#the inside of the box has a pattern instead of brown cardboard

[milkfroggo]

I got the ROOT rog tabletop game and I would love to play it with my irl friends, UNFORTUNATELY they are likely very tired of me introducing various board and card games that they have never heard about.

[liddonburns]

There is a house in the field. It is decrepit and abandoned and time has taken to it like nails to a chalkboard. The blue paint of its walls peels off like sunburnt skin, thin and molting in your fingers.

When you look up at the house—glimpse in through some of the dusty windows that haven’t been smashed—sometimes you see things. Staggering feet amoung the bugs. A respirator. Toy cars on the floor and a tin of sustagen spewn out across the grimy floor.

The sun flays down on your back and you can feel the sweat on your forehead go cold. Your muscles suddenly stiffen. Blood vessels ruptured under the skin as the smell washes over you. Someone’s house. That familiar smell. But rotted, gone sour somehow.

A dog starts to bark. The sound scuffing closer. A stub where it’s tail should be.

You go and don’t come back for a while.

 The day you return to the house is chilly. Well, chilly in the only way the weather knows how to be—a blanket of down over your head and dew soaking your shoes and the sighing start of the wind as it ruffles your hair.

Today you have decided to go inside the house.

Your mum’s been inside before. She’s told you stories of armchairs facing walls and long-gone tin sheds taken back by the scrub. You wonder if the armchair’s still there, and start forward to find out.

 You enter through the little stone garage. Normally, you would have gone through the door, but the front doors were glass and they were shattered and boarded up a long time ago.

The garage is set under the house, and from where you stand, you can see the set of wooden stairs leading up to the main portion of the house. Beside you is a metal room, about three meters on all sides and empty save for the dust and a cobweb hung across the door-less entry like a banner. There is no spider, and you don’t wonder where it went.

Instead, you walk forwards into the cool of the shelter. Your shoes make prints in the dust and, when you notice, a tiny part of you glimmers in relief that if your exploration were to be abruptly ended, there would still be a trace of you left. Not that you believe in those sort of things. You believe in squatters, but surely you would have noticed someone living here by now.

You walk past a dusty set of bins and a clutter of empty boxes as you make your way over to the stairs. They are hardly more than wooden planks, so you can see the little blue blanket tucked underneath the stairs, collecting dust. It’s patterned with cartoonish stars and the name ‘Zeke’ is branded in all capital letters across the middle.

Briefly you wonder who Zeke was, or is, before you keep moving.

 Upstairs, you’re faced with a tiny kitchen, separated from the carpeted loungeroom by a dilapidated breakfast bar, the linoleum of which is moldy and faded.

The tiles in the kitchen are cracked and dirty. In some places little plants poke through, premature leaves catching bright in the afternoon sun.

On the bar is an opened jar of baby food and a spilt tin of sustagen, yellowed powder spilling over the counter onto the carpet below. There, a sprawling semi-circle of rusted toy cars and what looks like an oxygen mask but for a child.

Some of the kitchen cupboards are open and inside cereal boxes and canned tomato peek out at you from wooden doors swung open and swelled by the wind and rain.

You wander around the loungeroom. It’s small, but homey. You look out the full-sized window on the far wall and look down at the rocks and red dirt and the straw of the grass. It’s strange being on the other side of the glass.

It’s strange standing in so much glass—shards of it thrown about the room like a splay of thick, clear cards whose edges had been ripped and chewed on. Looking at it tastes like cardboard in your mouth, corrugated against your teeth and spit gathering in your throat. You wonder why someone smashed the glass doors in the first place. Why the people who boarded them up hadn’t even been bothered to clean the glass up, leaving it as chunks of ice and a fine sprinkle of dust across the carpet.

 When the knot in your stomach toughens, you go to the next floor. The staircases are never more than a few steps—half rot, half dust—but they don’t give way beneath your feet. You pause at the top and glance down from where you had come. A gaping blackness catches your eye. A hole in the wall above the steps, big enough to climb through. Looking into the dark makes you feel dizzy. It’s absolute, almost choking, like moss in your lungs, like chalk on your tongue. You look away.

Where you are standing at the top of the stairs is an intersection. To your right is an open door into what looks like a bedroom. To your left a broken toilet beside the open entry to the bathroom. In front of you the entryways to two rooms. A sticker of a butterfly is stuck to the window opposite to you, inside one of the far rooms. It looks like it’s made of stained glass—syrupy red and blue and yellow.

You go into the bathroom first. Moss replaces the grit in the tiles, stripes of green through the grimy checkered floor. The sink is cracked, the handles rusted to stone. The mirror is split in two and the brown backing peeks out at you from between the reflective shards. There is a chicken bone in the shower and the water doesn’t work.

By the open doorway to the bathroom is a little cupboard like a pantry. It’s empty, but you imagine it would be good for storage as it’s big enough for a fully sized human to sit in.

The room across from the bathroom looks out of place compared to the rest. It’s empty aside from the metal frame of a foldable bed in one corner, white paint chipping away to reveal dust and soot. The walls have been freshly painted, a deep cornflower blue like the sky on an empty summer day. The wall opposite to the doorway is completely glass from about halfway up. You walk over to it and the wooden floor feels rickety beneath your feet. You try not to mind it.

The window comes up to your hip, segmented by little black bars and showing the view of the empty valley. Rolls of dead grass. Clusters of trees, pale trunks pitted with burn marks, huge bristly bushes of leaves swaying in the breeze. Paths of red dirt scrubbed out by wandering animals, including yourself.

The sun comes out from behind the mask of clouds and, for a few moments, the whole world is painted lighter. Then it fades again, sun eclipsed by the slate cotton of the drifting clouds. Down in the field, your eyes catch a few magpies, pecking aimlessly in the dirt. You smile at them. Wonder where the dog went.

 Next is the two last rooms. The one with the butterfly sticker is small, the single rickety bedframe only leaving a strip of floor to stand. The window isn’t big either, only spanning a meter at most. It shows only the branches of a scrubby tree, a few winding branches ending in a splintered javelin—a scrawled epitaph written by ants etched through the wood.

The last room isn’t large either. It’s got another bedframe in it, rusted and white like the one from the room with the blue walls. The wallpaper is peeling and chalky and smells wet even from the doorway. On the rooms right is a flimsy cabinet and a chest of drawers. The cabinet, through big enough for you to stand in, is empty. The drawers, meanwhile, are not.

When you force open the top drawer, struggling with the scraping wood which had long forgotten how to move, there is a little dead bird, feathers matted and eyes gone. On the other side of the drawer, is a piece of dog feces, dried and black. You hear it roll when you force the drawer back closed.

In the second drawer is a grocery list—‘milk, baby food, flower seeds, soap, Cornflakes’. It looks like it was written on the back of a receipt, but the ink on the other side is too faded to make out.

The rest of the drawers are empty, cloth lining stuffy with dust.

 When you walk back down both set of stairs, you mull over things. You have a lot of questions but no answers. As you pass the bins, you wonder if that is a bad thing.

Before you go, you step inside the little metal room by the exit, ducking under the bare spider’s web. Inside, your skin prickles, but you can’t make out whether there was really a change in temperature or not. You decide maybe there was, since the room does bare resemblance to a cold room, despite how strange that seems.

After a minute, you give into the rash of goosebumps across your skin and leave the possibly cold room.

As your feet crunch down on the dead grass outside, you wonder whether you ought to ever go back into the house again. By the time you are home, you still aren’t sure.

[gwoongi]

(abandoned) all i want for christmas is woohoo

kim seokjin / kim namjoon genre: uni au, fluff, crack rating: general words: 4.9k warnings: clownery, i knew nothing about uni, character dynamics based off a fic none of u have read a/n: incomplete prequel to the yoonmin fanfic i wrote three thousand years ago. i will never finish this so here’s what i started and left behind for the dogs to have at

The stranger makes a noise of voiced agreement. “Mood.”

September 8th.

One thing they never tell you before going to Uni, is that it’s fucking mental on Move In Day.

Obviously, he had some idea that the student digs would be fairly busy with students moving in, but he never expected to be waiting in a thick line of tired and excited first years for around fifteen minutes, only to then wait another twenty just for the student- who, by the way, was way too busy picking at her purple nail varnish to give two damns about Namjoon’s clearly very important moving in schedule- to find his key on the board barely 50 centimetres away from where she was sitting.

So, yeah- when his sister comes to Uni after him, he’s definitely going to warn her about the madness that is Move In Day, because clearly nobody else had cared if Namjoon was stuck waiting like a doormat for one student who thinks she’s something to hand him a key. I mean, how hard can it be? He doesn’t get it.

“Sorry about the wait,” another male student, who noticed the lack of enthusiasm from second year student apparently named Jisoo, says as he moves from behind the desk to give Namjoon a silver key on a chain, with two other keys present. “Here are your keys- one’s for the front door of your flat, second is for the main building in-case you’re late after hours and the third is for your pigeon box.” He pauses: “no help from your parents?”

Namjoon shrugs politely, “Just me. My parents are back in Ilsang, couldn’t make it.”

“Bummer,” the student replies. Along with the keys, he shoves a brown paper bag into Namjoon’s hands with a toothy smile. “Your complimentary moving in gifts, from the students who moved out! Thanks for picking Blossom Island as your student accomodation!”

Although Namjoon wants to tell him that Blossom Island was the only cheap option out of three absurdly priced accomodations for first years, he doesn’t; instead, he smiles, lips closed and dimples on display, nodding his head and turning all within the same second. The student moves away after, so he doesn’t feel bad about ending the conversation so abruptly.

Blossom Island is located smack bang outside of campus, across a small stream that Namjoon thought would be filled with blossom, but instead is littered with algae and tinfoil. It’s large, tall like a regular apartment complex, with a courtyard out the front with a bouncy castle that Namjoon can already see some people jumping on with what he assumes is their new roommates.

Namjoon leaves the lobby- should he call it a lobby? It was more of a downstairs kitchen and living room, with two small sofas and a mounted flat-screen, a pool table pushed weirdly in the middle of the colourful boxed room and a door near the back wandering into the community study area, another door for what he guesses is for laundry. Hauling his suitcase and big, cardboard box in his arms across the courtyard, he follows the number on the key- number 8, floor 6, Kyoto Building and barely makes it five steps without almost dropping the box entirely, all thanks to some jerk wearing Thrasher and a beanie.

“That’s what you get for not tying your shoelaces.”

Mid-crouch, Namjoon looks over his shoulder and spots Min Yoongi stepping out of the building, followed by a rather proud looking set of parents, preening at the fact that their son is going into Nursing. Due to that, he bites back a curse word he figures would be impolite for the elders, and manages a smile in the sun.

“What? He clearly pushed into me,” Namjoon reasons, standing upright and saying a hasty hello to Yoongi’s parents, who, in all honesty, have never really liked him much. He laughs breathily, waiting for a few seconds before asking, “where are you?”

Yoongi checks his key. “Number 13, Floor 0, Juko Building. What kind of name is Juko, anyway?”

“Beats me,” Namjoon scoffs. “I think Juko’s close to Kyoto. I’ll come visit when you’re all settled and moved in, yeah?”

Yoongi nods, already beginning to walk away. “Yeah, I’ll get your mug out ready.”

That’s the thing with Yoongi, Namjoon thinks as he walks away; he’s always been about the little things in life. In the many, many years that Namjoon has known Yoongi, he’s never really changed- Yoongi has always been compassionate and cutely caring, buying two mugs instead of one and making pasta for two when he knew Namjoon was due to visit on days his parents were working late. And he feels bad, because Yoongi is a giving guy, not a receiving one.

He watches as Yoongi leaves with his parents, and he feels weirdly sad. It’s none of his business, too, as he watches the three Min’s enter the Juko Building, painted a pastel pink with mint compliments, swirling patterns dancing as the leaves on the trees move in the whisper of wind.

Namjoon now has the urge to paint.

In Number 8, Floor 6, Kyoto Building, Kim Seokjin finally sets down the last potted plant on the sparse looking shelf above his desk, and he steps back with his hands on his hips to admire the minimal effort. Although it definitely took some struggle, what with his Dad accidentally dropping his bag with his Nintendo inside and his Mother judging his absurd amount of pink bath-towels, Seokjin has a feeling in his stomach- the feeling where you know that everything is going perfectly.

There’s a smell in the air; blossom from the large tree outside his window, propped open on the hatch to allow a breeze air out the room. Since his roomie hasn’t arrived yet, the least he can do is get rid of the stuffy smell, something strangely similar to pool chlorine. He inhales it deeply, a smile tugging at his lips. Seoul weather amazes him- even though Gwacheon is a blink away, Seokjin is already starting to feel like a new person.

Maybe it’s just University excitement. Maybe it’s University nerves. But, maybe it’s also because he really needs a wee and can’t think properly.

He waits nicely for his parents to finish up straightening every single crease in his bedsheets before saying goodbye. Although he might tease to their faces that he won’t miss them, and they won’t miss him, Seokjin knows from the minute they open the door to head back out to the corridor that it’s going to take a while to adjust to life without the nagging, but endearing, guidance of his family.

Because Seokjin has always sort of been the baby boy of the Kim’s from Gwacheon- his older brother inherited a type of broodiness that Seokjin is thankful he hasn’t got yet, and so Seokjin’s always been the favourite. The favourite crawler, the favourite footballer, the favourite baker and painter- in honesty, Seokjung never wanted any of that. Seokjin’s proud of who he is- he’s so fucking proud of his family. So he sort of takes pride in being the baby boy of the Kim family. He wears it like armour, glistening armour that represents him in front of a whole army of potential threats and friends.

Jinyoung, an old friend, used to say it was embarrassing- as if Jinyoung doesn’t have a comfortable enough life with parents who would murder for him, but Seokjin doesn’t care. Why should he be ashamed of being loved? Most families aren’t as close as the Kim’s, so he takes extra care in making sure his family know that he loves them. That’s the sort of guy he is- giving, occasionally receiving, but giving, giving his whole heart and soul to everybody else in order to make others happy.

Seokjin pinches the bridge of his nose as the door closes with a sickening click, the noise muting around the faint buzz of traffic across campus and the baby birds in the nest a few floors down on a branch, fluttering in the wind like wings. He’s so lost in the way the small twigs are woven together, like the way a spider builds a web, or an ant a colony, that he doesn’t realise three minutes have passed.

Now he really needs a wee.

When Namjoon opens the door to room 8, he’s surprised.

Not shocked, but surprised. Because there’s a difference between shock and surprise- shock is entering a room and finding a serial killer, but surprise is walking into a room and finding a party. The difference is in the level of reaction, and Namjoon hadn’t walked in and been completely thrown off by a wall of cute posters and the obvious collection of DS games and a cool looking computer. If anything, he’s intrigued. Surprised. Pleasantly surprised, perhaps.

To the right, Namjoon hears the toilet flush and he knows that he has a couple seconds to look around the room and plonk his bags and box on the plain bed before his roommate emerges from the bathroom. As he sets them down, he casts a gaze towards the right side of the room where his roomie has claimed a bed, a desk and a small looking wardrobe near the door. On the wall next to his bed, a collection of posters have been washi taped to the boring blank canvas- although, as an artist, Namjoon considers anything blank and white to be inviting and anything but boring, because a canvas holds endless opportunities- and his bed covers are a washed out blue, a colour that now, actually, as he’s looking at it, is becoming more chiffon coloured.

It’s evident his roommate likes video games- half the posters on the wall are related to games he knows that they must like; Animal Crossing, a small Stardew Valley postcard and a commissioned drawing of Jinx from LoL, taped next to a large artwork of Mario Kart and more postcard art of games Namjoon thinks he’s heard of but isn’t sure- The Last of Us, Tekken, Zelda. He pretends not to notice the small Minecraft postcard in the corner of the mural but weirdly enough, he finds it endearing knowing that someone at University still plays Minecraft. 

Most of all, Namjoon notices the strange obsession with The Sims, as seen through multiple artworks and the fantastic collection of Sims3 Expansion packs sitting on the shelf above his bed, next to pop figures and a photo frame of a group of friends.

He wonders if his roommate will let him use the expansion packs when he’s bored.

“Oh, hey.”

Clearly having not heard the bathroom door open, Namjoon spins on the spot to look back at the bathroom, where his roommate stands with his hand animatedly raised in a wave, a smile lifting his cheekbones. They look pale, almost watery, but Namjoon doesn’t say anything. He knows why.

“Hey. Namjoon,” he says, leaning forward to shake his hand. For a moment, his roommate stares at the hand, as if wondering what to do with it. “What?”

His roomie shakes his head, moving to shake his hand once, up and down, before letting it drop. “Nothing. It’s just, well, how many people give handshakes nowadays?”

Namjoon thinks it over in his head. “Well, a lot of people. Useful in business, and stuff. A manager might want to shake your hand at a job interview.”

As he says the words, Namjoon can tell by the passing look on his roommates face that he wasn’t expected to give an answer. He stops talking after that, looking back to his bed with a feeling similar to embarrassment, while his roommate moves towards the window and clears his throat awkwardly.

“Seokjin.” He finally introduces himself. Seokjin- it has a ring to it. Namjoon says it over in his head, growing familiar with it. Now that he’s mentioned it, Namjoon looks back over his shoulder and realises that he looks like a Seokjin. The name suits him. “What’re you studying here?”

“Art and Design,” Namjoon replies with a brief smile over his shoulder. Seokjin isn’t looking, anyway. “Nothing too crazy.” He looks at the wall of posters- “Are you studying graphics?”

