#this is how the context gets lost for posterity

[britishdisasters]

…

[headspace-hotel]

Twitter posts lost a lot of their power for me a couple months ago when that post that was like "never let your friends help you move" went viral

I looked up the Twitter OP and found that they were some kind of incomprehensible, buzzword-infested "How To Win Capitalism" influencer who had their own company selling notebooks with inspirational quotes and decks of cards with questions to fix your relationship. What's the word. A "self-made entrepreneur."

Supposedly they had started their own business and gotten rich off of it, and You Too can get rich by buying Product and paying a little extra to have empty self-care slogans printed on the Product, and reselling for a profit.

Their previous tweets had barely got any attention at all, just one or two retweets or likes mostly, so it became immediately apparent to me that the rageful tweet was simply a calculated move to draw attention to themselves. It was competently done: post something overtly rude-sounding with very little context, invite angry replies, a day later post context (making your friends help you move will give them back injuries!) that make the angry replies seem like overreacting, thus inviting well-meaning idiots to defend you from the gnashing twitter horde.

The tendency of Twitter to explode the platform of someone that posts something dumb and slather them in vitriol is fertile ground for building unearned affinity with people. It's simple: purposefully post something dumb to bait the haters into uncalled-for cruelty, and then clarify the situation in a way that shows you are just a poor widdle misunderstood poster getting targeted by legions of haters.

People will defend you out of sympathy for your unfortunate situation, and not even notice that you're a necrotised Capitalism Cordyceps, an ad wearing a human as a costume.

[not-terezi-pyrope]

I think that living in a culture where we expect almost all narratives to exist primarily in a textual form has left us woefully complacent to the intangibility of oral stories, where they still exist.

For instance, when I was a small child, my grandmother would during her visits regale me with episodic installments following fictional characters that, as far as I can tell, were entirely of her own spontaneous devising. The two of these I can remember most clearly are "The Forgettis" and "Rebel and Jim".

The Forgettis was a comedy following the misadventures of an absurdly over-extended family of Italian nationals, The Forgettis, who were cursed with a sort of hereditary amnesia that would cause them to periodically forget all prior context of their lives and invent new ones. After all several dozen of them visited the UK on holiday, they promptly forgot that they were on holiday at all, and settled into an abandoned petrol station on "Gasworks Lane" after their tourist coach stopped there to refuel and they never got back on.

The patriarch of the family, Giuseppe Forgetti, was often at the center of things, but most episodes would involve several family members getting lost and subsequently adapting to fulfill some bizarre new occupation based on whatever they found in their surroundings. A particularly memorable episode involved most of the family leaving the Gasworks, only to return and find it had overgrown into an indoor jungle, and the sole remaining member of the family had adapted into a sort of safari hunter persona, managing the population of unlikely exotic animals that had taken up residence.

Rebel and Jim was a fantasy crime procedural about police constable "Jim" and his talking dog, "Rebel", who would make use of a number of supernatural items and allies to catch ne'er-do-wells. Their signature tool was their flying cloak - a cloak that allowed Jim to fly when worn, so long as Rebel sat on top of his head to also be under the cloak. They were also friends with the "Rock Monster", a sort of granite earth elemental who lived underground, but who was frequently confused with the identically named "Rock Monster", who as best as I remember was a sort of "rock and roll elemental".

These stories were pretty formative to my childhood, looking back, but the sad things is that the above recollections - the most I can recall concretely after thinking for ten minutes or so - are likely all that is recoverable of what I know were some pretty sprawling sagas with many episodic story arcs. I can no longer ask my grandmother, as she passed away from dementia two years ago. I can barely remember any details of Rebel and Jim at all, and I'm fairly sure there were other stories I can't even remember the names of. What I have written above may be the only record of them that will survive into posterity, which seems so sad for something that had a pretty big impact on me and are some of my fondest memories of my grandmother from my childhood.

The really frustrating thing is that I am sure that at one point she made attempts to write parts of these stories down - I remember seeing word documents! - but I have no idea where those would have survived, if at all. As far as I know we don't have any of her old computer hardware from what would have been 15-20 years ago. And that's still so recent! Imagine the equivalent when a story has been lost for several decades or centuries, no matter how impactful in its time.

So much so easily lost. When oral storytelling was the only storytelling form, people knew what was up and would make efforts to memorize and preserve stories. But instead if something isn't written down it so often just slips away.

[bllk-after-dark]

wildest fantasies.

pairing. itoshi rin, shidou ryusei, karasu tabito, otoya eita, yukimiya kenyu, nagi seishiro x f!reader

content warnings. MINORS & AGELESS BLOGS DNI, nsfw, how the top 6 imagine fucking you, dom!character x sub!reader, vary in each installment, some are prevalent than others (oops), written in lowercase

itoshi rin. breeding kink, creampie, degradation, edging, fingering, jealousy, marking, possessive behavior, wall sex

mine is written on your skin with invisible ink. he fumes at a player from his team talking to you, who seems to be having fun when he sees you laugh. he doesn’t experience rage quite often, but that guy is the initial point and gets worse when the poster boy of blue lock strikes up a conversation with you.

“what’s with the silent treatment, rin?” you become frustrated over the lack of dialogue. the entire ride on the way home was tense and he treated you like a ghost. he also feels the same, but for different reasons. as the two of you enter your house, he pins you to the door with both arms above your head and cunt on his knee. you attempt to focus on lust in his eyes as his tongue battles against yours and teeth nips at your throat to leave bruises in its wake.

“craving attention from him out of all people, hm? fucking slut.” you gasp at the sharp friction of his knee against your cunt. he isn’t this rough and riled up, not that you’re complaining. he slips his fingers inside, pumping them in and out very slowly as punishment. “think he can fuck you like this? lukewarm, want him and everyone else to know that you’re mine.”

to prolong this type of behavior, you instill delicious images in his head. “how are you gonna show me off? the hickeys, sure. but what about a ring on my finger? your cum dripped out of me? or perhaps a baby in me?”

he pulls his fingers out when you’re nearing an orgasm, leaving you a whining mess. the impulse to buy a fancy ring with his salary and propose to you live, to fuck you in the locker rooms to see copious amounts of cum staining your underwear, and to fuck you enough to make you pregnant so that damn golden boy can mind his own business — which he’ll gladly make it happen. he rams his cock in you without warning and spends the entire day in the bedroom to make sure it takes.  

“ah, there you are. i had to ask one of your teammates, but we lost track.” he’s back in the stadium, dazed from his daydreaming. you didn’t notice him blanking out as you’re busy geeking out about his plays. “watching a match in-person was so exciting! i get to see you steal a ball by kicking it between another player’s legs and score a goal with a direct shot— is that it? whatever, you’re so cool, rin!”

he shuts you up by kissing you, and everyone in the stadium reacts in a domino effect. the cameras pan to the two of you so it’s on live television, his fans freak out that he’s actually in a relationship, and his teammates — specifically that guy — are in pure disbelief. you wonder why he had done that, but he looks proud so you didn’t pry any further. “there. now the whole world knows.”

shidou ryusei. anal sex, blowjob, cuckolding, exhibitionism, face fucking, impact play (spanking), shower sex

demon is what everyone refers to him as. known to be vicious in the field, people hate to admit that he’s a damn good player. aside from being skilled at soccer, he’s also skilled at pulling risque acts in the context of yourself — willing to let the whole world know how tight you are. right now he’s fucking you from behind in the shower with hands on the wall and back slightly bent to stabilize yourself from his powerful thrusts.

“shit, you’re even tighter than yesterday!” he howls as his thick and wide cock drags along your walls and slaps your ass multiple times, leaving a red handprint there. this is a position favored by the both of you, and it never gets old. although, you do want to try out other things that you and he can find exciting. what he says afterwards is an adventure you can’t wait to embark on.

“i wonder if eyelashes will agree with me. how about we invite him someday?” you’d like that very much, honored to be acknowledged as a favorite pastime by the best player in japan. for now you want to practice sucking your boyfriend off, so you detach from him and kneel in front of his dick, lapping the bulbous tip with your tongue.

