so much fun writing so I hope you guys like it.  I’m so excited to write more this summer so let me know what you want me to write more about!  Notes, asks, and comments mean so much!

Previous: 4-Treat me like a Fool

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The sun peeked between the curtains in Lukas's room.  He stirred a bit, regretting the promise he made to Mathias.  He pulled himself out of bed and started heating some water for coffee.  It was, unfortunately, instant coffee but it was the best thing he could do considering the circumstances.  He threw open the curtains to let the light fill the room and was met with complaints from Emil.

"You know, just because you get up at the ass crack of dawn, doesn't mean the rest of the world does." Emil groaned as he rolled over in bed.

"I'm making coffee."

Emil set up and started pulling on some day clothes.

"I hate you."

Lukas poured two cups of instant coffee and left one on the nightstand next to Emil.

"I hate you less now."

Lukas sat at the edge of his bed and looked out the window.  He sipped his coffee and began thumbu=ing through the book at the foot of his bed.

"I take it you're up this early because you're going to the park with Mathias," Emil said, blowing on his coffee?

"You heard that?"

"I had my ear pressed to the door of course I did."

Lukas closed the book.

"Well, I did promise to go.  That doesn't mean I wanna go," Lukas replied in a bit of a huff.

Emil stood up and pulled on a shirt.

"Yeah but you can still say no."

"I know that."

Emil sat back on the bed and started trying his shoes.

"Well, then if you don't wanna go, call him and cancel."

"I'm not gonna do that."

"Why not?"

"Because..."

"Because you wanna go."

"I didn't say that-"

"Admit you wanna go with him!" Emil almost screamed, pulling on a jacket.

"Why are you like this!?...and where are you going?" Lukas said, looking up from his book to see that Emil was fully dressed and heading towards the door.

"You need to admit that you have feelings for 'that asshole' because you keep repressing it and messing with your brain!  It's just gonna make your life worse to ignore it."  Emil said opening the door.

"And I'm going sightseeing.  We're in Italy, and I'm probably never coming back here again so I'm gonna enjoy it."

"Have fun on your little park date or whatever." 

Emil stepped out and closed the door behind him.

Lukas stood up from the table and threw himself back on the bed, burying his face in his hands.

"What's wrong with me?" he muttered under his breath.

Was this a date? No, right?  Definitely not a date.  It was just two people going to a park to hang out.  Two people who just so happened to be competing in the biggest Chess competition in the world.  Two people who also happened to share an oddly intimate moment yesterday.  Wait that sounded wrong.  Not like that.  He rolled over in the bed.  It's fine, they're just friends.  What's the worst that could happen?  If Mathias didn't have feelings for him then everything would be fine.  Lukas would just keep living his life and after the competition, he would never have to see Mathias again.  But if Mathias did have feelings...things would be much more complicated.  As much as spending his life with Mathias, maybe getting a house somewhere, or traveling the world, it just wouldn't work out.  The media would be all over it.  Not to mention what would happen to Emil.  But most of all, when Lukas really thought about it, he just had too many flaws to be in a relationship.  Maybe but Mathias did like him, but not really him, some kind of strange idealized version of him.  Maybe that's what happening, Lukas didn't love Mathias, did he?  Was it even real?  If it wasn't real, would he think about him this much when the literal biggest match of his life was only days away?

Lukas let out a long sigh and rolled out of bed.  He pulled on his clothes and made his way to the door.  He wasn't getting Mathias out of his head by sitting around in his room.

- - -

Mathias rolled over in bed to snooze his alarm.  He'd already done this 3 times and regretted telling Lukas to meet him so early in the morning.  But he figured that Lukas was probably more a morning person and would think he's weird for getting up at noon.

Mathias groaned and dragged himself out of bed.  He hissed, half-jokingly, as he drew open the curtains to see that the sun had just barely risen completely.  He made his way to the bathroom, catching a glance at a notepad he had been writing on the night before.  Last night's phone call with Alfred came back all at once.

"So you're telling me you DIDN'T talk to him yesterday."

"I...no I didn't get to.  His brother showed up, but Lukas never did."

"*sigh* ...you're killing me here Mathias."

"Hey, I tried!  It's not my fault he didn't show!"

Mathias started brushing his teeth.

"I know I know...look you just need something on him!"

"I thought this was about getting in his head and figuring out his strategies.  You know, so I can actually win?"

"Look there's been a change of plans."

He started styling his hair.

"What kind of change?"

"Well...I've been thinking about it, and you don't have to win the match on Sunday."

"What are you talking about?"

"Look, if you win on Sunday, everything will be great!  You'll have the title, maybe you do a few commercials, a couple of brand deals, the whole shebang! ...but if you lose... it doesn't have to be a deal-breaker anymore!  If you can dig up something on the other guy we can maybe... um... make it so that... you know..."

"You want to frame him for cheating?"

"Woah Woah Woah!  That's your idea, not mine haha...  Of course, we wouldn't frame him for cheat... but we could sure take the wind of his win you know... make you look like you were against the odds..."

Mathias started pulling on his clothes and putting on his shoes.

"Look I don't need that, man.  I'm a good player."

"No yeah no I know that.  I'm not talking about that.  I'm talking about finances., deals, the money!"

"And I'm talking about me winning the match."

"Since when did you care about winning?"

"I don't!"

"Well, you don't care about winning, and it's sounding like you don't care about money, so what do you care about then!?"

Mathias checked his reflection and headed to the park.

- - -

Lukas was huffing and puffing.  He hadn't realized how much walking with going to the park would involve.  He looked around and came to the realization that he was so far into the park that he had no idea where he was.  He just kept wandering around until he eventually saw a small lake.  There was a bench at the edge of the lake with someone sitting on it.  Lukas didn't care who it was, at that point, he knew his knees were about to buckle.  He made his way over to the bench and sat down on it.

"Sorry... if I bothered you... I just really... needed a break," Lukas said, trying to catch his breath.

Lukas turned to see that it was, in fact, Mathias.  He was digging in a paper bag for a slice of bread.

"I mean, you're not bothering me!  Considering I asked you to come!" Mathias beamed, passing him a slice of bread.  "I was getting a little worried 'cause I realized that I forgot to tell you where to meet me.  But hey!  You made it!"

Lukas smiled a bit.  He looked at the slice of bread Mathias handed to him.  It was a bit stale, but he wanted to be polite.  He took a bite of the bread.

"Woah what are you doing!"

"...eating..."

Mathias laughed.

"No silly!  That's for the ducks!"

Lukas swallowed.

"Oh."

Mathias started tearing pieces of bread and tossing them into the water.  Ducks and their ducklings paddled their way over to the edge of the small lake and started picking at the pieces of bread.  Lukas did the same, occasionally holding his hand out to Mathias for another piece of bread. 

Lukas yawned, remembering that he only had one sip of coffee.  Was he really sleeping that badly all the time?  He rested his head on Mathias's shoulder and felt himself blush.

"Heh... uh... you know I think I heard somewhere that you're supposed to feed them seeds and not bread.  I think bread is bad for them or something..."

Mathias's voice faded out as Lukas drifted off on Mathias's shoulders.

.

.

.

Next Chapter: 6-Someone else’s Parasite (Coming Soon!)

A/N:

This is technically late but I had fun writing it that’s all that matters!

I’m going to take this time to plug my non-hetalia work “ Intro to Love ” (on Wattpad) about a college student who struggles to keep her superpowers a secret and while making new friends.  How much of her normal life will she give up to save her friends from a mysterious villain that drains students’ brains and turns them into zombies?  The complete Chapter 1 is out NOW AND so is Chapter 2.1-'The last of the Good Days’!  Go read them!  Right now!   They’re waiting for you!  Chapter 1.1 is here on my tumblr!

Thanks again for reading! Send some feedback my way! Can’t wait to continue this story!

Quotev link: here

[beevean]

You're thoughts on Metroid Prime 2 : echoes & it multiplayer mode ?

I never tried its multiplayer mode because I'm lonely and I don't even think it's possible on an emulator :P

I didn't like MP2 very much. It's not a bad game by any means, but I just didn't jive with its main mechanic of having a dark world. Now, I understand this game had a super rushed development and the dark world was essentially a way to inflate the game, but it's still not very interesting, having to change dimension and having to go through the same areas but with a duller palette and harder enemies to progress. It doesn't help that the first worlds are rather... boring? Agon Wastes is so big and so unremarkable and I couldn't wait to be done with it. At least Torvus Bog is much more engaging, even with the difficulty spike, and Sanctuary Fortress stands out as a final level.

The fact that the dark world saps you of energy unless you stay in a light bubble changes the way you play: you can either take the risk and rush through it, or recharge in every bubble you see. I did the second thing. It made the beginning of the game almost unbearable. That was my fault, I admit it.

I do like the ammo mechanic. It was an interesting way to shake up the formula, and it added reasonable difficulty. Ngl the best part was getting the Annihilator Beam and using it on those beacons to attract the Ing and seeing them frying alive <3

I also liked the creepier moments this game has to offer, like the entire intro with all those dead bodies, or Samus reading the logs of the soldiers who were ambushed by the Ing, or anytime you meet Dark Samus, or that terrifying game over sequence. Really good atmosphere.

The bosses are... how should I put it... nightmares. Some of them were nightmares in a "I know I can beat you, I know I can!" way, like the Power Guardian. Others were nightmares in a "please kill me now I can't bear it", like the Spider Guardian. But I generally think both this game and Prime 1 have some of the most interesting bosses in the series.

Graphically it's about the same as Prime 1, but with more mixed art direction. I already praised Torvus Bog and Sanctuary Fortress, and that's about it. Musically, it's about the same, I remember only a few tracks from this game but those few are excellent.

Oh, and technically I've never finished this game. I got to the final fetch quest, I realized I had to travel through both dimensions to get those stupid keys, and I noped right out of the game. Sorry, by that time I was so tired.

[teriwrites]

the big manuscript search tag

I’m compiling a bunch of different tags from @cecilsstorycorner and @akindofmagictoo so this might be a long one!

My words to find: lonely, cup, drown, routine, deep, feather, rich, contact, kick, sun, pair, whisper, king, chord, chip, prove, mix, spin, water, color, need, fade, everyday

...yeah, that’s really long, so I’m going to throw the results in a read more to spare all your feeds from a wall of text

There’s a few words that don’t appear in one project or another, so I’m going to use both Castle on the Hill and Beneath Alder Creek! Because of that, the order won’t be quite the same

Castle on the Hill:

Lonely:

For the first day of break, Hans spent the entire day lounging around his house. His mother said nothing about it, except to suggest moving to a new spot every few hours so that he wouldn’t cramp up. She was in and out of the house a lot, which Hans took as a good sign. The harder days were those in which his mother spent most of it upstairs, locked away in her room. Hans had been allowed to join her, if he wished, but he’d preferred not to see her in such a state. Still, it had led to many a lonely afternoon.

Cup:

The following morning, Peter made the short trek over to the familiar cafe for his second date with Ursula. Despite having left five minutes early, Peter arrived to find Ursula already waiting at a table, with a cup of coffee in hand. He beelined for the table and tossed his blazer onto the back of the chair across from her. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” “No worries, I enjoyed the walk,” Ursula said brightly.

Drown:

“You seemed pretty smitten with this tutor girl,” Peter mused. The sounds of a dramatic breakup on the television nearly drowned him out. He fished the remote from the coffee table and muted the television. Klaus looked between Peter and Georg, who were both sending him matching smug expressions. Georg dramatically batted his eyes at Klaus, who shoved him in the shoulder and nearly sent him toppling over the side of the couch. “Come off it,” he dismissed with a snort. “I barely know her. She’s a fox, sure, but I’m not going to lose my head over a girl I’ve met once. Klaus Müller is always on the make.” Georg leaned forwards to look at Peter. “He’s speaking in the third person again.”

Routine:

“Alrighty, now that that’s out of the way, who wants to tell me what year the European Economic Community was established?” Prof. Dietrich asked brightly, shifting back into his regular routine of starting a lecture with an oral quiz. Josef avoided the man’s eye contact, choosing instead to pretend to be desperately jotting down notes. “Herr Weber? How about you give it a shot?”

Feather:

The rest of the class shifted their attention back to the lecture, but Josef’s face flushed as he fished out his notebook from his bag. He could practically hear the stories that would be circulating later. Josef Weber, the snobby inheritor to his father’s auto company, got scolded in front of a whole class. Wouldn’t that just put a feather in quite a few caps?

Rich:

“Tell me why I didn’t decide to work as a janitor,” Klaus muttered. “You’d never succeed as a janitor; you never even had to clean your own messes growing up.” One of Klaus’ arms snapped forwards and a smack that was aiming for Georg’s shoulder instead slapped smartly against the wooden back of his chair. With a sharp intake of breath, Klaus straightened in his seat. As he rubbed at his knuckles, Klaus shot back, “That’s rich, coming from a lawyer’s son.”

Chord:

“It’s a little complicated right now,” Hans said calmly. “Look, I’ve talked it all over with my mother, and she agreed that it would be best for me to stay here. It’s not that long, Josef, don’t look at me like that.” The doubt etched into Josef’s features was enough to warrant the comment, and he shook his head to try clearing it. Nothing in Hans’ demeanor pointed towards it being a lie, but something in the idea struck a false chord in him.

Water:

Though he'd managed to subdue most of his panic, Peter felt it all rushing back. A sudden pain at his hand drew him out of his thoughts, and he realized that he'd been aggressively stirring the pasta, and some of the water had splashed out of the pot.

Fade(d):

As Hans spoke, Professor Abend’s face lit up with recognition, which quickly faded into a solemn mourning. The exam lay on the desk between the two, forgotten. “I knew I had a Faust in one of my classes, but I never thought to make a connection,” Professor Abend said in a low voice.

Beneath Alder Creek:

Deep:

A deep breath, and then Winnie followed through, dragging her other foot into the creek. The water rose halfway up her calf, and continued to rise as she made her way forwards. To her thigh, then her hip, and finally up to her waist. It was the second dress she’d soaked that day, Winnie thought with a wry smile, and, in her distraction, she failed to notice a large rock in the creek bed. It could hardly be considered a fall. Winnie pitched forwards, plunging her face into the creek for only a moment before she caught her balance and straightened up. But she’d opened her mouth as she tripped, and her rise was met with a violent coughing fit. Loose strands of hair clung to her face, making it impossible to see, and Winnie pushed forwards carefully by feeling along the bottom with her foot. The progression was slow, but Alder Creek was by no means wide, and it wasn’t long before Winnie found the water beginning to ebb away. As she pulled herself out of the creek, Winnie brushed the hair from her face and finally opened her eyes. Looking to where she’d seen the fairy ring, she froze.

Contact(ing):

Contacting the fae was no easy feat; they only made appearances of their own volition, not subscribing to any convenient timetable. While it was said that certain holidays brought the mortal world closer to their realm, years had passed before any signs revealed their presence. By then, the couple had been so eager that they’d wasted no time in seeking out a deal. They were the fourth and fifth victims within the fifteen years. Nobody had been so hasty since.

Kick(ing):

Back into the bog. Winnie no longer worried herself with her skirts, allowing them to drag through the stagnant water. It was a mistake, she soon discovered, as the drenched fabric weighed her down and made the progress even slower. With an exasperated groan, she stomped at the ground, kicking up a spray and lodging her boot into the mud.

Sun:

Time steadily passed as they traveled, though how quickly or slowly it went by, Winnie couldn’t say. She could feel the blisters beginning to form on her feet, the slight ache in her shoulders where she’d slung her bag, the warmth that spread across her back as the sun’s ceaseless rays washed over them. When she fell slightly behind Taliesin, he was shining so brightly that her eyes began to burn, and she had to quicken her pace to keep in step with him.

Pair:

The first thing Winnie noticed was the boat they were standing in. It was like a skiff, sitting low in the water and directed by a pair of oars. The figure rowing seemed to be wearing some type of headgear, a hazy and elongated shape still a little too far to make out. Taliesin moved back from the shore, forcing Winnie to do the same to provide space for the skiff to breach.

Whisper:

“Don’t stare,” Taliesin reminded her in a whisper. He raised a hand in greeting, and the figure dipped their head slightly, though how they could’ve seen it without eyes, Winnie couldn’t say. “Hail, Ferryman!”

Prove(n): 

Turning away from the Llion, the group soon found themselves returning once more to the thick fog of the wetlands. Winnie took the middle, knowing better than to have Taliesin and Enid side-by-side. In one hand, she took the long sleeve of Enid’s robes, and in the other, Taliesin’s cloak. He dragged his feet the whole time, still sulking, and it took all of Winnie’s self-restraint not to let go and leave him behind as punishment for his pettiness. Being proven wrong did not suit the golden man.

Mix(ed):

It was nearly a week later when Winnie found herself back at Alder Creek. The water level had dipped back to its usual shallows, which lazily drifted by. Winnie could see her face reflected as she stared down, features blurred in its [flowing surface]. The hem of her skirt had dipped into the water, which lapped at Winnie’s bare feet. Her shoes were somewhere behind her, abandoned, a sign of her troubled mind. For the most part, Winnie had abandoned the practice of walking about barefoot - how her mother would’ve shouted if she’d seen her. The thought of her mother brought a fresh wave of mixed humiliation and frustration as the events of the day replayed through her mind.

Spin:

A light flickered in the trees. When Winnie looked up, she stared at the sight. Taliesin was crouching on a branch, catlike, with his hands holding the branch between his feet. Somehow, he did not sway but remained perfectly still, patiently watching Winnie spin in circles to look for him, all with an amused half-smile.

Color(s):

The opening of the cavern shifted through several colors, like an ever-changing kaleidoscope of light through a prism.

Need:

She offered Enid no response, so after a stretch of silence, the statuesque woman continued. “This is out of some attachment to the Dusk fellow, then.” Winnie bristled at her tone. “Of course it’s not. I merely need him to ensure that my brother and I are able to depart the Fae safely.”

Not found:

King (Apparently my writing does not support monarchies lol)

Chip

Everyday

This was excessively long, so I’m going to leave it an open tag. The words for anyone who feels like it are king, chip, and everyday because I’m sure somebody out there has them, even if I don’t. 

[beheeyem-moved]

Just had a dream where the new way to try and kill children was to put this powder on the top of 7up bottles and when the powder touched the 7up it would turn into a huge fucking bug?? Anyways it got to the point the news was telling kids to stop drinking it and kids were saying no fuck you and drinking it anyways so kids were dying left and right from bug 7up. Eventually they got @bogleech on the news and he broke down in tears about how the bugs were being used for evil and the people making the 7up things got so sad they gave him all the bugs?? Man I dunno it was wild

[kingofthewilderwest]

hey! I don't know that much about viking culture so i'd like to ask- since Zephyr is the chief's firstborn child.. is she going to be the next chief(I don't know the term for female chief hah) because she's the firstborn or is it going to be Nuffink because he is boy?

Heya! I’m not knowledgeable about Viking culture either, so both of us would just have to Google it. Or, we can check out posts that @dyannehs has already written about Viking culture and/or how it aligns with the HTTYD world (sorry for @ ing you yet again whoops - I’m not trying to make more work for you, just let people know about the work you’ve already done!). This post in particular might be good info about whether or not women could be chiefs!

From what I know, I’d say that if you wanted to mirror what actual Viking society did, Nuffink would be much more likely. BUT. Berk is its own separate culture with trends that differ from past historic Viking culture. So sometimes I like to look within the HTTYD series itself for guesses on what’s most likely.

One thing we can notice is that in “Portrait of Hiccup as a Buff Young Man,” there are portraits of chiefs next to their son. As Stoick and Hiccup get painted, Stoick says, “This portrait’s gonna take its place alongside all the other chiefs and their sons.” All the pictures are, indeed, a male Viking chief with one son. It’s meant to record a line of succession: after all, I highly doubt that every single generation would compose of one father with exactly one son. No, the Viking chiefs would easily have had multiple kids, there would have been girls as well as boys, and I’m sure some father had a daughter as their eldest child. But given as the portraits here are of one father with one son, the implication is that this line of succession is passed from father to son in Berk.