“Yeah. I’m studying Digital Art,” Seokjin replies, and it’s clear in the way his whole body moves as he says it that he’s passionate about his subject. He laughs shortly, “Isn’t it funny how we’re both doing art and we got pushed together? Do you think that’s intentional?”

Namjoon shrugs, taking out his clothes first from one of his suitcases. “Maybe. I’m glad you’re Digital Art and not Performing Arts. One, this room is not big enough to dance and sing and two, I don’t want to be woken up by a classical alarm clock. You know?”

Seokjin laughs and it suffices as a reply.

As Namjoon sifts around his bag and pulls out the remainder of his clothes, Seokjin turns around and watches for a swift three seconds, and then moves back towards his desk and absent-mindedly moves around his keyboard, straightening it up.

“Do you need any help?” he asks, and as Namjoon turns to catch his eye, he notices he means it genuinely.

“Uh, I’m alright,” Namjoon replies, and even though Seokjin can clearly see the amount of work he has left to do to his half of the bedroom, he doesn’t pry and decidedly drops it. He shrugs.

“Alright then. I’m gonna head out,” Seokjin says. He gestures with his head to the hallway. “Out on campus, they’re doing that thing. What do they call it- Wildflower? I think I just wanna go meet some people. I can wait for you, and we can go together, if you want?”

Namjoon does want. He really wants to. But he takes several glances back at his boxes and frowns deeply. And anyways, he’ll have plenty of time to hang out with Seokjin later, won’t he?

“I’ll pass,” Namjoon rejects him softly, a smile on his lips as if to say, I do want to come but I’m way too busy. Seokjin’s lips twitch into a pursed mouth and he nods. “I’ve just got a lot to do. We could hang out later, if you want?”

“Sure,” Seokjin replies, already inching towards the door. “Yeah, alright. If you need help, just text me. I’ve got my number on the pinboard above my desk- just incase, you know?”

Namjoon glances over; surely enough, on a corkboard pinned to the wall above his desk and beneath the shelf, he can see the sleek black letters printed with “emergency number” written next to it in messy handwriting. He smiles, mostly because he’s never seen someone have their own phone number hung up in their room before, and nods without looking in Seokjin’s direction. “Okay, thanks, Seokjin-ssi.”

Seokjin makes a sound similar to a laugh, air through his nose, a small intake of high pitched breath afterwards. Out the corner of his eye, Namjoon can see him hovering his hand over the handle and to be polite, he finally looks over. Something tells him he was waiting for that.

“Seokjin should be fine,” Seokjin replies with a smile.

By the time Namjoon finishes sorting out his things (and by sorting out, he means that he’s hung up his clothes and kicked the cardboard box towards his desk out of the way), Seokjin’s still not back from Wildflower, and quite frankly, he’s bored.

As if by a magnetic pull, he finds himself leaving Kyoto building to trudge in the mid-move-in-manic, across the small courtyard where the bouncy-castle has deflated thanks to someone jumping on it wearing shoes, and towards Juko building, a big clump of pastel next to the white blossom tree that Namjoon is jealous of. Yoongi’s room, even back at his home in Daegu- where Namjoon had lived throughout his entire high-school life before his parents moved back to Ilsang during his final year-, was somewhere Namjoon had felt completely and utterly accepted. At home.

He always found it funny how Yoongi said the same thing for him- his bedroom back home was small, smaller than the dorm room he has now. It was an average room, with small bold letters spelling out his name on the front of his door, and his walls were painted a navy blue with dark wood floors that went through the entire house, with thrown around covers and three pillows to sleep with and furniture which didn’t match the colours. But Yoongi’s room was different. Yoongi’s room was Yoongi.

Slanted ceilings and an off-white coloured paint-job on the walls, with grey curtains and white sheets and an electric piano pushed up against the window-wall, overlooking a small line of houses out the front of the street Yoongi lived on, a tree that turned orange in October. On his walls, Yoongi liked to keep it minimal, minus the posters of his favourite artists and a little area above his desk for pictures of him and Namjoon, his first family pet, a ticket to his first family vacation when he was thirteen, dried flowers from a tiny bundle he was given on a Valentine’s Day. His first Valentine’s gift. A memory. A wall of memories, stuck with shimmery tape and dried blue-tac on the white, unremovable, stuck like glue. It was everything Namjoon wanted in a room. It was everything Namjoon needed in a place to feel completely and utterly safe.

Namjoon wasn’t surprised that Yoongi had stuck with the bland style of dorm room, compared to the bed next to him which his roommate- a kid studying Music with an incredible obsession with BoA and Michael Jackson- who, even though he was an amazing artist, Namjoon always felt weirded out by.

He stands by the doorframe as Yoongi shuffles to straighten his blanket at the end of his bed, simply looking at the decor, taking it all in with a deep breath. His roommate stared at Namjoon waiting in the doorway and pulled his lips to a frown, excusing himself, “...heading to Wildflower, bye,” being the only words he ever said to Namjoon.

“Namjoon, I hate it.”

“You’ve been here for two hours,” Namjoon frowns, sitting on his roommate’s bed. He won’t mind (only he does, and he notices the imprint of Namjoon’s arse left behind which he thought would disappear after five minutes.) “It’s not that bad, surely?”

Yoongi shakes his head adamantly. “I wanna go home, Joon. I don’t wanna do nursing.”

“You might really like it, though,” Namjoon sighs. “You never know!”

“I don’t want to study nursing,” Yoongi repeats himself through pouted lips that Namjoon can hear. “I wanted to do art, or music like my stupid roommate. I don’t know why I’m here, Namjoon, I really don’t know why I’m doing this to myself.”

Namjoon knows it’s hard for Yoongi. His family expect too much- like most parents, actually, Yoongi knows they want the best for him. But, the best isn’t forcing him into a nursing degree.

Toying with the frays on Yoongi’s roommate’s blanket, Namjoon says, “hey, hey, calm down. It’s fine- if you don’t like the first three classes, you can’t be expected to stay. You’ve got to do what you want to do.”

Yoongi bites his lip before replying. “I have nowhere to go if I drop out. I’ll do a year, maybe. Maybe half a year. Oh, I don’t fucking know. I don’t wanna give up and let down my family, you know?”

Namjoon does know. His parents had wanted him to be a lawyer. His sister, Kyungmin, wanted Namjoon to do something with his music. But, like the delinquent he is, Namjoon always knew he had a passion for art. Drawing made him happiest- letting his thoughts draw something on a blank canvas was the closest thing to real magic. Singing your feelings is one pleasure, but capturing the colours and movements onto paper was something Namjoon found absolutely rewarding. Thankfully, his parents knew there was no point in forcing him into doing something he wouldn’t enjoy. He was lucky.

“Yeah, I know.”

Yoongi knows Namjoon knows, and he also knows Namjoon doesn’t know what to say. He pulls at the bridge of his nose and lets out a low grunt. “Anyway. How’s your roomie? A weirdo?”

Namjoon shakes his head. “No, not really. I mean, he’s really into video games but it’s not overbearing. Kinda endearing. He’s fun. Seokjin.”

“Oh, cool,” Yoongi replies, nodding slowly. “You get all the good stuff, you know that?”

“What’s mine is yours,” Namjoon says with a frown.

At that, Yoongi smiles. “Yeah. I know, Joon.”

Wildflower lives up to the frantic Google search that Seokjin did moments before heading down to check it out. Even before arriving, he could smell the variety of foods on rickety stalls, and hear the experimental strum of a live band getting ready to play near the main building to the University campus.

Ducking his head underneath the waving arm of another female first-year, Seokjin took a stroll around the small section of Wildflower, politely looking at the bits and bobs he could purchase, like complimentary University flags and tapestries for walls, or a coffee where the change went to a local suicide-prevention charity. He bought one, a tea that was too milky for his taste, and continued walking.

He hadn’t bought much change with him. After the rather awkward first meeting with Namjoon, Seokjin had let it slip his mind. Regardless, he wasn’t willing to let the lack of coins and a credit card spoil his First Day mood. Inhaling the smell of a nearby Jjinmandu stand, he let his stomach steer him towards it, collecting the spare change in his pocket- luckily for him, he had around 4,000 in his jacket pocket which more than comfortably paid for a portion of Mandu.

“Here you go,” the server hands Seokjin his small paper dish of Jjinmandu with a smile, a smile that reminded Seokjin of his third-year teacher back when he was a child. Warm, inviting, kind, a mother’s smile. She smiled toothily when Seokjin handed her more than he was being charged, saying it was a tip, first day luck, or something. She bowed her head meekly.

Without wanting to hold up the slightly growing line, Seokjin moves out of the way and towards a small cluster of metal tables and chairs, shivering as the umbrellas moved in the wind, passing the sauces with a thoughtful pause. He has time to kill; he puts his dish on the small counter and puts a tiny blob of sauce in the corner, and he dips his finger in to taste it. He recoils visibly, finding the taste too bitter.

From somewhere behind him, Seokjin hears what sounds like laughter and he turns, surprised, and finds another student with a bright orange lanyard hung around his neck. He’s a total stranger, with hair pushed into a black beanie and a denim jacket covering a brown shirt, with some black jeans with the knees cut out. On his feet, worn out Converse. Seokjin does a double take.

“You know that’s spicy BBQ, right?”

Weirdly enough, Seokjin finds that he sounds exactly like what he thought he would. He stares at his glasses, first, and the way they slide down his nose, slightly oily because of the heat.

“Don’t you usually have teriyaki with Mandu?” he continues, wandering over to glance at the bottles of sauce, before pushing a slightly stained bottle towards Seokjin with a smile. “There. Honestly, scrape off the BBQ, this will taste so much better.”

Seokjin feels dumb. “I only usually have the tomato chilli. “

“Yeah, and BBQ?”

“No,” he replies, and then he laughs quietly, “no, never BBQ. Let’s call that...first day experimenting.”

The stranger nods along, shoving a mouthful of his own Mandu. Seokjin wants to point out that he has sauce on the corner of his mouth, but it feels rude. He barely knows him.

Glancing at the lanyard around his neck, Seokjin finishes his mouthful- “Are you staff?”

“What?” the stranger asks, caught off guard. Then, he looks down at the lanyard and smiles, politely, not in mockery, and shakes his head, disturbing feathery hairs that were once tucked up into the beanie. “Oh, no. No, I’m a first year.” He chortles at Seokjin’s stunned expression. “What, do I look really old?”

“No,” Seokjin replies. “I was just...surprised. I don’t know- today’s been weird for me. I’m all over the place.”

The stranger makes a noise of voiced agreement. “Mood.”

They stand in silence for a couple moments after that, eating, staring off at the little stream that ran around the perimeter of the small square, listening to the sound of the live band kicking off their setlist with a slow song appropriate for the weather.

The stranger swallows his Mandu, pointing at Seokjin with his spork without really realising, “oh, I’m Hoseok by the way.”

Hoseok. A name to the face.

“Seokjin,” he replies. Now he’s finished his Jjinmandu. “Digital Art.”

Hoseok makes a noise. “Woah, no way.” Gesturing to himself, “Art and Music.”

Seokjin wants to laugh. “That’s so weird. My roomie also does art. It’s like I’ve been thrown into a pool full of art students.”

“Yeah. Well, we are in the Arts Square. Wouldn’t it be weird if I was doing Chinese studies and I hung around in the Arts Square on my first day?”

“True,” Seokjin nods.

Talking to Hoseok is easy. It’s so fucking easy- it’s as if Hoseok has been a friend for years. They walk together, along the small path that barely fits them both, weaving around the stream. Seokjin learns that Hoseok is from Gwangju, and has a sister who designs clothing in the city. Hoseok, in return, learns that Seokjin barely escaped being a lawyer and comes from a family inheriting endless zeros. It doesn’t bother him. It usually bothers people.

“It’s cool that you got to do what you wanted to,” Hoseok says as they walk further along campus. Now, they’ve reach the on-campus convenience store, the artificial lighting making Hoseok squint, even though daylight still pushed on. “Most kids don’t when they’re in your kind of position.”

Hoseok quickly looks over, “I don’t mean that in a bad way, I only-”

“No,” Seokjin agrees, nodding and thrusting his hands into his pockets. He dips his head upwards, inhaling the smell of the sunshine, before looking at Hoseok with a friendly smile. “No, you’re right. Most kids don’t. I’m lucky.”

Hoseok’s grateful Seokjin didn’t misunderstand. “Hm, maybe we’ll be in each-other’s classes.”

He says it with a hopeful tone, lightly nudging Seokjin’s shoulder with a small smile, that caused dimples to spread across his lower cheeks.

“I hope so,” Seokjin replies, but the sound of the stream covers it. Hoseok keeps walking, not making it known if he heard. He probably hadn’t.

Namjoon rolls over the next morning, not quite remembering how he got home and when, and squints at the Sepia screen of his phone. It reads 6:45am, too fucking early to be awake on a Saturday.

did you get home ok yoongi

dont think i care about you or anything yoongi

Namjoon snorts quietly, wincing when he thinks he’s woken up Seokjin across the room. But, when he looks over towards Seokjin’s side of the dorm, he notices that he’s not even in bed. His sheets are tucked in tightly, and his jacket is absent on the coat hangers on the back of the door.

Holy shit, Seokjin gets up early.

yeah. hows minjoon, the name robber joonie

seriously fuck off he’s playing fred videos yoongi

it’s fucking 7am yoongi

Namjoon scoffs, mostly to himself- because who else is he going to scoff too?-, and rolls over flatly to press his feet onto the flattened out carpet of his room. The sun barely peeks through the shitty curtains, and he yawns loudly, feeling the euphoria of a morning stretch. Namjoon sighs with pleasure at the feeling of his body stretching out, letting his arms drop and grabbing his phone to reply to Yoongi, who Namjoon’s surprised is awake, even when Fred is involved.

i thought fred had died, fr joonie

bitch me too but here we have his channel, still screeching away about rubber sharks in his tiny swimming pool yoongi

im really not joking joon. i wanna quit so bad i’ve been here less than 24 hours and i’m already fantasising about drinking the bathroom bleach yoongi

He’s about to reply when the door to their dormitory room swings open, and the hostility of the swing almost makes him drop his phone on the floor. Namjoon scrambles to catch it, staring up with surprise at the sight of Seokjin carrying two mugs of what appears to be tea. Namjoon smells the cranberry as Seokjin comes closer with a sheepish, yet almost smug, smile. Bare in mind, Namjoon hates cranberry tea; at the smell he smiles and fakes joy.

“Saw your post-it saying you had to set an alarm for seven,” Seokjin said casually. “Figured you’d be up by the time I came back with this...hope you like cranberry.”

[leeholtwrites]

Magical Girl Reunion Tour - C5

Chloe

Chloe wiped away the sweat on her forehead and neck with a towel as she turned off her sound system with the remote she left laying near by. Her morning work out was great and necessary, considering her career, yet there were moments that she wished she could just sit on the couch with a giant cinnamon roll and lush coffee with all the fixings. With the towel around her neck, she stared out her loft window and took a swig from water bottle.

Her loft was still relatively empty, brown boxes stacked along the walls, some of them open. She'd only really taken the time to dig out her work out equipment and some of her living essentials like plates and sheets. Today she would really start to unpack.  She hadn't booked any clients, and it wasn't like she needed it to help pay her inflated rent or buy food with the alimony her ex was paying her.

After a shower, she blew out her straight, black hair and applied some mascara. Despite being a personal trainer who spent most of her time a sweaty mess, she was honest with herself about how incredibly vain she is. Her focus on her appearance used to be far more intense, involving heavy foundation to cover the light dusting of freckles along her nose and cheeks. Aging has led her to embrace them. She loved her freckles now and thought them one of her best features.

Her walk in closet was one of her favorite rooms of her loft. She had ensured she took all her clothes in the divorce - as well as everything else she loved - because she adored every piece. For now, only a handful of items had been unpacked and she selected a luxuriously soft matching set of cotton pants and a short sleeve shirt.

Once dressed, she retrieved coffee and a protein bar from the kitchen before returning to the closet to unpack. Unpacking her closet was relatively easy. She had invested in cardboard wardrobes to prevent having to take some of her more sensitive clothing off the hanger. After she hung everything in its place she moved on to the boxes with her shoes and socks and accessories.

She moved a steady rhythm, preparing her closet in exactly how she wanted it. One, two, three empty boxes. Chloe had fallen into her zen. And then she saw it, The Box. She had forgotten where she packed it.

In the bottom of the box under her collection of athletic shoes, was a glittery purple plastic Caboodle with a clear handle and clip. It was so painfully late nineties she immediately got flash backs to her Lisa Frank trapper keeper and the Backstreet Boys. She didn't even know why she had kept it so long since she became a Rainbow Defender at the turn of the new century. There had been so much hope for her future and the future of their world. It was the perfect vessel to stash her wand.

Chloe left her closet for the loft's kitchen where she placed the purple box on the counter. According to the stove, it was much later in the day than she thought. Once she got into the groove, she didn't even bother checking her phone. There was no reason to now. If she got any messages, it was probably her ex begging for mercy, or a client. They could both wait another hour. Then her phone rang, the screen lighting up to say "Shonda."

With a swipe of her thumb, she lifted it to her ear. "Hey. I didn't expect a call from you today."

"Can you open the door? I’m in the hall. I have a surprise for you."

Chloe couldn't keep the confusion out of her voice. "Besides yourself? You should have told me you caught a flight. I would have picked you up at the airport."

Shonda paused for a moment before saying, "I didn't fly."

The purple box seemed to loom from the counter. "What do you mean you didn't fly?"