“holy shit, you’re tight here too! fucking hell… i dunno which one i like more but let’s find out, hm?” he shoves his cock deep into your throat and grips your head as he bucks his hips, eyes rolling to the back of his skull at how stimulating it is.

“feeling so fucking good. looking so fucking good, too. i bet you’ll do even better at the shower stalls in the locker rooms. or at a bar. or at an alley. or—” it’s incredible how he manages to talk about his shameless ideas when he’s at the verge of cumming whereas on the other hand you phased out. streams of opaque white gush out past your lips and trickle down your chin. his dick is still hard, meaning he’s ready for another round. his stamina is inhuman, like a demon. but knowing him, he won’t be satisfied until he has tried out every single thing on his growing list.

“can’t believe you took a nap during our bath. was expecting you to be more awake from the bath bomb i bought, but i guess not.” he’s greeted with a sweet peck, eyes fluttering halfway but can see you beaming at him brightly like the lights in the room. “got your towel here. now i have to drain the water, so shoo.”

he wraps his towel around his waist and then observes you unplug the drain. he happens to sneak a peek at the curve of your ass when you bend over to reach it, smug at how he happens to catch wind of how glorious the view is. he startles you by pinching the fat of your cheeks, and you turn to him, completely flustered. “what? want me to do it again?”

karasu tabito. aftercare, hand holding/kissing, insecurities, loss of virginity, missionary, petnames (baby), praise

sorry is your automatic reply when he hints that he wants to have sex. you’re a virgin; the thought of being unable to satisfy someone, especially one experienced such as himself, is deeply rooted in your head. on the contrary, it’s a huge turn on. since it’s your first time, he wants to make it extra special. it makes him more excited than he should be so he tries to tone it down to not scare you.

he reaches for your face, staring at him like a lost puppy. he smirks at how entranced you are when his fingers slide to your chin then glide over your lips. he kisses you hard, taking your breath away as he gently pushes you down on the bed. he gives you time to breathe while he takes off his shirt. you looking intently on him makes his heart flutter, that his body is for your eyes only.

“i’m okay. you can keep going,” you tell him when he checks up on you. with the slight encouragement of his hand drawing circles on your skin, you take off your shirt as well so he can explore more of your body. the two of you eventually strip yourselves to bareness in the midst of devouring each other with tongue and spit.

“squeeze if you want me to stop.” your hand is intertwined with his, ready to signal for the sake of your safety. he slowly penetrates you, his cock buried to the hilt inside your pussy. he blabbers about how you’re taking him so well, swearing he’ll cum faster than expected. he hooks a leg on his shoulder which allows him to thrust into you harder and deeper. the pitch of your voice rises higher and higher, you pull him toward your mouth to crash your lips against his. you hate how you sound it seems, but rest assured, it tells him that he has done his job right.

“shit, baby. you’re so perfect for me. how is this possible— agh,” he hisses out as he spills inside you. you’ve gone exhausted afterwards, skin sensitive from the caresses on your curves and kisses on your hands. this is what he’d like to happen, but the next time he blinks, you’re lying beside him fully clothed, meaning that the scenario is anything but real.

“tabito? you’re not saying anything.” you avert your gaze from his. you’re ashamed of literally pushing him away, believing that he’ll take offense judging from his silence. “i didn’t mean to do that. it happened so fast that i freaked out. can we start over and… start a little bit slower?”  

“sure. let’s take things slow, then.” he kisses your forehead as a way to reassure you that you haven’t done anything wrong. somehow it makes you bolder, being the one to initiate the kiss while sneaking your hands under his shirt unconsciously. you immediately retract from the sudden move and are about to apologize for acting out of the blue. he cuts off a smile, gesturing you to keep on going. he’s so weak for you, and he’ll do anything to make you happy.

otoya eita. begging, cunnilingus, mutual masturbation, nipple play, phone sex, toxic relationships (with reader’s ex)

relief washes over him hearing that you broke up with your former significant other through the phone. he never liked them to begin with and doesn’t understand what you see in them. being the good friend he is, he wants what's best for you. yet he decides to remain civil, albeit painfully. though, it’s not as painful as suppressing his sinful thoughts about you crumbling under touch.

“eita? can you do me a favor?” he loves your voice, but you saying his name is his greatest weakness. instead of heading it wirelessly, he’d prefer you moaning it in his ears when he’s railing you into a begging mess. he should feel guilty for harboring these feelings as he promised to play the ‘good friend’ role. but promises are meant to be broken anyway. “can you make me forget about them?”

the lines of friendship blur into indescribable tension. you express your frustration over the shitty quality of your sex life your former partner provided, rambling about how badly you want to be fucked on someone’s mouth. the cries of your nipples and clit aching to be touched causes his cock to strain in his pants. sex isn’t a topic you confide in with your friends, especially your male friends, but now it doesn’t matter. you called him to forget after all.

“to tell you the truth, you’ve been driving me crazy,” he sighs with his head leaned back as he pumps his length. labored breaths and whimpers are heard on your end; it seems you have the same idea. “so you want me to make you forget? what if i tell you i’m jerking off right now, wishing that i was inside that pretty pussy of yours? what about you, wishing that my mouth is there too and on your pretty tits to claim what has been mine in the first place?”

“i’m yours, always yours. please, faster!” your whines become more frequent that he cums on his hand and some on his thighs. he leans against the headboard, catching his breath alongside you. if you’re here, he’d leave more proof that you’re forever his with no room for your ex in your world as it should. yet it’s all white noise. the entire time he has been blanking out, so you were waiting for an eternity for him to say something.

“hello? earth to eita?” he snaps back to reality. the only real thing is the stickiness of his hand that’s covered in cum, so he really has been mindlessly jacking off to your voice. “i asked if you can do me a favor but i think i rather stop by your place to cool off. is it okay if i come over?”

“yeah, sure.” you thank him before hanging up. he tosses his phone to the edge of the bed, contemplating what he has done. never, ever again will he do this and vows to not speak on it. all he can do is to stick being the ‘good friend’ to comfort you through your breakup. he’ll do whatever it takes to prove he’s the better choice. they’ll be the day where you’re all his for the taking.

yukimiya kenyu. body worship, mirror sex, lap dancing, lingerie, riding, sex toys, strip tease, voyeurism

risk is his middle name. not only taking it to become the top striker in japan, but in the context of having strong urges to impale you on him. it’s confined in his pants, just like how his hands are confined to his sides. he’s restricted to ogle at your body clad in lace lingerie, attempting to tempt him to give into his desires with your alluring expressions.

the lingerie surprise tips him over the edge. he follows your fingers running down your breasts to your clit, agonized by the drag of one of them along the lips back and forth. he grips his seat to the point where he can almost break the bones of his hands. oh how badly he wants you, but being the menace you are, you keep insisting to stay patient until the end of your performance.

“mmm, not yet. keep your eyes on me,” you giggle, lifting his chin to face you with your mouth ghosting over his. you’re enjoying the sight way too much, but how can he also feel the same when you’re torturing him with the sway of your hips on his lap, the flex of your muscles when he glances at the many mirrors around him, and the teasing of your bra straps down past your shoulders? and when you also grind on his bulge along with a vibrator plugging in you which is your source of pleasure instead?

as if his body has a mind of its own, he finds himself dancing with you with an arm wrapped around your waist and the other cradling your head, kissing you with his life. then clothes start to fly off left and right. he yanks out your vibrator decorated with your slick and plunges you onto his throbbing cock, having you seated for his part of the performance. oh how the tables have turned; now you’re the one being tortured, pounded with quick upward thrusts from him.

“now for the grand finale.” despite your protests to slow down, he wants to relish your face and body contorting in pleasure through the mirror beside him. a multitude of thrusts later, he reaches his climax and feels your walls clench to make sure you didn’t miss a single drop. it’s a shame that time goes by so fast, because he sure wants to see your body arch for him over and over again.