In HTTYD 2, during Stoick’s flashback, we can look to see who was in the meeting of chieftains. It’s all men. Beards everywhere. The absence of women doesn’t prove women can’t be chiefs, but the fact we see only men puts it in much higher likelihood only men were chiefs in the Barbaric Archipelago, and that if a woman rose to power, it was an exception to the norm. (For an instance of women as leaders: one of the warlords in THW is a woman, after all).

THW also gives us a few hints of how the Hairy Hooligans of Berk, specifically, thought of leadership. Gobber urges Astrid to marry Hiccup and lead alongside him. While Hiccup is the chief, the concept here in THW is that Astrid, as the chief’s wife, would play an enormous leadership role in Berk society too. There’s a sense of co-rulership for the married couple - at least for Hiccup’s reign.

We can also look to other tribes in the DreamWorks Dragons franchise. It’s to note that we see an overwhelming majority of male chiefs. Oswald the Agreeable from the Berserkers, Dagur the Deranged from the Berserkers, Alvin the Treacherous from the Outcasts, etc. But we also see a few cultures in the Barbaric Archipelago diverge. The Defenders of the Wing and the Wingmaidens are both communities in which women are leaders. For the Wingmaidens, of course the leadership is all women, given as the community is all women. For Mala, there’s some tradition about marriage, in which a man must pass the Trials to become the next king and, as implied, marry the current queen. But the Defenders of the Wing aren’t Vikings - their clothing and separate culture tell us that - and the Wingmaidens are a unique organization that isn’t society’s norm for everyday tribes. It’s an indication that in this world women aren’t unheard of as rulers, but it’s also an indication from outside of the Viking culture itself.

Now, the HTTYD books are a separate timeline, but you can look at those, too, if you like. Of the leadership we know in the HTTYD books, we have: Stoick the Vast (male chief, Hairy Hooligans), Mogadon the Meathead (male chief, Meathead Tribe), Norbert the Nutjob (male chief, Hysteric Tribe), Alvin the Treacherous (male chief, Outcast Tribe), and Big-Boobied Bertha (female chief, Bog-Burglar Tribe). We can also look at the lineage of kings from Grimbeard the Ghastly and the previous tribe leaders for the Hairy Hooligans. The Hooligan family tree in the eighth book shows leadership passed through (usually) the eldest son. Stoick isn’t the firstborn; he has two elder sisters; but Stoick became leader. And Snotlout, Stoick’s nephew through his younger brother Baggybum, is the one who would be next-in-line to Hooligan leadership if Hiccup were passed over. 

What about Big-Boobied Bertha and the Bog-Burglars? What about Luna, Queen of Dragons? Dragon societies aren’t human societies, so that’s different. And the Bog-Burglar Tribe appears unique from the other tribes, in that it’s written as a warrior woman tribe. So Bertha proves that Viking women chiefs aren’t impossible in the HTTD world of the Barbaric Archipelago, at least for that tribe, but the rest of the information I’m seeing - books and DreamWorks franchise both - supports the concept of son inheriting father’s rule.

But ya know what. Hiccup is a revolutionary of his own. He knows how strong women are as leaders. He’s met Mala. He’s seen Astrid in action. He’s interacted with Atali and Minden. He knows about Bertha and Camicazi. This is the kid who brought dragons - Berk’s worst enemy - into the heart of their civilization, and created peace. Hiccup is a part of his society and culture and time, of course, but he’s also someone who pushes the world forward in new ways. If Hiccup finds Zephyr the best candidate for chiefdom, do you really think he or Berk would protest to the concept? Do you think Astrid wouldn’t support the same thing? Berk’s been through wilder shifts. I imagine they can support a woman ruler.

So I mean. Heck. I say headcanon what you want. It can be fun to look to culture of the past for inspiration. It can be a cool way to flesh out storytelling in HTTYD fanfiction. I love seeing that material incorporated! But we are also dealing with a fictional culture. The evidence around us in the HTTYD universe itself is heavily skewed with male leaders, but it does technically show women leaders like Queen Mala, Queen Luna, and Chief Bertha. So I mean, why not Zephyr as Chief of Berk if she’s cut out for it? Until we’re told otherwise, the territory’s open.

[caiuscassiuss]

Muse | Painter AU! Taeyong (M)

Description: “You are the apple of my eye, the stars in my sky; you are my muse, and most importantly, you are mine.”

Safe: In all ways, you have always played it safe, never taking risks. However, your stagnant world is shaken up when abstract painter Lee Taeyong propositions to you in the middle of an art galley.

Genre: angst | fluff | humor WC: 18.8k Warnings: graphic smut (virginity loss, rough sex, oral sex, unprotected, 69, etc), profanity

    (A/N: I’m so sorry painter taeyong lowkey turned into pseudo sugar daddy taeyong. Also, there is a detailed notations list at the end noting my references.)

   You scrutinized the lines of various lengths and curvatures that made up the design of your organic building. Your trained eye could pick out the angles were all correct, every detail arithmetically precise, but the building simply didn’t invoke any sort of passion in you. The lines were exactly just that; lines. None of the functional utility of the drawing gave way to any sort of creativity. It was like staring at a paper you’ve written on for hours with invisible ink, only to realize that you’ve forgotten the point and nothing made sense because you didn’t have any way of reading it.    A sigh escapes your lips as you stand up from your stool, a satisfying “crack” resounding throughout the empty room when you stretch your poor back. You roll your head back in a circle, refreshing your eyes from the hours spent on staring at a piece of blue paper hung up on the angled drawing board. 1, 2, 3, you count as you extend your arms out to relieve the muscles from the lack of exertion of a few hours.    Panting after the stretch, you stare at the drawing again. No matter how hard you stared, the drawing desk could not turn into a dirt-stained pottery wheel, nor could the many rulers suddenly morph into chisels, worn with constant use. It was hopeless really, as hopeless as you actually managing to put together a comprehensive design for your architecture final.    Your phone vibrated on the side table and your eyes dart over to the screen. It lay in a halo of rulers and pencils, erasers dotting the surface of the table like water droplets while pencil sketches were interspersed haphazardly. A messy desk was the sign of a messy mind, after all; you just hoped it didn’t reflect in your work.    Olivia, one of your friends at the private arts college you both attended, informed you to “hurry the fuck up” and meet her at the quad. You frowned, not recalling the reason why, but ah-ing when the reason came to you. A famous artist, whom with Olivia was absolutely enamored, was delivering a speech in one of the lecture halls on campus and she wanted you to come along. It escaped your reasoning on why your presence was needed (You were an architect major. What use was an abstract painter’s advice to you?) but you agreed anyway, even if she was acting like some silly teenage girl attending a concert.    Sighing, you did your best to organize the pathetic mess on your workshop table and gave up as soon as you started. What was the point anyway? It was going to be a quick trip, after all. You gathered your essential things in your bag and strode determinedly out of the workshop and into the maze of hallways that made up the famed Parsons School of Design. The midday sun that greeted you outside was a welcome replacement for the fluorescent lighting in the workshop.    Your friend, in her signature monochrome ensemble, was tapping her foot impatiently as she shielded her eyes from the sun. A surge of envy and sadness rose up at the sight of her paint-splattered tote bag and her stained fingers. You admired Olivia for her braveness at pursuing her passion, but also grew green-eyed at the sort of tired joy in her eyes when she recounted her brush technique class. Sighing, you continued walking through the quad, feeling the sunlight warming your skin and melting away your worries. Her disgruntled expression turned even more sour when she caught sight of you moseying along, admiring the the greenery and architecture.    “This is no time for you to enjoy nature! We’ve got to get there soon and grab some front row seats before half of the damn campus floods in!” she lectures grabs your arm. You roll your eyes and increase your pace to keep up, and you both speed walk to the lecture hall.    The lecture hall of Parsons School of Design was the pride and joy of its students and alumni. Designed by one of the alumni of the architecture department, it was a huge, intimidating structure made out of glass and metal in the spirit of postmodern design. A dome made completely out of glass soared over the amphitheater-style seating surrounding a central stage, the signature blood-red banners of your college hanging in this way and that way. Usually used for special occasions, this hall wasn’t your run of the mill lecture hall but a bold statement of creativity.    Even after having attended the venue multiple times, you couldn’t help but be amazed at its sheer size and impressive design. However, the room was filled with loud chatter and buzz, teeming with students and staff.    “Look! Over there!” Olivia exclaimed and tugged you in the direction of the inner ring of seats. You were surprised she could even see over the mass of people with her short stature, and that there happened to be seats available in the huge crowd.    As soon as the pair of you took your seats, a hush swept over the audience. Chitchat is smothered with the blanket of silence and the echoes of conversation no longer reverb across the hall, only a sort of nervous buzz signifying anticipation.    “Good afternoon, everyone. Today is-” your headmaster droned on in a monotone voice.    “This old man needs to hurry the fuck up, my god!” Olivia grumbled, resting her chin on her palm.    You roll your eyes and your thoughts drift to other trivial things. Did you water your plants? Did you save the latest design model in your hard drive? Was the hot barista still working at-    Applause resounds around the lecture hall as your headmaster steps down from the stage and hands the microphone over to a man with sunset orange-red hair and a slender build. His stage presence was immediately more noticeable than your headmaster’s. Him in his black slacks and oxford shirt rolled to the sleeves attracted the crowd’s attention like bees to honey.    “Ehem.”    Olivia, beside you, squeals in delight while you slightly lean forward, intrigued by this man.    “As you may know, I am Lee Taeyong, an artist and alumni of Parsons,” he bows slightly and your classmates murmur about his Korean heritage.    “Today, I would like to talk about inspiration.”    He started pacing the stage, making rounds to address each part of the circular auditorium.    “Inspiration is something easy to find, yet rather hard to grasp. It’s difficult to wrestle with something you see or feel onto a canvas or block of clay that makes sense. But this is basic knowledge to all of you, right?” he grins and the crowd laughs.    As the speech continues, you can never take your eyes off the painter. Lee Taeyong seemed to embody the abstract art he was so famous for, his presence departing independently from the reality around him. It was almost like there was the crowd, the stage, and then him. He cut an alternate shape in the fabric of reality and somehow, and that drew your attention.    “However, inspiration is more than what helps me pick up my paintbrush at 2 am and to pay the bills; it is an energy that I have to constantly grapple with. Inspiration will drive you to your limits or bog you down like an anchor, it can either eat at your mind or push you towards your boundaries. It can consume you or it will be the one that feeds you.”    “Inspiration cannot be underestimated; it is just as much as an energy as the electricity that lights up this building and the kinetic energy in physics. Do not take it for granted; you are under its spell, after all.”    Taeyong’s lecture comes to an end and he bows, which shakes the whole hall out of its trance and into thunderous applause. Your classmates and many staff actually stand up to give this man a standing ovation, which rarely happens. Olivia, by your side, is still starstruck and tugged at your arm in excitement while you suddenly snap out of your daze. Even though you feel like the floor has been taken from beneath your feet, you regain the use of your limbs and get up to applaud.

   The air conditioning hits you in the face like a wrecking ball, and you shiver at the temperature change from outside to inside. You clutch the handles of your tote bag harder. No matter; the cold was endearing and you wouldn’t have it any other way. The art gallery on 18th street was your home away from home, a moment of reprieve from the stressful world of college. A usual college student’s hangout spot would be the coffee shop or even at the library but no; your place of rest and relaxation was within the walls of an art gallery.    You strolled through the various galleries, greeting each piece like an old friend. In a way, they were; when you moved out from your comfy suburbs, the only thing that reprieved you from your homesickness was the paintings on the wall or the sculptures on display.    When you crossover into another exhibition room, you pause momentarily in surprise. While you were expecting to see overhanging metal mobiles by Calder (1), instead, you were greeted by paintings of various sizes in gilded frames. They were painted with a muted color palette, drab and horribly realistic. There were landscapes of wheat or empty, desolate rooms, all of them showcased in moody lighting. The banner above you proclaimed these were the works of Andrew Wyeth, a larger than life black and white photo of him hanging imposingly over the installations.    A central piece draws your eyes to its canvas. It is a rather intimate piece; a woman in full nude sitting on a stool near a barn window, her bright skin contrasted by the darkness of the background surrounding her (2). It was gorgeous and you admire the mastery of detail put into the piece. As you continued to inspect the painting, a presence sidles closely beside you. You pay no mind to the person.    “Was he in love with her?” Your intense concentration on the painting in front of you is broken, and you turn your head towards the sound of the noise. The man on your left is not looking at you, rather, in the position, you were occupying a few seconds ago: transfixed by the painting. His glasses reflect in the studio lights and they highlight his unusually sharp features. He gives off an aura you couldn’t quite identify but are somehow familiar with.    “You are to assume I know of such artistic critique?” you ask bemusedly, cocking an eyebrow at this intriguing man.    He turns towards you, and your memory suddenly clicks together. You didn’t recognize him with the glasses, but the sharp jawline and distinct cheekbones, the ruffled hair and aristocratic nose- Lee Taeyong.    Taeyong’s mouth half pulls into a grin but he motions at your emblazoned tote bag.    “Parson’s?”    “Lee Taeyong! Oh, my, I certainly didn’t expect this.” The lights feel too bright and too warm when he scrutinizes your face with his intense, coal black eyes.    “Pleasure. And you are…?”    “Y/N L/N.”    His mouth pulls into some kind of half-smile for you and he turned back towards the painting.    “So?”    “I’m part of the architecture department,” you explain, bitterness seeping into your tone.    He raises his eyebrows.    “Either way; was Wyeth in love with his muse?”    Your brows furrow at this question. You think for a few seconds before carefully deciding on an answer. There was no telling what this man wanted anyway.    “I feel it was more of an aesthetic appreciation if anything. Nudity is not inherently sexual- Wyeth wanted to just invoke vulnerability through her nude body,” you speak decisively.    “Is there not some sort of love involved in spending time painting and scrutinizing every crevice of her body?” you shiver at the almost seductive tone in his voice, passionate and fiery. His tenor was the stuff of dark rooms and rumpled sheets, dying sunlight and lingering kisses.    Nevertheless, you huff and roll your eyes. “If you see it that way, sure. She was probably just a hired model.” (3)    Taeyong stays silent for a few seconds.    “Interesting,” he hummed.    You both stand, side by side looking at the dark painting.    “I hate to inform you, but my intentions on coming over here were not... purely to ask you about your interpretation of Wyeth.” Taeyong broke the silence.    “What were they, then?” you ask, intrigued,    “Your eyes are wonderful, you know,” Taeyong says abruptly.    “What.” you deadpan, confused at his sudden shift in tone.    “Your eyes are wonderful; I should love to paint them,” he speaks absentmindedly as if he were speaking to himself and not in conversation with another.    “Will you let me paint you?” He turns his smoldering eyes to you, boring into yours like a sucker-punch to the gut.    “I… excuse me?” you sputter, secretly wondering if this esteemed artist your friend so admired was high off of his ass.    “Will you let me paint you?” he draws out as if you were lacking in brain cells.    “Um… no? I don’t pose nude. Nor do I fancy myself a model.”    “You wouldn’t have to pose nude, y/n. You would serve more as… inspiration, rather than a real-life reference. You would be paid, if that helps,” Taeyong spoke quietly, beseeching you to heed his words.    “I’m afraid I don’t have much knowledge with this sort of thing, you know?”    Taeyongs sighs, and reaches into the inner coat pocket to retrieve something white and small. He offers the object, a vellum calling card, to your perusal. His name and contact information are engraved with silver ink and you hesitantly reach up to grab the card.    “Well, if you change your mind… you can contact me.” He brushes his thumb over your knuckles as he hands you the card, the way a cool breeze brushes upon your skin to refresh you from the hot summer air. His touch would seem unintentional if not for the suggestive smirk on his face. You blush slightly at the contact, and he retracts his hands and put them into his pockets.    “I bid you adieu.”    With a final grin, he sweeps out of the room, his presence still lingering like a miasma in the air.

   You slouch into the headboard of the rickety bed of your dorm room, cuddled up with blankets and hot chocolate. It was time to do some research because you were going to be safe.    You typed in “artist model”. All that came up with was a definition, so you decided to go another route. “Artist’s inspiration” brings about nothing relevant, and you pout, frustrated at the lack of information available. You ponder for a moment, the thunderstorm pounding at your window pane. Were you going to be his “muse”? You knew, vaguely, that the term was a loaded concept, subject to controversy and misconceptions. The way Taeyong described, you were acting more like a base for his artwork, something of an anchor for his creativity; a jumping board.    A crack of thunder jump-scares you, and you almost spill your hot chocolate onto your bedsheets. Sighing, you relinquish your grip on the mug and put it on your nightstand.    Throwing your hands up in exasperation, you power off your laptop and set aside on your desk. Today was simply not that day where you would come to a definite conclusion.

   “Say, Olivia, if you were suddenly propositioned by a man to be his model, would you accept?”    “Come again?!”    Her head of blonde hair whips back as she snaps her head towards you. The brushes she is washing in the sink are quickly discarded in favor of her freezing in shock, an amusingly shaken look on her face. You, however, are unperturbed and sit on the couch, staring at the TV display nonchalantly.    You look back at her, an eyebrow raised as her mouth gapes open stupidly in your direction.    “I’m not repeating that.”    Olivia unfreezes and turns off the tap, wiping her hands hurriedly on her jeans as she strides towards the living room of her apartment. Her pretty countenance is marred by furrowed brows, a mixture of confusion and impending alarm in her eyes. She settles into the couch, and unlike usual, she does not flop into it ungracefully but sits into it cautiously with her back ramrod straight.    “Y/n can you please explain?!” she asks.    You sigh and switch off the blaring TV and turn to her.    “An artist I recently met at a gallery asked me to “serve as inspiration for him”.”    At the sight of the doubt on her face, you explain more.    “No! Not like that. I’m not posing nude for him or anything like that, more like… inspiration of sorts.”    Olivia leans her chin onto her palm, deep in thought.    “Okay, who is it?”    You cringe. You knew this question was going to come up.    “... Lee Taeyong,” you whisper.    Olivia actually physically jumps off the couch and stands up.    “WHAT?!”     You cower away from her enthusiasm. Her hair crackles with excitement and her eyes are wide, but you are not surprised by her overzealous reaction.    “Erm… yeah?” you offer hesitantly.    “Oh my god, yes! You should totally do it! This is great, y/n! Do you know how many people would kill for this opportunity?” she ranted as she threw her hands up in the air. She paced the room in barely contained excitement, while you could only stare.    She calmed down after a while and sat back down. She exhaled then drew a palm over her face, and her face was fine.    “Okay, in all seriousness, I think it would be a great opportunity for you. Y/n… I love you so much, sweetheart, but you always play it so safe in your life.”    You frown and turn your head to the side. While you have known this practically all your life, it still hurts for it be said so raw and out in the open, like a cut wound exposed to the air.    “You never want to go out clubbing with the girls or flirt with some guys. Hell, you didn't even want to pursue scul-”    She shuts up when you cut your eyes towards her, a warning and angry gaze contained in them.    “...sorry. However, you get my point: you need to take risks more. Have fun, take a breather, and get out more! I think… I think this modeling opportunity might get you out of your shell, you know? You should go for it and… just be careful.”    You stay quiet for a while, contemplating over her words. Olivia was right, as much as you hated to admit it. It loathed you to go out of the apartment, no matter how much you yearned for excitement and the vibrancy of city life. Any romantic interest or advance was clinically clipped at the bud, because what if you got hurt? What if you couldn't concentrate on your studies? Safety meant no boys, no parties, no risky decisions. Safe was always...safe for you. But was “safe” good for you?    “... alright. I'll give it a try.”    Olivia squealed and dragged you off the couch, dancing you around in a bastardized version of the waltz. Peals of laughter rang out throughout the apartment as she dragged you into her excitement.