"Please, open the door and let us in. It's best I tell you in person." Then she hung up.

Against her thoughts, Chloe immediately ran to the door and tore it open. There in the hall way, just like she said, was Shonda and a dark haired woman she didn't recognize. Then she saw a white robot cat with vivid green eyes wound around the dark haired woman's ankles. Viridian. So that must mean the woman was, "Maggie?"

The woman waived sheepishly. "Uh, hi, Chloe."

What Chloe did next she would try to blame on all the current betrayal in her life, the breaking of her trust by those closest to her. The truth was she was angry and it needed to go somewhere.

Chloe punched Maggie. Or tried to. The other woman had obviously been keeping up with her training somewhat because she easily blocked it before falling into a defensive stance. Chloe tried to take another swing at her, but Shonda shoved her back in to her loft.

"Jesus, Chloe! Use your words," Shonda shouted.

On the counter next to her, she spotted the purple Caboodle. She snapped it open and reached inside. The moment she touched her wand, energy coursed through her. The handle was the green of nature in Spring, the pommel gold like the sun. The fogged crystal on the top was patterned with little gold shields. She held it out and shouted, "Reveal your true form!" It flashed and she held a small shield in her left hand. It was narrow at the bottom and broad at the top, white with gold along the edges,  a green four pointed star in the middle. Only this time, the pommel of a short sword stuck up over the top of the shield, sheathed along the back.

It gave her pause as the other women stepped into the room, their hands up, closing the door behind them. She almost relaxed, but her anger bubbled up at the sight of Maggie. She drew the sword and pointed it at her. "What the hell are you finally doing back?"

"Omira has returned," Maggie said carefully. "I'm sorry I haven't called in years. I was not aware that some of you thought I was dead," she said, glancing at Shonda. "It's looking like today is the day of assault Maggie, and honestly, I just want to apologize and get something to eat. We've got bigger concerns right now. If you want to fight later, then fine." Maggie put her hands down and dropped her purse on the counter, the end of her wand peaking out. "At least it looks like you got a sword out the divorce." She looked around. "And this sweet loft. I love the exposed brick."

Was this the Maggie she knew? Sure, it had been almost twenty years, but there was an edge peaking out from the dry jokes and resignation. She was having difficulty imagining the high energy blond girl with this dark haired woman in jeans and a t-shirt that had seen better days. So, instead of trying to fit the images together, she addressed Shonda, lowering the sword. "You told her about my divorce."

"I didn't give her any specifics. Just caught her up."

"Yeah, I can't believe competitive Chloe became some asshole's hot Asian trophy wife. I always thought it would be the other way around. You, the high powered corporate lawyer, and your hot piece of ass."

Chloe glared at Maggie. "I wasn't talking to you."

Maggie shrugged. "So, what was it? Did he have a tragic dick-slip accident?"

She couldn't help the snort that escaped her. Chloe reigned in the mirth and schooled her face into a stony expression. Still, she answered, "Many times."

"And he's still alive?"

"I made his pocket book cry out for mercy."

"Nice. I never married. I'm a concierge on the Strip in Las Vegas. Live alone. No pets. No kids."

A feeling of disappointment settled within Chloe, tamping down the rage she felt at Maggie's abandonment. Maggie, who had so much promise, lived alone and worked in the service industry. The truth was, Chloe thought Maggie would always be someone in charge, leading the way for anyone who found her light. But that light, it wasn't there anymore.

Chloe sheathed her sword and changed the shield back into her wand. She would question the change in her wand's form later.  "What do you guys want to eat? We can order in." She paused for a minute before adding, "No price limit."

After a brief discussion, Maggie's suggestion of lobster rolls sounded the best to them all, and Chloe put a delivery order in at her favorite place. She would have preferred to go out so that the lobster rolls were fresh, but with the news she'd just heard, being in public didn't appeal to her. While waiting for their food, Chloe gave them a quick tour of her loft. It was one of those high end ones in a converted mill, and she absolutely adored it. She could tell Maggie was a little envious, but for the most part she seemed to enjoy it.

"So, are you living off your husband, or do you do anything for a living?" Maggie finally said.

Chloe felt a flash of irritation, but from her tone, she sounded genuinely curious. "I'm a personal trainer to rich people." She didn't mention she started the business to have something to do when her husband started to ignore her, or that she had used her already existing contacts to get her elite clients.

"That explains all the lycra and tennis shoes. And yoga mats. And all the healthy food."

Shonda rolled her eyes. "No one wears lycra anymore."

Maggie shrugged. "Look, its easier to say than moisture wicking organic stretchy cotton that cost ninety dollars despite that you sweat in it."

Chloe snorted again. She'd forgotten how funny she found Maggie. When they first met, Chloe had thought her glib, thoughtless. A mouth without any substance. Then she had learned that Maggie was all substance. She felt deeply, and believed everything she said to her core. If she said sorry, she meant sorry. Trying to punch her suddenly felt like the exactly wrong response.

Before Chloe could say anything, there was a knock on the door. Their food. Shonda opened it and tipped the delivery guy. They settled on the floor next to her couch covered in boxes and dug in.

"I think we should tell Sarah next. She should be done with her morning classes after we eat."

Maggie nodded, her mouth full of lobster roll. That, more than anything, reminded Chloe of Maggie in high school. She had always consumed food with the goal of putting as much away in a short period of time as possible.

Chloe picked at her fries. It had been so long since she ate fried anything. Normally she just ate the sandwich only when she was feeling indulgent. In the chaos of the almost fight, Chloe had forgot to ask why they were here. "Wait, what do you mean see Sarah? What the hell is going on?"

Viridian straightened, giving up on batting at a crumpled napkin. "I was wondering when you all would stop dawdling and realize there was a purpose. I understand you haven't seen each other in some time. I'm especially ashamed of you Shonda, you have usually been the most diligent task master."

Shonda didn't look amused. "Says the cat robot who was just playing with a napkin."

"Yes, well, I can't do all the mental work." He cleared his throat. "Omira is back. You must all take up your wands, and defeat her once and for all."

Dread seeped through Chloe, making her feel grosser than any container of fries ever could. "Wha-what? Why didn't you tell me that on the phone?"

"I meant to tell you once you let us in the door," Shonda responded. "But we got a little sidetracked."

Chloe ran her hands over her hair. "I'm assuming, that because you two are here, we don’t really have a choice. Like, there aren't any teenage girls coming to the rescue?"

Maggie and Shonda both shook their heads.

"God fucking damn it."

"Pretty much my reaction," Maggie said.

Chloe put her face in her hands, placing her elbows on her knees. Just what she needed, to stop the end of the world. She was still getting over the betrayal of her ex, her divorce, the looks of pity some of her clients gave her. And, her clients. What was she going to do about them? They could be pulled away at any time. Not if they were more active. Not if she only dedicated her life to stopping this woman.

She lifted her head. "Okay, we've got to this as quick as possible. I've got a business to run. Can we get this handled in a month? Do we have somewhere to start?"

"She hasn't struck yet," Viridian said. "I managed to get to Maggie here before an attack."

"He interrupted my dinner yesterday."

"We're lucky for the heads up. Thank you, Viridian." Shonda said. "I also agree we don't have a lot of time. Maggie and I have about two weeks, tops."

"Paid time off," Maggie managed around a full mouth.

It was amazing to Chloe that they were even having this conversation. How do you defeat an evil queen on a schedule without losing your home or your family? Sure, she was living off her alimony for the most part, but Maggie had never been married, let alone to a rich guy, and Shonda helped pay her mortgage and had a husband and kids. How were they going to handle this? Sarah and Kelsey had yet to be told. They too would have to make some kind of arrangements. Sarah would probably have the hardest time with her schedule. She had classes to teach, some to TA, and an dissertation to write.

"So, we have two weeks to take vacation from our lives to defeat Queen Omira, or there is no way in hell our lives aren't going to get completely wrecked trying to juggle everything, am I right?"

"I don't understand," Viridian said, sounding flustered. "Your going to try and schedule your lives around defeating Omira? That is not how this works."

Maggie swirled a fry in some ranch. She took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. When done, she addressed Viridian, all humor gone. "It has to. We're not kids anymore. We don't have our moms to clean up our rooms or pay the bills. We're entirely responsible for our lives now. We don't have the luxury of some prolonged magical war. I know it took three years last time, but we've defeated her once. We've lived that experience, and we can learn from it. We're older now. I’m sure there are some things we learned."

"Wow, you've come a long way from throwing pillows at me yesterday."

"It was a pillow, and you didn't knock."

They finished eating, deciding it was best to call Sarah before they showed up. Maggie especially liked this plan because she was very tired of getting attacked. Chloe couldn't really blame her after she mentioned that Shonda truth mirrored her, which earned a very strange look from Shonda that was half peeved that Maggie had said anything and half shame. Chloe could relate, she felt the same way about trying to punch her.

When done, Chloe slipped on some tennis shoes and grabbed a cute little leather hip bag out of her closet that had a strap for her thigh. She loaded it up with all her essentials - lipstick, mascara, hair ties, tampons, wallet, phone - and met the other two in her living area, camel colored leather jacket in hand. In her other she held a black sweatshirt. She threw it at Maggie. "You're going to need that. It'll at least hid that awful t-shirt."

"Ah, there's Chloe. Couldn't make it a day without insulting my fashion sense. I suppose it was laundry day isn't a good excuse?"

Chloe snorted, repressing her laughter, and pulled out her phone.

[cometkov]

EDITH NOX SNIPPET

here’s a snippet of an interaction between Edith and Noemi I quite enjoyed writing. it’s a little longer than usual, but enjoy!!

word count: 1488

I buried my face into Noemi's chest, knowing it would dampen his shirt, but too broken to worry. Sobs racked my chest; he soothed each one with small, circular motions over my back. For the first time in a while, I felt at home. But the thought of Abricot only made my heart ache more, and I found myself overcome by another desperate cry.

"It's okay, Edith." His voice was tender, like slicing into warm apple pie. The brown sugar-cinnamon coaxed a little calm out of me. "Let it all out. Let it go." And I did. Slowly, the sorrow that had wormed its way into the deepest cavities of my heart, found its way out.

A sheet of silence wrapped around us as my whimpers softened. Soon, all that was left was blots of tears on Noemi's shirt and sticky trails of dried salt on my cheeks. I took a deep breath before retreating out of the bubble of safety beneath his coat. "Thank you." I wiped stray globs of tears from my eyes, "And sorry about your shirt."

He waved my apology off. "This shirt has seen worse days. Remember when Perrie caught that nasty stomach bug and threw up all over me?"

I gaped at him, still swiping at my face. "No way."

He nodded, a bit mischievously.

"Oh my Fates, that's disgusting!" I shoved him playfully and he collapsed onto the bed in a fit of hysterical laughter. "You let me rub my face all over that! Why didn't you warn me?!"

"You looked in need of a hug! And I didn't tell you to go smear your face all over me! That one's on you."

"Ugh, that's gross." I groaned, flopping down next to him. "I can't believe you still wear that thing."

"I'll have you know this is a perfectly good shirt, minus the puke."

Laughter filled the room, invoking that same warm feeling of freshly baked pie, expect this time in my mouth and accompanied by an ooey-gooey caramel flavor. It was heavenly. But as our fit of giggles died down, a less jubilant taste took over.

"Noemi," I began, but was quickly cut off.

"That reminds me, someone came into the shop with this." He muscled his way off the bed, the cushioning so soft it was like quicksand, and wrestled with his bag until he pulled a dented cardboard box out with a childlike sense of triumph. His wings swayed, kicking up a slight wind as he handed it to me. "But I thought you would like it more than anyone else who might want to buy it."

I accepted it, although not without hesitance. Gifts were well and fine, but somehow, this felt different. The box had a slight weight to it, enough to make me set it down in my lap before continuing. "What is it?"

Noemi shrugged. "Open it."

So I did. Out slid a limp pile of material. It took the form of a jacket—not unlike the one the Beast had torn up in our previous encounter—as I pinched its sides and held it in the air to survey. The most notable difference was the color. This one was missing that emerald green sheen Momma had once called perfect for me. Instead, it was a deep, murky green. Something you'd find if you dove to the bottom of a marsh and pulled the first thing you felt from the mud. But truthfully, I didn't exactly feel very dazzling considering everything that had happened since Clementine’s death. Maybe it was the change of wardrobe I needed.

It slipped over my skin smoothly, as if had been made to sit on my shoulders. The silky layer stitched inside was a contrast to the rather textured outside. Ribbed cuffs hugged my wrists and an identically patterned collar chafed against my bare collarbone, as if prompting me to trace my neck in sign of the Fates. The pockets were deep enough to hold a variety of knick-knacks I collected on my many wanderings. "Thank you." My voice was soft with gratitude. Even if it felt like the world was against me, Noemi was there to swoop in and save me.

"Don't go ruining this one." He teased, trying to keep his voice light. His anxious wings and bitter flavor betrayed him. Don't go dying now, was what he really meant.

I was unable to meet his expectant stare. "I'll try not to."

He frowned. "Edith—"

"I know what you mean. You don't have to say it."

"Then you also know that I can't just accept an I'll try for an answer."

Crescent moons pricked my palms as I balled my hands into fists. "I have to do this, Noemi. I have to."

"Why?” He leaned toward me, searching for an explanation in my eyes. “This isn't your fight, Edith. You can come home and leave all this prophecy shit behind!"

“What happens then, if I go back to Abricot? How long does It follow me before someone else dies? Who does It kill next?" I inched closer as well, meeting his unwavering gaze with an even stronger one.

"Don't—"

"Me? You? Maybe someone who doesn't have anything to do with this whole mess. Maybe it'll get my moms, or Perrie!"

Noemi stiffened, his wings tensing at the thought of his little sister like that. I had hit him where it hurt the most, but he needed to understand. I had to make him understand.

"Don't you get it?! All those innocent people will die!"

"You were an innocent person, Edith." He insisted, still not backing down. "They stole that from you."

"Well I'm not so innocent anymore!" It poured out of me without warning, the complete and utter desperation to make it make sense. It sung sharply, like that of nails on a chalkboard. But the louder it got, the more it reminded me of knife on live flesh, the melody of writhing human beneath blade. The way Noemi pulled back at my outburst, I half-expected him to begin harmonizing with it. "You don't understand. You're never going to understand."

"Make me." He was resolute. Stubborn. Unmoving. But I barreling toward him at full speed, unable to stop and I really wished he would just jump out of the way already.

"No," I pressed my hands against my face, trying to force everything back under my skin. "No." I wasn’t sure if I was talking to myself or him.

"You're right about one thing, Edith. I don't understand. But you can show me what you can't say. It's like you always say, we can share the burden."

"No. Please, no." The music bled from my pores. It stained my clothes with clefs and consecutive crotchets and chords that contrasted so heavily I was barely able to tell there were any in the first place.

"Make me understand, or I won't let you do this. I'll stop you, no matter what it takes. I won't let you end up like the Princess."

The room wasn't big enough to hold the cacophony that crescendoed from my vocal chords. Memories were marched through my throat like wool at a loom, woven into the screeching that erupted from my mouth. It sounded like the sky being torn open, blood battering the Earth instead of rain. It sounded like the emptiness that existed between constellations and like diving into a bath of magma. Strawberry-blonde hair and holes where hearts should have been were suddenly just strings of incoherent words, vomiting from my mouth.

His eyes were haunted. For a moment, I didn't recognize him. Then his wings twitched and I was left with only a single words sailing past my lips, a whisper of magic still laced in my breath. "Noemi..."

My glasses had fallen off my face at one point or another and I was thankful I couldn't see his expression in its clarity. The fear, which had tripled, etched into his heart spoke for him.

"Noemi I...I'm...I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to-I'm sorry." I made a reach for him, but he flung himself backwards, right off the bed. He had felt a piece of what I did. He was terrified. I had broken him. "I didn't mean to. I promise, I really didn't mean to. I got so caught up in myself. Oh Eden, I'm so sorry."

He picked himself up off the ground, chest heaving with unbridled panic. At a speed I didn't think possible with such bulky wings, he beelined to the door.

I couldn't let him go. He had to understand what a terrible mistake it all was. "Noemi, wait!"

He held a hand up, freezing me in place once again. It took him a moment to gain enough composure to speak. "Don't....don't die, Edith."

The door clicked behind him and I was alone.

TAG LIST:

@abalonetea @coloursintheblur @dahladahlabills @deadlyessencewhispers @elaynab-writing @girlhermes @goddessofnothingatall @inked-foundry @jennalasby @kajsaschubeler @lmorasey @nanders-sk @royalbounties @toboldlywrite @writings-of-a-narwhal @yuhsiin

[jungnoir]

zeus’ place;

⇢ summary: “zeus’ place is a café invented for demigods, magical creatures, and humans alike to mingle and drink great coffee under a magical glamour that conceals the identities of anyone not fully human!” ⇢ hyunwoo happens to be the son of zeus on top of being a very popular barista at Zeus’ Place, but between daughters of Aphrodite and blue-skinned nymphs, he finds himself falling for a beautiful (and very flustering) human: you. 

⇢ relationship: son hyunwoo/reader.

⇢ genre: demigod!au, supernatural, romance, fluff.

⇢ words: 6.3k

⇢ warnings: hyunwoo is a bad flirt. a+ barista, though.

a/n: here is my part for the @mxwriters monsta x greek mythology collab!!! check out the other works here and stay tuned for the rest! :) this one-shot is partly inspired by the Percy Jackson universe and partly inspired by the otome game Astoria: Fate’s Kiss... yes, i know - also! check out this super cool moodboard @softckyun made for the story!!!