“you know, it’s rude to stare without saying anything.” loud noises flood his ears. he’s in the mall on a shopping spree with you to help you pick out new clothes to spice up your wardrobe. although when you mean by ‘spice up’, he doesn’t expect to see you in lace lingerie at the fitting rooms. “so, uh… what do you think?”

he has speculations on whether you may have a hidden agenda to seduce him or just trying it out for fun. but all he do is marvel at how the lingerie fits nicely on your body, making you nervous. an idea pops into his head and whispers into the shell of your ear. “not sure. why don’t you buy and put it on tonight for me so i can see it better, hm?”

nagi seishiro. bulge kink, cockwarming, size difference (reader is implied to be smaller), somnophilia, spooning

warm is his favorite sensation when he’s curled up with you in bed. his chest is on your back and his left arm hugs your corresponding side while the other engulfs your right hand. his cock throbs inside you which can be seen poking your stomach, making him curse and groan as he places his hand there. the feeling is delicious, addicting even, and he’s hungry for more.

he pants against your neck as he lazily thrusts against your ass, the outline of the bulge moving up and down from what he can feel on his hand. so good, he chokes out in your ear, followed by a string of fucks and moans. that manages to wake you up, having you grab on the sheets from being overwhelmed by the pleasure from behind.

“sei…” his impatience causes your breath to hitch. at that moment you’re losing your damn mind upon his balls coming into contact with your skin. “fill me up…”

as he shushes you to go back to sleep, he kisses the junction of your neck and shoulder and hooks a leg over your waist for better access to pick up the pace to fulfill your wish. “mm, yeah. gonna make you so warm and full of me.”

“hm, sei?” the morning light seeps through the blinds, spotlighting on you who’s sitting up on his bed stretching. for some reason, you press your butt against his groin which is painfully— oh. “um, did you get hard from sleeping with me last night?”

it’s a dream after all. he throws the blanket over his head and turns away from you, refusing to answer as it’ll be bothersome to explain in detail. you dismiss his silence with ‘okay’ and by telling him you have to go to work. when you reach the edge of the bed, he pins you down with his arm around your waist and drags you closer to him.

“stay with me. just a bit longer.” you cave into his whims, deciding to indulge him during then by pulling your pants down to take his huge length. it somehow knocks you out, and he hopes that you’ll forgive him for making you late. but you’re so warm and so good, just like in his dreams.

vera. ayo, finally i posted something. it’s my first time writing smut and i died inside. as expected: it’s 10% smut, 90% cringe. the top 6 has me in a chokehold and i’m not okay.

[demigod-shenanigans]

More goofy thoughts about the Jason needs godly recommendation letters for college fic I’m not going to write (original post I made about this concept here):

-For context, this is in a universe where Leo did the whole Orpheus Eurydice thing to resurrect Jason, so assume ToA happened more or less the way it did in the books. Jason is staying at the Waystation with Leo.

-Because Percy has a Nereid as a guidance counselor, I think Jason should have a wind nymph. Objectively the funniest option: Mellie. She already has a connection to the lost trio, plus her husband was their satyr protector for a while. She’s also gonna need a new job since Tristan probably won’t need an assistant anymore now that he’s no longer working as an actor.

-The thing is Mellie actually tries really hard to be helpful. She makes sure Jason has all the information he needs and can call upon her whenever necessary.

-However. She’s also a sleep deprived mom and definitely mixes things up occasionally. Chuck is a year old now but because satyrs age at half the speed of humans you get to enjoy the whole “baby crying at night to be fed”-period for twice the human baby amount of time.

-She has to bring baby Chuck with her to counseling a few times because she couldn’t find a babysitter.

-When she initially tells Jason about the whole recommendation letters thing she’s really apologetic about it. She feels so bad he has to put up with this nonsense after everything he’s been through. Jason just sighs, resigned, because of course the gods (his dad) would do this to him and just bonks his head against her desk.

-But also Jason wants this. NRU has been his plan since he could walk basically and he may still not remember his childhood super well but he knows he loves New Rome. It was his home for ages. And he likes the thought of it being his home again, at least for a time. Of getting to fall on love with the place a second time. Of getting to spend all his time with Leo and Piper (at least theoretically, if they’re going, which he doesn’t know for sure but he does love the thought of that so much) knowing that they’re safe and get to just be for a few years.

-So, yeah, as annoyed as Jason is with the whole thing, he’s absolutely doing this.

-Jupiter also tried to pull the 25 recommendation letter shit on him that he tried on Percy. Juno talked him out of it and they settled on the same three letters Percy had to get.

-If Juno did the whole “putting a picture/poster of Jason on the godly pinboard”-thing that Poseidon did for Percy you can bet she used one of him from back when he was praetor, in uniform and everything. Jason is not thrilled about this because he looks so capable in that picture and he’s really worried that’ll mean he’ll get very hard quests that he’ll then screw up

-Leo definitely makes a joke about Jason looking like a dorky cosplayer in that picture (he’s not getting into the fact that he actually thinks Roman armor Jason looks kind of hot. They may be dating but there’s no chance in hell he’s admitting this bit)

-Jason goes back and forth on whether to ask Leo and Piper for help with the recommendation letters. Leo’s already done so much for him with the whole resurrecting him ordeal and Piper had to watch him die on the last mission they went on together and isn’t even sure how much she wants to live in the mythological world anymore. He can’t ask even more of them after everything.

-But Leo is also his boyfriend. Who Jason lives with. They go to the same school. And Jason is shit at keeping things from him. Leo immediately realizes something is up and needles him until Jason eventually gives in and tells him. Leo reminds him that the last mission Jason went on without him got him killed so he’s absolutely not letting Jason do this alone

-Leo is also immediately like “hell no we’re not keeping this from Piper. She’s still pissed at you for keeping the prophecy from her for so long. She was furious I didn’t tell her about my plan to wander off into the Underworld. If there’s one thing we really shouldn’t do is lie to her about anything thing that could get us both killed”

-And yeah. Piper is not super pleased Jason considered keeping this from her but she’s also immediately down to help. They’ve always been able to handle anything as long as the three of them were together, after all.

-Leo teases Jason about the fact that he’s such a nerd that he’s actually willing to do quests for the gods to get into college. But, well, he supposes NRU was the dream Jason left behind in the Styx when he died, so he did know that getting into this relationship

-Leo also makes at least one joke re: “sorry for resurrecting you I should have read the terms and conditions more closely”

-The first mission is purely light-hearted shenanigans. Maybe Apollo gave them an easy quest to apologize for getting Jason killed. Who knows. They do still find plenty of trouble (as you do when you’re walking around in a group that’s three of the most powerful demigods of their generation, one of which is a big three kid), but they’re fine. Maybe the other two missions won’t be too bad (spoiler alert: the other two missions are significantly worse)

[thepixelelf]

Bluff and Nonsense - she/her ver.

genres: romance, angst, some fluff, university au, not a fake dating au pairing: female reader x hoshi words: 17.0k (01:08) warnings: cursing, alcohol notes (orig, 2020): "so the title is fluffy and this was a title fic, but then it ran away on me. I really like this one so... yeah. Enjoy!” update, 2023: this is the she/her version of Bluff and Nonsense. other than the pronouns, nothing else has been changed. you can find the original they/them version here, and the he/him version here

“Soonyoung? Yeah I know him, you should too. He’s on the uni’s dance crew, and ever since he joined them, their popularity’s skyrocketed. I’ve met him a few times, great guy — got a tendency to run his mouth but hey, no one’s perfect. He’s smart anyways, probably knows how to deal with the consequences, right?”

or

Soonyoung never thought one bluff could lead to so much nonsense.

Kwon Soonyoung is a man of many talents. He’s the guy who could fit a whole orange in his mouth in fourth grade, the guy who always knew how to make the social studies teacher talk about his divorce instead of the world wars, and the guy who brought a live pigeon to school with no one questioning him whatsoever. He’s also the head choreographer of the university’s dance crew — you barely knew there was a dance crew until he showed up with his hand-drawn posters — as well as a totally well-rounded fine arts major. C’mon, who takes a chemistry course in the fine arts? Kwon Soonyoung, apparently.

Of his many talents though, lying is not one of them.