   The numbers of Taeyong’s number glow up from your screen, all ready to be dialed. You, on the other hand, were NOT ready and instead, eyed your phone like it was some sort of bomb that might explode.    Even if Olivia had convinced you at least try and see where it took you, you could not uphold to those promises when it came down to be. The effects of pressing the red little call icon on your phone screen would be… astronomical.     Would things change? Would they be the same? Would you still be the college student struggling to make ends meet? Or would you be something else entirely, something you couldn’t even fathom in your imagination? What would happen?    You know what? Fuck it.    You could do this.    A shiver of nervous anticipation wracked your body as the dialing tone rang through your empty apartment.    “Hello?” a husky tone spoke.    “Hi,” you whisper.    “Who is this?” Taeyong asks disinterestedly.    “It’s… it’s y/n. The girl you met at the gallery on 18th street?”    “Ah, y/n! Hello!” He exclaims, a complete roundabout from the cool detachment apparent in his tone earlier.    “Have you thought about my offer yet?” He asks.    “Erm, yes. I decided I… I’d like to take you up on it.”    There are a few moments of silence until Taeyong breathes out, “Delightful.” You unconsciously let out a breath you didn't know you were holding in. Your posture slumps back into the chair behind you from your hunched position over the table.    “Um… yeah.” You don't know quite what to say now.    He laughs, a rich delightful sound that rumbles through the phone line and stirs something in the pit of your stomach. You gulp as his amused chuckle does down.    “You are so cute. I'll text you the details of where we should meet up, alright?”    “Yes, of course.”    “I will see you later. Have a nice night.”    “You too. Goodbye.”    The line clicks off and it is almost like the aftermath of an explosion. You stare, dazed and shell-shocked, at the dark screen of your cell phone.    You really don’t know what you have gotten yourself into.

   Muted jazz music plays softly over the speakers of the cafe you are currently sitting at, and combined with the ambient lighting makes the place attractive indeed. It is one of the classier coffee cafes in New York, one slightly out of the price range of broke college students, so it is an oddity to see one sitting in one of the plush booths that the cafe provides; hence, why you probably stuck out like a sore thumb.    Your fingers fumble with the handle of the coffee mug in front of you as you check your phone repeatedly. You tug nervously at the collar of your shirt and look around the cafe discreetly.    Taeyong had texted you the address of this cafe with no explanation, except a time and a date. It was rather confusing at first; why did he want to meet up with your cafe? You’d think you’d be brought to some sort of studio or informal workplace, but here you were, humming along with the saxophone in a dimly lit cafe.    The display on your phone read 6:40, 10 minutes after when Taeyong had said he would meet you. Normally, you would just wait patiently, but the importance of whom you were meeting with and why had you on edge with anticipation, butterflies wreaking havoc in your stomach. You glanced down at your coffee mug; it was ¼ full, which meant you have been guzzling it down pretty quickly in nervousness. A sigh escapes your lips as you turn your attention towards the window.    You were on the fifth floor, so you had a bird’s-eye view of the pedestrians outside. People-watching was a habit of yours, albeit barely explored; it intrigued you to ponder what sort of lives the people passing you had. A woman near the corner caught your eye; she had perfectly coiffed hair and strode confidently through the mess of people with a briefcase and light overcoat. She looked like she might be a working woman, you mused, a yuppie; the sort of person your father dreamt for you to become.    A man with dyed orange hair ensnared your attention next, carrying a skateboard. While you could not see it from your vantage point, you knew he probably had some sort of Supreme-branded clothing on because of the neon yellow of his shirt and the flaming red color of his pants. People around him, particularly of the older generation, stared at him in disdain as he seemed to brush it off, not even acknowledging the world around him. You wished you could be like that; doing what you wanted, not caring about anyone wanted around you.    “Y/n?” a voice broke you out of your thoughts.    You turned your head and there was the man of the hour: Lee Taeyong.    He looked particularly dashing today, although unusually dressed. He wore a loose linen shirt tucked into some skinny jeans, his sunset red-orange hair kept in by a silk green bandana. The picture of a well-dressed, in-style millennial. Taeyong smiled a crooked grin at you and slid into the booth in the seat in front of you.    “How are you?” he asked.    “I’m doing fine myself, and you?”     “Rather well.”    The pair of you sat in silence for a few moments before he broke it.    “You must be wondering why I’ve summoned you to a cafe of all places, right? I can see it in your eyes,” he intoned.    You nod slowly.     “What I have found is that you can’t find the essence of a person while they are contorted on a podium in a studio. You can better express emotions and get a feel for the person better when you can explore all facets of them. What better to do that than to observe them in a natural environment?” Taeyong stares out the window into the crowded street.    He turns his gaze to you.    “Can I know more about you?”    “Erm, sure. What would you like to know?” you ask, unsure.    “Your social security number,” he deadpans, a cloying glint in his dark eyes.     You frown and then see the look in his eyes. Your countenance asks him: really?    Taeyong bursts out in laughter and you giggle along with him, discomfort at least a little bit gone.    “I’m joking, I’m joking. Hmm… perhaps the basic stuff?”    “That’s alright. Like what?”    “What do you like to do in your free time?”    “I… I like to watch Netflix. Um… I like to… cook? Yeah, I like to cook stuff like teriyaki chicken or stir-fry. Perhaps play around with clay or stone, if I have it on hand,” you list out.    “Sculpting? That’s rather fun. I used to do a bit of it before myself before I really got into painting. What do you like to sculpt?”    “People,” you reply immediately. “People.”    “Same as me then, hm? Are you trying to use me as a stepping stone for your career?” he asks playfully.    You laugh while he stares at you intensely as if he’s trying to commit the planes of your face to memory. Perhaps that’s what he meant by “observing”.    “Maybe I’m trying to secretly sabotage your art, so I can get a leg up. What about then, Taeyong, hm?” you tease.     He stares at you in surprise before he laughs, the sound carrying around the cafe and imprinting in your brain.    “Oh, you’re a delight, Y/n. Truly.”

   These meet-ups go along for a few more months, all in different locations. Taeyong never asks to meet up at a location you have already been to before. He takes you through the paths of Central Park, to the bustling chaos of Times Square, even taking you, in a rather memorable trip, to a show on Broadway. Every time you met up, he’s given you fifty dollars for your time. You accept it gratefully, albeit awkwardly.    You’ve exposed a lot of yourself to him now; he knows everything from where you were born, when you were born (he’s 6 years older than you), to your favorite type of frosting and even your hatred of small holes.     You often wonder what he is doing with this knowledge. He has never mentioned to you the progress of his artwork but you can see the paint smudges on his fingers or the rare smudge on his trousers when he visits you in a rush from his studio.    Taeyong, you think, is more artist than scientist; he adds different variables and he observes how you react. You are the proverbial rat in a glass box.    However, as bare as you are to him, he is as closed off to you.    Besides the basic knowledge of his occupation and age and whatnot, you never really got a read on him. Taeyong was like one of those Hanamaya puzzles you struggled with as a child, frustrated at the lack of progress unlocking the intertwined metal structures. Enigmatic, closed off; your regular Sherlock Holmes.     These thoughts ran through your head as you strolled along Battery Park. It was rather warm spring day, and you enjoyed the warm sunlight against your skin. The park was also surprisingly quiet, on such a nice day, but you weren’t complaining; comfortable silence was more conducive to stimulating conversation anyway.    Taeyong had bought you an ice cream that you had been ready to pay for despite your protests, citing “I remember when I was a broke college student. Just take the money, okay?”.    As ate your ice cream, you walked in slowly through the tree-lined path. You grew anxious and wanted to ask him a question, but your voice couldn’t formulate any sort of sound.    “Taeyong… I feel as if you know the bare fabric of me but I… know nothing of you,” you ask, uncharacteristically bold.    He pauses and looks at you, hands still stuffed in his pockets, an unreadable expression on his face.    “I’m Lee Taeyong, I paint, I like strawberry macaroons, and I hate dirty rooms. There’s not much to know about me, you see,” he says shortly as he walks ahead.    I don’t think that’s true, Mr. Lee.

   Taeyong doesn’t text you for a few weeks.  As hard as you try, you cannot be unaffected.    You never really expected how much he has inserted himself into your daily life. He is in your thoughts when you sketch out the facade of an apartment building, and he is with you when you see the strawberry macaroons made in the bakery you always pass by when going to campus.    Did your words… scare him off? Were you perhaps… too forward with him? Did you cross some unspoken boundary as the subject of artistic inspiration? You look down to see that you have traced the same line over 3 times on your architectural sketch. A groan escapes your lips and you lean back in your chair, tossing the pencil haphazardly on the desk. Concentration escaped your grasp like a sand, pouring out of every crack and crevice even when you did your best to capture it. Evasive.    Like Lee Taeyong.    An even louder groan, a gross hybrid between a scream and a groan, escapes your lips and echoes around the empty room. There you go again, thinking about Lee fucking Taeyong.    The display of your phone lights up.    Meet me in the quad ~ TY    See. You were even hallucinating text messages from him.    You shake your head as you rub your temples back and for—    Wait, TY?    You scramble for your phone, which was (as usual) buried under a pile of pencil shavings and protractors. Fishing it out, you unlock the screen and hurriedly scroll through the messages.    It really was Lee Taeyong.    You stared helplessly at your uncompleted project and then back at your phone. Since you couldn’t concentrate anyway, you might as well try to relieve it by going to the source of your distraction.    You pick up your bag and wave goodbye to your very focused classmates, who merely grunt before going back to their boards. A quick walk led you to the square of carefully cultivated trees and flowers, all intentionally grown to create a relaxed and peaceful atmosphere. It also created a visual centerpiece for the school, the flora exploding in vibrant colors to create a gardener’s paradise.    You spot Taeyong’s languid posture draped in one of the many wrought-iron benches, a book held up in one hand and the other resting upon the armrest. You were surprised no one had recognized him, even with his conservatively-dyed black hair that he was sporting recently. Taeyong was one of the rare people whose presence was immediately palpable when you were in his vicinity, magnetic yet jarring.    “Phaedrus? (4) I should’ve known that’s the sort of philosophical nonsense you artists love to read.”    Taeyong turns his head towards you and mock-pouts.    “I’ll have you know that this here book was inspiration for one of my best pieces,” he defends, closing the book with a snap and straightening up.    “Ah, yes, let’s deify our inspiration if it makes money,” you reply sarcastically as you settle into the seat beside him.    “Indeed.”    He stands up and extends a hand towards you, at which you stare at as if he were offering you radioactive waste.    “Well, come on. You didn’t expect me to not do anything for a month, did you? I have something to show you.”     You take his hand hesitantly (surprisingly calloused for a painter) and allow him to pull yourself up. He places a hand upon the small of your back as he leads you to the iron gates of the entrance of the school. After a few short blocks, he guides you to the entrance of a covered entrance way of an imposing skyscraper. A doorman greets him imperiously and opens the glass door with a glove-covered hand and Taeyong nods at him as he steps through. You merely follow, confused as hell, but trusting enough of Taeyong to guide you through.    After going through the elevator, he unlocks a door on the 23rd floor and enters the room.    “Even though I am an abstract artist, the very definition of postmodernism, I still find I have a penchant for carved mahogany bookshelves and gilded mirrors. Irony at its best, hm?”    If you were to describe Lee Taeyong, it would not be ironic. Enigmatic, yes, but not dramatically ironic.    The large suite you stepped into did, indeed, contrast him very greatly. It smelled like old books and cologne, and the dark wood paneling gleamed in the warm lamplight. Rich jewel tones tastefully complimented the decorations, in the furniture or weaved into the carpet. It was like the backdrop of one of those period dramas you saw on TV, in the age where women wore corsets and men, cravats.    However, you only caught a glimpse of the apartment as he ushered you into a room. It was pitch black until he flicked on the lights.    The room you were in was an artist’s dream. There were shelves and displays full of brushes and paints, all organized except for a little part in the corner. Half-finished canvases were slumped like dolls in a dollhouse against the walls, some covered in sheets and some not.    What drew your attention, however, were the 3 easels proudly standing in the middle of the room. The triplet of them was covered in heavy sheets, containing mystery and intrigue.    “As you might’ve guessed, these things make up the “something” I wanted to show you,” Taeyong’s voice rang out from behind you as he shut the door. He led you to the middle and brushed past you to stand next to the paintings. He pulled the sheet off.    You couldn’t contain your gasp as you take in the masterpieces before you.    The leftmost painting was of a barely perceptible outline of a woman, painted in warm yellows, browns, and red. While very comfy, it gave off an almost confused quality, like it was as if the painter were given the face of a person to memorize in 30 seconds and then asked to paint what they remembered. There were details that were hazy, but the areas that weren't were well fleshed-out.    The one in the middle was a clearer impression of the woman, her laughing in the midst of yellows, dark blues, and forest greens. It was a little bit less distorted than the previous, at least her crinkled eyes and open mouth apparent but the rest… not so much.    The one on the right was immediately your favorite. The face of the woman was only defined by the lights of neon signs, painted roughly in haphazard strokes. It contrasted against a totally black background. The placement of strokes was so masterful, however, that you could perceive the glow of amazement in the woman’s eyes and the childish nativity that emanated from her delicate features.    “These… these are beautiful, Taeyong. Absolutely gorgeous. Wow.”    “You know these are of you, right?”    You shake out of your trance and turn quickly towards him.    “What?!”    He smiles his crooked little grin at you and motions to the paintings.    “The first one is at the cafe we first met at, remember? The second was you in Central Park on that wonderful day where I slipped into the dewy grass, leaving a sort of weird bodyprint on it. The third was at the Broadway show… where you took a million photos of the posters. Remember?”    “Of course I do,” you breathe out in amazement.    “I can’t believe such beautiful things were painted because of plain, old, ugly me. Wow, you must’ve had a lot work on your palette,” you laugh suddenly.    “Don’t say that,” he cuts in sharply, his tone dark and ominous. It causes a mysterious heat to rise over your skin and a shiver to race through your nerves, the hairs at the nape of your neck to stand on end.    “You should give yourself more credit, y/n. You are a beautiful girl and no one can tell you less.”    You stand on your tippy toes to engulf the painter into a tight embrace.    “Thank you,” you whisper into his shoulder.    He merely chuckles while rubbing your back with a tender hand, blazing a trail of heated nerves along the way.

   “2.5 million! Holy shit! Y/n, this is fucking crazy!” Olivia screamed at you while holding a tablet in her hands.    “I fucking know!” you scream back, huddled into a ball at the end of the couch.    Undecipherable screaming filled the apartment as Olivia shouted in amazement of the selling price of the 3 abstract portraits, while you just screamed in disbelief.    The 3 portraits of you had been put on the market last week, and it had already sold to an anonymous buyer for 2.5 million US dollars. Pictures of Taeyong looking dashing in a suit flashed across your news feed, him looking extremely proud as the auctioneer banged his gavel for the ostentatiously high closing bid.    At least you weren’t his failed inspiration, that was sure.

   “Congratulations on your piece, Taeyong. I’m honored to have been part of the creative process,” you smile shyly at him behind your wine glass.    The pair of you were sharing a nice dinner on the expansive balcony of his apartment in celebration of his grand success. The New York skyline was set against a haze of sunlight and dusk, a truly beautiful sight to consume along with the seafood noodles Taeyong had whipped up. It seemed that along with being a marvelous painter, he was a marvelous cook as well. Another facet in the gem that was Lee Taeyong.    “I couldn’t have done it without you, of course. You’re my muse now,” he chuckles as he wipes his mouth with a napkin.    You exhale heavily and stare into the contents of your wine glass. You sloshed the red liquid around, and it stained the sides of the cup momentarily before disappearing. You remember what your father had told you; if the wine stains the side of the glass, you know that it is a good vintage. Of course, Lee Taeyong would have the best.    “What’s the matter, y/n? Does something not agree with you? I can always make something else if you’d like—”    “No, no, it’s quite alright. It’s fantastic actually. It’s just some thoughts that are buzzing around in my head,” you wave off.    “Would you mind sharing?” Taeyong prods.    You smile bittersweetly at him.    “I’m actually quite jealous of you, you know.”    You push out from your seat, the soft satin of your evening dress brushing against your thighs like the caress of a lover when you walked towards the railing.    “What?”    “Jealous, Taeyong. Jealous. Like the green-eyed monster,” you reply, resting your elbows against the railing and staring at the skyline.    “Explain.”    You hear the clink of a glass being set down upon a table and him getting up.    “You were able to take the risk to pursue your dreams. I… was too cowardly.”    “What are your dreams, y/n?” Taeyong whispers into the breeze.    “Sculpting,” you laugh bitterly.    “My father— he was a doctor, you know — absolutely abhorred the idea of the fine arts. A very left-minded man, if you will. When he saw paintings or sculptures, he always scoffed at them. “How are these worth 1 million?” he said, “I wouldn’t pay a cent for these works of kindergarten art!”. As you can imagine, it didn’t endear him to the owners of the local art gallery. However I… I was his complete opposite. When I first got my hands on Play-doh… god. I wasn’t able to be separated from it! My mother told me I always cried when the can was taken away from me. Then I discovered clay and stone and so many other things to make my imagination become reality.”    “Of course, Dad knew of my hobby, but never considered it more than what he thought it was; merely a hobby. He expected me to put down my chisels in favor of books and math problems. I never wanted to.” You look down at your hands momentarily, which were tapping a random beat against the railing.    “When it came time to decide a career, I mustered up my courage and told him I wanted to be an artist. He took one look at me and laughed. “Stop joking, sweetheart. A career like engineering or IT would suit you better.” I… was devastated. But, surprisingly, he brought up the idea of being an architect. I agreed immediately, knowing it would bring me to Parson’s, the school I dreamed of attending ever since I knew what college was.”    You laughed again, bitterly, the sound being absorbed in the night air. “It’s torture here, really; I don’t know why I continue to tantalize myself with what I have wanted since I was 5, but am never really able to have. Call me sadistic, I guess.”    You can feel his heavy gaze on your back as you stare stoically off into the distance. He steps closer and closer until you can smell his musky cologne and aftershave. His hands wrap around your waist and bury his head in your hair.    He didn’t say anything.    You appreciated that.