At first glance, you’d think him something unreal.

His presence commands a room’s attention even when he himself seeks no such thing, and it can’t be helped for passerbys to throw more than one glance his way. And yes, while he doesn’t blame them (their mortal minds know something is great about him, they just can’t exactly fathom a son of a god amongst them, let alone the son of the king of gods but I digress), it can get pretty freaking annoying.

Jinyoung heaves a heavy sigh after his next customer wades to the side along with the growing sea of humans that had already piled there, eyes practically in the shape of cartoon hearts while they look past him and toward the real vision: his coworker Hyunwoo, son of Zeus and probably the only reason the manager would have to start enforcing a rule for baristas to wear cardboard boxes over their heads.

“’m sorry,” Hyunwoo whispers to Jinyoung as he tends to the other register, managing to make a caramel macchiato and take the next person’s order with relative ease, “there’s a lot of mortals today.”

“No shit. I’m tired of you getting all the attention. Falling in love at a coffee shop should be a once in a lifetime thing, you know.” Jinyoung nudges the older boy with his elbow and prepares to take the next order, but manages another sly remark as the customer ahead decides on what they want, “With all the attention you get, I’d think you were Aphrodite’s kid.”

Hyunwoo makes a face at him, “It’s not falling in love if I don’t fall back.”

Which was true. While Hyunwoo did have extremely masculine features and a cute smile to go with it, his admirer to actual relationship ratio was probably a billion to zero. As far as Hyunwoo was concerned, all the googly eyes and flirty gestures added up to nothing for him if he didn’t get a tip in return. Was it harsh? Probably not for a college kid trying to help support a single mother in New York City.

While the other baristas and staff had thoroughly given Hyunwoo the “you’re lucky you could catch a date so easily” talk more times than he’d have particularly anticipated (or liked), he still couldn’t find it in him to care. Even when customers would scribble their numbers on napkins to hand to him, he’d politely put a line through it with his sharpie and toss it in the nearest trash bin when no one was looking. He wasn’t mean, he was just... not interested.

Besides, if some of the customers took off their rose-tinted glasses, they’d notice that Hyunwoo was actually good at his job, something he took pride in but rarely got credit for.

“You’re right. But you’ll see someone one day who’s a little easy on the eyes and we’ll see where it goes from there.” Jinyoung comments while counting money from a mermaid, her gills reflecting along her skin the vision of a highlighted pattern that no human could see.

Hyunwoo decides he doesn’t want to answer, and instead focuses on finishing the next thing, topping off the hot chocolate with extra whipped cream. When he turns to call out the name of the recipient, he begins to take the next order... only to fall silent.

It takes Hyunwoo a total of five looks before he realizes that the person before him is, in fact, human, and not a ray of sunshine personified. Even if internally he still has his denial, your very human aura makes his mind blur with confusion.

Your cheeks are flushed from the cold weather outside, hair a windblown mess but nowhere as bad as to deviate from your natural beauty, the very thing that strikes him to think you’re not mortal. You aren’t without flaws, of course, but the simple look of you is far too enchanting to place on any other human he’d encounter in his day. It felt wrong to lump you in with your own kind, almost.

You were also seemingly oblivious to his surprise, an easygoing smile on your face as one hand worked to fix your hair and the other fished out your wallet from your messenger bag at your side, “Hi! Can I have a smoothie?”

Even your order makes him puzzled.

“In this weather?” Is the first thing he can get out, and he’s positive he looks like a fool with eyes bugging out of his head and mouth agape, a thing that happened often to him on a daily basis when anything particularly out of routine happened. To most, it was endearingly attractive, but he rather likened himself to a confused blowfish at best.

You watch as he looks you up and down, taking in your borderline summer clothes and lack of layers. Instead of taking offense to his inquiring tone and gaze (something he’d feared for all of three seconds), you release a breathy laugh that tinkles like Christmas bells, “Ah, yeah. I guess I’m a little warm blooded and craving something fruity.”

Well, it wasn’t like he could (or would) deny you what you wanted. After all, even if you did freeze from the inside out, at least you’d go out with a delicious blend of the best fruits delivered right from Olympus.

Getting your flavor and tallying up your total with uncharacteristically shaking hands, he takes your ten dollar bill and gives you a gold Olympus coin. The engraved face of his father stares back at him from the coin, dropping his eye down in a wink before he dropped said coin in your hand. But to you, it would just be seven dollars and twenty-two cents. The Olympians weren’t really too fond of having to take two types of currency when one of them was magical and conformative to whatever it needed to be, and no human would be the wiser.

You stare a little too long at your hand before quickly pocketing the money and taking your receipt, shooting Hyunwoo a tight-lipped smile and moving to the side.

Hyunwoo, much to his distress, finds that for the first time since he’d first trained to get the job here, he suddenly can’t remember how to make a smoothie. His hands fumble for the right cup, grabbing paper instead of plastic. He grabs the bag of chopped mangoes instead of chopped strawberries. He even nearly blends until your smoothie goes from delightfully thick and fluffy to nearly watery, but he stops himself just in time.

He hopes the flush on his face doesn’t show too much when he turns around to hand you your drink. “Here’s your...” his voice tapers off when he finds that where he left you is not where you currently were. Where you once stood is now occupied by someone else and you are nowhere to be seen.

He panics, wondering if he’d been overworking so hard that he was starting to see things and you weren’t even there to begin with (and that scares him, because demigod hallucinations were on a whole other level in comparison to human ones). It hadn’t been the first time he’d done so either which was even more nerve-wracking, when he sees you crouched on the floor next to a flustered dryad whose white tinted sheer dress had a growing brown stain running down the front. The cyclops he’d served a vanilla latte to was standing a few steps away from the two of you and looking extremely upset, an empty cup in hand. Clearly, something had happened to result in the dryad’s dress getting ruined, and she looked absolutely mortified.

“I shouldn’t have left my tree...” She mutters in a fluttery voice, looking just about ready to run away in embarrassment.

You, who really shouldn’t have heard that, only smiles and retrieves some napkins from a nearby booth to hand her.

“It was an accident. I was just... startled...” The cyclops explains, casting a worried glance your way, and yet you don’t bat an eyelash. You continue smiling, oblivious that you’re standing between two creatures of folklore that shouldn’t- no -don’t exist in your world.

The dryad looks dejected that her dress is stained, but she still bows her head at you while clutching the napkins to her stomach, “...it’s fine.”

He imagines what the dryad looks like to you; maybe a small, shy girl with a drenched tank top or something. The cyclops: a bumbling teenage boy with legs too long to coordinate sometimes perhaps?

Regardless of what you see, you’re shrugging off your worryingly thin hoodie and handing it to the girl, none too worried about what that would mean for you when you walked back out into that cold again in only some shorts and a tee shirt. You had no warm drink to keep your blood from freezing in your veins either. Now he was really puzzled. “Take this,” you say softly, “you must be freezing in just that.”

The dryad looks at you for a long time, shyness dissolving into confusion. “I’m... I’m sure you need it more than I do?” Her statement comes out like a question at your generosity.

“Nonsense. I work down the street, it’s a quick walk. I won’t freeze to death.” You hold it out even closer to the dryad until she finally relents and accepts it. She wraps your jacket around herself awkwardly, not quite used to wearing clothes that weren’t what dryads usually wore, and then bows to you again for good measure. You seem to think nothing of it.

Hyunwoo calls out your order number and you whip around, whisper something to the dryad and the cyclops before approaching the counter. “Sorry I held you up.” You say, taking the smoothie from his fingertips, and he so badly wants to switch it out for a boiling hot tea or something, anything but that despite the deeply satisfied look on your face when you take it.

“Are you sure you don’t want something warmer? You said it’s a quick walk to your job but it’s still pretty cold out-” “I’m fine! I swear, she needed that coat more than me.” You cut him off and start to back away, Hyunwoo’s expression surely showing his clear confusion about you dubious level of “fine”.

He watches you sprint away from the cafe in a rushed set of steps, mouth never departing from your straw until you’ve walked down the block and out of sight.

Sure enough, the cyclops makes his way over with his now empty drink and hands Hyunwoo a gold coin, of which Hyunwoo ignores in favor of taking the empty cup instead, “What happened there?”

The cyclops deflates a little and his eye rolls down to look at the counter instead of the son of Zeus, “I was just... walking, and they looked me right in the eye...”

As Hyunwoo wipes off the cup to prepare his drink again, he frowns, “The dryad looked you in the eye?”

The cyclops shakes his head, “No! The human. It was like they knew what I was.”

Hyunwoo freezes in preparing the drink, “That’s... I’m sure you were just imagining it. They’re completely human, they couldn’t possibly see your eye.”

The cyclops, looking a little dispirited, rubs his arms and shifts his weight from foot to foot, but doesn’t try to argue as Hyunwoo continues making the latte.

Yet, even Hyunwoo can’t help the nagging feeling he gets when he thinks about it again. It was strange how you acted after the whole ordeal, practically running away from him. He can tell even Jinyoung, who has taken over the counter in Hyunwoo’s stead, looks a little interested in what the cyclops avoiding either of their eyes has to say.

When he turns to hand him the drink, the cyclops suddenly gives Hyunwoo one last look, “Are you sure they were totally human?”

This time, Hyunwoo doesn’t feel as confident when he nods his head in an answer.

With how fast you’d ran the last time he saw you, Hyunwoo had very little hope he’d ever see you again. The customer with freakishly good tolerance for the cold who disappeared leaving more questions in their wake than Hyunwoo was comfortable thinking about. You weren’t a big thought in his mind, rather a splatter of thoughts. He would be reminded of you when sifting through the fruits in the fridge, or when a cool breeze would rush in behind an incoming customer. He’d remember you when a sliver of sunlight would blind his eyesight. If someone could tell him how to forget a complete stranger, he’d gladly take the advice.

He sits in the very back of Zeus’ place and mulls over his psychology homework with a disinterested eye; he’d much rather be working than doing this, but Jinyoung had been serious about not switching tasks for the night like he’d done before. Hyunwoo had always made sure Jinyoung got the hours Hyunwoo worked for him, but the younger believed if Hyunwoo was going to make any progress, he’d have to do his homework himself.

As if to mock him, Jinyoung comes by to needlessly scrub a nonexistent stain on Hyunwoo’s tabletop, “How’s it going, oh son of Zeus?”

Hyunwoo resists the urge to stick his tongue out at him, “How do you think?”

Jinyoung snorts and decides to drop that subject completely, “That new kid, Sanha, was it? He looks up to you quite a bit.”

At the mention of the giant seventeen year old, Hyunwoo smiles and pushes his homework to the side as Jinyoung drops into the seat across from him, “Funny how a cafe called Zeus’ place only has two kids of Zeus actually working in it.” “That’s cause your half brothers and sisters think they have better things to be doing like saving people from burning buildings and breaking trees in half.”

Hyunwoo’s glare says it all, “You’re really stuck on those stupid stereotypes.”

“Nah, I just like to tease you. I don’t mean any of it.” Jinyoung grins in reply, and then switches to a more serious expression, “So... I’ve noticed you’ve been kind of weird lately.”

Hyunwoo is just about ready to get offended before Jinyoung holds up his hands, “You’re seriously distracted. It’s like... in spurts. You’ll just look a little lost and contemplative and it’s kinda freaking me out. Are you okay?”

Despite being the younger of the two, Jinyoung sure had a gift for feeling like a big brother figure. Hyunwoo found himself opening up to Jinyoung so easily these days; it wasn’t an easy feat to hide how he felt from the boy.

“Do you... remember that person, the one who got mixed up in the cyclops and dryad incident, that came to the cafe a week ago?”

Jinyoung shakes his head at him, “Just barely?”

Hyunwoo’s shoulders fall, “Well... it sounds stupid, I know, but I haven’t been able to forget them. That cyclops sounded like he was truly sure they knew what he was, but that’s impossible right?”

Jinyoung stares at Hyunwoo for a bit, arms crossed along his chest. After a few moments of thinking, Jinyoung blew a heavy breath of air, “It’s not... impossible, per se.”

Well, this was a first.

From the first time Hyunwoo had been told his father, who he assumed was just some deadbeat on the other side of the country for the majority of his life, was the king of the gods, Hyunwoo had been discovering something new day after day. One thing he’d been told about though was that humans could only see what they were allowed to see, which was zip, usually. The world he was half a part of was only visible to him because of his father and nothing more. If his mother had known earlier that the man she fell for was Zeus of all beings, she might’ve rethought having a child with him. At least, at first.

She’d made it clear she didn’t regret having him for one second, just wished he could live a normal life like she wanted him to. And anyway, by this point, Hyunwoo was far too used to the abnormal to care about a “normal” life now.

“I’ve never heard of humans who could see past our facades. Not unless they were allowed to, but the glamours here are far too strong for there to even be a chance.” Hyunwoo frowns.

Jinyoung frowns back, “There are humans who can, but it’s very rare. Usually the mortal parent of a demigod has the Sight, but there are some gods that hide their true identity and those people never find out until the child is born. They’re allowed to know the truth about their child, but that’s maybe the extent if they didn’t have the Sight before. It’s a complicated thing. Even the gods don’t know how it originates or who it won’t and will touch.”

This was a whole new playing field. If you were a human with the Sight, you surely didn’t give it away. Either that, or you were used to being able to see his kind and all the others. Too bad he couldn’t see you again to ask.

“Don’t think too hard about it, Hyunwoo. There’s nothing to fear of a human with the Sight.” Jinyoung is nonchalant as ever, even going as far as to give Hyunwoo a small smile. “You can be one of the few who can say they met one they weren’t related to.”

Hyunwoo, on the verge of saying something more, is interrupted by a burst of cool wind brushing against his skin all of a sudden. A customer had arrived.

Jinyoung springs into action faster than Hyunwoo could see him get up, the younger already halfway across the shop and behind the register in time for the new customer to acknowledge him, “Welcome to Zeus’ place, how may I... oh. Hello.”

Hyunwoo’s eyes move from the homework before him to what had rendered Jinyoung surprised, only for his own mouth to drop open in awe at the person who’d entered.

There you were once again, now appropriately dressed and looking rather warm in a persimmon trench coat and cream sweater. Most of your hair is hidden by the sheer thickness of the black scarf wrapped around your head until you pull it down to reveal your mouth, grinning at Hyunwoo and completely ignoring Jinyoung altogether, “Oh, I wasn’t expecting you to be here.”

Hyunwoo blinks, looks down at his spot, and then looks back at you. By the time he’s returned his gaze to your form, you’re already stepping into his personal bubble with hands shoved deep into your pockets. He startles some, cutely fumbling over his words, “Y-you expected me somewhere else?”

“Well, yeah! Behind the counter. Guess it didn’t really occur to me that you take shifts and all...” You awkwardly trail off, eyes looking elsewhere in embarrassment. Hyunwoo can hear Jinyoung mumbling something along the lines of “well hello to you too, then” as he leans on the counter and finds a spot to laze once again.

Hyunwoo isn’t really sure what to think; he’d been thinking about you this whole time, but only when he actually mentioned you out loud did you show up. On top of that, you came expecting him to be working. Had you been thinking about him too?

The flustered boy finally gathers his bearings when you take the seat Jinyoung had once been occupying, your lips upturned into a calm smile. How did you manage to always looks so at home with yourself no matter the situation? “I see you finally feel cold.” Hyunwoo says, pointing at your coat.

Your laugh makes his cheeks warm at the very sound, “Oh yeah! I don’t know what it was that day that made me completely impenetrable to the cold, but it has definitely worn off. I can’t leave the house without gloves and a scarf now. I actually saw this place on my way home from work and thought I should get something to warm me up... it’s awfully empty in the late evening hours here.”

Hyunwoo nods at you, “That’s why I come to study at this time... you know, if you want something warm, I could whip up something.”

You raise your hands up and shake your head, a bit cautious, “Oh no, I couldn’t. You’re studying!”

Hyunwoo just smirks and shoves his things to the side, “Don’t worry. I was having a hard time focusing on it anyway. I like working my hands more than my mind.” He hears you slide out of your seat behind him as he walks toward the counter, making eyes with Jinyoung who looks between the two of you before taking his cue to disappear. Hyunwoo heads over to the sink and briskly washes his hands, glancing over at you over his shoulder, “What are you in the mood for?”

“Chai latte? And maybe a muffin on the side. Chocolate.” You settle on the bar stool at the counter, crossing your arms over the wooden counter-top and watching Hyunwoo nod an affirmative, already getting to work like muscle memory.

You watch the barista in wonder, eyes seldom leaving his form as he did his thing. He was right about liking to work with his hands. It was almost second nature to him how he maneuvered around the small space, barely noticing how focused you were on him as he worked.

Several minutes passed until there was a steaming mug before you and a delectable looking chocolate muffin sitting beside it right after. The sight was absolutely documentation worthy, so you swipe out your phone and position it above the drink and muffin to snap a quick photo before looking back up at Hyunwoo, the boy looking a bit proud that you found his creation picture worthy. “This is amazing... Do you make coffee art often?”

Hyunwoo glances down at the detailed rose he’d made in the foam of your latte and blushes, “Sometimes... do you like it?”

Your reaction is instantaneous, “Hell yeah! I’ve never quite seen anything like this before. You’ve got a real talent, Hyunwoo.”

Hyunwoo’s eyes widen at the sound of your name passing through his lips, for a few reasons he wouldn’t exactly admit out loud, “Uh... you know my name?”

It seems it’s finally your turn to look embarrassed. You immediately bite your lip in response, looking literally anywhere else but at him, “I... I just remembered your name from... last time. Is that weird?”