Which is why, when asked if he likes anyone, Soonyoung says your name instead of simply saying “no” (a much better option in hindsight). He actually likes a girl on his dance crew. Cute, funny, has those eyes you can just get lost in — lord knows Soonyoung has. But, at this relatively quiet party, with half the guests crowded on Seungcheol’s couch and the other half on the disgusting carpeted floor of his apartment, Soonyoung can’t admit his real crush because she’s sitting just a few feet away.

It wouldn’t be such a bad lie if you weren’t also sitting a few feet away.

You’re on your phone when he says your name in his heartbeat-induced panic, but you look up at the sound of it, as does Seungkwan, who was reading something on your phone from the beanbag chair you’re both sitting in.

A chorus of low, teasing ‘ooh’s rises throughout the room, almost like it’s eighth grade again and Soonyoung just got called down to the office. Except now, he might actually be in trouble. He gets a few claps on the back from his friends close enough to reach, commending him on his bravado even though he doesn’t deserve it. Really, the whole situation only dawns on Soonyoung after 6.8 seconds, which is a bit too long considering he made the situation in the first place. Blood rushes to his cheeks, not because of the alcohol in his red cup he’s yet to drink, but because you’re looking right at him, and he has no idea what to do.

Soonyoung doesn’t know you very well. In fact, he’d almost say he doesn’t know you at all.

You’re Seungkwan’s friend from one of his classes — computing science, if Soonyoung remembers correctly, but he’s not totally confident. The only reason you came tonight is because of Seungkwan. You don’t know anyone else.

With a tilt of your head, your face scrunches with question, and you look to Seungkwan for help. You know Soonyoung said your name, but you missed hearing the context. It looks like Seungkwan missed it too, seeing as the conversation you two have only makes your brow furrow more as the room chatter picks back up. Everyone else is already over Soonyoung’s sudden confession when Jeonghan starts talking about something else.

Except Soonyoung’s friends, of course. That would be too easy.

Mingyu turns to him with a stupid smile, his cheeks red from both the free opportunity to tease his upperclassman and the light beer he’s been sipping and pretending to get buzzed on all night. He nudges Soonyoung with his shoulder where they sit on the floor, leaning in to speak under the conversations surrounding them. “You didn’t tell me you like her,” he says, the jesting tone in his voice clearer than water.

“Yeah...” Soonyoung doesn’t know why he doesn’t just retract his confession, it’s not like Mingyu is close to you or anything, he’d understand. But then again, he’s bad at lying, and the girl he likes is still sitting on the couch. He scratches the back of his neck. “It’s sort of a recent thing.”

Mingyu’s smile only widens at Soonyoung’s response, his eyes turning to slits with the rise of his cheeks. “Soonie’s in looove~!”

And Soonyoung doesn’t know what to say. Nothing like this has ever happened to him before, not exactly like this, anyways. So he just looks down, scratches the back of his neck again, looks at one of his dance crew friends when she calls his name.

He doesn’t dare glance your way for the rest of the night.

Turns out you do know someone else other than Seungkwan, because once most of the guests have cleared out, leaving only half the boys to clean up, Seokmin approaches Soonyoung as he scrubs the sink of whatever that weird green stuff is.

He asks how Soonyoung knows you and says off-handedly that he’s never even seen the two of you talk. (Which is right.) He says these things shouldn’t be joked about, that you’re a person with feelings, and Soonyoung should leave you alone if he’s just doing this for comedy’s sake.

Soonyoung thinks he’s never seen Seokmin so serious.

It’s probably fine. You haven’t said anything good or bad, and other than the occasional tease from his friends, no one has taken anything too far. Maybe you’ll forget about it tomorrow. Maybe he’ll forget about it tomorrow, and it will all be okay.

Besides, it’s not like he actually likes you. And his real secret is still safe and sound.

•

Of Soonyoung’s many talents, making people sad is also not one of them.

It’s not that he actively tries to cause misery only to fail, it’s that he can’t stand upsetting anyone. He’s a people-pleaser by nature, that’s just how it is.

So he doesn’t say no when you ask him out for coffee.

And he smiles at you when you try to make conversation, even though it’s awkward and hesitant despite having a mutual friend like Seungkwan. It’s not so bad, he thinks. You’re trying, at least, and when you ask him about his interests, you actually listen, which isn’t common when he tends to over-explain his love for dance and performance. He has a coffee in his hand too, so that’s a plus.

You ask him if what he said at the party was true, and something in your eyes makes him say yes.

•

There are a few more coffee dates after that. It’s nothing official, and Soonyoung is hesitant to call the meetups “dates” because he’s not interested in dating you. But it’s a little late for that.

You seem brighter, though, every time he sees you again; he can’t bring himself to take that away, to cut the cord, to clean this mess he made.

Something about the way you two talk is nice, at least. Soonyoung can’t quite put his finger on it, and he tells himself that’s what’s drawing him back every time, not the guilt he feels sunken in his ribcage whenever you smile his way. It’s not that deep, he repeats to himself whenever you wave to him on campus, making him feel obligated to walk you to class. It’s not that deep.

He’s in the library one day when he spots you at one of the tables, books open and spread out as you scribble down notes, a pair of earbuds dangling from your ears. You haven’t seen him, so he doesn’t try to approach, just ducks back behind the bookshelf he’s been exploring. His hand is on a book he might like when a voice stops him.

“You know you’re an idiot, right?”

Minghao leans against the opposite bookshelf, his arms crossed, locked and loaded for judgement. Soonyoung looks around, but of course he’s talking to him. They’re the only ones in the row.

“Um, how do you want me to answer that?” he asks, unsure of exactly what Minghao’s talking about. Yeah, he knows he’s a bit dense sometimes, but not all the time.

Minghao rolls his eyes. “I know you like Sehee. You haven't stopped laughing like an idiot at her bad jokes." He nods his chin outwards, gesturing over Soonyoung's shoulder and through the bookshelves towards where you're sitting. "What are you doing messing with Seungkwan's friend?"

It’s not too surprising that Minghao knows — he’s an intuitive guy, but Soonyoung is still caught off guard. He asks first, under his breath, “Does anyone else know?”

“If you mean dumb and dumber, then no.” Minghao jerks his head to swing his dark bangs out of his eyes. Everyone keeps telling him to just cut his hair shorter, but he refuses for the aesthetic, or something. “Chan is way too focused on dancing to notice your dumbassery, and Jun is about as observant as a fishcake when it comes to feelings.”

Soonyoung’s shoulders fall in relief, though he didn’t even realize they’d tensed up. 

“But that’s not the problem here. Why are you playing around with her if you’re into Sehee?”

“I’m not—” Soonyoung pauses, thoughts deliberate, “—I’m not playing around, okay? I just... I don’t know. You were all looking at me, and I couldn’t just say Sehee's name, she was right there!”

Minghao cocks an eyebrow at that. “But you could say hers?”

“It was a moment of weakness.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I’m aware.”

Soonyoung groans quietly — he’s still in a library after all. He covers his face with both hands, not wanting to look at Minghao nor have Minghao look at him. For a second, it’s blissful, awkward silence, which Soonyoung would take over Minghao’s scolding any day. But of course, no haven lasts forever.

“You’re gonna have to tell her,” Minghao says, and he’s probably right. No, he is right, Soonyoung just doesn’t want him to be.

“I can’t do that! I said I like her— twice!”

“Twice?”

“Twice!”

Minghao only drops his head for a second, scoffing at the whole situation. Soonyoung wishes he could do that too, just laugh it off because it’s someone else’s problem.

“Well, you’re going to have to say something sooner or later.” Meeting his eyes, Soonyoung realizes Minghao might actually be worried. About you, or him, or something else, he’s not sure, but the subtle fold of Minghao’s eyelids tells Soonyoung this is about more than just calling out idiocy. “And I think sooner will hurt less.”

Soonyoung knows he’s right. But he doesn’t like it.

Before he can come up with a rebuttal, though, Minghao’s hands are on Soonyoung’s shoulders, and he’s pushing him out of the row of bookshelves and straight towards your table.

“You can do it, Soonyoung, just rip the band-aid while you still can,” he whispers in Soonyoung’s ear right before one last push at his back.