   Soon enough, brief hugs turn into cheek and forehead kisses, lingering touches into hand-holding and affectionate cuddles. Taeyong can never seem to separate his hands from your waist nowadays, and you are always pressed into his side like a leech. No one says anything because no one sees anything.    Actually, you didn’t quite know what you were now. If you were to really put a label on it, it was a messy blur between a friendship and relationship. A kind of romantic purgatory. Even when he gave you kisses and held you affectionately, Taeyong never asked you to be his girlfriend. Not even a hint of a label or definition.    However, you wanted to be his. You wanted to be the one, his darling that he wined and dined. You wanted to be the one to relax him from the stress of life with soothing words and calming touches. You wanted to be the one that he woke up next morning in bed. You wanted to be his everything.    Alas, like some tragic Greek romance, it was probably never meant to be.    Even in the midst of this confusing haze of a relationship, Taeyong produced more and more phenomenal art inspired by you. You sometimes watched him paint each painting lovingly, stroke by stroke, on those rare days he let you into his art room. The mood of his art was... changing. You could see his abstract style shifting closer and closer into what was semi-impressionism until his portfolio was an eclectic mix of both. Of course, this subtle shift led to some outcry from critics, but his artistic reputation was still on the rise.    Today was one of those rare days Taeyong brought you to his studio. Darkening sunlight shone through the huge industrial windows, juxtaposed by the mahogany paneling and gold light fixtures. You sat in a chaise in the corner with his back to you as he stood, slathering hues of paint over a large canvas. He was painting the background first, it looked like, setting up the stage for a grandiose and show-stopping centerpiece that was sure to come around.    “Y/n? Can you come here for a moment?”    “Yes?” you said, padding across the floorboards in your socks.    He steps back from his painting and comes slightly behind you. “Can you look closer and tell me if you see any dark grey streaks on the background? I’m afraid some of my brushes were contaminated, as it’s supposed to be completely oil black.”    You frown but nonetheless, bent over a bit to inspect the painting. “No? Honestly, I don’t know how you expect me to see slight color variations, you’re the artist here—”    You are cut off as his arms wrap around your waist and bury his head in the crook of your neck. You jump a bit, surprised from the sudden embrace, but quickly adapt and melt back into him. The pads of his thumb attach itself to the slightly exposed skin of your belly, running smooth circles into your skin. Your hands come over the top of his and just stay there, while you close your eyes.    “I lied. I just wanted you to come over here so I could just hug you,” he whispered roughly yet mischievously in your ear, his breath causing the back of your neck to stand up.    “How utterly rude, you nefarious villain,” You murmur as a slight smile tugs at your lips.    He hums in agreement and the two of you bask in each other’s presences for a while before he breaks the silence.    “Man, have I been getting a lot of feedback about my art style for the past few weeks,” he chuckles and lifts his head off your shoulder. “To be honest, you make me want to… want to take my head out of the clouds. Why is imagination needed when you exist, when you are so human yet flawless? I’ve always loved painting the world the way it’s not, but you... you are the way it is, and it is perfect.”        You twist slightly in his hold with wide eyes. Did Taeyong really feel this way about you? Did he see you this way when he put brush to canvas? Were you his sane anchor of reality in his flighty imagination?    Even with these tumultuous thoughts bubbling around in your consciousness, you simply reached up and gave him a peck on his lips. Unexpectedly, he captured your lips with his a tiny bit roughly, causing you to jerk back a bit. He runs his tongue across the seam of your lips and you open it for him, unable to stop him. Taeyong isn’t rough, per say, but he was very persistent in his quest of kissing you, invading your mouth with his tongue and showing his complete dominance. You moan a bit into his kiss and you feel his lips curl up into a smirk.    Taeyong’s right hand cups your chin while his left one lands on your waist, pulling you closer into his hard body. You feel the taut muscles of his chest against your breasts and his warmth completely enveloping you, intoxicating you and making you all the more pliable to his ministrations. His hand moves up while his mouth moves down, his plump lips trailing open-mouthed kisses against your neck leaving a trail of goosebumps. His calloused hands lift up your tank top slightly and rub circles into your hips makes you shiver with delight while you press more insistently against him and thread your hands into his hair.    His lips trail down into the neckline of your top and suddenly top. Instead, Taeyong moves back up to hover his lips around your ear.    “Will you let me have you?” his voice whispers, a rough texture detectable in his voice.    You can’t respond, too caught up in the way his breath caresses your skin and how his hand has moved up to just below your bra cups.    “Say yes, please,” he whispers.    “Please,” he begs as his nimble fingertips play with the edge of your bra.    “Yes,” you breath out as you lean up into him and press his lips to yours.    Taeyong is not hesitant nor gentle when he kisses you now, it is demanding and powerful and dominant. His hands slip below your bra cups and rub your nipples with his thumbs, causing your eyes to flutter shut and as you whine pitifully into his mouth. He drops his hands and scoops you up, a surprised squeal leaving your lips as he strides powerfully down the hall.    He kicks his door open and carefully maneuvers you through the door frame, all the while still attacking your neck with nips and bites. The painter drops you into his bed and climbs in after you. You hurriedly remove your tank top so you could feel his touch and went to unclip your bra, but his hands suddenly tighten over yours and keep them in place. He forces eye contact with you, his eyes burning with a lusty smolder as you can only stare up at him with pleading eyes.    “Taey-- “    He shushes you with a finger against your lips. “I want to savor you.” One of his hands makes you release your bra clasp and replace it with his, unclasping it gently and helping you get it off your breasts.    Your shamelessness retracts for a moment in front of him and you cover your naked breasts with your arms, head turned away in embarrassment. Taeyong’s thumb and forefinger lift your embarrassed gaze to his.    “I want to see you,” Taeyong whispers gently.    Your arms lift slowly from your breasts to bare them to his piercing gaze.    “Absolutely gorgeous,” he whispers reverently, as if in awe.    One of his hands cup your right breasts and a small whine escapes your mouth, not used to man’s hand on such a covered area. He weighs it in his palm briefly and then dives in.    You feel his hot tongue laving over the sensitive skin, leaving traces everywhere but your areola.    “Taeyong,” you whine piteously.    “Say please, darling.” He says. You can feel the vibrations against your chests, your nipples hardening to a point where it is almost painful.    “Please.”    “Of course.” His tongue dives in right in and a burst of pleasure rack your body, causing you to rub your core against his thigh wantonly.    “Patience, darling, I said I would savor you.”    After heaping a sizeable amount of attention to your breasts, his mouth trails down your stomach and to the edge of your shorts. He roughly gets up and pulls off his loose linen shirt, revealing a surprisingly well-built body. Your eyes rake over his sharp collarbones to his defined pectorals and to his chiseled Apollo’s belt. You see a fine dusting of hairs working in tandem with his v-line to bring your eyes down to his bulge, which is pressing against the confines of his trousers. Moisture oozes out of your core as you slip off his belt while he takes off your shorts and panties.    Taeyong forces your legs apart until you are spread out for him to see. Breathing heavily, you see him fixated on the spot between your legs, his lips parted a little. He licks his lips and his right-hand reaches out to prod your entrance. You jump a little, not used to a man touching you tenderly in such a private spot. He prods, even more, pinching your folds and holding them apart while inserting a long finger.    Your head throws back while your spine bends backward, a long groan leaving your lips and filling the room. You don’t see him smirk, but you certainly feel him descend and settle his head between your legs.    The moment his tongue pokes at your clit, you yell out. It prods even more insistently and plays your core like a flute, his touches making you scream.    You can feel yourself reaching an orgasm when he inserts his fingers back in again into your pussy and when the pad of his index fingers hit a spot, ecstasy shoots through your body like a drug and juices flow out of your vagina like a flood.    Taeyong leans back up and he takes his liquid-soaked fingers to his mouth, sucking each one clean while smirking, causing your core to clench tightly. He takes off his trousers and his boxers, his erection popping out. It is a nice pink color but a bit red from strain and arousal, the tip oozing precum.    You lean a bit forward to grasp his manhood, your thumb stroking over his head. His head throws back in ecstasy while his grips on your soft thighs tighten to the point you think there will be bruises the next morning. He rips your hands off his cock while breathing heavily.    “There’s a time for everything, just not now, darling.”    You pout but retract your hands to your sides. He takes his cock and strokes it a bit, but pulls you up and sits you in his lap. You can feel his manhood pressing insistently against your thigh, so close to your entrance yet so far. You move his dick over your pussy, not quite putting it in, but grind down on it, twisting your hips back and forth. Taeyong grits his teeth and grips your hips hard, his hips bucking in pleasure at the contact with your pussy. You can feel the veined skin of his cock slide over your well-lubed folds, his head slightly pressing against your clit as your close your eyes in bliss. This goes on for a while, you moving back and forth while he rolls his hips into your vagina. Taeyong looks you straight in the eyes while he positions his cock slightly into your entrance.   “Do you want to go on?” he asks. You nod while biting your lips.   “I’m… I’m a-" you swallow and avert your eyes, "-virgin. Please… please be gentle, Tae,” you whisper, embarrassed at your lack of experience.   His eyes widen a bit, but a new light enters them, predatorial and hunger extremely apparent even to your inexperienced gaze.   “You can stop whenever you want, okay? Just tell me.”   Psh. Why would you want this little slice of heaven to end?   You slip your pussy over his dick and bottom out on his lap, both of you groaning into the silence of Taeyong’s bedroom. You rose up, left his tip in and then slowly dropped down. You rolled your hips over him while he left harsh hickeys all over your neck, little bursts of pain and pleasure to add to the all-consuming flame.   Taeyong ripped his lips away from your chest and shoves you down roughly into the bed.   “I said I would savor this, darling, but I can’t be patient any longer,” he growls as he looms imposingly over you. He spreads your legs even wider, and thrusts in powerfully, louder groans escaping your mouth. You wrap his legs around his waist and continues in the missionary position. He pistons in and out like a machine, every part of your vagina stimulated by his moving cock, and you can feel his buttocks flex powerfully.   He muffles your moans with his lips and roughly invades your mouth, tongue, and teeth everywhere. He pounds into you even harder, the headboard shaking and creaking under his powerful thrusts. His hips slam into your thighs producing a lewd noise of flesh on flesh throughout his bedroom. You can feel a wave of pleasure rising within you, and you moan even louder.   “Louder, darling,” he growls and then his cock hits the spot.   The wave of pleasure crests and then crashes back down and you nearly scream, you head bent heavenward while your back arches off the bed. Your walls contract around his dick sporadically while lifts you into a new position, never disconnecting from you, and fucks you through your orgasm, heightening the whole experience.   “Taeyong!” you scream, the new position allowing him to thrust deeper. Your mind is in a fog of pleasure and you can feel the pleasurable sting of overstimulation overtake you.   “Taeyong, fuck! I can’t take anymore!’ you cry as tears gather at the edge of your eyes, the bliss too much for your weak body.   “Hold on for me, darling, I’m nearly there.” Taeyong grits out as he thrusts harder and quicker.   Warm cum fills your pussy when you orgasm nearly at the same time, and he groans your name while you scream out his, writhing beneath his erratic thrusts. You can feel the cum dripping out of your pussy and onto his silk bed sheets. He slows down and collapses onto your chest, and the both of you breathe heavily.   Taeyong takes his cock out of your vagina, a stream of cum oozing out as he does so. You open your eyes to see him not tired, but eyes alight with lust as he grins ominously at you. His cock rubs against your entrance, while the aftershocks of pleasure rack your body.   “Get ready darling, you’re in for this all night.”

   Bright sunlight greets you when you wake up, tangled naked beneath silk sheets. You can feel that the spot beneath your legs is sore, but your muscles are relaxed and your mind is satisfied. Taeyong had certainly had it in for you all night, taking you in so many positions and bringing you to release countless times.    It was a good night.    Unfortunately, the man who made it so wasn’t snoring on the bed covers beside you, only rumpled sheets left in his wake. You can smell his cologne in the air and on your skin, but also the stench of sex and lust.    You stretch and get up from the bed, putting on your tank and bra, slipping on your underwear and shorts as you open the door. There is a faint strain of music emanating from one of the rooms down the hall, so you follow the tune. As you get closer, you can decipher a woman warbling sweetly with a roughness from an old-fashioned gramophone.    You silently click open the cold gold handle and peek in through the door. You see Taeyong with his back turned to you, a palette stained with the colors of the rainbow in his left hand and a scrubber brush in his right. He is clad in loose beige trousers and a coal black shirt hanging from his shoulders, while completely focused on the painting in front of him.    You sidle in beside him and speak up.    “I should’ve known you’d be painting, even after such a… late night.”    He jumps a bit but then turns to you. You can now see his black shirt is half unbuttoned, his chest bared out for the world (mostly you and the walls) to see.    Taeyong sighs, sets down his tools and wraps his arms around your waist. He buries his head in your honest-to-god rat nest of hair, and stays there for a few moments, savoring your presence.    “When passion meets inspiration, obsession is born,” he murmurs.    “Where did you get that quote from?” you ask curiously.    “Heard it from… somewhere, I forget,” Taeyong says.    “Probably from one of your artsy-fartsy philosophy books” you shoot back.    Taeyong snorts. “How ironic, hm? I preach and lecture masses people how inspiration can easily become your obsession, only for me to become the heretic to my word. Only for you, darling. Only for you.”    Taeyong rests his chin on your head while you lean back into his arms. You take the time to observe the piece he implies is his obsession, the thing that stomped on his beliefs and scattered them to the wind. You instantly recognize it is startlingly different from his previous works of art.    Of course, there is his dark background and signature jewel tones but it is a lot less jarring than you are used to. That being said there is no lack of passion or skill in this piece, but it is noticeably less abstract and a bit more... realistic?    There is a shoulders-up shot of a woman with her eyes closed, her head leaning into a palm while she is (presumably) naked.  The woman is fleshed out in full detail with a jumbled haze of colors surrounding her, making her the central point in the painting. Your eyes travel from her wispy eyelashes to the tilted nose, to the curve in her slightly parted tinted lips—    Wait a minute.    Your eyebrows knit together as you recognize the arched brows and cheekbones, the lip corners and hell, even the slight mole on the collarbone.    That woman is you.    Your head snaps towards Taeyong in surprise, whom you find is gently smiling at you.    “What do you think?”    You detach yourself from his warm embrace and step closer to the painting.    “You may hear this way too much, but it’s beautiful,” you whisper reverently in awe. Your hand comes up to brush over the surface of the painting, but stops and falls back to your side, afraid that you could mess up the painting.    “Art imitates life, darling,” Taeyong purred.    A blush effused into your cheeks like a dye. Vivid memories flash in your mind’s eye of beads of sweat rolling down the bridge of Taeyong’s aristocratic nose and jawline, eyes closed in ecstasy, and pleasure pleasure pleasure—    You snap back to reality before you could get any more caught up from last night’s tryst, but unfortunately, Taeyong has noticed and wore a shit-eating grin on his chiseled features. The painter stepped closer to you and you could faintly smell his cologne and something that was all too masculine, and he stared down with you with those intense eyes that pulled you in in the first place.    “Would you like me to show you where?”

   17 million ~ TY    You stare at your bright phone screen with bleary eyes, lids half-opened and trying to stay up. You had forgotten to turn off your phone for the night and the text notification startled you into consciousness at 2am. Your pleasant dreams about passing the architecture final were interrupted crudely.    17 million? What does he mean— wait, holy shit!    Your eyes, now completely free of fatigue, widen in surprise as you sit up and unlock your phone. The search engine you used quickly brings up a multitude of articles, but the some of the top headlines read “Lee Taeyong Sells Painting For $17 Million” and “You Won’t Believe What This Simplistic Painting Sold For!” You click on the Art Newspaper article and scroll through the click bait ads and epilepsy-inducing graphics to get to the main article.

  Lee Taeyong, 27 years-old Korean painter, is smiling in the midst of thunderous applause as the final bang of the auctioneer’s gavel signifies his astounding sale. This morning, 12 am EST, his recent portrait of a woman dubbed “Sense and Sensuality” sold for a whopping $17 million USD at the New York Sotheby’s Auction House (5). This is his highest-ever sale yet, and the future is looking bright for this talented young man.

   Congratulations! You type with a growing smile on your face.    Coming over in 10 to celebrate ~ TY    What?    The sheets tangle around your feet as you nearly trip out of your bed in order to get ready. A muffled thump resounds around your bedroom as you heavily land on the floor. You cringe, hoping the grumpy couple downstairs don’t wake up from it.        You should’ve expected this, as eccentric as Taeyong was. It was no surprise he was spontaneous.    You flick the lights on and grab a bra from your drawer. You snap it on while impressively combing your hair, then change into some leggings and old t-shirt because, hell, if Taeyong wanted to see you at 2am when he had to deal with 2am Y/N.    The bronze knocker pounds on your door and you bolt out of your bedroom to get it. A quick look into the peephole shows you gleaming black hair, reminding you of the way ink looked in a bottle.    Taeyong, still in his crisp black-tie suit, is standing in your dimly-lit hallway beaming holding a bouquet of flowers in his right hand.    “Hey.” His eyes look tired but are sparkling with vitality.    You leap into his arms and he holds you tightly, rocking you back and fourth. You murmur congratulations into his shoulder and he hums back, content in your cuddling. The pair of you stay in the dim light of your apartment hallway, your door half open and probably wasting your valuable air conditioner, however, you couldn’t care less: all that mattered was the man in your arms.    “Taeyong… I’m so proud of you. You deserved this so much,” you lean back and look into his eyes, a smile tugging at your lips.    The painter smiled his usual enigmatic twitch of the lips that you loved so much and leaned forward into to pull you into a deep kiss. His hands pulled you in closer to his body and the smell of his cologne was more prevalent than ever, intoxicating your senses to the point that if there were a fire alarm in the hallway, you would still be kissing his delicious lips.    “I couldn’t have done it without you, you know,” he whispers against your lips.    You roll your eyes and swat him on the shoulder.    “Oh, psh! It was 100 percent you, I was just kinda... there. A spectator to greatness and all. You don’t have to butter me up, you know?” you laugh as you lead him into the apartment.    He mumbles something you can’t hear as you are locking the door, and you turn around to face him.    “What?”    “Nothing, nothing. Just remembering something.” Taeyong casually deflects, as he tosses his suit jacket onto your kitchen chairs.    “You wanna celebrate? I can put on a movie and make food,” you ask as you clean the mess of your room.    “I’d love to.” The artist loosens his tie and chucks it in the general direction of his suit jacket, then partly unbuttons his oxford shirt until you can see the chiseled expanse of his chest.    “Cool beans.”

   The movie ended, and the credits rolled, leaving your living room blanketed in darkness and the two of you sit in silence.    “Hey… y/n?” Taeyong sounds unusually hesitant, unlike his normally suave and composed persona. You can feel his hands finger with the buttons on his shirt while he strokes your side unconsciously.    “Mmm?” you mumble, half-asleep.    “You… Do you wanna move in with me?”    This completely unexpected statement jolts you into awareness, and you look at his face in shock. Your eyes scan his face in the poor light of your living room, and of what you can see, he is dead serious.    “I- What?”    “Do you want to move in with me? Like, stay in my house?” he enunciates slowly, so alike to your first face-to-face encounter with him, like he was speaking to an idiot. However, you can see his face slightly turning red and his eyes averting downwards to his lap.    A moment lapsed in complete silence while you tried to process the implications of his statement and he tried to calm the butterflies in his stomach.    It was a stupid idea, he thought to himself sourly, too much, too soon, I should just apolo—    “Sure,” you contemplate thoughtfully.    “Yes? You want to move in with me? Live with me? If it’s too soon for you, you don’t have to—”    “I wouldn’t have said yes if I didn’t mean it Tae. Yes, I want to move in with you and live with you. I don’t think it’s too fast.” You stroked his cheek.    “Good,” Taeyong huffs. After a beat, his lips crack into a smirk and he leans in closer.    “I think we can celebrate even more now, no?” he whispers while fumbling with the waistband of your shorts.    You giggled in delight while swooping into to kiss him.

   The two of you collapse in bed, a few weeks later, exhausted from your activities. This particular round was initiated after he caught you trying on lingerie in his bathroom when you thought he wouldn’t be home for a while. He fucked you against the counter, the full-length mirror in your closet, and then finally ending up on his bed. You sighed in delight. What this man could do with his hips was heavenly.    You looked up at the ceiling of his bedroom, where he had decorated it with murals of beautiful angels and clouds. It was just like the Vatican, where the murals had lent an ethereal feeling to the church and made you think you were in a plane above reality. The few weeks in Taeyong’s company had been absolute bliss.  You had moved out of your apartment, moved your stuff into Taeyong’s apartment, and you stayed. He would’ve let you stay for free, but you insisted on paying at least a set fraction of the rent. He gave you the price of the rent to calculate upon, but you think he had lied and lowered it deliberately. Either way: it was heaven, like the murals painted on his ceilings.    “That… That was great, Taeyong,” you pant, naked chest heaving up and down in exhaustion.    “Mmm, yeah. I loved it,” he said, voice muffled by burying his head into the valley of your chest.    “Night, Tae,” you whisper as you doze off.    “Night, y/n,” he says quietly, and you can hear that he has one foot in fairyland right now.    As you consciousness dims and fades, you can still here Taeyong mumbling something. You listen closer.    “I love your body, Y/N.”    Somehow, that doesn’t sit well in your stomach. At all.

   A notification from one of the news sites you followed popped up on your phone.    Who is Lee Taeyong’s Muse?     You raise a brow at the message but quickly opened it up. Who is Lee Taeyong’s Muse? It said in bright blue, bold letters. A picture of the painting he created the morning the two of you first had sex was below the painting.

   Lee Taeyong, 27, recently has been finding major success among the cutthroat world of fine art. His most recent painting selling for 17 million USD, his artworks have been plastered on every major news site (including this one!) and has been the point of critical acclaim for their intimacy, skill, and emotion. Even after his shocking change of artistic style from completely abstract to pseudo-traditionalist, critics alike have been clamoring for his work. However, each one of his most recent paintings from the past year or so has had one thing in common: a beautiful, doe-eyed lady.