“I won’t think so if you give me yours... just to be fair.” He says back, voice a  little softer now. The embarrassment you felt was quickly overshadowed by his reply, your fingers twiddling nervously as you made eye contact with him once more and tell him your name.

Your name... it was rather special. Just like you.

Of course, no matter how much of an inner cheese ball Hyunwoo really was, he could never say that out loud. Instead, he sticks with something simple, “I like it. Now we’re even.”

Again, Hyunwoo can hear Jinyoung muttering somewhere nearby about the two of you that neither of you can pick up on, but it doesn’t bother him one bit.

As you two fall into a surprisingly natural conversation, doubts that were currently swimming in Hyunwoo’s mind fade like the minutes going by. Everything you two talk about is incredibly ordinary; from the murky weather that had been haunting the city for the past week to how classes at uni were going for him, your conversation had never bordered anything questionable. He knew you were an office worker in the city, hired straight out of high school into a prestigious company you wouldn’t give the name of (”maybe I’ll tell you next time” said with a flustering wink) because you were just that smart, but you didn’t carry the same hurried aura of typical office workers he served often. What were usually curt and frazzled robots shuffling in through the place every morning, you contrasted them completely. With bright smiles and a laid back attitude, you never seemed close to being as stressed as all those other employees.

By the time it’s time to close, Hyunwoo finds he’s nowhere near through with his homework, but his mind is a lot clearer as both he and Jinyoung wave you away for the night. You promise to come by more often if Hyunwoo promises to keep making coffee the way he does, and then you’re off in a taxi and gone with the bustle of the city that never sleeps.

Of course, Jinyoung gets a bit of teasing in before he wishes the eldest a good night and offers to give him a ride home... that of which Hyunwoo denies in favor of a little fresh air instead. Jinyoung doesn’t bat an eyelash; Hades was his uncle after all, if anyone gave him trouble there would surely be literal hell to pay.

On his way home, Hyunwoo can feel a bit of childish excitement bubble up in him at the thought that he would soon be seeing you again. Hyunwoo had never been so enamored so quickly, and there was no blaming him as you were quite the charmer. Not only were you a charmer, you were also safe. Safely ordinary, safely average, safely human. There was nothing out of this world about you, at least not in the literal sense. Despite some of the comments about how tough it was for demigods to date humans, Hyunwoo was fairly certain he could have a chance with you. Besides, it wasn’t like he had to reveal his ancient Greek god ancestry on the first date. He could save that for later!

Oh... oh goodness, he was already fantasizing about a first date.

There isn’t a day on the job that Hyunwoo isn’t seeing you now, and he can’t help but perk up a little on shift whenever he hears the doors to the cafe open and invite in a new customer. At this point, Hyunwoo can’t even pretend that he’s not like an excited puppy awaiting the moment of the day you’d come in and ask for some new drink you’ve never tried before. You never let him get used to anything, always challenging his idea of exactly what kind of person you really are.

At this point, Jinyoung had a mountain of blackmail against Hyunwoo... if only Hyunwoo was in any way upset about it, it might have been great. He’d never seen someone’s head so in the clouds for someone they hadn’t even actually gone out with yet, and even he found himself cracking out just how adorable it was with the sight of him whenever he saw you. He would have felt worried if you weren’t so blatantly obvious that you felt exactly the same.

After having seen the smiles on Hyunwoo’s face become easier whenever you joked to him or how the demigod’s hands didn’t shake when he passed you your drink of the day, all Jinyoung was curious about now was when Hyunwoo was finally going to ask you out.

“I was thinking soon, okay?” Hyunwoo says with a small pout one rainy Friday morning, cleaning out a glass with his back parallel to the younger’s at the cash register. “It isn’t really date weather lately.” To punctuate Hyunwoo’s concern, an almost terrifyingly loud clap of thunder sounds outside and the rain that was falling so fearlessly turns torrential.

“It doesn’t have to be outside. Hell, it doesn’t even have to be anywhere else. It could be here after a shift or something. Just do it before your googly eyes get you in trouble.” Hyunwoo knows Jinyoung is referring to the slightly lovesick daze that had him stumbling over orders whenever you were actually in the shop. It was starting to show to other customers who had historically been interested in Hyunwoo, and the jealous stares did not cease whenever you entered the building. Not that either of you seemed particularly aware... or caring.

“I don’t have googly eyes!” Hyunwoo says, but can’t help a little laugh that passes his lips at the thought. He really does, even his mom said so, but he wouldn’t ever admit it.

Jinyoung just scoffs in answer, taking a customer’s order without difficulty while managing to keep up with Hyunwoo still, “That’s what someone with googly eyes would say.”

Hyunwoo sets the clean glass down and looks behind him to scold Jinyoung once and for all, even through a clearly amused smile on his face, when he realizes that something has changed about the atmosphere... you’re here!

He immediately spots you rushing in from the rain with a red umbrella dripping in the water of Olympus, your face scrunched up into a happily content expression when you get a little rain on your coat. You quickly close your umbrella and grip the wooden hook at the end when you spot Hyunwoo too, your eyes brightening and your hand flying up into an enthusiastic wave. Hyunwoo doesn’t hesitate to do the same, missing the whispered “googly” from Jinyoung as he quickly transitions into taking over Hyunwoo’s previous job. The amount of times He’d done so before just so the handsome boy could speak to you were too many to count that by now it was natural to do so whenever you entered.

The line that you stand in shortens too slowly for Hyunwoo’s taste, but soon you’re standing before him and grinning brightly, “Morning, Hyunwoo! How are you?”

“As good as I can be in this weather.” He says with a fake glum look and points out of the window, as if you weren’t well aware of how horrendous the rain was being today. “But I get off early today, so it’s alright. What about you?”

You let out a soft sigh, running a hand through your hair and momentarily stunning the demigod before you, “Well... my boss is being generous to me since my work is all pretty much done before the weekend, so he’s letting me out after lunch! I was wondering what I should do since I wasn’t prepared to have all that free time to myself, and all my friends have made plans already...”

Hyunwoo knows he should take your order since the line is starting to increase behind you, but he honestly couldn’t care less when he listening to you talk all day, “Oh yeah? There isn’t much to do in this rain, unfortunately.”

You hum, tapping your nails against the counter, “Not so! This is perfect date weather.”

Hyunwoo’s eyes enlarge and you watch with amusement, the boy flitting over all the sudden thoughts threatening to escape his head from his mouth in a mess of disorderly words, “Oh, uh... a date? A-anyone special in mind?”

Jinyoung gives up the facade of his pretending not to be eavesdropping when he snickers under his breath. Oh, he really was quite a dull one when it come to things like this.

You match Jinyoung’s snicker with your own, nodding an affirmative that has Hyunwoo growing a bit nervous with palms that start to clam up, “Yes, actually. He’s standing before me with the cutest “deer in headlights” look I’ve ever seen on someone before.” At the same time, you drop your right eye down in a wink. Hyunwoo lets out a puff of air and suddenly feels awfully parched.

You don’t wait for him to answer even as he scrambles to regardless, fishing out a small notepad and pen, “It’s funny you asked... I was actually planning to ask you first...!” You smile at his embarrassed tone, scribbling down your number and sliding the piece of paper to him. The customers behind you are getting a bit restless now, so you tell him you’ll have a chocolate mocha latte and he scrambles to put your number deep down in his back pocket so he won’t have any chance of losing it, a rosy blush settling on his cheeks as he inputs your order.

Jinyoung works just as quickly to make said frap (or maybe Hyunwoo had taken longer to put in your order than usual thanks to how excited he was at the prospect of you asking him out on a date), having the cup set on the counter the minute Hyunwoo exchanges your cash for a gold Olympus coin. He hands you what he owes you and you pocket the money, taking a quick sip of your drink before sighing in delight, “Pretty good choice.”

Hyunwoo blinks at your blissful expression, attempting to keep from gnawing his lip to death, “S-so uh... where would you like to go? Movies, dinner...?” He asks, falling short at all the options you two might have in the rainy weather.

Taking another draw from your straw, you shrug your shoulder nonchalantly, “Oh, I was thinking a picnic at Central Park!”

The demigod looks at you in confusion rivaling the look he’d given you the first day he’d met you, asking for that ice cold smoothie even though it was near freezing outside. “But... the rain-” “I’m sure if you put in a good word with your father, he’ll make it sunny all weekend.”

Hyunwoo’s jaw drops as you smile again, moving out of the way so the next customer can spout their order to him, though his eyes are still fixed on you as you begin to walk away, “Text me, okay? I’ll bring the snacks if you bring the frisbee!”

And with that you’re gone, red umbrella inflating and moving with the crowd of busy New Yorkers trying to get somewhere dry in a hurry. All of Hyunwoo’s confidence that you were just an ordinary person in ordinary New York flies out the window with all of his competence, and even Jinyoung is looking rather shocked as he watches you go from behind the son of Zeus, “Well,” the younger starts, arms folded across his chest and ignoring the upset customers with ease, “what are you wearing on your date?”

The ride up in the elevator feels oddly longer than usual, though you can’t exactly complain about an express elevator from earth to Olympus, could you?

The gold plated interior seems to shine more as you ascend further past the clouds, your eyes hooded in puppy love mania. It had taken all of your strength not to squeal the minute you saw that look on Hyunwoo’s face when you asked him out, the idea that you two would be going on a date soon making your heart flutter wildly. If Hyunwoo really didn’t put in a word with his dad, you sure would. You had waited far too long for this date to let a little rain ruin it for you.

As the doors open, you’re greeted with a warm breeze that immediately has you shrugging off your raincoat and stepping out into the lavish lobby of Olympus HQ. The creature at the front desk looks up from her work and smiles at you, all three of her mouths turned up in a kind greeting, “Morning, (Y/N)! Back from Zeus’ Place so soon?”

You set your drink down on her desk and toss your sweater over your arm, tugging at the neck of your blouse to allow you some cool breeze against your warm body. It wasn’t your fault you had to dress accordingly for your travels to earth even though Olympus was perpetually warm and sunny all the time, now was it? Thankfully, you kept a more breezy change of clothes in your office thanks to your new routine. “Ah, yeah. I finally asked him out, Alethea!”

The creature claps her hands together in happiness, “That’s great! When are you two going out?” “Today, hopefully after I get off lunch. We’re going to have a picnic in Central Park.” You feel yourself giggle as you gush to Alethea, the creature having known about your crush on Hyunwoo since the day you’d first encountered him. The smoothie incident had forever been burned in your mind as one of the most awkward things you could have done, but you did spend quite a bit of time surrounded by gods and monsters alike. Sometimes, you had to be reminded of where you originally came from and what was genuinely accepted down there.

Alethea shakes her head and chuckles, “Well, that’s good. Nilos left some work on your desk about the upcoming meeting of the gods. You just need to file a quick report on any strange happenings on earth. You know, the usual.”

You hum an affirmative, noting it was never a truly dull day in the life of Olympus’ earth correspondent, even when it came to paperwork. You take your drink and wave goodbye to Alethea, walking across the hall to enter your office. You set your drink down on your desk and drop your jacket over your chair, kicking off your shoes and letting yourself relax into the plush stuffing of your loveseat. Looking out of the floor-to-ceiling windows across from where you sat was the warmly colored oasis of Olympus. Clouds of cotton candy pink and people of all shapes, sizes, and colors bustled about the city of the gods like every other ordinary day. You watch on with a warm smile, tucking your legs underneath you and pulling out your phone when you feel it vibrate in your back jean pocket.

On the screen reads an unknown number, but you don’t need a name to know exactly who it’s from.

(1) Unread Message(s)

received: 9:45 a.m., march 4th, 2018

212-672-7206: I talked to dad. Weatherman said the forecast from here on out is sunny skies.

[jasonduke]

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[arplis]

Arplis - News: The holiday season is winding down

It's time to take the decorations down and determine the best way to store Christmas lights until they're ready to sparkle again next season. A little effort and planning now will prevent a tangled mess and make it easier than ever to decorate next Christmas. Assess your current decorations and storage Don't waste time and storage space packing up items you don't love. Reuse or regift any decorations and Christmas lights that you don't use. Then, clear space to store the decorations and lights until next year. Closets, under bed storage and high shelves are good spots since you only need to access them twice a year. Repair Plug in each string of lights and look for burned out bulbs. If you spot a few, that doesn't mean the whole strand is a loss. Replace burned-out light bulbs now, so that you don't have to take the time to do it next year when you unpack. If your lights are traditional incandescent lights, a few replacement bulbs probably came with the string when you bought it. If not, or if you've misplaced them, replacement bulbs are widely available for purchase. Many LED lights also accept replacement light bulbs. Recycle If the strand is a total loss or you can't find replacement bulbs, recycle your Christmas lights to repurpose the glass, plastic and copper. Just don't throw them in the recycling bin. A special program needs to separate the materials inside. HolidayLEDS and Christmas Light Source offer nationwide mail-in Christmas light recycling programs. Many municipal waste facilities also recycle used Christmas lights, so call your city for a location near you. Some home improvement chains and hardware stores also recycle Christmas lights, although programs vary from year to year. Consult store websites for updated information. Replace When it's time to replace your Christmas lights, consider switching to Energy Star-Certified LED Christmas lights. They're up to 75 percent more energy-efficient than traditional incandescent bulbs and boast a three-year warranty. They last longer, too, so you'll have to replace them far less often, which saves money in the long run. Shopping for the after Christmas sales will get you a discount, too. As an added bonus, LED lights are more durable than those old incandescent bulbs they're replacing, since they don't contain delicate filaments and glass. You probably won't break as many LED lights as traditional incandescent bulbs, although you'll still need to protect them in storage. How to store Christmas lights in a small apartment Now that you're sure you have working lights and you've assessed your available storage space, you can choose the packing solution that works best for you. The method you select depends on the number and type of lights and the space you have available. Storing lights in the same container is the most convenient, but those in very small apartments may need to choose two or more methods to best use their space. Delicate incandescent lights require additional packing materials to prevent breakage. If you're deciding between two storage methods for these particularly breakable lights, choose the one that offers the most protection. 1. Try the ball and bag method This method is simple, but not effortless. (No, you can't just toss your Christmas lights in a bag and forget about them!) Wrap and package each strand individually, or you'll have a tangled mess on your hands next year. Gather a plastic bag for every strand of lights and you're ready to start. Separate each string of Christmas lights. Start with the female end of the strand in your dominant hand and wrap the strands around your fist until it makes a small ball. Repeat this loop five or six times. Don't force, bend or crease the cord, or you could damage it. Eventually, you can remove the ball from your hand and continue to wrap the cord until you have a few inches left. Insert the male prong into the female end. Place each strand of lights in its own bag and place them inside a larger container or into the pockets of a hanging, behind-the-door organizer to keep them separate. 2. Use the box To keep things simple, reuse the original box for the lights. If you still have the plastic spacer that the lights came in, you can thread the lights through and pop them all back in the box. This is one of the best ways to storage Christmas lights if you don't have additional boxes or totes to stash them in. If you tossed the plastic piece, don't worry. But don't shove the lights back in the box — they'll get tangled. Instead, wrap the cord around the box, connecting the male and female ends when you finish and secure with a small piece of masking or electric tape. Since the lights are vulnerable, you'll need to tuck them into a larger container and cushion them with bubble wrap, tissue paper or brown craft paper if the bulbs are delicate. This storage solution works best with shorter strings of lights, as longer ones might slip off the box. 3. Make a cardboard light winder Turn leftover holiday boxes into a storage solution. Just make sure the cardboard is sturdy enough that it won't bend. First, cut a 10- to 12-inch rectangle from a box or scrap cardboard. (Longer strings of lights require larger cardboard pieces. ) Then, cut several one-inch notches directly across each other on the top and bottom of the longest sides. Start at one corner. Thread the end of the string of lights into one of the notches, then pull it up and around to the notch directly opposite. Continue winding the lights around the cardboard, from top to bottom, tucking the cord into the notches as you go. If possible, connect the male and female ends. Cushion with packing materials and place in a larger box for safekeeping. 4. Fashion a tube winder Mini lights or smaller LED lights might be too tiny for the light winder storage solution detailed above, so try a tube winder instead. You can make one with a sturdy wrapping paper tube or a Pringles can. Make sure the tube is thick enough to support the lights without creasing or bending. This option works best for shorter, thinner strands of lights with smaller bulbs since the tube might not support longer strands or large bulbs. Cut a slit in one end of the tube to hold one end of the light string. Guide the lights around the tube in a circular motion, moving from end to end. If using a tube, tuck the loose end into the center of the tube. You can place the string in a slit or apply tape to secure it. If you're using a Pringles can, you can put the cap back on to secure the lights. Add additional cushioning materials if you're packing the lights into a larger container. 5. Create a winder spool If you don't have any leftover cardboard to recycle, use what you have. Turn a chair or stool upside down and create your own winder spool using two of the legs. Weave a strand of lights around the legs stool or chair legs in a figure-eight pattern. Stop with about a foot of lights remaining. Wrap those last 12 inches around the center of the bundle, pulling the plug through so that it catches to secure the lights. Then shimmy the lights up and off the chair. Stack wound bundles neatly in a larger tote or box, separated by tissue paper, brown paper or other soft packing materials. You can also borrow from the bag method and tuck each string into a plastic bag for safekeeping — if it fits, that is. The winder spool method works well for medium length to very long Christmas light strings. 6. Try the clothes hanger method If you don't have any shelf space, the best way to store Christmas lights is on a plastic clothes hanger. This option works well for shorter strands of lights and small apartments with limited storage space. Start with a plastic clothes hanger that has small hooks on each side. Secure the strand of lights on one of these hooks, then wrap the lights gently around the hanger from top to bottom, working your way from one side of the hanger to the other. Wrap back in the opposite direction as needed. When you're finished, tuck the other end of the cord into a hook to secure it, then hang the lights up until next year. Wrap in paper to protect both the lights and clothing. 7. Purchase a cord reel If you have more storage space to work with, like a garage or a storage unit, invest in a cord reel. It's one of the best ways to store Christmas lights on the market because it's specifically engineered to prevent tangled cords. One of the best things about using a cord winder is that you don't have to separate strands of lights. You can take them right off the tree, the banister or any decorated spot in your apartment — and even keep them connected in one long string. Just attach the string into the notch and one end and keep winding until the lights are spooled together. The size you need depends on the number of lights you need to store. Hardware stores and home improvement stores will have a variety of cord reels in different sizes and at many different price points. High-end options often include a sturdy storage case. How will you store your Christmas lights? The best way to store Christmas lights depends on the number and type of lights you're using and your available storage space. By choosing the best option now, you'll save yourself time and tangles when you unpack your holiday decorations next year. The post The Best Ways to Store Christmas Lights appeared first on Apartment Living Tips - Apartment Tips from ApartmentGuide.com.