Soonyoung stumbles a bit, but once he regains his footing, Minghao’s already gone and you’ve already noticed the ruckus. You pull one earbud out with a bright smile. It’s so jovial that Soonyoung almost forgets why he’s here.

“Hi Soonyoung, I didn’t see you come in,” you say, and there’s no way you’re this energized just from studying in a library.

“Uh... hi.”

“You’ve actually got the perfect timing.” Waving to him, you gesture for him to sit next to you, and he does. You pull out some sort of planner, opening it to a few months from now. “I wanted to ask when exactly your showcase is? Seungkwan’s no help at all because he only cares about his concerts and stuff. Honestly, there aren’t that many...”

You’re going to have to say something sooner or later.

Soonyoung picks later.

•

“So when are you gonna ask her out?”

Jihoon stands in front of the stove, watching his hot water simmer, a bag of dry ramen in one hand and long cooking chopsticks in the other. It’s Soonyoung’s turn to make dinner tonight, but since he says he isn’t hungry, Jihoon’s scrounging it out himself.

Soonyoung, on the other hand, sits at their tiny dinner table, his forehead pressed to the cool surface, arms hanging limp at his sides. He mumbles something of a response, but it’s nothing more than a questioning grunt, if anything.

“Oh, you know.” Even when Jihoon says your name, Soonyoung stays still. “Only the girl you’ve been on several “dates” with ever since you confessed to her at Seungcheol’s party. When are you gonna ask her on a real date?”

Tired, Soonyoung groans. “When the time is right, I guess.”

•

You work on campus. It’s some part-time job you don’t care about enough to even complain over, despite the fact that you have to deal with annoying university kids every day. Soonyoung finds this out when he has coffee with Minghao in one of the buildings he doesn’t normally frequent, and only goes to today since Minghao has a class nearby in the next hour.

The coffee isn’t great, and it’s too expensive, but Soonyoung drinks it anyways. He much prefers the coffee from the cafe he goes to with you. Because the coffee is better. Obviously.

He hears your voice first, words indiscernible with distance and overshadowed by a much louder, angrier one, but still. Minghao sees you first, though, and he points past Soonyoung to the student printing center, where you’re standing behind the counter and arguing with some guy. You don’t seem too riled, but Soonyoung can tell you want to be anywhere but there, especially when the angry guy’s voice keeps getting louder and louder.

Soonyoung’s feet bring him over before his brain can register what to do. You haven’t seen him yet, he could just walk away, but he doesn’t. Your voice becomes clearer as he approaches.

“Listen, the printing center is for education, art, or business. I can’t print this for you.”

The guy goes off about personal freedoms or whatever, Soonyoung isn’t really listening.

“No, I get that this is a student printing center, but I really don’t think your big tiddie anime gf poster has anything to do with education, art, or business.”

And that’s when the guy grabs your arm. Which results in Soonyoung grabbing his arm. Which results in the accusatory question, “What are you, her boyfriend or something?”

Now, in a perfect story, this would be the first time Soonyoung meets you. Or maybe you’ve been close friends for a while. And this would be when Soonyoung says that, yes, he is your boyfriend, and he would save the day. Except you’d be all “why would you do that?” which would result in you both having to fake date to keep that guy off your back. In this perfect story, there would be no Sehee to like and no Minghao to judge, just you and Soonyoung fake dating. Eventually, you’d both catch real feelings instead of fake ones, and then boom, happily ever after.

But this isn’t a perfect story.

Soonyoung still says yes, and the guy still backs off. In reality though, because Soonyoung never thinks before he lies, you momentarily duck behind the counter and bring a hand up to your face to cover your ever-brightening smile. In reality, Sehee still exists at the forefront of his mind every dance practice, even though you’re the one he just promptly claimed to be the boyfriend of. In reality, Minghao watches from a little ways away, sipping his coffee and shaking his head in what can only be called disappointment.

Soonyoung’s never been good at lying. One would think he’d stop by now.

•

So, it’s official.

You’ve put a heart next to his contact name. He’s put one next to yours — red, because he doesn’t know your favourite colour. Seungkwan’s done the whole if you break my friend’s heart I break you spiel and Soonyoung finally realizes he’s in too deep.

It's almost too natural, how easily you bring him into your life and how easily he finds himself fitting. It's all so wrong.

Soonyoung feels like an imposter, like there's someone meant to be by your side, but it's not him.

You pluck up the courage one day to hold his hand, and he can't pull away because the lies tying him to you are too strong. The small bluffs he's spun have weaved themselves into a net he's tangled himself in.

His dance crew congratulates him when Jun spills the news. It's all mundane, really — dating in university isn't all that uncommon. Mostly, Soonyoung gets casual "you go, dude" comments or the like, but then Sehee says nothing. She smiles, and it has to be one of the most tragically beautiful things Soonyoung's ever seen. His heart fractures, just a little, and he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to fix it.

He smiles it off. Tries to, anyways.

Chan complains that Soonyoung's too harsh that day.

•

Jihoon likes you.

Not in a "Mister Steal Yo' Girl" way, but he laughed at one of your jokes the first time you came over to Soonyoung's apartment, and ever since then, he's been convinced.

"You must feel like the luckiest guy on earth with her around," Jihoon says once you leave for the night.

Soonyoung has no idea how to tell him he's felt nothing but unlucky these past few weeks, so he doesn't.

•

He polishes up on his acting. As awful as it is to think, Soonyoung has gotten really, really good.

His smile looks genuine. It has to — he shows it to Minghao, who says it's "adequate," which basically means perfect to the lowly humans beneath him.

He's gotten good at responding to you too, copying how the male leads do it in dramas and movies. It's sort of easy.

He hates how easy it is.

Soon enough, you try befriending the whole group. Being Seungkwan's friend, you've always wanted to, but apparently this is the push you needed. The boys are quick to warm up to you because, as Soonyoung's new girlfriend, you're now a new teasing target besides Chan. The youngest was always the brunt until you came along.

You say you don't mind — that his friends are amazing despite all the jokes and chaos. He believes you.

Minghao keeps his distance, saying he doesn't want to get himself involved. He's still the only one to know the truth, and his judging stare only grows worse as the days pass. Soonyoung wants so badly to make it go away, but he knows the only way to do that would be to tell you the truth, and he's just not ready.

Soonyoung's never broken a heart before. He's never planned on it.

Sometimes life makes its own plans.

"My shift got moved to tomorrow," you tell him when he picks you up from class, one hand in his and the other in your pocket. He knows it means something, but he doesn't know what. Your lips purse into a line as you stare at your shoes. “I was thinking... could I come watch your dance practice? If that’s okay?”

Now, Soonyoung loves dancing. He loves dance. He loves to dance. Performing sends an unparalleled thrill rushing through his veins like the solar system hurtling through the universe, and it’s something he’s never felt doing anything else. Dancing with others is a beautiful connection, an emission of silent truths communicated through the body. Practice, however, is the dirty version of dance. It has to be built up first — polished. Which is why Soonyoung says what he says. He doesn’t even think it over.

“No.”

It’s what he says every time someone asks. He doesn’t invite people to practices — never has. Even after his prompt refusal, he doesn’t register his mistake until the light in your eyes wavers. It doesn't disappear — just ripples. Comes back weaker than before.

"Oh," you say. The word should sound dejected but it doesn't. There's a smile at your lips, and Soonyoung can't help but think it looks kind of like his. "That's— that's okay! I was just — I don't know, I guess I just thought... I wanted to..."

Meeting his gaze, you look at him with shaking eyes, almost as if it takes great strength to keep them on his. He tries to backpedal, but you continue.

"I'll be going home then. I've got an assignment due soon anyways, so..." You pull your hand from his grip and, from where you two were walking toward the fine arts building, turn the opposite way. Your dorm is on the other side of campus. "See you tomorrow, Soonyoung. Have fun at practice."

Something about your smile haunts him.

It's hollow; feels empty when you flash it at him before going. He thinks fake smiles all look like that — insincere. His smiles at you must be the same way.