   Yes, most might be able to dismiss as an insignificant part but dear reader, it is the most important. From the painting “Broadway” to “Sense”, a similar lady has been depicted in all of them. She has been the center point of all his works. His earliest paintings of her were a triplet of paintings, her countenance growing more and more detailed with each successive work. The latest painting of her with her eyes closed and half-naked has been by far the most sensual one.

   We, at this site, have suspected from the intimate nature of his works that Taeyong has a muse: a person or personified force who is the source of inspiration for a creative artist. While there has been no reports of an official girlfriend or lover, the editors of this site figure the mysterious Korean painter has a significant other. Each painting of her in successive order has been noticed to have showed the progress of their relationship from friends to intimate lovers. His lauded attention to detail and depiction of emotion definitely comes from the heart, his heavy attraction to his lover.

   However, the subject of muses have been a long and controversial one. Cries of abused and neglected muses have been major headlines in the art world, and acclaimed artists being accused of sexually and emotionally mistreating their muses. Alas, many muses have had terrible ends like the beautiful Camille Claudel and the famous sculptor Auguste Rodin (6), in which Rodin dumped Camille and Camille went insane. Will Taeyong’s muse be his Gala to his Dalí (7), his Floge to his Klimt (8)? One thing’s for certain: this mystery muse will either make or break his career.

   You stared numbly at the lit screen, which grew dark and powered off as you stopped interacting with the screen.    Was... was Taeyong using you?    A range of emotions besieged your tired mind.    Doubt was the first wave, followed by a cavalry of Worry charging through your rather pathetic moat of logic. Hurt came up hard and quick to your flank and mercilessly attacked your mental stronghold, puncturing holes in your defense and riddling your conscious.    Heart pounding, you typed in the password quickly and searched up “muse”. Countless articles popped up before you. You adjusted your searches accordingly and therein, you found your grail. However, with each passing article, you grew more horrified. Nobuyoshi Araki and Kaori (9), Picasso and Gilot (10), Bertolucci and Schneider (11)— each one more terrifying than the last. While you were not sexually abused or beaten like some of the poor victims of the past few centuries, the message was clear: Taeyong was using you for his art, and his art only.

   The tea kettle whistled as you busy yourself making your breakfast on the beautiful marble countertops of Taeyong’s kitchen. The late morning sun was out and about, the birds were chirping, and you were all alone.    It wasn’t as if this were an unusual occurrence; for the past few weeks, you rarely woke to see Taeyong sleeping next to you. He came back for a night, fucked you, and left in the morning. Sometimes the empty side of his bed was warm to the touch, and others, his lingering warmth was lone gone- either way, you were left to get ready for class alone, eat breakfast alone, and leave the house alone.    You fully understood why, though. The price of Taeyong’s explosive popularity led to him having to be out and about, whether for interviews or exhibition openings or banquets. It was better than having no work at all, at least, yet Taeyong’s face was plastered everywhere, and sometimes you thought the tabloids knew more about his life than you, his… whatever you were.    A jolt of pain jerks you out of your thoughts, and you yelp and jump back. Your finger had touched the end of your frying pan, and imprinted on the tip of your index fingertip was a bright red mark.    A hiss of pain escapes your mouth which quickly sucked at the tip of your finger, while you turned off the burner. Damn, it stung like hell!    Well, at least the eggs were done.    The plush, mahogany chair of the breakfast table squeaked as you pulled it back, and plopped you in your oversized t-shirt in the chair. The sencha tea bag, which had been steeped in the cup for a few minutes, was quickly retracted and you took a long sip of it.    You dialed up Olivia on facetime, who was sure to already be at school and in some secluded corner painting. A few rings led to Olivia, in newly dyed blue and purple hair, answering her phone with the camera angle at an awkward position.    “I don’t think I really want to see the inside of your nostrils, Livy. No one does, really.”    She stuck out her tongue and snorted.    “Bitch, the boys be paying to see my face, much less my nostrils. No one wants to see your ugly ass face!” Olivia drawled while she turned her attention to her painting.    “Taeyong does. In fact, people pay millions to get a piece!” you snark back.    Olivia drops her paintbrush into a water cup and pouts at her phone screen.    “...fine. Speaking of, how is Mister Big D--”    “OLIVIA!” you shout, almost choking on your eggs.    “Oh fine, fine! Either way, how is he?”    “We’re… we’re doing fine,” you happy smile slowly turns into a frown, and you look down into your tea. You stir the tea a bit and see the minuscule tea leaves swirl around like a  mini tornado.    “It doesn’t sound fine, though,” Olivia raises an eyebrow.    “I… you’re right. I really don’t know anymore, Olivia,” you sigh and look away from the phone screen. Your eyes catch sight of the pristine living room, the late morning sun streaming beautiful rays through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The TV was as pitch black as the night, the comforter you brought in, untouched, and the pillows, fluffed. All lifeless.    “Oh, sweetie. I’ve been suspecting this for weeks,” Olivia says sympathetically as she dabbles some oil onto the canvas. She sets down the sponge and turns her full attention to you, her brows furrowed.    “It’s just that… Taeyong isn’t around here anymore. When he’s gone, I’m here, and when he’s here, I’m gone. I haven’t seen him in weeks!” you shout, and your fork clatters down on your plate.    “Wow, okay, chill. Y/n. Breathe. Have you at least tried to meet up with him for a date or whatever?”    You pout. “Yes, but he’s always busy or has to cancel. Sometimes, we do manage to make our schedules fit together and everything’s fine, but still!”    “ I really wish I could help, y/n. Really.” Olivia says sympathetically.    You burrow your face into your hands while tears sting at your eyes. Muffled sobs escape your lips while tears finally escape from your eyes. Your breakfast lay beside you cold and uneaten.    “I-I don’t k-know anymore. I-I saw a news article this morning and my mind went crazy and maybe I’m being paranoid or a butthurt bitch but I think he’s using me and-” you sob.    “Oh, sweetie,” all playful insults and snarky wit were gone from Olivia’s tone as she tried to keep you company from miles away in a cold, dark, and dusty penthouse.

   You couldn’t do this anymore.    Gone were the days Taeyong and you would wake up and bed and have another round and eat breakfast together, the days he would take you out to the city and watch an indie band in the local coffee shop, or the days he would bring to art openings. It just stopped.    There were days you woke up in bed alone, after Taeyong pounded you into the mattress the night before, feeling used. Like some dime and dozen whore out of the red light district. Who were you, anymore? What use were you anymore? What did you mean to Taeyong?    School went by, albeit slowly. You passed your architecture final and were in your 2nd year of college. You did pretty decently in the class at least, but the course and the rigor made you more miserable as the months went by. The novelty of your compliance to your father’s wishes wore off and made you wish to escape.    Taeyong, your degree, and emotional distress just made you break down one day. Right in the middle Taeyong’s hallway after class ended. No warning whatsoever. After piecing yourself back together and getting your fatigued and pathetic self into the bed, you started to think.    This was hell.    Olivia warned you weeks and weeks ago, begging you to let go of the artist no matter how much he admired him. She had lost all respect for him and quickly threw away the posters of his paintings she had had before Taeyong met you, completely ignored him when you were with him and her, and ripped up her thesis paper about his artwork. She even offered you refuge from the older man, pleading for you to stay in her apartment to get away from him.    You were done.

   Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.    The keypad clicked open and in walked Lee Taeyong into his apartment. Still clad in a suit, the artist had returned back to his apartment from his negotiations with a famous gallery to display his artwork. A long and arduous meeting, it had lasted way longer than the handsome man expected, and he had finally wrangled out a successful deal. His works would be displayed for a year at the famed Gagosian Gallery in Chelsea.    It was his dream since he was a young, starving art student living paycheck to paycheck in a studio apartment, who could barely speak English and was 7000 miles away from his family.    But why was he so unhappy?    He shut the door and sighed. He loosened his necktie and threw his wine-red blazer onto the coat rack, then ruffled his hair as he walked through the foyer.       He felt bad for leaving you constantly like this. He just kept getting called on and pulled away constantly to the point where he sometimes forgot that there was a woman waiting for him back home. He tried to make it up with nights of passionate sex, pounding you into the mattress and making you cum several times in succession. He couldn’t remember the last time he had taken you out somewhere… was it a month ago? A month and a half?    “Y/n?”    No response.    “...Y/n?”    He walked through the halls but there was something... off about his house. He couldn’t smell your scent of peaches of cream strongly, only faintly, like you were long gone. It looked… emptier. Dustier.    Darker.    “Y/N!”    A rising sense of panic surged up and seized Taeyong’s heart beating back and forth. Ba-bump ba bump ba bump. In vain, he tried to calm his mind, his rationale fruitlessly trying to withhold judgment, yet it seemed his heart was going to beat right out of his chest.    It isn’t true, it isn’t true, it isn’t true—    His vision narrowed as he ripped through his house. Every room in the vast apartment suite is empty. He threw open the kitchen cupboard. Your handmade coffee mug from one of the pottery students in Pearson’s isn’t there. He nearly tripped over the ottoman. Your ridiculous throw blanket with cartoon corgis plastered all over it is absent from his leather sectional. He pounds against the floorboards of the hallway, Your subway pass isn’t in the bowl in the hall.    It seems like his loosened tie was choking him as he ran to the end of the hall, your bedroom. He slammed open the door, the doorstop only barely preventing it from hitting and damaging the wood-paneled walls. Taeyong’s carpet muffled his frantic footsteps. The french doors with its billowing curtains were thrown open, but you weren’t on the balcony, lounging on the patio chair or couch reading a book.    The marble bathroom he loved to fuck you in and take long baths in while sipping decades-old wine was deserted. Your combs and products were gone, and the J’Adore Dior perfume he bought you when you were passing by Neiman Marcus sat on the counter, lonely.    Incoherent nonsense escaped his lips as he slid open the large, walk-in closet doors. The other half of the closet you and him had organized together, him grumbling when he had to push his clothes back, was simply abandoned. Wire hangers hanging on the pole, absent of the soft clothes that smelled like peaches and cream.    He clutched his chest through his shirt, and leaned on the dressing table in the middle of the closet, his breaths coming out in staccato, short and sharp. She couldn’t do this, she couldn’t do this, she couldn’t do this to me—    A scrap of paper caught his attention out of his peripheral vision. With trembling hands, he scooped it up and held it to his pale face.    I don’t think I can do this anymore, Taeyong. Thank you.

   You pulled the corgi patterned blanket around you and sipped some hot chocolate, while Olivia was retrieving the cheese Pringles from her pantry. You clicked on the television and scrolled what to watch on Netflix.    “Hey, Livy!”    “What!” she shouted from the back of the kitchen.    “Can we watch the Purge?!” you yelled as you read through the description.    “The fuck! NO!” Olivia said as she walked back in her penguin onesie into the living room.    “I’m the one who’s suffering from a break-up, bitch! I get to choose the movie and I want to scream my ass off!”    “Y/n, I don’t think that’s what you’re supposed to do after a breakup? Aren’t you supposed to watch the Notebook while in tears and a tub of ice cream in your hands?” she questions as she plops down on the couch.    You look around exaggeratedly. “The Notebook? Nope, watching the Purge. Tears? Already cried out. Ice cream? I think fuck not, I want cheesy Pringles.” “Fine, fine. Whatever.” Olivia grumbles as she stuffs several cheese pringles into her mouth.    The day you had turned up on Olivia’s doorstep, bags in hand and tears streaming from red-rimmed eyes, she had graciously allowed you to stay with her. Days and days were spent with you crying in her arms, probably going through 3 tissue boxes and ice cream tubs. You were absolutely devastated after packing up and abandoning Taeyong, wondering if it was the right thing to do and if you were a horrible person for doing so.    Olivia dismissed your worries, stating you were totally in the rights and proclaimed “good riddance!” while stomping on a Polaroid of you and Taeyong at Hyde Park.    You were still devastated of course, even after several weeks. The ache in your heart wouldn’t go away no matter how many tubs of ice cream you stuffed down your throat, and a permanent frown was always fixed in place. You missed the red-haired man with all your soul, even if you abandoned him with no warning and quite callously. You blocked his number, his email, his social media, everything you could think of to completely cut him out of your life. Photos of him were trashed and the gifts given to you by him were still in the apartment.    But at the very least, from this complete purge and detox of your life, came something that you had always wanted to do but never could do.    You switched degrees.   You woke up one day and said, fuck it, and went to the administration to completely switch departments.    Yes, it was extremely sudden. Uncharacteristically sudden of you, the girl who was afraid to go out with her friends on a school night. Too sudden of the girl that was afraid to skip class and skive off with her friends. Maybe it wasn’t the best decision to make such an important decision on the fly, but at this point, you didn’t care. You wanted to live the way you wanted, the way you needed, and all fucks that were given were thrown carelessly to the wind.   Soon enough, you were transferred into the appropriate classes to obtain a degree in Fine Arts, even taking some classes with Olivia. Your parents were understandably furious, shouting at you over the phone for wasting their money and wrecking your future. Your father, after a long rant that lasted almost 30 minutes, spitefully told you he wasn’t going to support this “destructive behavior” and wouldn’t pay for your next semesters. While you were sad that you and your parent’s relationship would probably be strained for the next few years, you were the happiest you could remember being. The royalties from Taeyong’s paintings you earned could pay your tuition a few times over, so you were stable. You finally could do what you wanted.    But Taeyong.    Your thoughts drifted to the letter you had received from a professor that afternoon previous.

   “Y/n! Could you stay back for a moment?” Professor Andrews called out as the rest of the class shuffled out of the classroom.    You head popped up like a deer in headlights, eyes wide.    “Uh, yes?”    You removed the hood from your head and navigated through your fellow classmates to the teaching podium, where your art history professor was standing imperiously.    Was something wrong? Were your papers not good enough, because you transferred in so late?    Your hands patted down your errant hair and straightened your sweatpants. You swallowed nervously. Professor Andrew was notorious for her strict grading, many people failing and flunking out of the class because of the numerous red marks all over their papers and tests.    “Professor Andrews?” you hesitantly ask as you stand in front of the podium.    “Y/n, just the girl I wanted to see.”    She stepped down from the podium in impossible sky-high heels to stand before you. She smiled, her black hair streaked with gray pulled back in a tight bun and it softened her face. You nervously smiled back.    “A prized former student of mine asked me to give this to you. He begged many of his contacts at Parsons to deliver this directly into your hands but alas, I was the only contact who had you in my class.”        She produced a white envelope from her desk and put it in your hands. From the feel of the paper, it was soft; made of vellum.    Vellum.    The material of the calling card offered to you by… that man was vellum, and who else would deliver you a card made from the expensive material?    “Uh, professor, I’m afraid— “    Professor Andrews grasped my hands with her wrinkled palms and look me directly into my eyes. Her normally piercing gaze that could bring a student to tears was soft and concerned, unfamiliar to you.    “Y/n, I am not supposed to interfere but… he looked so gaunt when he came to me. The sparkle was gone from his eyes, his bravado diminished into a shell of what it was, his tone so tired and beaten down. Especially with his indefinite hiatus—”    “What?” Your head snapped up from the envelope in shock.    Your professor furrowed her brows. “You didn’t know? He announced an indefinite hiatus around the time you first transferred in. He said that no more art would be produced until he decided to become active again.”    “I didn’t know…” you murmured as you stroked your thumb over the envelope.    “I don’t know what sort of relationship the two of you had, as it’s not my business, but whatever it was, he needed you. Desperately.”

   You had only opened it when you came home from school. A polaroid of a painting that you could barely discern placed in a dark room. One message was written on the back.    Please tell me what I did wrong.    What were you supposed to do with that?    In the movie, the doorbell was wrung by the Polite Leader beseeching the Sandins to let them release their prey to hunt.    Should you respond to him? Should you completely ignore him? Which one would be more beneficial to your health?    If you didn’t respond to him, the ache in your heart would forever be there. You would be scarred from men forever because the man who took your virginity broke your heart and used you like a toy. You would never know his side of the story.    But, if you responded to him, you would at least know his side. Have some redemption. Perhaps get in a slap. Maybe you would have a chance to stop the ache in your heart.    Well, if you were brave enough the change degrees, you sure as hell could confront your ex-... whatever he was. Lover? Boyfriend?    You would do this.    “Olivia, I’m going to do something really quickly,” you said as you removed your self from the tangle of food and pillows.    “What!” She squawked. It seemed the Purgers had broken into the house already. “Bitch, you wanted to see this stupid movie and I ain’t seeing it alone!”    “And you can survive for the full minute that I will vacate this room,” as your rushed into the guest bedroom to retrieve your phone.    You scrolled down your recents and found Taeyong’s number. With trembling fingers, you unblocked his number and texted him.    927 New Haven Apartment Complex. Apartment 507. Tuesday at 6 PM.    2 days from now, Olivia was going to be out of the apartment for Thanksgiving Break with her family in South Carolina. You, with the way things were with your father, decided it wouldn’t be the best decision to go home so you decided to stay home Within a minute, a message bubble popped up.    Thank you. I’ll be there. ~ TY