Arplis - News source https://arplis.com/blogs/news/the-holiday-season-is-winding-down

[anycontentposter]

Review: Autodromo Taps ’50s/’60s Era Racing With the New Intereuropa Collection

When I think about automotive inspired watches, the brand that immediately comes to mind is Autodromo. Yes, there have been great individual watches and brands tied to the automative world throughout the years, but today, I really cannot think of any brand that distills the essence of cars and car culture quite the way that Autodromo does it. Whether it’s the elegant, Italian-inspired Monoposto and Stradale, or the unabashedly ’80s-inspired Group B, Autodromo’s Bradley Price pulls his inspiration, filters it through his eye, and creates a damn fine watch as the end product. 

The brand’s latest is the Intereuropa, and according to Bradley, the name and inspiration comes from the “Coppa Intereuropa race for sporting coupes held at Monza from 1949-1964 as a support race for the Italian Grand Prix.” These races featured berlinettas from the likes of Ferrari, Maserati, Alfa Romeo, and Lancia. Now, this isn’t unfamiliar territory for Autodromo; the aforementioned Stradale was also inspired by Italian sports cars of the late ’50s and early ‘60s. But this isn’t a retread; the execution here feels fresh, and I would argue it’s several steps above the now sold out Stradale, which I thought and continue to think is an exceptional watch both in terms of its construction and its design. 

Worth noting is that this is Autodromo’s first mainline watch with a Swiss movement. In this case, we have an ETA 7001, a high-end hand cranker that’s long been a staple in the industry. While there is nothing wrong with Miyota or Seiko movements, the inclusion of a Swiss caliber here, and a fine one at that, certainly ups the perceived value of the watch. I’m personally a big fan of the 7001, so it’s a welcome addition for me. 

But I’ll get into all of that in the review below. First, let’s get the specs out of the way. 

$1250 Review: Autodromo Taps ’50s/’60s Era Racing With the New Intereuropa Collection Case

Stainless Steel

Movement

ETA/Peseux 7001 hand-winding

Dial

Cream, Gray, Blue (multi-layered)

Lume

N/a

Lens

Domed sapphire

Strap

Saffiano rally two-piece

Water Resistance

5 ATM

Dimensions

39mm x 42.9mmmm

Thickness

10.3mm

Lug Width

20mm

Crown

Push/pull

Warranty

Yes

Price

$1250

Case

The case measures 39mm in diameter, 10.3mm thick, and 42.9mm lug-to-lug. It’s essentially a bowl, tapering as it moves to the caseback, which also extends out to act as a sort of mid-case. Sitting atop of this mid-case is a stepped bezel with an elegant slope, and inside that is a slightly domed sapphire crystal. Protruding from the case are wire lugs, which were a mainstay of the Stradale line. From the top-down, you cannot see where the lugs meet the case, which in my view is a good thing as it gives the case a much cleaner look on the wrist. The whole thing is rendered in a high-polish finish. That said, it’s not at all blingy. The bezel, with its sloping step, doesn’t bounce light in the way a typical polished surface does, so it tempers the whole thing.

The crown at 3:00 is nicely sized relative to the case. It sits close to the case, but its fairly large diameter makes it a joy for winding the movement. The crown also sits below the caseback, which allows for a very easy grip. This is a small detail that goes a long way in making this watch much more manageable as a daily timepiece, and I’ve sold off hand-crankers in the past because they’ve lacked this feature.

Around back, you have a closed caseback with an etched motif that’s inspired by the horn button on a Cunningham, which was built by Vignale in Torino. If you’re a vintage car buff, this is the sort of detail that’s just for you. No one else will see it (unless, of course, you show them), but you’ll know it’s there.

The screw in the caseback, which comes with the warning “DO NOT UNSCREW” is likely helping hold the internals in place. My suggestion: follow those instructions and leave the screw alone.

Dial

Moving to the layered dial, there’s a lot to discuss. There are three base colors: Blue, Gray, and Cream. Here you’ll finding the branding below 12:00, a sub-seconds register above 6:00, and the staple Autodromo screws along the horizontal axis at 3:00 and 9:00.

Bradley explained that he wanted the dial to remain faithful to the methods used to create gauges in the 1950s, so that’s what you get here. There’s a top-layer K1 glass cutout that frames the base of the dial, and this is where you’ll find the minutes markers. The numbers and corresponding triangles are printed on both sides of the glass, and the result is a floating drop-shadow effect. Look at the watch top-down, and you’ll see it; look at from an angle, and the effect becomes even more pronounced.

Between the K1 cutout and the base dial is another layer: a gray ring that houses the railroad track. This layer with the class cutout over it together create some awesome dimensionality on the dial. But that’s not all — the crystal plays a role here too. Printed on the underside of the crystal is a bullseye detail, one that was a feature of gauges from that era. So altogether, four layers are used to build out the dial, and I think the end result was well worth the effort. The downside, however, is that this is really the sort of thing that is best appreciated in the metal. It’s hard to capture how cool the effect truly is, and it’s on the wrist that the interplay of all of these elements comes to life.

One criticism that I’ve heard of this watch has to do with the cutout between 25 and 35 minutes. This is, of course, another nod to the gauges that inspire the design. The criticism is that this cutout, which does away with a portion of the minutes track, impacts legibility, but for me this has been entirely unfounded. At no point in my experience with this watch on my wrist have I struggled to tell the time. We all have a general idea of where markers should be, and what the time is based on the relative position of the hands (I’d argue that it’s an almost instinctive ability, and I imagine brands like Movado would make a similar argument). Now, it’s certainly fair to point out a dislike for such a detail — we all have our preferences — but to say it effects one’s ability to read the time is, in my estimation, a stretch.

The handset is relatively straightforward; for the hours, there’s a sketelonized and tapering sword of sorts, and the minute hand is a blunt stick. Both are a nod to instrumentation gauges, and work well with the overall design.

Of the three dials, my favorite is the Cream version. Cream and gray work so well together, and the cream-dialed variant of the Stradale was also my favorite out of that set. The Blue is a touch different from the Cream and Gray, in that it features a shiny sunburst finish. It’s an attractive look, though I can’t help but wonder what the dial might have looked like had it been done in the same manner as the other two. As it stands, it’s still good looking, but, once again, that Cream dial leaves me drooling.

Movement

In the past, Autodromo has relied primarily on Japanese quartz and mechanical movements, but, as I wrote above, for the Intereuropa they’ve gone Swiss. The 7001 is a banger of a caliber, and it has found home in a number of quality watches — from likes of Blancpain and Nomos to Stowa and Meistersinger — over the many years of its existence. It’s a slim 10.5 ligne movement, with 17 jewels, an Incabloc shock system, and 42 hours of power reserve. It’s also a great platform for higher-end finishing. Now, we can’t see the movement here, which is a bit of a double-edged sword since the caseback is nicely finished. I could have gone either way, so I’m personally more than okay with the closed back.

My two favorite things about the movement is how thin it is, which means the watches that it powers will be thin, and that it has a sub-seconds complication at 6:00. This often lends itself to great design, and the Intereuropa is no exception. The sub-dial at above 6:00 helps to balance the branding under 12:00.

For a deeper dive into the 7001, check out this great writeup from our own Mark McArthur-Christie.

Straps and Wearability

The Intereuropa comes on a Saffiano leather rally strap. Saffiano leather was patented by Prada in 1913, and it was made to be used as scratch-resistant leather for luggage. Today, it’s still a relatively lux material, and you often see it used on Italian handbags. In recent years, it’s also become a popular type of leather for use in watch straps, and we’ve seen all sorts of Saffiano bands at a variety of price points.

Autdromo source their straps from a manufacturer in Rome, Italy. The Blue dial comes with a blue strap, the Cream dial with a brown one, and the Gray dial with burgundy. Overall, I think they’re paired well with the watch. They definitely look and feel luxurious, even a touch dressy, but the rally pattern gives them a sporty edge that jives with the automotive vibe of the Intereuropa . Each band is fitted with a branded buckle and tang.

On the wrist, the watch is an absolute joy. I find that it wears a touch smaller than its diameter, and thinner than its thickness. The latter is true because of the bowl-shaped case, which has a tendency to dip into the wrist. It’s also very light, which is something I noticed in my time with the watch, and that lightness is a nice change of pace from my usual rotation, which right now is dominated by the Black Bay Fifty-Eight. Due to that lightness, the watch sort of disappears, which never happens with a heavier watch.

Packaging

Bradley often outdoes himself with his packaging. But his approach isn’t luxury for luxury’s sake. No, he instead tries to evoke a feeling with his packaging, a hint at the watch inside and the era from which he draws inspiration. And that’s exactly what he does here.

There’s an attractive outer cardboard box with the appropriate branding. Inside, you’ll find an instructional sheet, and a fold out poster designed by Autodromo for the 1957 Coppa Intereuropa. It’s a nice bit of swag, and again it speaks to the tone that Autodromo is trying to build.

The real prize, however, is the inner presentation box. It’s lacquered wood, so it’s got some major heft to it, and the whole thing is polished to a sleek shine. In the center is a cloisonné badge featuring a steering wheel-shaped design inspired by badges made in the 1950s by various racing clubs that were in Italy in the post-war years. This is a really elegant piece of kit, and it’s the sort of ephemera one would actually want to hold on to and not simply discard.

Conclusion

If you’ve made it all the way to the end of this review, then it should come as no surprise that I am a huge fan of the Intereuropa. First and foremost, I’m drawn to the design, and in-hand the watch feels like a high-quality piece. I also really appreciate the intricacy of said design. Often, too many watches play it safe, and too few brands push the envelope. Autodromo isn’t one of those brands, and Bradley’s willingness to do something outside of the norm in terms of design and manufacturing is something I really appreciate. The watch retails for $1,250, which is inline with past releases and feels appropriate given the complexity of the design and the Swiss movement. Autodromo

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[cerealpackagingboxes]

How to bring versatility in your custom cereal box?

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Well, this category of custom cereal box is very interesting. As per its manufacturing custom cereal box maker has built it with the combination of two styles. One is a pouch and the other is a box.  This type of custom food packaging have a sturdy flat bottom with a ziplock flap upside.   Interestingly, this innovative style is used for so many other eatable packaging. ziplock is very much beneficial as it will preserve the cereal inside from moisture and other atmospheric effects. Therefore, you don’t have to worry about your cereal. These customized boxes are made from kraft sheets. Therefore, you can have plain cereal boxes in their original brown color or customize them with various design patterns, the choice is yours.

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Ø Customized Boxes with Window Insertion

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When custom cereal box maker uses die cut procedure for clear window insertion it further adds to their appearance.  These cutouts on plain cereal box will display the yummy and colorful cereals packed inside. For instance, chocolate flavored or fruit loop colorful cereal looking through the window cutouts will add to their beauty.

For more information about custom cereal box visit Thecustompacakgingboxes.  There you will find more about customized boxes and their features.

[rufeepeach]

Bae's first birthday after Belle and Cam are back together. Belle might have gone a bit overboard.

“Belle?”

Belle almost jumped out of her skin, standing up quickly. She’d been so absorbed in what she was doing, she hadn’t heard the door open or Cam come into the room. He was so damn quiet without his shoes, and he must have walked softly to avoid waking Bae. She’d thought he’d be asleep for another hour or so.

“Hi!” she grinned, a little nervously. She wondered if she could hide a room of decorations behind her back. 

Cam looked around, a smile playing around his lips. “So I suppose the question of whether you remembered it’s Bae’s birthday was a wee bit redundant?”

Belle blushed. “I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted. “And I want him to have the best day.”

Cam’s smile was warm and gentle. “I was a little concerned when you weren’t in bed, sweetheart,” he told her, softly. Belle felt a little guilty, and perhaps a tad annoyed at his lack of faith.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was just a little restless. You don’t think I’d run out on you even now, do you?” she asked, unable to help herself. “On Bae’s birthday?”

Cam sighed, and shook his head. “No,” he admitted. “I was more concerned you had had bad dreams again, or been up half the night.”

Belle sighed, her irritation fading as quick as it had come, a little rueful at her own distrust. “I’m sorry,” she said, and he waved a hand, the moment forgotten already. It happened, occasionally, even now. But they were getting better, they were learning, and it helped that they both were quick to apologise and quick to forgive. “I was only awake the past two hours,” she assured him. “I think it was around six am I woke up?”

Cam looked around, his eyebrows high. She watched him take in the balloons, the bunting, the banner over the fireplace and the huge mound of presents on the coffee table. “Just two hours?” he marvelled, “That’s impressive.”

She grinned, “It’s a little much,” she admitted. “I just want him to feel like a king today, you know?”

“I know,” Cam smiled, and came toward her. He kissed her gently, softly, and she kissed him back. “It’s amazing,” he said. “He’ll love it.”

“I have the whole day mapped out,” Belle told him, eagerly. “We’ll have breakfast here, then he can open presents, and then we’ll go to Granny’s for lunch. She can’t come to the party this afternoon because she has to keep the diner open, but she insisted on seeing him today, and she’s making a cake. The Nolans are meeting us there and we’ll eat together, then they and Ruby and Mulan will come back with us here to set up for the party.”

Cam nodded along, “Sounds like you have the whole thing planned,” he said. Belle could sense where his mind was going, and took his hand, squeezing tight.

“You’re more than invited,” she told him, firmly. “They’re your friends too.”

“It’s just a lot of people,” he said. Belle nodded.

“Tomorrow will be just us,” she promised. “We’ll have a lazy Sunday in, watch movies and stay in pyjamas. Make Bae’s birthday a two-day event.”

“That sounds good,” Cam smiled, stroking lazy patterns in the backs of her hands with his thumbs. 

“Bae just deserves the best we can give him, you know? And I have five years of birthdays to make up for.”

Cam shook his head, “You don’t,” he said. “We’re both just ecstatic to have you here now. This’ll be his first birthday with two parents, you know.”

Belle looked up at him, trying to remember if he’d ever referred to the two of them that way before. She didn’t think he had. “Two parents?”

He blushed a little, and it was the most adorable thing Belle had ever seen. Her heart was racing, her body reacting with a fierce, visceral joy. He nodded. “I think of you that way,” he said. “And I know Bae would agree. Wouldn’t you?”

She kissed him instead of replying, messy and loose-lipped with smiling, laughing for joy. Cam’s arms came around her, pulling her close, and she breathed him in, his soft scent of mint toothpaste and warm skin.

“Papa?” a little voice came from the hallway. Belle pulled away regretfully.

“In here, Bae!” she called. Bae came down the hallway, his feet padding on the floorboards.

“I’m sorry, I’m too excited, I couldn’t sleep, I-” his babbling excuses came to a sharp stop when he crossed the threshold to the living room, and saw the decorations, the gifts, and his parents beaming at him. 

“Happy birthday, Bae!” Belle grinned.

“Yes, happy birthday, son,” Cam added. Belle had to laugh at the look on Bae’s face: his eyes were like saucers, looking left and right and inexorably drawn back, again and again, to the huge pile of gifts.

“Do you like it?” Belle asked, trying to prompt any sort of verbal response. Bae nodded, dumbly. 

Belle and Cam each opened one arm of their embrace, and Bae ran toward them, hugging them both tight. For a moment the three of them just stood that way, wrapped up in one another.

“Hey, Bae?” Belle asked after a long moment.

“Yeah, Belle?”

“You wanna open a present now?” she offered. “Before we have breakfast?”

“Can I?” he gasped, his eyes going even bigger. Belle looked to Cam.

“Well, if it’s okay with your papa,” she said, generously. Cam pretended to consider it, his eyes narrowing, one finger tapping his chin.

“Hmmm,” he murmured. “That’s a tough one.”

“Pleeeaaase papa?” Bae begged, “Just one?”

“Well, since you said please,” he teased, and ruffled Bae’s hair. Bae made an excited little noise, and broke away from them to run to the pile of gifts. Belle and Cam each took a seat on the sofa in front of him, and watched in amusement as Bae carefully selected the biggest gift on the pile.

He came to sit between them, and tore at the paper. It was a large cardboard box underneath. Bae ripped the lid open, and hauled what was inside out.

“Croccy!” he cried, delighted. It was an exact copy of the huge stuffed crocodile in Belle’s bookshop, which Bae and Emma were enamoured with. Belle grinned.