For an awful moment, he's hopeful. Maybe this will be the trigger. Maybe you'll end this tonight — whatever "this" is that Soonyoung has with you. Maybe he won't have to tell any harsh truths at all.

He turns and walks to practice.

The routine feels lighter tonight, though Soonyoung can’t pinpoint why. His body almost floats, and while that sounds good, it’s not. The rhythm is off. He’s not landing when he should be.

His crew notices, especially Chan, who complains that Soonyoung’s too much of a cocksure choreographer to be making repeated mistakes like this. They tell him maybe everyone should take a break. He agrees, but only because he’s frustrated — and he shouldn’t channel his anger into dance. Not this one, at least. 

Everyone spreads throughout the studios to the edges, where they lean their body weight on the walls and slide down, water bottles in hand. The room reeks of sweat and feet, but Soonyoung’s used to it by now. He guzzles down half of his water in one go and pulls out his phone.

[❤] Sorry about earlier, I didn’t mean to react all... cold? Seungkwan told me you never invite anyone to practice, so it makes total sense why you said no

[❤] If I’m ever crossing any boundaries, let me know, okay?

Of course you’d be understanding. Soonyoung wouldn’t be that lucky.

He tosses his phone haphazardly in his bag, groaning and throwing his head back so it hits the wall with a dampened thud. The pain is dull compared to the thoughts top-spinning in his mind.

Across the studio, Minghao clears his throat, raising an eyebrow at Soonyoung when he opens his eyes to look at him. It only takes two reluctant nods for Minghao to understand the source of Soonyoung’s groans, and he does nothing to react but look away. Soonyoung thinks that’s almost worse than the judging eyes. At least at that point Minghao thought he was something other than a lost cause.

He doesn’t text you back. By the time he thinks of something a boyfriend would say, the time to say it has passed.

•

How much longer is he going to let this go on?

Soonyoung wonders that to himself as he sits, returned to Seungcheol's apartment for another one of his "getties" as people are so apt to call them. He's never understood the difference between a getty and a party, and he's always been too stubborn to ask, knowing he'd be mercilessly made fun of for not knowing something apparently all university students knew.

This one isn't so different from the last. More or less the same crowd, the same atmosphere as the night goes on. Only this time, when everyone's settled down in what can hardly be called a circle, Soonyoung's on the couch, sunken into the too-old cushions with an arm wrapped around your shoulders. You're far from your last claimed spot with Seungkwan on that ratty old beanbag chair, sitting comfortably under Soonyoung's arm with a plastic cup of whatever Jeonghan concocted for you — which you've yet to drink much of.

Sehee sits across from you both while she laughs at something Wonwoo says. You laugh too, but Soonyoung barely notices, eyes glued to the girl they've been stuck on since she joined his dance crew over a year ago. He wants to tell her how beautiful she is when she smiles, even under the light of Seungcheol's dingy apartment, but he can't. He wants to tell her how he's felt for months, but you're next to him. He wants to have a fucking drink but all he has in his cup is fucking iced green tea because he knows if he drinks he'll fuck up again.

Just like last time.

"You okay?" you whisper in his ear at one point.

He turns to see your concerned expression, and it only makes Soonyoung hate this even more. He doesn't deserve your concern.

"I'm fine."

But he's not fine.

He doesn't participate in much conversation — only speaks when spoken to, and even then with few words. You seem to become tense next to him, but he does nothing to try and fix it. Just tonight, he's going to let himself be tired.

Three times, you offer to leave, and all three he refuses. You give up eventually, though he can tell you know something's off. God, if he were drunk, he wouldn't even have to think about you for a whole night.

Somehow the topic of discussion turns to couples, and suddenly, an entire room of eyes is on you and Soonyoung. He barely catches the question before you're already pondering your answer.

What do the two lovebirds love most about each other?

You look at him. At him, at him. He feels your stare in the dip of his throat because he can't seem to swallow anymore. It's like his soul is being scanned for viruses.

"Hmm..." You let your chin fall into your palm with a smile. It's real. Too real. "I like his resolve," you finally say. "If he wants to do something, he does it." With a loud exhale through your nose, you tilt your head, still meeting his eyes with your own. Soonyoung's mouth slightly parts, slack with something he can't name. "I could learn a thing or two from him."

The room bristles with your answer, various response piping up around. Soonyoung sort of registers Chan saying, "That's cute. I wanna vomit," but he's too busy thinking about you, about how you've come to like something about him as deep as that when all he's done is pretend to even like you at all.

And even when his mind swims with that, Sehee asks again.

"Then Soonyoung, what do you like about her?"

It sort of hurts. Soonyoung's not afraid to admit to himself that hearing Sehee ask what he likes about you sends pain straight through his ears to his heart. There's an awkward pause and everyone's looking at him expectantly and, god, he wishes he stole your drink when he had the chance.

"I..." His throat goes dry. His lips part, but there aren't any words to slip past them. "I, um..." He looks to you, and your eyes speak volumes. Everyone else in this room has a sort of... hungry look. They want to know Soonyoung's answer for one reason or another, maybe to tease with or to ridicule or even wish for themselves. But you, your eyes meet his and he knows you're not expecting anything. That hurts too. He doesn't know why. But even then, he can't think of the words. Any words. He steals a glance at Sehee, whose expression is curious, doe eyes slightly giddy from alcohol. She's pretty.

"I like her laugh," he says. It's not about you. "Whenever she laughs, I think to myself, 'What I wouldn't give to see her laugh again'."

Your eyes move to the plastic cup you've got gripped between two hands in your lap, and Seungkwan points out your flustered state to the entire room despite the fact everyone can see it as long as they've got working eyes. You purse your lips together to contain a smile, but it doesn't work. Even Soonyoung can see that.

He needs a drink. 

Having to go to the bathroom is a lousy excuse, and Soonyoung knows it, but he whispers that in your ear anyways and retracts his arm from your shoulder before escaping. He does go to the bathroom, a small thing with a shower and no bath, but all he does in there is stare at himself in the mirror. And when that becomes too much, his feet.

Someone else eventually has to use the bathroom for its actual purpose, so he opens it to the banging fist outside and slides past the person back into the hallway. He pauses before walking all the way back. You're caught up in some other conversation now, laughing and dramatically waving your hands as you deny some crazy embarrassing story Seungkwan's trying to spill about you. Seems you've already integrated yourself with his friends more than he thought.

Since your attention is occupied, Soonyoung instead ducks into the half-kitchen — not necessarily out of sight, but no one's really paying attention anyways. He knows he shouldn't take any chances, but he really, really wants to let go. He's been wearing a facade ever since he said your name that night.

"I wouldn't, if I were you."

Minghao's voice has Soonyoung jerking up and banging his head on the door of the open fridge he was rummaging through. He winces in pain, kneading his fingers into his scalp as if that will do anything.

"Wouldn't what?" he snaps.

"I dunno." Minghao shrugs, and it's almost infuriating how nonchalant he is. "Do something you might regret, I guess."

He takes the yet unopened bottle from Soonyoung's hands, reaching beyond him to put it back in place. There's no point in fighting against him since he's undeniably right, but Soonyoung grumbles anyways. His eyes glance every few seconds to you on the couch. If you happen to hear anything...

Well, he doesn't know exactly. But he doesn't want to find out.

"You have to end it."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I just—" Soonyoung takes in a breath, too loud for his liking. He lowers his voice. "I can't, okay? I don't want to hurt her."

"So you're just going to date her based on false pretenses because you're too much of a coward to admit your mistakes?" Voice laced with sharpness, Minghao places his palms flat on the counter.

Soonyoung takes a deep breath through his nose, lips twisting in frustration. "Yeah, okay? Yeah," he whispers. "That's exactly what I'm gonna do."

A second passes. Minghao's brow furrows.

"And quite frankly," Soonyoung continues, "I'd rather you keep your nosy ass out of my business from now on."

He nearly storms off right then with the last word, but Minghao's fingers around his elbow stop him.

"You're going to get yourself hurt," Minghao warns through his teeth. He nods towards you. "And her in the process."

"We'll see about that."