   You tapped your foot impatiently as you sat at the breakfast table of Olivia’s apartment. Looking out the window, you saw a drizzle of rain wash over the foliage below and heard the usual sounds of the city. With the weather like this, you couldn’t blame Taeyong for being at least a bit late.    5:50. It read on the electronic clock in the kitchen. The house was empty, with Olivia bidding you adieu yesterday to visit her family.    You had gotten ready an hour before, you were so nervous. At least 4 outfits were tried on, scrutinized, and then thrown to the ground before deciding the 5th outfit was adequate. The dress was too formal, the sweatshirt too casual, but the skinny jeans and t-shirt combo was perfect. See, you didn’t want to look too desperate when Taeyong came in, in fact, you were trying to be standoffish—    Knock knock knock.    Your heart beat a stamp into your ribs, while the feeling in the pit of your stomach roiled. Your hand clasped the doorknob, unlocked, and swung it open.    Taeyong, in his great glory, stood there. Just seeing the eyes that made you fall in love made your heart stutter, just a tiny bit.    However, Prof. Andrews was not wrong. Taeyong still retained his classical good looks, all sharp lines, and angles, but those lines were sharper and those angles were deeper. He looked gaunt and pale, and dressed in a black button-up it contrasted to his skin so greatly it made him look even paler. There were shadows under his eyes, but his eyes were still smoldering. Still as enigmatic as always.    “Taeyong. Come in,” you regained what little dignity you had left and graciously let him in through the door. He nodded silently and slipped off his glossy black Gucci loafers and took your lead into the kitchen.    “Do you want something to drink? Water? Tea?” you asked as you leaned against the counter and crossed your arms.    “No, I’m fine. Thank you,” Taeyong murmured as he sat uncomfortably in his chair.    An awkward silence prevailed as you stood in each other’s presence as the first time in months. Heavy, tense silence grew between the two of you as you fumbled with a knick-knack on the counter and his eyes darted nervously around. It had been far too long, but the way he sat there banished the feeling of something missing from your mind.    “I thought you were on hiatus?” you said, and waved around the Polaroid of the painting.    “I am. I just said no paintings were being released, that’s all; not that I couldn’t paint anything,” Taeyong sighed.    “Ah.”    Another heavy silence.    Annoyed by the lack of action, you harshly slammed the knick-knack onto the counter. Taeyong didn’t jump, but his eyes darted to you far too fast to be casual.    “Well, Lee Taeyong? Why are you in this apartment?” you sarcastically shot at him.    “I wanted to ask why you left me. Humor me; let me into that infuriating brain of yours, Y/n.”    “I think I already made it clear when I vacated the apartment, Lee Taeyong. I even left a note. Or were you far too busy with your obligations to remember that?” you venomously spat.    “Stop calling me that! We’re not fucking strangers!” Taeyong suddenly shouted, scooting back his chair suddenly. His fists were balled up and he had an awful look of fury on his face.    “What? Lee Taeyong? Well, I call you that because we might as well be!” you shout back.    “Damn it, Y/n! Why the fuck did you leave me, huh? Was I not good enough for you? Was I not rich enough for you? Hell, did I not fuck good enough for you?” Taeyong snapped at you, gripping the table tops so hard his knuckles turned white.    “You must one cocky son of a bitch to think I wanted you for your fucking money or your dick! I left because I know nothing about you!”    “What are you talking about?! I shared my home with you—”    “Shut up, Taeyong! I fucking trusted you with my dreams and hopes and life but you gave nothing of yourself to me! I confided in you, I told you about my past and my present, and I bared my soul and body to you! While you, always the goddamn unfathomable and ambiguous Lee Taeyong, gave me nothing of you! Zero! Zilch! Nada! I don’t know what I am to you! What was I supposed to think, y- you bastard?” you voice cracked, as you stared up at his eyes.    “Y-you” your voice broke and turned hoarse “y-you treated me like a toy. You took my virginity. You only called me over to fuck— I felt I was a whore. You gave me the best nights of my life, but you left me scarred for the rest of my nights.    His silence wrung as heavily in your ears as his shouting did. It wrung in your ears like a siren while, he could only look at you with an inscrutable expression of his face, like he couldn’t figure out whether to get angry or cry.    “Get out, Taeyong. Go use someone else to make money off of. Go be dishonest somewhere else.” You spit out and close your eyes. Your back turned to him at you stare at the textured cream wall, desperately not trying to burst out bawling.    “No.”     You spin around on your heel to yell at him some more, but Taeyong appears at your back few inches away from you, far too close for comfort. His inscrutable expression morphed into something that looked like determination, and his smoldering eyes held you in place as he wrapped his arms around your waist. Your mouth drops open in shock at his audacity before he leans his forehead to yours and sighs.    “My name is Lee Taeyong.” he started out quietly, eyes closed as if in prayer. “I am 27. I’m from Seoul, South Korea. I like to paint, I love macarons, and I hate dirty rooms. But you already know that. I am Lee Taeyong. I never really got along with my mother, perhaps that’s the reason I’m doing so bad with you.” He laughed bitterly. “She raised me to close off myself to others, not ever to trust a female. But I can’t blame her for… for my behavior. I am scared of the people who judge me, even though I am an artist and am constantly judged by the public, critics still make me want to put down my paints.”     “I came to the US when I was 19, on scholarship to Parsons. I didn’t know English very well at all, and I struggled to communicate with those around me, and I chose to delve into my craft even deeper. You… inspired me, and remember my speech at Parsons? I didn’t know how true it was until you entered my life. I didn’t know to what extent inspiration turned into obsession, how intensive it went. I’m not using you just to make money; you genuinely make my heart lighter and make me feel things I haven’t ever felt, and these things were hard to communicate. I did the best way I could, by painting you just the way I see you, but I think I didn’t get through to you.”    “I didn’t mean to make you feel like some on-call whore. I thought… I thought I could make up my absences with time spent in bed with you. That my missing days from home could be covered up by a few drawn-out orgasms. Guess it didn’t work, because you aren’t at home. With me. In my studio. In our kitchen. In our bed.” Taeyong lifted his forehead from yours and buried in your hair. He took a deep breath, comforted and saddened all at once at the familiar smell of peaches-and-cream that still plagued his memories like a ghost. The smell that he could faintly smell in the shower that he tried to scrub off until his skin turned red.    “But most importantly, the thing that you should know about me, in all my bumbling attempts to make you mine, is that I… I care for you. Fuck, I love you, and I’m so goddamn sorry I drove you away from our home. Please tell me it isn’t too late, because I’m sorry for everything I’ve done to make you feel used and unwanted. Please.”    His tone, cracked and anguished and interwoven with sadness, wrenched at your heart. He sounded so desperate, so unlike his usual suave baritone that it felt like you were listening to a song and the track skipped ahead a few beats and now all the singing was off-beat.    His mysterious nature, that you thought was permanently affixed to his character, was slowly crumbling around you. The days where you thought the gleam in his eyes was an enigmatic sparkle of that he knew something that you didn’t were gone; you could see that sparkle was of passion and affection, and a million other things in the universe that was all for you.    You didn’t realize you were crying until you could feel the wet button up of Taeyong was pressing into your cheek. Taeyong was making little shushing noises, stroking your back and whispering comforting things into your things.    “I… It’s not too late,” you whisper.    Taeyong’s head snapped up to meet your gaze, mouth partly open in shock. You smiled through your tears and stroked his cheek. You stood on your tippy-toes and gave him a kiss on his cheek, while he stood stutteringly still.    “It’s… it’s my fault too. I didn’t say anything, didn’t try to talk to you about my problems, or rather, didn’t try hard enough. I should’ve at least tried to work this out, instead of sulking about my problems like some child, before walking out of our house. I’m so sorry too, I was so rash and didn’t even let you have a chance to know what you did wrong,” you said while holding his hands.    Taeyong’s face split into a genuine smile, and dipped his head into a deep kiss, pressing you even closer to him. You missed this so much, a part of you that came together, and you responded two-fold, tilting your head to deepen the lip-lock. You gasped as his tongue entered your lips and you moaned softly, running your hands over his broad shoulders. He disengaged from lip-lock and trailed kisses all over your face. Over your brows, over your temples, over the bridge of your nose, everywhere. You giggled, ticklish from the sensation and his lips pulled up into a smirk. The hands you were using to run over his chest wandered to the lapel of his shirt, and tugged. Your hands played with the buttons before Taeyong released you suddenly.    “What?” you pouted, biting your lip and looking at him coquettishly.    His eyes darkened even further before a growl escaped his lips.    “Don’t test me Y/n, we can’t have it now. Later.”    “Why not now? Don’t you want me?”    “I do, fuck, I want to pound you until the mattress breaks, but I don’t wanna introduce sex into our relationship too soon. I don’t want to rush this like last time,” Taeyong says, stroking your fingers.    “Well, if what you said before about not wanting to fuck and chuck is true, I don’t mind it. In fact, I want it.” You take your hands out of his hold and “accidentally” brush it across his rising erection.    “Y/n,” he growls warningly, but you toss caution to the wind and push the palm of your hand into his slacks.    “Please?”    His lips curl up into a menacing smile, and he pushes you to the counter.    “If you want it, well, I live to serve,”    He tugs on your shirt, and assists in alleviating you of your shirt. You keep your lips on him, furiously making out with him. The artist pushes down your skinny jeans, his fingers brushing over your skin teasingly, soaking your panties clear through.    Once he rises up, his eyes darken even more as he scans your body, clad in just a bra and tiny panties while looking up at him with wide eyes. Licking his lips, he leans down and laves at your collarbone enticingly, while you throw your head back in ecstasy. Taeyong’s fingers pull down the cups of your bra, his thumbs rubbing circles on your aeolas making the tips of your breasts even stiffer.    “Mmph!” you moan, one hand covering your mouth while the other one is propped up to support you.    Taeyong scoops you up in his arms while you squeal.    “Which door?”    “The… the first one on the right,” you panted, barely able to talk while kissing him.    He manages to get the door open with you in his arms (an impressive feat) and throws you down on the bed. He rips off his black button up, showcasing his impressive chest that you missed, and loosens his belt.    You lean forward quickly and get back on your knees, pulling down his pants and pulling his cock out his briefs. Turgid and thick, it was exactly how you remembered. You stroked him a bit, while he threw his head back while clutching your shoulders tightly, and your mouth curled up into a cat-like grin. While rubbing the pre-cum over his head, Taeyong interrupted you.    “Y/n, I want to go down you. You can get my dick later,” Taeyong huffs as he rips your hand away from his cock.    “But I want it now, Tae. Can’t we do 69?” you asked while playing the straps of your bra.    “...fine.” Taeyong relents and helps you remove your bra and panties.    He gets down on the bed, while you climb over him and position your core directly on his face. You get eye-level with his pulsating cock and the hard tips of your breast rub his pectorals, stimulating quite nicely.    As soon as your fingers touched his cock, Taeyong sinful tongue poked at the entrance to your pussy. You unintentionally squeezed harder, and he moaned breathily, his hot breath on your vagina. Since Taeyong was rubbing his tongue over your entrance, but never entering, you decided to amp it up a notch.    You opened your lips over his dick, poking your tongue out, but only touching him slightly. He moaned, and you left little licks and kisses over his erection, fleeting touches that made his cock even harder. Taeyong seemed to get annoyed, and just fully inserted his tongue into your pussy. You whined and ground your core into his face, mouth leaving his dick momentarily and it hitting your cheeks you put your head down.    As Taeyong finally got out his hands to touch your clit, you put the length of his in his throat. You could feel the fine tremor of his thighs on your chest, and you alternated between hard and soft suction. However, you could barely think as his tongue moved in patterns on your clit, his fingers pistoning in and out. As his tongue touched your clit and his fingers touched a spot, you clenched hard and felt yourself release. You decided to speed up your handjob, and Taeyong explodes over your hand, streams of white come covering your pumping hand and slightly splattering you in the face.    The two of you rest there for a while before Taeyong’s dick rises a bit. You giggled, and you felt Taeyong lift you up from your position and putting you on your back on the bed. He loomed over you, and you clenched your thighs together to stop your juices from getting everywhere, but he wrenched them open and inserted himself between them.    “You ready, Y/n?”    “Absolutely,” you panted, a bit more wantonly than you would’ve liked.    His lips curled up in that smirk that made you fall in love with him, and he wasted no time in putting himself in.    The two of you groaned from the friction, not used to the pleasurable feelings running through your veins and in your hearts from the past few months. It felt like a homecoming, however cheesy it was, because him, here, with you, made you feel at ease.    Lubricated as you were, he set a gentle yet fast pace, slamming into you and making the bed frame rock. You didn’t know where to put your hands, one moment it was clutched tightly at sheets, and the other it was scratching down Taeyong’s back. He clenched his teeth and rocked into you faster, his biceps bulging with the effort. You every inch and crevice of his dick in your pussy, fitting perfectly with the contour of your walls.    “Taeyong!” you moan, absolutely overwhelmed by the intense pleasure and the emotional homecoming.    “Be my lover. Be my girlfriend. Be mine,” Taeyong gasped as his hips slammed into yours, creating a lewd slapping noise throughout the bedroom.    “My home… our home feels darker without you. It misses you. I miss you,” he continues.    “Say yes, darling.”    “YES!” you nearly screech out, delirious from the pleasure Taeyong was inflicting upon you. Your pussy clenched tightly around his veiny cock and released its juices. Taeyong let out an involuntarily moan and explodes, cum releases in spurts in your vagina. The two of you collapse, feeling as if a nova exploded in the room.    When your breathing as calmed down, and the aftershocks of pleasure slowly fade away, you stroke his hair.    “I think I love you,” you muse, as your fingers run through his soft black hair.    He lifts his head from your chest and smiles at you, pressing a little kiss on your collarbone.    “You’re gonna move with back in with me, right? I didn’t say that without purpose,” Taeyong murmurs, fingers drawing lines over your sensitive skin.    “I will as long as you promise me that we’ll work on communication together.”    “My darling, I would do anything for my muse.”

   The panoramic television Taeyong bought was humming softly in the background, announcing the news of Taeyong’s comeback from hiatus. The adorable corgi the two of you bought was jumping around the living room, your stupid corgi-covered throw blanket settled onto the couch once again.    You scan the small portrait of your likeness as Taeyong cradles you with his body, his head upon your shoulder and arms resting comfortably around your waist. You unconsciously lean back into him, luxuriating in his warmth and familiarity. You reluctantly break from his hold as you circle around the piece, reverent of its attention to detail and intimate vulnerability expressed in the piece. The golden plate near the base caught your eye, gleaming in the dying sunlight.    Raison D’etre.    Purpose for Existence.    Your head quickly snapped up towards his gaze and you stumbled back. 3 tiny words had the effect of a grenade, catching you off guard and leaving you in shell-shock. Just 3 tiny words made you feel like a sonic boom had swept through Taeyong’s studio and you, the unfortunate bystander, were left deafened and dazed. 3 tiny words.    “You… do you not go too far, Taeyong?”    His eyes contain a maelstrom intensive feelings. Love, passion, obsession were all rendered just as clearly with his gaze as with his oils or paints.    “Do I?”

(A/N: this a piece i have been on for a long ass time, so it is one of the best pieces i have ever written in my entire career lmao. i hope you enjoyed it as i did writing it! please like, reblog, and comment!)

Notations:

(1) Alexander Calder, an American sculptor who is best known for his innovative mobiles that embrace chance in their aesthetic and his monumental public sculptures. 

(2) Lovers- Wyeth (1981) - Part of the Helga Pictures, 240 paintings of Helga Testorf (Andrew Wyeth’s Muse and Mistress)

(3) The woman in the picture, Helga Testorf, was not a hired model. Wyeth, while married, embarked on a tempestuous affair with her and created 240 paintings.

(4) Phaedrus is a dialogue between Plato's protagonist, Socrates, and Phaedrus. The central theme of this dialogue is Eros. The problem of love serves as the provocation for the speeches, the content of the speeches and the reflection upon speech as a whole.

(5) Sotheby’s Auction House (NY)- One of the world's largest brokers of fine and decorative art, jewelry, real estate, and collectibles. It’s a big, big deal TY’s painting was sold there.

(6) Camille Claudel was the pupil of Auguste Rodin, a famous sculptor, and she eventually became his mistress. Auguste promised to leave his wife for Camille but that never happened. She went insane and was committed to a mental asylum, while Rodin went on to become an acclaimed artist. There are many doubts on how much Camille contributed to his most famous sculptures like The Thinker (because women as sculptors was unthinkable for the time).

(7) Salvador and Gala Dalí. Gala was married when she met surrealist oil painter Salvador Dalí (who painted The Persistence of Time), and immediately left her husband to be with Salvador. Gala was Salvador’s ultimate muse- he deified her in his paintings. The surrealist movement is often noted for its expression of the human subconscious and dream-state, exploring human desires and wild fantasy. For Dalí to imagine Gala in his dreams, he was extremely obsessed with her (even though she was a gold-digger and abusive).

(8) Gustav Klimt and Emilie Flöge. Gustav, who painted The Kiss, was lifelong partners with Emilie yet there was no proved romantic relationship between them. However, Gustav painted Emilie in The Kiss and many other works, leading many to believe they were romantically involved.

(6, 7, 8)- They say behind every great man is a great woman. The women mentioned above were crucial to each man’s success and artistic style. Each artist and his muse had a different sort of relationship, so that is why the newspaper mused on what type of relationship TY and Y/N had.

(9)- Nobuyoshi Araki and Kaori: Nobuyoshi Araki’s long-time model KaoRi has publicly accused the renowned Japanese photographer of misleading her into working without a contract, distributing pictures of her around the world without her knowledge or consent, and failing to compensate her fairly for her time or for her her role in Araki’s work. They weren’t lovers.

(10) Picasso and Gilot. Gilot had 2 children with Picasso and left, infuriating the famous Cubist painter who painted Guernica and The Old Guitarist.

(11) (TW) Bernado Bertolucci and Schneider. Bertolucci, an acclaimed film maker, was accused by actress Schneider for including a rape scene that wasn’t in the original script of the 1972 film Last Tango in Paris. Schneider was raped by her fellow actor Marlon Brando and the tears in the scene were real.

(9, 10 ,11)- These examples of horrible, abusive relationships between artists and their muses causes Y/N some worry, leading her to believe dear TY is using her.

[punkscowardschampions]

Ali & Tommy

Ali: TOM BOMB Ali: you will never guess what Tommy: you're adopted? CALLED IT Tommy: too fabulous for those heathens Ali: way to make my actual news look less 😏 Ali: isn't don't oversell it like rule #1 Ali: [sends cast list so its all official] Tommy: darling, breaking every rule is rule #1 Tommy: you ain't that adopted Tommy: OH MY SWEET LORD! YOU BETTER NOT BE TROLLING ME ALISON Tommy: I know your genius extends to photoshop pro but you mustn't use it for such evil Ali: who would I really be hurting with that troll, huh Ali: no one but myself Ali: but if its good enough for Queen Meryl 😁😁😁 Tommy: Preach it sister Ali: I'm so fucking excited I could burst Tommy: Meanwhile my school is putting Fanny and Alexander Tommy: like that Ingmar Bergman fever dream can or should be adapted for the stage Tommy: Jesus Christ Ali: we LOVE child abuse for a fun family night out Ali: guess the parentals like to be shown their money is being spent SERIOUSLY on SERIOUS theatré Tommy: The guardian voted it 8th best arthouse film OF ALL TIME therefore it must be worthy Tommy: I will not hesitate to put on a wig and replace you, Kit Tommy: before I do, 1 question Tommy: WHY AND HOW THE FUCK IS MEENA'S BROTHER NOT PLAYING THE SWEDISH LOTHARIO?!! Tommy: what is your casting director 🚬? Ali: I dread to think what 9 and 10 were 😏 Ali: must put them on my not-to-watch list Ali: 😂 Ro literally called it, we all know, I will uninvite you if you even THINK of upstaging me 😉 Ali: IKR its so funny Ali: maybe he thought he was being subversive casting a black guy Ali: but then I wouldn't have my role if that was his jam so 🤷 go off Tommy: Yeah HARD same 🙄😴 Tommy: you can try but I've sent a congrats text to Carls and she'll re-invite me Tommy: if he was the baby daddy the whole island would know but alright, like Ali: also true Ali: 😂 SERIOUSLY Ali: like hmm, I wonder where this white blonde blue eyed baby came from Ali: when you get diverse with your casting and the plot falls apart 😏 god bless, they're trying Tommy: that's WHY he cast Drew, he's being very catholic and trying to marry you off to the right man at the end Tommy: Sir you can't be deciding he's the daddy like that, how dare you! Ali: and that's WHY he cast me as Donna Ali: knows our ma won't flip out on the implication her daughter hoe'd around all summer and has no idea who fathered her child Ali: the subtle shade of it all Tommy: 😂 Tommy: I can't wait to see her go full Molly Weasley when she realises the plot of the thing Tommy: my Alison COULD NEVER you wanker! Tommy: would never 'cause you'd be in chains 😏 Ali: that's the other possibility, he hasn't clocked I'm GayLite and he thinks the idea I'm knocked up is right jokes Ali: Ma wishes 🤞🤞🤞 Tommy: Or he's calling out his biphobia and everyone who is as a HUGE whore Tommy: that's awkward Ali: when you don't prove the haters wrong 😬 Ali: whoops Tommy: When's opening night? I gotta see this Ali: duh, I've already begged on your behalf Ali: [the date] Tommy: I'm so ready for my handbags at dawn moment with Robbie Tommy: always a pleasure Tommy: unlike witnessing Drew outdoing Pierce Brosnan as the hottie who can't hold a note and DYING on stage Ali: I'll hold your earrings, babe Ali: if he can wait for the show to be over Ali: and don't be mean 🤫 Ali: he...needs some work Ali: but I'm willing to be like your worst teacher on speed about it, have him west end ready in, however many weeks they're giving us Tommy: Cheers, 'course I was born ready whenever he wants to go though 🥊🩰 Tommy: You know I'm here if you need me, fairy gaybrother and all Tommy: he will go to the (disco) ball! Ali: I'll let him know as much 😏 Ali: 💚 Ali: Luckily the choreo is simple, so he's got that down Ali: and how hard is it to pretend you're in love with me, honestly Ali: the singing though Tommy: how many songs does he have? Are they staying movie true? Ali: WELL, the tea is we've already cut a me him duet flashback to a solo for moi, but he HAS to do SOS to drive the plot, then its minimal lines on Our Last Summer, which Robbie is THRILLED about obvs, but he also HAS to do When All Is Said And Done, though maybe I can convince the director that'd work better as a toast moment legit, sans singing Tommy: Fucking hell Tommy: yeah unless there's somebody he could mime for Tommy: or a girl they could drag up to resemble him for the musical numbers Ali: REALLY go in and make it obvious who the dad is 😂 Ali: comes to something when the only viable option is the out out gay kid Tommy: SOS is gonna be brutal but I reckon you're onto something cutting the last number down Tommy: by then the audience will either be LIVING for you or DYING over him and we all know how the drama dept would rather it Tommy: arts funding is already in the bog, like Ali: Truly... fuck it, if we don't get it then instead of taking turns at a verse each we'll do it together and I will belt the fuck out of it Ali: you don't have to tell me, the wardrobe is abhorrent Ali: but we're already on that, even if I have to dress the entire cast myself Tommy: Christ alive, I will come home early and help you save the show, bags full of stolen props and costumes Tommy: Sorry not sorry, mother Ali: Oh LORDT, what even is the costuming for fucking Ali: fanny and whathisface Ali: I bet you are LIVING Tommy: Everyone here has now said fuck it and we're sorting out watching Mamma Mia Tommy: the girls and gays are 💔😭 Tommy: Straight Simon alone is unaffected Tommy: SEND HELP ALL MY MATES ARE ASKING IF DREW'S TOO WHITE TO TURN SOS INTO A RAP 😂 Ali: that boy is an enigma Ali: do not encourage him PLEASE 😭😭😭 Ali: all for mixing it up but if I have to look 💔 at a boy rapping about what happened to our love...nah Ali: even Meryl couldn't Tommy: Quick, dish on the rest of your all star cast, that'll 100% work in amusing them Tommy: any room to judge and they don't give a fuck about a single thing else Ali: Oh well, let's see Tommy: I'm the proudest of my sweet baby Carls and know she'll be grand, but the people are restless and thirsty for that hot tea Ali: Rosie's a sweetie, she jams with us on the drums every now and then, so you'd recognize her face not her name, she's gonna be so funny, perf for that role so I can't slag on her, I'm afraid darlings Ali: right?! MY BABY 💕 Ali: we did our auditions in groups of about 3 so it was just me, her and Cavante, she killed it forreal Tommy: Yeah? I do remember her! She comments on many o' Meena posts and you can hear the 🍀 Tommy: I'm gonna call her later, Carls that is, not your drummer Ali: I'm DYING for her to give the brummie a go, if that's as hilariously bad as we're all imagining, I'll send that to quench your mates thirst 🍵 Tommy: You're a star on so many levels Ali: 🥰 Ali: Who else DON'T you know? 🤔 Ali: the girls playing Meena's friends, me either Ali: they're her year though Ali: one of them has the good=loud vibe so I wouldn't be surprised if she went to one of your theatre groups as a kid Tommy: The lad in her year too? I dunno him Ali: Yes, which is rude Ali: he's got hot over the summer clearly 'cos like, HELLO? Ali: he's decent though, fair craic Tommy: Every show needs a dark horse Ali: they're cute Ali: some of his friends, esp. the one Carls has to seduce are 😬 Ali: thank God she's talented Tommy: at least some fuckers'll have chemistry Tommy: you'll be full Meryl-ing to convince ANYONE that Drew's the love of your life Tommy: and Carly would never waste a second on a younger lad Ali: at least I get to be fuming at him most the time Ali: lying cheating bastard 😏 Tommy: 👀🔪 Tommy: I'm well jealous Ali: I know, babes, I know Tommy: less gutted now this sing-a-long is kicking off Tommy: you wanna be facetimed in? Ali: um YES Ali: counts as a rehearsal Tommy: [does call her so she can join]