“Croccy’s sibling,” she corrected. “Croccy himself is still where he belongs, but this one’s just for you. So you gotta give him a new name.”

Bae looked at the huge stuffed animal carefully, thinking hard about it. Cam murmured something under his breath.

“What was that?” Belle asked. Cam shrugged, and spread his hands.

“Tick-tock,” he said again, loud enough to be heard. Belle snorted.

“This is a nice crocodile,” she insisted, sternly. “He doesn’t eat people.”

“No he’s mean,” Bae corrected, gnashing his new friend’s felt teeth. “He eats pirates and knights and all sorts!”

Cam chortled, and high-fived his son. Belle sighed, and shook her head, “Such nasty boys I have.”

“Maybe if you guess his name, he’ll tell you,” Cam suggested to Bae, slyly. Bae blinked at him, and then cottoned on, remembering the story Cam had read him the night before.

“Rumpelstiltskin!” he announced. “His name is Rumpelstiltskin!”

Belle laughed, and rolled her eyes. “Only you two would name an innocent stuffed animal after a villain!”

“The princess was an idiot,” Bae told her, sternly. “Didn’t read the fine print.”

“You’re more like your father every day,” she warned him. Bae laughed and stuck out his tongue. 

“Really, I’m hurt,” Cam pressed a hand to his chest, and pulled an exaggerated expression of shock. 

“You could be making pancakes,” Belle told him, unapologetically. “While nursing those poor injured feelings.”

“She’s bullying me, Bae,” Cam sighed, rising from his seat and taking his cane from the side of the sofa, “Such cruelty in my own home.” He leaned in and kissed Belle’s laughing mouth, and then the top of Bae’s head. 

“You love me,” Belle snickered. 

“That I do,” Gold smiled, that warm and adoring smile that had always, always turned Belle’s insides to mush. Almost a year since they resumed their relationship, six months since they moved in together, and eight years since they first started dating, and that soft look in those dark brown eyes still made her knees weak.

“Ewwww!” Bae complained, pulling a face. “Stop being mushy, it’s my birthday!”

Cam shrugged, “As you wish,” he said. He went off to the kitchen to make breakfast, leaving Belle and Bae alone on the couch.

Belle laughed, and cuddled him close, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll have to be mushy at you instead then, won’t I?” she threatened, “Tell you how much I love you, things like that.”

“Ugh, if you have to,” Bae made a disgusted noise... but he also cuddled in closer, and clutched onto the side of Belle’s bathrobe. So she didn’t think he minded too much. “I love you too,” he mumbled into her robe. Belle looked down at him, a soft smile on her lips. He’d said it before a few times in response to her, but it still never failed to make her heart soar to hear it.

“What was that, Bae?”

“I said I love you too,” he said, a little louder. 

“Good,” she said, and kissed the top of his head. “See? Mushy isn’t so bad.”

“It’s gross,” Bae muttered, but she didn’t think he meant it too much. In fact, she didn’t think he meant it at all. 

[waterworldcraze]

Can Koi Fish Eat Cheerios?

When a fish will eat anything what is the best food to feed them?

Can koi fish eat cheerios? Yes, koi fish can eat cheerios, they love them. However, the cereal shouldn’t be a staple of their diet. Due to their fluctuating eating patterns, owners need to be precise when feeding koi cheerios.

Cheerios are a great snack, but they are not nutritionally efficient. Other treats such as fruit and vegetables are better for your koi. Using these nature-based treats provide plenty of vitamins and minerals to make up for the meal they are missing when you are feeding your koi a snack.

Read further to discover other types of human food they like, when to feed your koi these types of food, and the right kind of food to feed your koi.

Why cheerios?

Looking up what koi fish can eat you might wonder why so many people are talking about cheerios. Why? Back in the day, koi owners would exclusively feed their fish cheerios.

While it wasn’t detrimental to their health we now have better and more widely available food that is specifically for koi fish.

It’s not that cheerios are terrible for koi, they are made of whole grains, low in sugar and have plenty of vitamins and nutrients. But cheerios are not specialized for the koi’s diet and will not provide them with the correct balance of nutrients throughout the year.

Also, processing and manufacturing foods have changed in the past few decades and the cheerios that we eat might not be the same as the ones your grandparents used for their koi fish.

Food like these should be given in moderation if you want something else to give your koi as a treat. Some people don’t feed their koi cheerios at all, while others use them as a treat.

If you feed your koi cheerios is up to you, if you are worried about feeding them something out a cardboard box then don’t worry about feeding it to them. It isn’t an essential part of their diet and what they don’t know they won’t miss.

When purchasing cheerios for your koi fish be careful with the type, koi will eat anything, but that doesn’t mean you can feed them anything. Just get the plain multi-wheat cheerios instead of any of the flavored kinds.

They do love honey but have difficulty processing nuts so avoid the honey nut kind. Check each flavor before you toss it into the pond, or just get the plain.

They will eat several types of cereals such as flakes or rice cereal. Like with cheerios watch out for the flavored kinds and try to stick with whole grains or brown rice if you can find it.

All that you have to do is soak the cereal for about three minutes before throwing it in the pond or hand feeding your fish. The flakes and rice cereal do not need to be soaked first, you can just throw it right in.

Feed cereal to your koi like you would their regular food, as much as they can eat in five minutes.

Other types of human food koi like

Funnily enough, koi have a similar diet to us, they are a carnivore after all. So whatever we eat they love to eat as well. Unfortunately, that also translates to what is bad for us is bad for them as well.

For this very reason, a lot of koi owners use natural foods as a treat for their fish instead of items that can be found in a cardboard box. Foodstuffs such as fruit, vegetables, starches, and even meat are a better treat for your koi than cheerios are.

Simply for the fact that these food sources provide ample vitamins and nutrients naturally instead of being manufactured.

Fruits and vegetables while having carbs don’t have an abundance of them so they will not interfere with your koi’s specific nutritional needs, especially in the summer when they need more protein than carbohydrates.

While fruits and vegetables options are vast you will need to be a bit more discriminating towards meats and grains. But don’t worry about that we will tell you what to look for.

Now there is a lot of talk about koi fish-eating anything they can get their mouth on, but they have to recognize it as food first and every fish is different.

In the chance that your koi don’t eat their snacks when thrown in the pond try hand feeding them. If that doesn’t work, don’t worry about it. They are getting their nutrients from their regular food.

Fruit and Veggies

Koi love all kinds of plants to snack on, they will even eat the plants that are in their pond. Watery plant life is a big hit in the koi world, such as

Watermelon

Oranges

Greens

Lettuce

Tomatoes

They will even eat broccoli, apples, and berries. If the food is large break it up in small enough pieces for your koi.

For hard fruits and veggies, it fine to boil their food for a few minutes until it softens. Just let it cool down before feeding it to your fish.

Watermelon or just melons, in general, are soft enough on the inside that all you need to do is cut a thin slice and throw it into the pond. Your koi will swim up to it.

Meats

Meat that koi will encounter in the wild such as:

Bloodworms

Crickets

Earthworms

Shrimp

You can use live, dried or frozen meat for your koi for those people like myself who get squeamish feeding live food.

Some even use earthworms they find while gardening, only do that in moderation though, not for your koi fish but your garden. It needs those earthworms too. They will eat any little bugs that happen upon the koi pond anyways.

Grains and starches

Here is the area where the closest attention needs to be paid. During the summer koi need a lot more protein while in the building and waning months of spring and fall they have a more carb-heavy appetite.

Grains have a lot more carbs than fruits and vegetables and can throw off your koi’s diet. These items need to be given with a light hand.

In addition to the carb issue koi have a problem with the white floor and starches. For the same reason we don’t throw rice at weddings anymore, these types of food will make your koi fish swell.

Choose for whole wheat or brown rice if you want to use these as a treat, for potatoes go for sweet potatoes instead of your typical russet. Boil and cold all grains and starches before feeding. You can even add honey to these items to make it easier for your koi to eat.

When treats are ok for your koi to eat

It isn’t healthy to just feed your koi cheerios or any human food.

The conversation needs to include when it’s ok to feed your koi cheerios. They have a complex diet that shifts throughout the year entirely dependent on the weather. Cheerios while a nice treat is not a healthy replacement for their regular pellet food.

Due to their varying diet koi have specific food for the time of year and temperature. During the summer they eat a more protein-heavy diet when their metabolism is highest. Carbs are still a staple in their nutrition, but it takes a back seat.

Your koi will also eat a lot more during the summer. This is why treats like cheerios are best given during hotter periods because there are more meals.

Koi food specifically made for the warmer months has the correct balance of proteins, carbs, fats, and vitamins. All that you need to do is feed them throughout the day.

When the temperature drops so do their appetite. They are slowing down their feeding process for the wintertime, which if it’s cold enough they will go into hibernation.

You need to provide them with the right vitamins and nutrition when sending them off to their long non-eating times. Cheerios are just filler food that isn’t providing them anything but a good taste in their mouth.

Some koi owners use this fiber-rich cereal to get their koi’s stomach adjusted to and from hibernation changes. When their water gets below 55° F koi will stop eating and enter a hibernation cycle until the temperature of their water rises.

Some owners get a box of cheerios before the temperature drops and feed them the entire box to adjust their stomach to hibernation and then do the same in spring to restore the koi’s gut to regular feeding again.

This should only be done directly before and after hibernation, if you are not a seasoned koi owner then just still with the pellets to make it easier.

Anything that you give your koi that isn’t a part of their regular feeding should be given in moderation. Koi will eat anything that you can throw in their pond, but you being the reasonable party need to exhibit caution when providing these treats.

Remember during the summer you can replace one meal with treats, but when your koi start eating less each day they need to be given their intended food only.

[caveartfair]

Inside the Library That Holds the World’s Rarest Colors

I’m standing with conservation scientist Narayan Khandekar in a glass-ceilinged laboratory on the fifth floor of Harvard’s art museum, surrounded by paintings in various stages of analysis and repair. In front of us, a life-size portrait of King Philip III of Spain by 17th-century court artist Rodrigo de Villandrando rests on an easel. From the monarch’s patterned pantaloons to his neatly combed hair, the work is painted almost entirely in shades of brown.

Scientifically speaking, Khandekar tells me, brown pigments are typically rather dull. “They’re usually the same thing: raw umber, burnt umber,” he explains, naming two types of naturally occurring minerals that everyone from cavemen to Rembrandt have used to make paint. “So browns are really boring to analyze.”

But Khandekar’s research indicates that one of these pigments may be less monotonous—and quite a bit more macabre—than the others.

Mummy Brown is precisely what it sounds like: a pigment produced by grinding up the flesh of Egyptian mummies. It appeared as early as the 16th century; production continued until the 1960s, when the supply of embalmed bodies finally petered out. While the historical record confirms that artists did purchase the paint, Khandekar says researchers have yet to find an artwork in which the pigment is definitively present. But a newly surfaced studio inventory for Villandrando lists Mummy Brown among his supplies. If accurate, this portrait will be the first confirmed use of the pigment in a work of art.

Narayan Khandekar stands in front of a 17th-century Spanish painting that may contain Mummy Brown. Photo by Tony Luong for Artsy.

Khandekar heads the Straus Center for Conservation and Technical Studies at Harvard, a role he’s held since 2015. Together with a team of 20-odd scientists and conservators, he oversees the study and preservation of roughly 250,000 artworks and objects—from Ancient Greek coins to Egyptian amulets to Constantin Brancusi sculptures—owned by the university’s museums.

For more than a decade, he’s also served as the custodian of the historic, roughly 2,500-piece Forbes Pigment Collection. Although public access is restricted, the row of floor-to-ceiling cabinets on the museum’s fourth floor—stocked with a literal rainbow of powders in glass bottles of all shapes and sizes—are clearly visible through a glass-walled atrium.

Alongside a few tubes of Mummy Brown are other pigments whose origin stories are practically legend. Tyrian purple, an ancient Phoenician dye that requires 10,000 mollusks to produce a single gram of pigment, is said to have been discovered by Hercules’s dog as he snuffled along the beach. Indian yellow, purportedly made from the urine of cows fed only on mango leaves, was banned by the British government in the early 20th century on the grounds that its production constituted animal cruelty. Ultramarine, a vivid blue made from lapis lazuli mined in Afghanistan, was once more precious than gold.

Vials of pigments held by the Forbes Collection. Photo by Tony Luong for Artsy.

But the Forbes Collection is far more than a cabinet of curiosities. It’s the most colorful piece of a larger effort to modernize the care and conservation of works of art in the United States—a 20th-century project largely spearheaded by a man named Edward Waldo Forbes.

Forbes, the grandson of poet Ralph Waldo Emerson, graduated from Harvard in 1895. Like many of his well-to-do peers, he set sail for Europe to experience firsthand the great classical, medieval, and Renaissance works he’d learned about in class. But for Forbes, seeing was not enough. He started to acquire art, loaning (and eventually donating) his collection to Harvard’s newly-founded Fogg Museum.

But purchasing early Italian works, the young man quickly realized, could be a risky business. Aware that American collectors were often less educated in art-buying than their counterparts across the Atlantic, underhanded European dealers began to exploit these easy marks. “There just weren’t as many early Italian paintings in America as there were in Italy, for example,” explains Khandekar. “So the buyers were not as experienced with what they were seeing. And so you had people trying to sell over-restored stuff, forgeries, things that were pastiches.”

Photo by Tony Luong for Artsy.

Photo by Tony Luong for Artsy.

Forbes, says Khandekar, was a “very, very careful buyer.” But even he was fooled once or twice—a Benozzo Gozzoli painting of the Virgin and Child, while partially authentic, turned out to have been painted over twice by modern restorers. A thorough cleaning left both figures faceless. The more time Forbes spent examining art, the more certain he became that a strong technical knowledge of an artist’s materials and process could help determine “what art is true and beautiful” (and, by extension, what was a forgery).

In 1909, Forbes was officially appointed director of the Fogg. His oft-stated dream was to create a “laboratory for the fine arts,” one that applied scientific methods to the works of the Old Masters. “What he did was establish the first major conservation department in the country,” says Khandekar. “It was making decisions that were accountable, transparent, recorded.”

Certain pigments have legendary origin stories. Ultramarine, a vivid blue made from lapis lazuli mined in Afghanistan, was once more precious than gold.

George L. Stout, hired in 1928 as the head of the conservation department, developed the first systematic condition report for artworks in order to track their physical state. “Every museum has a condition report now,” says Khandekar, “but it all stemmed from what Stout did.” That same year, Forbes recruited chemist Rutherford John Gettens to join the department. He would be the first scientist to ever work at an American museum.

Like Gettens before him, Khandekar is a trained chemist. He received a Ph.D. in organic chemistry from the University of Melbourne before changing course and pursuing a career in art conservation. I asked him if the two fields were really that similar. “Well, analyzing it is. You use all the same tools, you use the same techniques,” he says. “Just, instead of analyzing mud and biofilms, you’re analyzing paintings.”

The Gettens Cabinet at Harvard’s Straus Center for Conservation and Technical Studies. Photo by Tony Luong for Artsy.

Historian Sarah Lowengard, author of a 2006 book about color production in 18th-century Europe, notes that the practice of pigment collecting is hard to date precisely. “It’s entirely possible that Mr. or Ms. Caveperson hoarded ochres and nicely charred sticks with which to draw,” she says. But she links “an interest in collecting pigments for a scientific or natural-philosophical purpose, such as the Forbes Collection, to desires to collect anything and everything. The legitimization of this desire is familiar as cabinets of curiosity,” small groupings of rare or remarkable artifacts that are generally dated to the 17th and 18th centuries in Western Europe.

An early example of scientific pigment-gathering is the case of Giovanni Francisco Vigani, a chemistry professor at Cambridge who purchased a set of materials to use in medicinal remedies in 1704. His collection included a number of pigments that remain at the British university today. Another significant grouping of pigments was amassed by the Dutch Hafkenscheid family, who supplied painting materials to manufacturers and pharmacists in the 19th century. They sourced materials from across the globe—France, Turkey, Brazil, even Dutch Guyana—and today, approximately 370 pigments from their collection are held in the collection of the Teylers Museum in the Netherlands.

Forbes began gathering pigments in 1910. At first, he focused on the palettes of 15th-century painters, helpfully documented by Italian painter Cennino Cennini in a 1437 handbook. Forbes began his quest in London with a chunk of azurite, eventually purchasing yellow ochre, reddish-brown hematite, and even planting madder root in his own garden to make red.

View of the fourth-floor conservation laboratory at the Straus Center. Photo by Tony Luong for Artsy.

He would continue to travel across the world and collect colors, often from practicing colourmen—professional paint-makers who had begun to proliferate in the mid-18th century as a reaction to the increasing complexity of art supplies. An unpublished memoir penned by Forbes details some of his international adventures. “It reads like Fitzgerald and Hemingway without the literary pretense,” Khandekar says, describing a trip to Japan during which Forbes visited colourmen in both Tokyo and Kyoto. Later, Khandekar shows me a cardboard sample box out from one of the cabinets; each glass vial is labeled in Japanese characters with phonetic English translations underneath.

The pigments Forbes brought back to Boston were subjected to a battery of microchemical tests conducted by Gettens. The results of these analyses are recorded in the chemist’s 1942 book Painting Materials: A Short Encyclopedia, which he co-authored with Stout. Even 70 years later, it “is still the go-to volume,” Khandekar says. “It has all kinds of interesting things in it, but what everyone remembers is these sections on pigments which give their history, their chemistry, their uses. It’s an incredibly useful resource.”