Soonyoung has acted on impulse before. It happened with the pigeon, it happened with your name, and it's happening right now. Nothing is compelling him other than the absolute need to prove Minghao wrong, and even then, he doesn't know why.

He sits back down next to you, his spot saved by some miracle considering the surrounding company. The look on your face is happy, jovial. You must be having a right old time. His nerves strike with a feeling he's never quite experienced before.

When you study his face, no doubt not nearly as cheerful as yours, the expression you held falters to worry.

"You okay?" is once again the question on your lips, quiet, meant for his ears only.

Impulse is a scary thing. Soonyoung hates it almost as much as lying.

He leans in, crashing his lips on yours with his eyes half closed. His lips move and yours don't. Soonyoung can't even be sure you've closed your eyes, but at this very moment, he doesn't care. All he knows is he's angry and Minghao is watching.

This isn’t your first kiss — he knows because you’ve talked to him about this very topic. This is, however, to your understanding, the first “real” relationship you’ve ever been in. You told him yourself that you don’t really count that past kiss as your first, that you felt a bit... violated when it happened.

Soonyoung thinks this isn’t all too different.

He steals your second first kiss, and later, staring at the water-stained stucco ceiling of his bedroom, he kicks himself so hard it hurts.

•

You show up to movie night. Apparently Jihoon invited you — explained it like this:

“You won’t have to be so clingy with me if she’s here.”

At first, Soonyoung thinks Jihoon just wants to drop their roommate movie nights because he’s always complained about them, but Jihoon sticks around during Anastasia; sings along with you during Once Upon a December despite the fact that neither of you really know the words. He sits right in front of you two on the couch, cross-legged on the floor with a bowl of popcorn in his lap, that of which he only offers to you twice and Soonyoung once.

Whatever. You’re a better cuddler than Jihoon anyway.

Somehow it doesn’t feel forced when you lean your head on Soonyoung’s shoulder, or when he wraps his arm around your waist to get comfortable. He blames it on how tired he is, how he always gets on movie night after a week of classes and practices and too much work for one person to handle. Jihoon complains all the time that he’s too touchy when tired.

You absentmindedly play with his fingers for most of the movie. He doesn’t mind.

It’s been about a month now.

Soonyoung doesn’t kiss you again after the first time. Doesn’t stop you, either, but you’re more of an on-the-cheek kind of person. He thinks you think he wants to take this slow, even though he initiated the first big step (as convoluted as it was). He lets you think what you want.

Nasty business, it is.

Cleaning a bowl that once held popcorn. All the grease that sticks to the side because Jihoon likes to use too much butter. All the grains of salt that get underneath Soonyoung’s fingernails. He’s washing, Jihoon’s drying. It’s an arrangement of sorts.

You’ve already left for the night, gone back to your dorm since it’s only a five minute walk or so through campus. Jihoon insisted on Soonyoung escorting you, but you only smiled sweetly and refused. Maybe Soonyoung should’ve argued harder against you. He didn’t though. That’s why he’s scrubbing a bit too harshly now — he doesn’t like messing up.

Seems that’s all he’s good for lately.

“You’re unhappy.”

Soonyoung stops scrubbing. The only noise in the whole apartment is the slow gurgle of the sink because even with a plug, such an old thing just lets the hot water seep away as the seconds go by. Jihoon’s gaze is on the pan he’s drying, but Soonyoung knows his heart is in the question. It always is.

“I’m not,” he tries to deny, but it’s difficult to fool a person like Jihoon. (Especially since Soonyoung can’t even convince himself.)

The non-stick pan from yesterday’s dinner clangs against an older one when Jihoon puts it away. He looks at Soonyoung, but by then he’s turned back to washing the popcorn bowl, so their eyes don’t end up meeting.

“I’ve known you since tenth grade. You think I can’t tell when you’re upset?”

Soonyoung finds it hard to read Jihoon’s feelings most of the time. He didn’t realize he was such an open book the other way around.

Sighing, he continues to scrub the bowl, which has probably been clean for a minute already. “I’m just... stressed.”

“About?”

Minghao already knows; already thinks lowly of Soonyoung for it. If Jihoon knew... Soonyoung doesn’t know if he can take that.

So he lies. Again.

“Just the dance showcase.”

It isn’t a whole lie, not really, but he can’t call it the truth either.

Jihoon takes the bowl from Soonyoung’s grasp and rinses it under the tap. Since that’s the last dish, Soonyoung is stuck with nothing for his hands to do. They rest on the edge of the sink, but his fingers ache for a task.

Jihoon, the friend that he is, says, “That’s not for three months, though. I’m sure you’ll be perfect by then.”

“I don’t know...”

“Well I do.” Eyes meet eyes, a pair determined, a pair apprehensive. “Everything will work out.”

“...Okay.”

•

Soonyoung measures time in terms of you now.

When he last texted you. When he last saw you. When he last spoke to you.

It’s all a very elaborate calculation — how much time he’s spent on you versus how much time he should spend on you. No relationship is quite like this one, he thinks, and it’s quite the romantic notion out of context. The fact remains, every interaction he has with you only pulls him further and deeper into his lie.

Soonyoung’s time moves a bit slower now.

Faster, sometimes, but only when he doesn’t want it to.

•

You tell him you might be in love with him.

He says he might be in love with you.

He’s never hated lying more.

•

Jihoon is cleaning out the fridge when the buzzer goes off, so since he’s close by, he picks up the old corded phone attached to the wall. From his spot on the couch, Soonyoung looks up from his phone to see Jihoon cover the receiver and mouth your name. Jihoon makes some sort of gesture with his hands, and somehow Soonyoung understands that as, were you expecting her?

His eyes widen as it settles in that no, he’s not expecting you. The apartment is a mess.

Jihoon buzzes you in, hangs up, and immediately moves from the fridge to the coffee table, throwing the laundry he was planning on folding back in the plastic hamper and shoving the pile in Soonyoung’s lap.

“Take care of this,” he says. “I’ll clear up the kitchen.”

Right. Can’t have you thinking your boyfriend and his roommate are slobs.

Soonyoung reacts quickly, standing from his spot on the couch with the laundry basket in hand. He dashes to his room, where he plans to stuff the laundry in his closet and save that problem for later, but once he gets there, he realizes his room is even worse. There are dirty clothes dispersed all over his bed and old coffee cups littering his desk. Scrambling to shove the new laundry in his closet, the dirty clothes in the now empty hamper, and gather all the paper cups in his arms, Soonyoung’s breath starts to catch.

When he emerges from his room with two armfuls of garbage, he finds you at the door with Jihoon, your face hidden in his shoulder and your arms wrapped tight around his waist. Jihoon’s arms are up, almost like he’s being held at gunpoint, and his eyes widen even further when he catches sight of Soonyoung.

“Uhh... it’s for you.”

Soonyoung can hear your quiet hiccups even though they’re muffled in Jihoon’s shirt. He can’t bear it when people cry.

Yeah, maybe he’s been pretending to like you for a long time now, but he’s not a monster.

Right?

He likes you as a person. As a friend. And there’s no way he’s letting his friend go through pain like this.

Soonyoung swiftly discards his trash into the garbage bin and approaches you and Jihoon. At the commotion, you lift your head from Jihoon’s shoulder, eyes all red and puffy. Your lips press together, emotions nearly bursting at the seams, but they finally break out when Soonyoung opens his arms wide.

“C’mere.”

You practically flail into his embrace, arms wrapping around his torso in a vice grip as you hide your face again. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay — he knows you’re not.

Jihoon stands in the doorway for a few seconds, just looking at you and Soonyoung clutching at each other in the middle of the apartment before he shuts the front door and clears his throat.

“I’ll just, uh, I’ll be — um. Mhm. Yup.”

He escapes to his room.

Soonyoung squishes his cheek to your temple as you both stay there. You’re shaking, and his arms squeeze tighter. If only he could make it stop. He doesn’t know what to say or do to make you feel better.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, though quiet and hesitant.

You shake your head, mumbling something he can’t quite make out. He pulls back a bit, just enough to see your face and gently cup your cheeks in his palms. His thumbs rub at your cheeks, smoothing any stray tears across your skin.