[lascljs]

Mac lipstick shades for dark lips

MAC LIPSTICK SHADES FOR DARK LIPS SKIN

MAC LIPSTICK SHADES FOR DARK LIPS FULL

MAC LIPSTICK SHADES FOR DARK LIPS MAC

It's dark enough to be classed as 'vampy', but not overly so that it looks gothic or too 'black'. If you're after a vampy lip, Mac's 'Dark Side' is worth a swatch. Mac's Amplified formulas have to be one of my favourites! I simply apply from the bullet or with a lip brush after applying lip liner (a must have!!) and I'm good to go. It's extremely opaque and being an 'Amplified' formula, the consistency is smooth and creamy, whilst providing a flawless look with amazing pigmentation.

MAC LIPSTICK SHADES FOR DARK LIPS MAC

The lipstick is described on the Mac website as being a 'deep burgundy' - and I'd definitely agree. 'Dark Side' is now the darkest lipstick I own - I'm not entirely sure I can go much darker than this without looking like an extra from The Adam's Family, but I'm getting quite addicted to a statement lip and it's become my go-to look for a good couple of months now. I like to pair mine with a flawless base, toned down blush and a fairly neutral eye - with either a thin flick of liquid liner or a light smudge of brown kohl across the upper lash line. It's definitely not a look for everybody but you'll be surprised at how much it compliments 'winter skin' - it seems to lift any dullness and adds an amazing pop of colour. I must admit, I've always been a classic 'pillarbox' red kind of girl, but I've thrown caution to the wind and turned over to the dark side (ahaha.sorry.) and have realised how pretty a statement dark red can look - even in the daytime. If you've seen a couple of my recent lip colour related posts ( here, here and here) you miiiight have noticed that I've become somewhat obsessed with dark, vampy reds and burgundy shades. Mac's 'Dark Side' finally made it's way into my lipstick drawers. Because you can never have enough dark berry lipsticks, right? Anyway, schedules aside, just because I've been bogged down with work doesn't mean I haven't been trying out new items of cosmetic goodness - I am a beauty blogger after all - no amount of essay writing or presentation planning will stop me from Bird's Words-ing it! This week, I happen to have added yet another dark berry lipstick to my collection of other dark berry lipsticks. If you're reading this, any of you, I'm sorry - I eat my words. I will hold my hands up and openly admit that before I decided to go to university, I used to moan my way through the 9-5 and wonder why all the Saturday 'student' staff came into work of a weekend complaining about how hard it was to get a degree and how they wish they could swap with me for a while.

MAC LIPSTICK SHADES FOR DARK LIPS SKIN

From matte formulas to liquids and more, we're positive you'll love these lipstick colors for brown skin just as much as we do.What's this? Two blog posts in the space of two days?! Yes, well, you might think I'm on the ball but if I'm being honest, I've just gone a bit skew-whiff with the ole blogging schedule - many thanks to final year uni work. We chose from a mix of GH Beauty Award winners, user reviews, and expert picks to round up the best lipsticks that stay put without any smudges or fading, stand out with rich pigment, and are super flattering on dark skin. Our Beauty Lab is constantly swiping on new lipstick colors and formulas both in the Lab and with consumer tests across the nation. Thankfully, the Good Housekeeping Institute is here to make matters a whole lot easier. Whether you're looking for a nude or red shade or something in between, you want to make sure it's right for you: Seek out shades that are highly pigmented, which will stand out against dark skin, and avoid anything chalky or overly pastel. With thousands of lipsticks colors out there, choosing one that looks great on your skin tone is easier said than done, especially if you have dark skin.įor deep complexions, it's important to choose colors that complement your brown tones and pop against dark lips and skin instead of making them look gray or ashy.

MAC LIPSTICK SHADES FOR DARK LIPS FULL

Of course, you want a lipstick that has major staying power (no touch-ups at noon), is full of bold pigment, and will keep your pout looking supple and soft (no cracking wanted here). Lipsticks: We love to sport them, but it can be quite the challenge finding the perfect shade.

[xanth-the-wizard]

20 D&D Asks Responses

I received a solid amount of responses so I'll just answer them all here in one big post! Thanks to @doodlindee, @udonbullets, @lonelynayiq, @not-so-neighboorhood-friendly, the anons as well, this was a lot of fun! (The @’ing was not working for the first two, sorry about that!)

2. What was the first class you ever played as? Strangely enough in games, I often choose characters that hit real good and have a LOT of health. And I like swords. I just think they're super cool. But for some reason I felt strangely compelled to play a Wizard. I just really wanted to see how magic worked in the game? And then my first character, Xanth the Wizard Necromancer was born!

5. What is your favorite race? Ooooh, I would have to say Tiefling or Dragonborn. Nope, I lied I'd say Dragonborn. Tieflings are really cool and I've seen AMAZING art of Tiefling characters but Dragonborns are still just so cool to me? My main campaign antagonist (before the big bad Lich) was a Dragonborn.

6. What is your favorite class? Honestly, I haven't really gotten the chance to play many classes in D&D. But I think Paladin is my favorite class. I LOVE the concept of a Paladin. Big Armor, Shields, Mace, Heals, it's perfect.

8. Do you prefer theater of the mind or minis and grids? Theater of the mind. I don't have enough money to buy minis and I don't really use the map very often. Most often to map out a general location or to host some combat. I like things mostly narrative. (Plus most minis wouldn't fit the characters in my campaign, including the player characters)

11. What is your favorite edition of d&d? Only ever tried out 5th Edition and I've stuck with it! It's easy to learn and teach to other people and even then I ignore lots of rules that bog the game down. I think I actually bought a starter set for 4th Edition back when I was in high school and I fell asleep reading the rules.

14. What is the longest d&d campaign you have ever been part of? So far I've not really been in any big campaigns except for my first one! That one went on for two-ish years? We played sort of consistently but that varied from month to month. But yeah! I can't remember how many sessions it was, we lost track after ten or so!

15. What is your favorite weapon? Swords! I love swords! Maces are a close second. I'm also a big fan of magical staves that have cool twisty designs and maybe glow a little bit.

16. What is your favorite spell? -I've always been a big fan of Mage Hand. He was basically my companion who I often used for things like high-fiving and unhelpful advice. His name was Handy J. *cue laughter* Thank you and I'm sorry. (Also I really like Reincarnate, I like the idea that you can be returned from the dead but you may end up a completely different creature!) [Also also, I like Blight because it's the first 4th level spell I got to learn and it's the first spell to make me feel like a badass since it does some pretty solid damage. And it's necrotic!]

17. What is your favorite armor? I've really only played a Wizard so I don't really know! But I like full knight armor in the same way I really like swords!

[hermitologist]

My 17 Favorite Records of 2017

Hello, Internet. Yet another year has passed, and because I’ve made a habit of making year-end lists, this old man has gone and done it again.

I listened to a veritable buttload of music this year on my morning runs, which I decided to post about on Instagram most days in a concerted effort to keep myself accountable bore every last one of my followers to death. I think it’s working.

What follows, is my list of favorites. Not “best”. “Favorite”. *My* favorite. So, spare me the “Your list sucks. WTF. I can’t believe “A Vest For Jerome” by Turd Circus isn’t on there!” comments. I’m sorry we don’t have the exact same taste in music. :)

As usual, I feel like the top 5 or 6 here are pretty carved in stone, but the last 12 and some of the honorable mentions could totally be flip-flopped depending on which side of the bed I woke up on. I actually fiddled with a few spots five minutes before posting this, which is either a testament to that or Exhibit 4,923 in my undiagnosed OCD case.

Anyways ... TL;DR. Here’s what I was into this year. I hope you find something you enjoy.

IMPORTANT: Please let me know what I might missed out on (as I’m sure there’s a ton of it), and share some of your favorites in the comments below. Thanks!

17) Japandroids - Near To The Wild Heart Of Life

This didn’t quite grab me the way Celebration Rock did, but it’s got a good number of super infectious earworms that got stuck in my brain at the top of the year. 

Listen here.

16) Sorority Noise - You’re Not As ____ You Think

Excellent “emo”with that feels like it could very easily fit into Brand New’s discography (and I mean that in a very complimentary way). Highly recommended if you’re looking for something to fill that void. 

Listen here. 

15) Queens of the Stone Age - Villains

This took a little while for this record to sink its teeth into me, but once it did, it didn’t let go. The arrangements are so nuanced that I’ve found little bits of ear candy each time I’ve listened to it, and while the mix is not my favorite, the songs are so brilliantly catchy and drumming so monstrous, I’m hooked. And Jon Theodore is the best drummer on Earth. That’s not debatable either. It’s fact.

Listen here.

14) David Bazan - Care

It’s no secret that I’m a sucker for anything and everything Bazan. His lyrics and the timbre of his voice cut to my core, and the songs on Care are no exception -- even when they’re delivered over minimalist electronica (which is not my favorite vehicle by any stretch). Another Bazan masterpiece.

Listen here.

13) Glassjaw - Material Control

This record is perfect in that it is exactly what it needs to be. It’s Glassjaw doing what they do best -- intense, vibey, groovy, heavy post-hardcore that is a logical follow-up to Worship & Tribute, while flexing and pushing enough to make it feel fresh. A tremendous return to form, and a record that was well worth the wait.

Listen here.

12) Julien Baker - Turn Out The Lights 

Sprained Ankle blew me away and knocked me on my ass, and somehow, some way, Baker has leveled up and topped that. The stripped-down “artist + guitar” intimacy is still there, but the heavy moments hit even harder because of the additional orchestration on this record. Such a promising future for her.

Listen here.

11) The Life & Times - S/T

Another excellent record from some of one of Kansas City’s best bands. There are few who do airy, melancholic, spacey, dynamic rock better than these guys. And Chris Metcalf is one of the best drummers on the planet right now -- so pockety, tasteful, and effortless. Highly recommended if you dig Failure, Shiner, Hum, Antenna-era Cave In, et al. 

Listen here.

10) METZ - Strange Peace

This beast is 36 minutes of noisy, nasty, heavy post-punk with stellar guitar and bass tones, and badass drumming that sounds like the best parts of Nirvana and Young Widows had a perfect lovechild. I dare you to listen to this record and not have an overwhelming urge to play it as loud as you possibly can and headbang until your eyes fall out of your skull.

Listen here.

9) CHON - Homey

I really enjoyed this when it came out, but it wasn’t until we spent five weeks on tour with them and got to see them shred a handful of these songs on a nightly basis that it really grabbed ahold of me. This record is stellar. Sure there are a ton of notes, but they’re all tasteful, never bogged down in painfully long prog opuses, and there’s so much feel here ... which is so rare in the new world of insanely chopped, gridded and sampled prog. The splashes of hip-hop and glitchy Prefuse 73 style electronica are a killer addition to the mix as well. This is the feel good record of the year for me.

Listen here.

8) Kendrick Lamar - DAMN.

There really isn’t another rapper who holds a candle to Kendrick at the moment, and this might be the best work of his career. I haven’t had a hip-hop record hit me like this in at least a decade. I was hooked from the second the beat dropped in DNA., got roped in even more by the slow jam LOVE., and HUMBLE. sealed the deal. What a beast.

Listen here.

7) Cloud Nothings - Life Without Sound

This record rules, but I’m not sure I can put my finger on exactly why I like it so much. It’s got tiny elements of so many bands I love or used to love without being overly referential. It’s got a melancholic vibe but never lacks energy. And it is packed with really, really well written and catchy songs without full-blown pop circus. You know you’re listening to a great record when you’re playing a deep cut and uncontrollably blurt, “Fuck, this song is good.” 

Listen here.

6) Converge - The Dusk In Us

Nobody does it better than these dudes, and it’s been that way for the better part of two decades. The Dusk In Us is yet another record a discography full of bar-setting hardcore/metal/noise records that elevate the ceiling of the genre and make everyone else sound/look bland in comparison. This one slides right into the #3 or #4 spot in that storied discography. So great.

Listen here.

5) Manchester Orchestra - A Black Mile To The Surface

This is one of those rare records that blows you away on first listen, and gets better with each subsequent listen. The former happens when the songs --stripped to their bones -- are stellar, and the latter happens when the arrangements and mix are somehow even more stellar. ABMTTS checks the shit outta both of those boxes and then some. Aaaand it was made with multiple producers, but doesn’t sound disjointed in the slightest, which seems damn near impossible. It’s the perfect Manchester Orchestra record ... “The Gold” was stuck pleasantly in my head for a majority of the year.  

Listen here.

4) Pile - A Hairshirt Of Purpose

Disclaimer: I am a late adopter of the majesty of Pile, but I am happy to announce that I am hopelessly hooked on their soulful, noisy, schizophrenic, (occasionally) dreamy, fusion of post-punk, blues, and all sorts of other good things. My entry point was Dripping, but A Hairshirt ... cemented my love for this band. It’s weird, it’s beautiful, it’s energetic, it’s heavy, it’s ethereal, and the musicianship is frustratingly good. If you know, you know ... if you don’t, just trust me. Spin it with an open mind and meet one of your new favorite bands.

Listen here.

3) Propagandhi - Victory Lap

I grew up on Epitaph and Fat Wreck Chords punk rock in the 90s, and these guys (and gal) are legitimately the only band of that era that continue to excite and inspire me. I look forward to every release, and they manage to deliver every. single. time. It’s not a nostalgia thing with Propagandhi. Chris Hannah’s lyrics, melodies, and guitar playing continue to push the boundaries of what can be done in that genre. You might expect a group of 40-year-old punks to decline or at least plateau, but they’re still on an upward trajectory and it’s  inspiring as hell. Bonus points if you’re a parent and can listen to “Adventures In Zoochosis” without tearing up. Victory Lap is outstanding -- one of their three best records without question. 

Listen here.

2) Cloakroom - Time Well

If you’ve been following me here, on Twitter, or Instagram, it’s no secret that I’ve got a massive soft spot in my heart for bummer jams -- especially bummer jams of the heavy variety. Time Well is a damn near perfect in those regards. It’s shoegazey without being tired or overly jangly, mildly doomy without being mind-numbingly boring, and fuzzy without sounding like it was recorded inside a sleeping bag. I’m pretty sure I listened to this record more than anything else this year, and after probably a hundred spins, it hasn’t lost any of its luster. It’s outstanding (and it’s got some damn tasty drumming on it too).

Listen here.  

1) Elder - Reflections Of A Floating World

My buddy Scott Evans (Kowloon Walled City vocalist/guitarist, Antisleep recording engineer/producer, multi-talented human, generally outstanding dude, recommender of many amazing bands) turned me on to these guys earlier this year by sharing 2015′s Lore with me. That record f-ing floored me. Riffs for days. Heaviness. Prog vibes. Stoner rock goodness. Dynamics. Space. Sabbath-y vocals. It checked all of the boxes. Needless to say, I couldn’t wait to hear Reflections Of A Floating World. 

ROAFW dropped in June, and it’s even better than I could have imagined. I’d wager that there are more sick riffs on this record than your favorite band has in their entire discography. I dare you to listen to this and not get a twitch to start a play air guitar. Also: How the shit do you write 15-minute songs that don’t bore people into catatonia? This is how. Just like this. Parts never drag, parts never feel like they’re just filler, and there isn’t a wasted moment in 64 minutes of music. That’s a remarkable feat in and of itself. This is a goddamn timeless record, and there’s no doubt I’ll have it in heavy rotation for the rest of my life.

Listen here.

HONORABLE MENTIONS

The Effects - Eyes To The Light

Brutus - Burst

Nate Smith - KINFOLK: Postcards From The Edge

Employed To Serve - Warmth of A Dying Sun

God Mother - Vilseledd

Slowdive - Sugar For The Pill

Hundredth - RARE

Mutoid Man - War Moans

Grizzly Bear - Painted Ruins

Quicksand - Interiors

Death From Above - Outrage! Is Now

Power Trip - Nightmare Logic

Health - DISCO3

Vince Staples - Big Fish Theory

All Them Witches - Sleeping Through The War

Code Orange - Forever

Blis - No One Likes You

Bjork - Utopia

Less Art - Strangled Light ;)

MY FAVORITE RECORD OF 2015 THAT I DIDN’T HEAR UNTIL 2017

Town Portal - The Occident

MY FAVORITE RECORD OF 2004 THAT I DIDN’T HEAR UNTIL 2017

The Stella Link - Mystic Jaguar... Attack!!!