What makes the Forbes Collection so prominent today, says Lowengard, is its positioning within a prestigious, resource-rich university. “With only anecdotal evidence to support me,” she notes, “I’d say that many collections are made with research as a goal, but time, expense, knowledge, access to appropriate workspace and to publication streams mean they end up as more personal, and more as things of beauty than critical objects in the search for truth.”

Photo by Tony Luong for Artsy.

Indian Yellow is a rare pigment, purportedly made from the urine of cows fed only on mango leaves. Photo by Tony Luong for Artsy.

Forbes retired from the Fogg in 1944, leaving behind more than 1,000 pigments. But without the director as a guiding force, the collection fell by the wayside. Pigments continued to be added, says Khandekar, but “it wasn’t in any systematic way.” After Gettens, there wouldn’t be another scientist hired by the museum until the 1970s.

As collecting slowed at Harvard, however, the number of available pigments (and binders, the ingredient in paint that allows pigment particles to stick to both each other and the canvas) was skyrocketing. Synthetic materials had begun to infiltrate the world of commercial paint production as early as the 1930s, and technological advancements in the following decades had only accelerated this trend. Artists soon began to incorporate these newly developed paints—often intended for houses or cars or boats, rather than art—into their own work.

The Forbes Collection could be described as a conservator’s crystal ball: offering glimpses into the aging process for any materials that might make their way into a work of art.

To understand how these modern paints would age, other institutions started their own collections of pigments and other materials. For the J. Paul Getty Museum, it happened in the 1990s, when the conservation department moved from an off-campus office in Marina del Rey to a new, larger space on the institution’s main Los Angeles campus. Today, their catalogue contains close to 15,000 items, 2,310 of which are pigments—including a set of microscope slides containing tiny samples pulled from the Forbes Collection’s larger stores of lead white or burnt sienna, for instance. (Subsets of the Forbes Collection can be found in more than 20 laboratories worldwide, from the Library of Congress’s Preservation Office in Washington, D.C. to the National Research Laboratory for Conservation in New Delhi to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.)

The Getty focuses largely on gathering modern materials, notes conservation scientist and collection manager Arthur Kaplan. “The large majority of our collection is things from the last 30 years, since our collection was established. We’re primarily collecting commercial materials because we don't have people who could just go mine pigments or collect tree sap for us, for example.” Since the Getty’s collection doesn’t have a designated budget, Kaplan notes, most of their collecting is driven by specific research projects within the institution that require difficult-to-source materials.

Photo by Tony Luong for Artsy.

For Harvard, it also took a particular project—in this case, several purported paintings by Jackson Pollock—to jumpstart the modernization of its long-neglected pigment collection. In order to analyze these 20th-century artworks, Khandekar recalls, “we needed a whole set of standards, and we realized that we didn't have them in this collection.” The Tate, which had been building its own set of modern pigments, sent 250 samples to Harvard to help with the project. As it turned out, five of the so-called Pollocks were splattered with pigments that weren’t commercially available until the 1960s and 1980s—years after the artist’s untimely death in 1956. It wasn’t conclusive proof that the paintings were forgeries, but it did confirm that they had been significantly altered by someone other than Pollock himself.    

Since that project concluded in 2007, there’s been a renewed interest in fortifying the Forbes Collection for the 21st century. Recent additions include plastic baggies of Day-Glo pigments often used by nun-cum-Pop artist Sister Corita Kent in her prints; Vantablack, the world’s “blackest black,” which sparked controversy when it was licensed solely to sculptor Anish Kapoor; and artist Stuart Semple’s response, the world’s “pinkest pink” that can be purchased by anyone but Kapoor.

Narayan Khandekar holds up a bottle of synthetic ultramarine pigment. Photo by Tony Luong for Artsy.

Photo by Tony Luong for Artsy.

These pigments no longer come from colourmen. Instead, they are sent in by companies or by independent pigment experts. (One man, a former Sun Chemical employee and author of a tome on pigments, sent a cache of powders he’d stumbled upon in his garage.) And there are still focused projects that bring in new pigments. For example, the Forbes Collection added 25 traditional Australian ochres several years ago—a project that demonstrates how the study of pigments can sometimes re-write art history.

For many years, historians believed that the introduction of Australian art centers in the 1970s had radically altered the working processes of Aboriginal bark painters. Instead of grinding their own natural pigments, the thinking went, these native artists started to use commercially produced materials like acrylic paint and Belgian linens provided by the institutions. “Some people consider this a real divergence from the tradition that was going on before,” Khandekar says. But after analyzing a range of bark paintings, the researchers discovered that Aboriginal artists were in fact using silver roof paint likely sourced from the keepers of a nearby lighthouse as early as the 1920s. In the 1940s, they were making black pigments from dry cell batteries (even though naturally-occurring charcoal was also available).

“What that says is, if the color is available, the artists will use it,” Khandekar notes. Rather than disrupting traditional Aboriginal bark painting techniques, the introduction of art centers offers “just one more example of these innovative artists adapting to what’s available and using it for their own practice.”

Historic it may be, but the Forbes Collection deals as much with the future of artworks as the past. It could almost be described as a conservator’s crystal ball: offering glimpses into the aging process for various pigments, binders, and any other materials that might make their way into a work of art.

Harvard’s museum scientists have advised working artists ever since Forbes’s tenure, when the U.S. government approached the Fogg in 1935 for help with its newly-founded Federal Art Project (FAP). Officials wanted the murals and other works created using federal dollars to stand the test of time, but it was often difficult for them to distinguish between low- and high-grade paints. Gettens helped to launch Boston’s Paint Testing and Research Laboratory, which functioned from 1937 to 1941, analyzing paints for their durability and quality. Many of these tests still exist today in what is known as the Gettens Cabinet—an 80-year-old, wooden filing cabinet tucked away on the fourth floor of Harvard’s art museum. Each drawer is hand-labeled and full of paint samples, some of which have been aging for more than half a century.

You can’t ask a dead artist a question. It’s important to ask all this stuff while you can.

More recently, Khandekar has advised New York City-based artist Jennifer Bornstein during a residency at Harvard. Many of her works involve crayon rubbings of three-dimensional objects. “We were able to analyze the blue crayon that she was using,” Khandekar says, “and using one of the standards here, we found out it was canalda wax. So we were able to say, ‘Yes, it is very stable, and there’s no problem with you using it.’”

Khandekar once spent a “nice day” with Ellsworth Kelly “talking about how he paints, how he decides on color, about the issues of what’s the right color, what’s the right finish on the top—all these kinds of things.” That sort of information is invaluable to collect in the present because, as Khandekar wryly points out, “you can’t ask a dead artist a question. That’s why it’s important to get in there and ask all this stuff while you can.”

It’s certainly too late to ask Villandrando about Mummy Brown. Even with the studio inventory list in hand, it will be at least six months before Khandekar can confirm that the portrait of King Philip III contains the elusive pigment. As the director of the Straus Center, he’s got plenty on his plate—including a class he teaches for Harvard graduate students on technical conservation.

Pigments collected by Edward Forbes during a 1932 trip to Japan. Photo by Tony Luong for Artsy.

Forbes himself taught a class at Harvard in the early 20th century, a course students nicknamed “Egg and Plaster” after their assignments to mix paint from yolks and plaster miniature frescoes on the wall of their professor’s basement. Khandekar’s class may not be as intimate, but his students still walk away with a better understanding of the material aspects of art. “It’s an opportunity for the students to learn that a work is not just an image on a screen, that it actually is made of something,” he says. “It’s made by somebody and it’s got a physical presence. It’s got heft.”

Works of art can be transporting, even transcendent. Sometimes, as Mark Rothko wrote in 1947, they’re downright miraculous. But as Forbes, Gettens, Stout—and now, Khandekar—are acutely aware, they’re also objects. Each sketch, painting, sculpture, or carved relief is subject to the deleterious effects of time. And what use is a miracle if it’s falling apart?

—Abigail Cain

from Artsy News

[anycontentposter]

Review: Autodromo Taps ’50s/’60s Era Racing With the New Intereuropa Collection

When I think about automotive inspired watches, the brand that immediately comes to mind is Autodromo. Yes, there have been great individual watches and brands tied to the automative world throughout the years, but today, I really cannot think of any brand that distills the essence of cars and car culture quite the way that Autodromo does it. Whether it’s the elegant, Italian-inspired Monoposto and Stradale, or the unabashedly ’80s-inspired Group B, Autodromo’s Bradley Price pulls his inspiration, filters it through his eye, and creates a damn fine watch as the end product. 

The brand’s latest is the Intereuropa, and according to Bradley, the name and inspiration comes from the “Coppa Intereuropa race for sporting coupes held at Monza from 1949-1964 as a support race for the Italian Grand Prix.” These races featured berlinettas from the likes of Ferrari, Maserati, Alfa Romeo, and Lancia. Now, this isn’t unfamiliar territory for Autodromo; the aforementioned Stradale was also inspired by Italian sports cars of the late ’50s and early ‘60s. But this isn’t a retread; the execution here feels fresh, and I would argue it’s several steps above the now sold out Stradale, which I thought and continue to think is an exceptional watch both in terms of its construction and its design. 

Worth noting is that this is Autodromo’s first mainline watch with a Swiss movement. In this case, we have an ETA 7001, a high-end hand cranker that’s long been a staple in the industry. While there is nothing wrong with Miyota or Seiko movements, the inclusion of a Swiss caliber here, and a fine one at that, certainly ups the perceived value of the watch. I’m personally a big fan of the 7001, so it’s a welcome addition for me. 

But I’ll get into all of that in the review below. First, let’s get the specs out of the way. 

$1250 Review: Autodromo Taps ’50s/’60s Era Racing With the New Intereuropa Collection Case

Stainless Steel

Movement

ETA/Peseux 7001 hand-winding

Dial

Cream, Gray, Blue (multi-layered)

Lume

N/a

Lens

Domed sapphire

Strap

Saffiano rally two-piece

Water Resistance

5 ATM

Dimensions

39mm x 42.9mmmm

Thickness

10.3mm

Lug Width

20mm

Crown

Push/pull

Warranty

Yes

Price

$1250

Case

The case measures 39mm in diameter, 10.3mm thick, and 42.9mm lug-to-lug. It’s essentially a bowl, tapering as it moves to the caseback, which also extends out to act as a sort of mid-case. Sitting atop of this mid-case is a stepped bezel with an elegant slope, and inside that is a slightly domed sapphire crystal. Protruding from the case are wire lugs, which were a mainstay of the Stradale line. From the top-down, you cannot see where the lugs meet the case, which in my view is a good thing as it gives the case a much cleaner look on the wrist. The whole thing is rendered in a high-polish finish. That said, it’s not at all blingy. The bezel, with its sloping step, doesn’t bounce light in the way a typical polished surface does, so it tempers the whole thing.

The crown at 3:00 is nicely sized relative to the case. It sits close to the case, but its fairly large diameter makes it a joy for winding the movement. The crown also sits below the caseback, which allows for a very easy grip. This is a small detail that goes a long way in making this watch much more manageable as a daily timepiece, and I’ve sold off hand-crankers in the past because they’ve lacked this feature.

Around back, you have a closed caseback with an etched motif that’s inspired by the horn button on a Cunningham, which was built by Vignale in Torino. If you’re a vintage car buff, this is the sort of detail that’s just for you. No one else will see it (unless, of course, you show them), but you’ll know it’s there.

The screw in the caseback, which comes with the warning “DO NOT UNSCREW” is likely helping hold the internals in place. My suggestion: follow those instructions and leave the screw alone.

Dial

Moving to the layered dial, there’s a lot to discuss. There are three base colors: Blue, Gray, and Cream. Here you’ll finding the branding below 12:00, a sub-seconds register above 6:00, and the staple Autodromo screws along the horizontal axis at 3:00 and 9:00.

Bradley explained that he wanted the dial to remain faithful to the methods used to create gauges in the 1950s, so that’s what you get here. There’s a top-layer K1 glass cutout that frames the base of the dial, and this is where you’ll find the minutes markers. The numbers and corresponding triangles are printed on both sides of the glass, and the result is a floating drop-shadow effect. Look at the watch top-down, and you’ll see it; look at from an angle, and the effect becomes even more pronounced.

Between the K1 cutout and the base dial is another layer: a gray ring that houses the railroad track. This layer with the class cutout over it together create some awesome dimensionality on the dial. But that’s not all — the crystal plays a role here too. Printed on the underside of the crystal is a bullseye detail, one that was a feature of gauges from that era. So altogether, four layers are used to build out the dial, and I think the end result was well worth the effort. The downside, however, is that this is really the sort of thing that is best appreciated in the metal. It’s hard to capture how cool the effect truly is, and it’s on the wrist that the interplay of all of these elements comes to life.

One criticism that I’ve heard of this watch has to do with the cutout between 25 and 35 minutes. This is, of course, another nod to the gauges that inspire the design. The criticism is that this cutout, which does away with a portion of the minutes track, impacts legibility, but for me this has been entirely unfounded. At no point in my experience with this watch on my wrist have I struggled to tell the time. We all have a general idea of where markers should be, and what the time is based on the relative position of the hands (I’d argue that it’s an almost instinctive ability, and I imagine brands like Movado would make a similar argument). Now, it’s certainly fair to point out a dislike for such a detail — we all have our preferences — but to say it effects one’s ability to read the time is, in my estimation, a stretch.

The handset is relatively straightforward; for the hours, there’s a sketelonized and tapering sword of sorts, and the minute hand is a blunt stick. Both are a nod to instrumentation gauges, and work well with the overall design.

Of the three dials, my favorite is the Cream version. Cream and gray work so well together, and the cream-dialed variant of the Stradale was also my favorite out of that set. The Blue is a touch different from the Cream and Gray, in that it features a shiny sunburst finish. It’s an attractive look, though I can’t help but wonder what the dial might have looked like had it been done in the same manner as the other two. As it stands, it’s still good looking, but, once again, that Cream dial leaves me drooling.

Movement

In the past, Autodromo has relied primarily on Japanese quartz and mechanical movements, but, as I wrote above, for the Intereuropa they’ve gone Swiss. The 7001 is a banger of a caliber, and it has found home in a number of quality watches — from likes of Blancpain and Nomos to Stowa and Meistersinger — over the many years of its existence. It’s a slim 10.5 ligne movement, with 17 jewels, an Incabloc shock system, and 42 hours of power reserve. It’s also a great platform for higher-end finishing. Now, we can’t see the movement here, which is a bit of a double-edged sword since the caseback is nicely finished. I could have gone either way, so I’m personally more than okay with the closed back.

My two favorite things about the movement is how thin it is, which means the watches that it powers will be thin, and that it has a sub-seconds complication at 6:00. This often lends itself to great design, and the Intereuropa is no exception. The sub-dial at above 6:00 helps to balance the branding under 12:00.

For a deeper dive into the 7001, check out this great writeup from our own Mark McArthur-Christie.

Straps and Wearability

The Intereuropa comes on a Saffiano leather rally strap. Saffiano leather was patented by Prada in 1913, and it was made to be used as scratch-resistant leather for luggage. Today, it’s still a relatively lux material, and you often see it used on Italian handbags. In recent years, it’s also become a popular type of leather for use in watch straps, and we’ve seen all sorts of Saffiano bands at a variety of price points.

Autdromo source their straps from a manufacturer in Rome, Italy. The Blue dial comes with a blue strap, the Cream dial with a brown one, and the Gray dial with burgundy. Overall, I think they’re paired well with the watch. They definitely look and feel luxurious, even a touch dressy, but the rally pattern gives them a sporty edge that jives with the automotive vibe of the Intereuropa . Each band is fitted with a branded buckle and tang.

On the wrist, the watch is an absolute joy. I find that it wears a touch smaller than its diameter, and thinner than its thickness. The latter is true because of the bowl-shaped case, which has a tendency to dip into the wrist. It’s also very light, which is something I noticed in my time with the watch, and that lightness is a nice change of pace from my usual rotation, which right now is dominated by the Black Bay Fifty-Eight. Due to that lightness, the watch sort of disappears, which never happens with a heavier watch.

Packaging

Bradley often outdoes himself with his packaging. But his approach isn’t luxury for luxury’s sake. No, he instead tries to evoke a feeling with his packaging, a hint at the watch inside and the era from which he draws inspiration. And that’s exactly what he does here.

There’s an attractive outer cardboard box with the appropriate branding. Inside, you’ll find an instructional sheet, and a fold out poster designed by Autodromo for the 1957 Coppa Intereuropa. It’s a nice bit of swag, and again it speaks to the tone that Autodromo is trying to build.

The real prize, however, is the inner presentation box. It’s lacquered wood, so it’s got some major heft to it, and the whole thing is polished to a sleek shine. In the center is a cloisonné badge featuring a steering wheel-shaped design inspired by badges made in the 1950s by various racing clubs that were in Italy in the post-war years. This is a really elegant piece of kit, and it’s the sort of ephemera one would actually want to hold on to and not simply discard.

Conclusion

If you’ve made it all the way to the end of this review, then it should come as no surprise that I am a huge fan of the Intereuropa. First and foremost, I’m drawn to the design, and in-hand the watch feels like a high-quality piece. I also really appreciate the intricacy of said design. Often, too many watches play it safe, and too few brands push the envelope. Autodromo isn’t one of those brands, and Bradley’s willingness to do something outside of the norm in terms of design and manufacturing is something I really appreciate. The watch retails for $1,250, which is inline with past releases and feels appropriate given the complexity of the design and the Swiss movement. Autodromo

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