CURRENT PODCAST QUEUE

Chapo Trap House (Grey Wolf Feed)

The Trap Set

Song Exploder

Slate’s The Gist

Slate’s Hang Up & Listen

INTERCEPTED

The FilmDrunk Frotcast

Deadcast

How I Built This

Freakonomics Radio

Radiolab

This American Life

[bellsblake-archive]

sorry i’ve neglected this blog for a few months rip

hi lovelies!! so as you all have probably noticed, i haven’t been very active on this blog lately, and that’s for a few reasons.

a lot of the shows i watch are currently on hiatus. the ones that aren’t, i don’t have time to keep up with right now.

time is another huge issue. i’m super bogged down with schoolwork, standardized test prep, ap test prep, the college search, and all the fun things that come with the second half of junior year. that’s why i don’t have a lot of time to watch tv or to be on tumblr.

i made a new year’s resolution to dedicate more time to reading this year. meaning, with the little free time i have, i mostly use it to read rather than watch tv (with a few exceptions, like the end of the f***ing world which if you watched this pls come talk to me i have emotions).

because of that, the time i do spend on tumblr has been spent growing my ya lit blog over at @graytessa rather than on this blog. i’m just really feeling the ya lit community rn and i’ve met so many cool people through it!

i’ve had a few days to relax and fill up the queue on this blog again, but it’ll probably be empty again in a couple of weeks and i don’t know when i’ll refill it. i don’t see myself coming back here in more than sporadic bursts of activity until shadowhunters and the 100 return. at that point, i really am gonna make an effort to be more active here.

for right now though, i’m going to be focusing on school and on my ya lit blog. it’s so strange to come back here after just a few months and everything is so different. i basically don’t recognize 90% of anyone’s urls anymore lol. i really miss you guys, so if you want to talk or catch up just dm me on this blog or on my ya lit blog! i will be back sooner than you think, once this craziness is over <3

[jam2289]

One Session as a Writing Coach

I'm going to reveal more of the coaching process in this article. Each student is unique, and each session is unique. So the process is never the same, but there still is a process to finding the way forward.

I never thought I would teach writing, or public speaking, or meditation. I'm even roleplaying out casting calls for an actress now. I've taught computer programmers, surgeons, rich business owners, young entrepreneurs, finance directors, project managers, and many students. All sorts of people.

I've talked with them about all sorts of things. One of the unique things about my sessions is that you can ask me anything, including personal health and finances, religion, politics, whatever. (I did have to start noting not to get mad about our differences though, because one person didn't like that I don't think Islam is a particularly peaceful religion. Which I think can change just like other religions have, but I'll leave all of that for another article.)

This is an hour-long session that I had with an eleven-year-old girl from Russia. Now, I call it an hour, but actually the sessions are 50-minutes long. The buffer time allows me to run over by a couple of minutes, write a few notes on the session, maybe have a drink, open the material for the next student, review my notes from our last session, and then start on time.

I always open with general conversation about what's been happening. This can take 3-minutes, or it can spiral into an entire session if we really get into something interesting.

She told me about her family holiday plans. I told her about some things I've been doing. We probably spent about 15-minutes just talking. We do want to work on all four parts of language learning somewhat: reading, writing, listening, and speaking. This student just happens to have a focus on writing because both her and her mother want her to succeed on the writing part of some English exams. (Which she has done quite well on since we started having lessons. A few weeks ago she received 8 A's on her English mid-terms. It was unclear if the total possible was 8 or 9.)

At this point I still always ask, "So, what do you wanna do?" And she chooses writing almost every time.

I didn't even ask which one of us should start. She said, "Oh, oh, I have an idea!"

I said, "Okay! Go ahead." And this is what she wrote.

- - - - - - -

"Ok, this might sound better..."

"Hi, what are you doing, Amy?"

"Bella! How many times do I have to tell you Not to do that?!"

"Sorry... but what are you doing?"

*Sigh* "Are you blind or something? I'm working on my new album. It must be finished in 2 weeks!"

- - - - - - -

One note before we dive into the coaching; I'm not going to point out all of the little corrections that we went over. These aren't that interesting and we don't spend much time on them unless there's a question or misunderstanding. In that case we dig into it. But normally I just change the text. The student can see what I'm changing, I say what I'm doing and maybe give a why, and we move on. Here's a list of some of the small changes that I made during this entire session.

- - - - - - -

must to might, remove extra o, add enough, change d to g, change past to present tense, add contraction I'm, delete extra letters, change case, all to whole, add ing, add comma, add period, add the, add like that, flipping letters, deleting me, change tense in dialogue versus description, add r, add the, letter flip, plural versus singular past tense, interest to curiosity

- - - - - - -

Now that we have that out of the way, read this again and notice that it's confusing. Ask yourself why.

- - - - - - -

"Ok, this might sound better..."

"Hi, what are you doing, Amy?"

"Bella! How many times do I have to tell you Not to do that?!"

"Sorry... but what are you doing?"

*Sigh* "Are you blind or something? I'm working on my new album. It must be finished in 2 weeks!"

- - - - - - -

The reason this is confusing is because of a lack of context. We will get into why this student has a tendency to write like that in a little bit.

We don't really know who's speaking. We don't know where they are. We don't know much of anything. And that's disorienting.

I like to say that there are two great sins in writing: confusion and boredom. Now, you can't avoid those for everyone all of the time, but you need to keep them in mind. Everyone has their limit. If they get too bored or too confused at any point they will just stop reading and go do something else.

So, the first thing I did was point out that it's a little confusing to figure out who's speaking here. She tried to resolve that by using the names in the dialogue, which was a good idea, it just didn't fully work. And, we don't know where we are at all. I can't see a scene in my head because this could just be two floating heads for all I know.

I showed her what I was talking about by adding on to her first sentence. I didn't save what I wrote as an example, but it was something like:

- - - - - - -

"Ok, this might sound better..." thought Amy as she slid her fingers gently along the strings.

- - - - - - -

This adds both the dialogue attribution so we know who's talking (Amy, inside of her own head in this example), and enough description so that we can start picturing the image of a scene in our mind.

I asked if that made sense. My student said yes, so I erased my example and asked if she wanted to give it a try. Here's what she put down.

- - - - - - -

"Ok, this might sound better..." Amy moved her mouse and chose another filter. "No, still not good enough. I think, I can try this one..."

"Hi, what are you doing, Amy?" A girl suddenly appeared behind Amy's shoulder.

- - - - - - -

That was more than I expected to happen. I told her so, and said, "Nice work."

You can see that my assumption about Amy playing an instrument was completely off base. But, since I would be picturing that in my head, when it was later revealed that she was sitting at a computer working in a computer program it would have been jarring for me as a reader (breaking the sin of confusion).

There were a few of those small corrections that we're not going to cover. But, I did point out that having "Amy" in the dialogue was a little redundant at this point, so we deleted that.

Now we had this.

- - - - - - -

"Ok, this might sound better..." Amy moved her mouse and chose another filter. "No, still not good enough. I think, I can try this one..."

"Hi, what are you doing?" A girl suddenly appeared behind Amy's shoulder.

"Bella! How many times do I have to tell you Not to do that?!"

"Sorry... but what are you doing?"

*Sigh* "Are you blind or something? I'm working on my new album. It must be finished in 2 weeks!"

- - - - - - -

The next two lines also don't have dialogue tags or description, but that's fine. We already have a good scene set. My student did a nice job of mentioning the girl appearing "behind Amy's shoulder." You can tell who's talking in both sentences. There are a lot of style choices we could talk about, but they are debatable things that it's best to move past, rather than getting wrapped up in small things. We're already doing a pretty detailed session. No need to get bogged down in debatable stylistic choices. Plus, I like the capital "N" on "Not" to emphasize it. That technique reminds me of writing in colonial America in the late 18th century, such as Benjamin Franklin.

At this point there's one big, obvious, and weird thing. I asked her why she decided to put "Sigh" like that, with stars around it and everything. She said that she watches Youtube videos of Japanese cartoons where they make little bubbles with these types of sounds in them. Essentially, they use some of the classic comic book techniques in cartoon tv shows.

We talked about comic books versus tv scripts versus novels for a little bit. I asked her if she wanted to take a shot at replacing the sigh and making the scene come more alive for us. She didn't even give me an answer, she just started writing. It looked like an idea had jumped into her head. Here's what she changed it to.

- - - - - - -

"Oh my god..." Amy said quietly and took a long breath, "Are you blind or something? I'm working on my new album. It must be finished in 2 weeks!"

- - - - - - -

That went well. My actual response was, "Cool, cool." We made our minor corrections. Then, I was just sitting there for a moment, silently, looking over everything, and she told me it was my turn.

It's a bit odd sometimes switching from editing someone else's work, giving them ideas, answering their questions about vocabulary and such, and then having to look at everything that's been done and come up with a somewhat coherent continuation of the story that an eleven-year-old Russian girl will want to keep working on. I do it, and I think I do it fairly well, but it can be a little disorienting at times. With just a small hesitation I wrote this.

- - - - - - -

"Cool!" said Bella. "What's it about?"

Amy pushed her tongue between her teeth and gave a small squeeze. She took another deep breath and turned around.

"The theme of the album is about

- - - - - - -

It took me a little longer than it would appear, mostly because of that tongue between the teeth thing. I often do the little motions that I'm thinking about characters doing, just to feel them, and then try to express them in a sincere, authentic, and original way. (I did that recently in a writing group and the guy I was sitting across from gave me a funny look. I was feeling what it's like for your eyes to slowly fall shut, I think he thought I was falling asleep. It was funny.)

I had paused and was thinking about what I should make the theme of the album. She was looking at me and I said, "Big decision here, hey? Hahaha." She said, "Oh, I know, I know!". So I said, "Okay, go ahead."

Now, I can't tell you what she wrote next because I have no idea what it was. But I let her continue, it's not a good idea to interrupt someone while they're writing. It's impossible to let ideas flow like that. The rest of it made sense, but the word she had put down for the theme was some mix of letters that was unpronounceable and had a capital letter in the middle. She knows Russian, English, and Japanese, so it might have been some sort of mix of the languages, or just an Anglicized Japanese word. I don't really know. I asked her what it meant and she said it was about "fairies and flowers and unicorns." I said to just put that, so she replaced the mysterious word. Here's what we ended up with.

- - - - - - -

"The theme of the album is about fairys and flowers and unicorns... just joking. You were behind my door the whole time, I heared you breathing. Couldn't you recognize it? I thought I told you the basic theme. It's pop-rock like Believer, Thunder, Demons, and other songs like that."

- - - - - - -

We talked quite a lot about the structure of the last sentence and went through a few versions. Apparently we focused on that enough that I missed the two misspellings in the first two sentences. Not a huge deal.

It was my turn again, so I added this.

- - - - - - -

"Why!?" said Bella in her chirpy little voice, full of that type of annoying curiosity that just wants a simple answer to an almost impossibly complex question.

- - - - - - -

She asked what I meant by "impossibly complex question." and we went over that.

At this point we were just a few minutes away from the end of the class. I was planning to do a little summary of some of the things that we'd looked at, but my student had other plans. She told me to "Hold on." and started furiously writing, lol. Here's what she put down.

- - - - - - -

"Are you kidding me?!!!"

"No, I just want an answer, and then I'll leave. Pleeeaaaaaaase!!!!"

"Do you promise?" Amy was starting to get angry.

"Yes, of course!" Bella was very interested in the answer. Her eyes were full of curiosity.

"Ok, the answer is... BECAUSE! And now leave! You are getting annoying!"

"Hmpf! Fine. I will tell mum that you are bullying me!"

"Oh my goooood!!! Why do I have this... this... thing as a sister?!"

- - - - - - -

She went at least a minute past our end time, probably two. But, I couldn't just completely leave it. So we went over the minor corrections together anyway. We didn't get deep into this section because we were already five minutes past time, which is why I have that buffer time in-between classes.

This is what the story looked like at the end of the session.

- - - - - - -

"Ok, this might sound better..." Amy moved her mouse and chose another filter. "No, still not good enough. I think, I can try this one..."

"Hi, what are you doing?" A girl suddenly appeared behind Amy's shoulder.

"Bella! How many times do I have to tell you Not to do that?!"

"Sorry... but what are you doing?"

"Oh my god..." Amy said quietly and took a long breath, "Are you blind or something? I'm working on my new album. It must be finished in 2 weeks!"

"Cool!" said Bella. "What's it about?"

Amy pushed her tongue between her teeth and gave a small squeeze. She took another deep breath and turned around.

"The theme of the album is about fairys and flowers and unicorns... just joking. You were behind my door the whole time, I heared you breathing. Couldn't you recognize it? I thought I told you the basic theme. It's pop-rock like Believer, Thunder, Demons, and other songs like that."

"Why!?" said Bella in her chirpy little voice, full of that type of annoying curiosity that just wants a simple answer to an almost impossibly complex question.

"Are you kidding me?!!!"

"No, I just want an answer, and then I'll leave. Pleeeaaaaaaase!!!!"

"Do you promise?" Amy was starting to get angry.

"Yes, of course!" Bella was very interested in the answer. Her eyes were full of curiosity.

"Ok, the answer is... BECAUSE! And now leave! You are getting annoying!"

"Hmpf! Fine. I will tell mum that you are bullying me!"

"Oh my goooood!!! Why do I have this... this... thing as a sister?!"

- - - - - - -

I told her she had done a nice job on working with dialogue and giving more description. She wished me a good day, I wished her a good evening, and we departed from our little writing session. Each of us a little wiser.

________________________________________________

To read more from Jeff go to JeffThinks.com or JeffreyAlexanderMartin.com

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The looking place- start my subsequently semester offshore

The looking place- start my subsequently semester offshore

I have some sort of confession to create, although it´ s definitely not one that I´ m mainly embarrassed of: I love Doctor Seuss. They are a fictional genius. I really wrote my term literary analysis paper on his assist my jr year literary works class inside high school. Anyway, one of my favorite books simply by Dr . Seuss is ‘Oh the Venues You’ll Visit. ‘ Currently, this arrange is popular with many people because of it´ s subject matter about a cure for the future as well as wisdom in relation to not knowing precisely what is to come, but it surely is just full of tidbits of wisdom thaton which I think a lot of people fail to spend sufficient interest. One of these lovely tidbits is actually ‘The ready place….

‘For people simply just waiting.

Looking ahead to a train to go or a bus to come,

or a airplane to go as well as mail that come,

or the elements to go or even the phone in order to ring,

… …

So many people are just ready.

No! That´ s never for you!

Someway you´ lmost all escape all of that waiting and remaining.

You´ ll find the glowing places where Expansion Bands tend to be playing! ‘

Dr . Seuss tells us that people will many come about this put at some areas in our lifestyles, but they reminds us it to be a temporary state— at least for anyone of us who seem to choose it all to be so.http://www.shmoop.pro But , in the meantime, I am bogged down in the ready place. As i plan to get away it as shortly as possible, nonetheless sometimes it´ s just an avoidable stop between here and there.

Why am i not stuck inside the waiting place you ask? Very well, I am in the airport, patiently waiting to go back to Chile for the second session abroad. And allows already been some sort of heck of any trip.

We were originally meant to fly several hours Friday. I had been visiting Stanford for the week, to put some things in order for my very own thesis and visit my friends who were nonetheless on grounds. My air travel was designed to leave out of latest York Friday afternoon, however after I has been halfway so that you can New York for a train from Boston, I noticed out this my airfare was terminated. (See some other blog posts just for details on the snowstorm referred to as Nemo. ) So I changed right back around on a further train to return to Boston. When i got above the fact that was I are generally on the seaside with my very own Chilean boyfriend, Gabriel, in place of stuck throughout wintry Celtics, I was able to enjoy the snowstorm a little: sledding on the President´ s property, feeling cozily trapped during my friends´ apartment with a mug of incredibly hot chocolate. Although I at some point had to say that I previously had decidedly arrived at the Hanging around Place.

Just after spending special occasions at home, Being kind of basically waiting to find back to Chile for the next stanza of playing to start. Waiting for the snowstorm to pass. Ready to have my room all over again. Waiting to find out my friends within Chile. Patiently waiting to ski into this is my thesis homework. Of course , staying at Tufts has been fun, a lot of I was simply there for that week, for some reason just depicted an more advanced step in involving Here and There.

Prior to deciding to think I´ m feeling sorry pertaining to myself, nonetheless let me suggests that the Longing Place isn´ t virtually all bad. Many times, it´ s i9000 the only area you can truly fully reflect on the place to select you appeared and the destination for a which you have a tendency. This was extremely true for me, for the reason that places in either edge of people were which means that different from each individual other— in language, within culture, that people have, in purpose.

So , here are some fruits belonging to the reflections I became able to obtain while in my Waiting Site. (You will soon discover that Positive very given to lists)

Travelling is most enjoyable when you know wheresoever home is usually

Studying overseas can make it for you to know everywhere home is usually

When you are now living in two ethnics, you´ sovrano never convinced if you are part of both or maybe neither

Becoming away from comfortable people together with places provides you with a lot of point of view on what´ s vital to you

You´ ll never really forget the right way to speak your company native foreign language, but it is actually entirely possible that people develop inferior syntax and word option in your indigene language if you haven´ big t used it for a little bit.

I´ d really delighted that I built the effort in making friends for Chile. Listed here are small tagliato of actuality: It is really to be able to make friends while you are studying elsewhere. Many of the individuals you connect with already have a group of friends and so they don´ big t have a number of incentive to purchase a relationship which may previous only the capacity of your stay of their country. The following being stated, it is possible, nevertheless it takes efforts. Furthermore, it´ s worth purchasing. Because now, as I in the morning on my way into Chile, I use friends there who are giving to meet people at the flight terminal and declare they can´ t wait around to hang away when I retreat to. This makes the main leaving my favorite country, loved ones, and close friends (again) a bit more bearable.

The reason do most airports form of look precisely the same? Was truth be told there like an terminal transfer design convention? I mean, sure they all are processed differently in addition to stuff, however somehow virtually all manage to realize the same factory-reminiscent, high-ceilinged, not comfortable living-room truly feel.

Culture great shock (and reverse culture shock) is a real detail. Not in contrast to unicorns. Oh wait…

Stanford (and I would personally imagine the majority of colleges) can be described as tightly enclosed bubble. This isn´ t necessarily a criticism. Tufts is a beautiful bubble— multi-colored and attractive, but it can be decidedly your bubble. It will be full of people in the very same small a long time, many of to who come from the same socioeconomic, if you are not cultural, backdrops, and real world issues pretty much never (but do) escape the main realm of educational debate. That is the valuable real estate, conducive for you to certain forms of development, but I have found the reason is important to fail to lose eyesight of the world above Tufts. Everything where suffering escapes the particular margins on the term documents. The world wherever have more decisions about how to live on our lives as compared to off grounds or at campus property. The world where there challenges your heck associated with a lot bigger than physics lessons (and that´ s declaring a lot. ) I think it´ s significant not to forget that life outside the bubble, not simply so that most people don´ capital t become completely egocentric together with ignorant associated with real-world matters, but also making sure that we can commence making options about we really want to reside our lives, and may also examine just what exactly really situations to each amongst us.

Studying to foreign countries is distinct from almost any other practical experience. It are not able to possibly always be compared to traveling as a vacationers or even a investigator. Becoming completely immersed within culture helps you with things about your own self and about your culture which think would definitely otherwise get completely unacknowledged, although they will still be equally true. I understand that for some, studying overseas isn´ p a feasible option to get financial or possibly academic motives. However , if you possible could, I would suggest it. This particular isn´ big t to say that it may all be fun and games. Well, I suppose for many people it is. Yet it´ ings generally while in the periods between the fun and matches when you study the most— when you complete a cultural miscalculation and have to make amends, once you really find it difficult to communicate actually trying to express, when you make sure to navigate the very social group landscape and discover the hard approach where most people fits in.

I could go on and on and for, but I am of the thoughts and opinions that there are some things you just have to experience for yourself in the event that you´ maest? going to learn about the most which you can learn. In addition, everyone´ s experience is special, so regardless if I alerted you everything Actually, i know, you could easily keep returning and train me a much bigger.

In the meantime, I will tell you that with a pair of bus rides and three train rides behind me personally, and not one but two plane trips ahead of people, sitting in JFK international airport being dressed in my Tufts quidditch tshirt, there is nothing I’d like to see more across the world than to walk in with Santiago, when the sun can be shining, towards a perfect forty degree summer time day.

Chao for now!

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