“What’s that?”

“Just...” Your eyes glisten. His heart beats. “Could you please just hold me?”

And he does.

Decidedly, his bed is much more comfortable than standing in the living room, so he sways, rocking side to side with small steps that force you to walk backwards. His smile, though, is reassuring, and you follow his guidance without much complaint. He sits you down on his bed, thankful that he cleaned up beforehand, and slowly leans you down so you’re both on your sides, facing each other. Pulling you closer, he lets you rest your head on his chest. Your hand lies flat on top of him, but eventually your fingers curl, clutching a bit of Soonyoung’s shirt between them. Silent tears fall from your eyes to his chest, but he doesn’t care.

His arm underneath you wraps around, hand landing on your back so his thumb can rub soothing circles.

It’s quiet.

Funny. Soonyoung used to dislike silence with you — always felt the need to fill it with conversation or jokes or laughter. He wonders when it was last since he felt that way.

Soonyoung doesn’t know how much time passes. His eyes stick to his bedroom ceiling as he holds you close, thoughts on everything and nothing all at once. Are you asleep? Your tears stopped some time ago.

His question is answered when your voice, small and unsure, breaks the long-standing silence.

“Soonyoung?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I tell you about it?”

He cranes his neck to look at you, but it doesn’t really work. “Of course,” he says. “Why wouldn’t you be able to?”

You sigh. “I don’t know. I just... I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not.”

“I know, but—”

“You’re not.”

You look up at him finally, and seeing your smile sends warmth through his blood. Your face is still looks wrecked from tears gone by, but your smile pushes all that out of the way.

“Thank you,” comes past your lips in a whisper. Then, after a moment of waiting, you say, “It’s just that... I... this — ugh.” You hide your face in his shirt again. “This is so embarrassing. I don’t even know why I got so worked up.”

Soonyoung doesn’t respond to that, just pats your back a few times and encourages you to keep going. You toy with the fabric of his shirt.

“This guy I used to know — I thought I’d never see him again, but he showed up today. Ran into him when I was walking back from the convenience store.” You bite the inside of your lip. “I haven’t thought about him in a long time, but, I don’t know, I guess seeing him just brought all these memories back all at once.”

“Bad ones?”

A breathy laugh escapes you. “Sure, you could say that.”

The silence comes back, and your brows furrow, almost like you’re trying to solve the problem all on your own. But you don’t have to. Soonyoung is here.

“Do you remember when I told you about my first kiss? Like, my real first kiss?”

Soonyoung hums. Of course he remembers.

“Back in high school, I used to have this friend. Sammy. She was — god, she was beautiful. And kind, and smart, and just... amazing. I miss her a lot. She’s abroad now, travelling the world with her sister. I think she’s in Peru now.” You chuckle at the mention of your old friend, but soon your smile twists into a frown. “This guy... I don’t like saying his name, but he liked Sammy. Everyone did, I don’t blame him for that, honestly. He was pretty popular back then — one of those sports boys, you know? Thinking about it now, he could’ve easily gotten with Sammy if he hadn’t been so conniving.”

“Conniving?”

“Yeah, he was... I don’t know how he got the idea in his head, but he came to me first. He kept hanging out with me, taking me on these... dates? But they weren’t really dates, all we did was talk about Sammy — what she liked, what she didn’t like. I knew he was using me, but I just... let him, I guess. Maybe back then I was just so caught up in being needed that I didn’t really mind being used.”

Soonyoung hugs you tighter.

“I guess he felt sorry, maybe? Right before he went to go ask Sammy out, he just... laid one on me. It was stupid. Like a pity kiss for my service or whatever. I wasn’t in love with the guy or anything, but it felt so... degrading. Like all I deserved was some action from a conventionally good-looking guy."

Your tears come back, brimming at the edge of your eyelids.

“I don’t know, it just — it just made me feel so...”

You take a breath. Exhale.

“...worthless.”

Soonyoung doesn’t fail to see the irony here, at least, but he feels slightly lifted. Whoever this guy is, Soonyoung’s a million times better.

“You’re not worthless,” he says — because he knows it’s true.

“I know.” You readjust yourself curled around him, wiping away the tears which haven’t fallen. “I mean, I know now.” Sighing, you wrap your arm around his waist, somehow pulling him closer than he already was. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being here. For being you. For letting me be me.”

“It is my absolute pleasure to serve you, your majesty.”

You wack him with the sleeve of your sweater. “You’re such a dork!”

Your laugh is nice. Soonyoung hopes to hear it again soon.

“You know,” you say, eyes closed as you lie there with him on his bed. “Normally I would’ve gone to Seungkwan with my problems, but tonight...”

“Tonight?”

“You make me feel safe, Soonyoung. Thank you.”

His eyes close. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you breathe out. “That, and if I told Seungkwan, he would’ve found the guy and beat him to a pulp.”

“Why can I see that?”

“Because it’s true.”

You stay the night.

•

With a group of friends as big as Soonyoung’s, it’s about once every blue moon that the boys find a time that works for everyone, especially coming up on finals season. They all have their own worries around this time: the dance showcase, the big play, last-minute assessments, and — of course — finals.

So when they’re all free for barbecue one night, everyone’s ecstatic. Reservations are made, gratuities are calculated, and the group chat blows up every few hours with various changes to plans. (Mostly from Mingyu, who’s eager to show off his grilling skills.)

But of course, university is university, and it’s inevitable that someone has to bail out. That someone being Soonyoung.

The dance showcase creeps up a bit faster than anyone likes, and now Soonyoung’s professor is forcing him to choreograph an entire song for some freshmen only a month before the whole thing goes onstage.

First of all, who signs up for a showcase only four weeks before the performance? Who lets them sign up?

And second of all, doesn’t his professor realize Soonyoung has a life? He’s got other dances to work on, other classes to study for, friends to have barbecue with. How is he supposed to cram an entire choreography — not the mention the time it’ll take to teach the freshmen — into his already hectic lifestyle?

But Soonyoung is a people-pleaser. He doesn’t say no.

Instead, he regretfully messages the group chat, saying he can’t hang out tonight in favour of attempting to choreograph at least a quarter of the song in one sitting. He gets the usual whining, but they all know they can’t change his mind, so it fades out fast.

What he doesn’t expect is for them to invite you instead.

“It’s a thirteen person reservation,” Seungcheol reasons. “Besides, she’s basically one of us by now.”

Soonyoung can’t exactly argue with that.

So, you go to the restaurant with them while Soonyoung heads to the studio. Minghao picks you up along with Vernon and Chan, which sends an anxious bit of worry down Soonyoung’s spine, but he does nothing about it. If Minghao wanted to tell you, he would’ve by now.

You send him a good luck text.

[🍥] Don’t let those kids work you into the ground!

He stares at your words for a bit, distracted from finding the song he’s supposed to use. Your contact name is different now — one of those naruto fishcakes because of that time you took him out for ramen. That night had been full of laughter and loud, borderline obnoxious slurping, ending with the beautiful finale of Soonyoung throwing a fishcake straight into your open mouth.

You were the one that sweet-talked you both out of getting banned.

Soonyoung finally opens his music app and finds the song the freshmen requested (a rather boring one, if you ask him) which he sets to max volume. He doesn’t bother plugging his phone into the speaker system, not when he’s the only one in the studio.

Maybe he can do this.

•

“The trick is to add eggs and use less water,” you say as you scoop more batter onto the waffle iron.

Jihoon snorts from where he sits at the table, still shoveling more whipped cream and strawberry-smothered waffle in his mouth. “Are you sure the trick isn’t to just not be Soonyoung?”

“Hey!” Soonyoung pauses his own eating just to pout. “My waffles are good!”

“Sure, you keep telling yourself that.”

Both you and Jihoon laugh at Soonyoung’s expense, only further accentuating the pout on his face. You and Jihoon are too alike in that aspect. Well, actually, Soonyoung knows you’d never laugh at him, but he still can’t be sure about Jihoon. One time, back in high school, Soonyoung tripped over (what he thought was) a dead bird, and Jihoon laughed for hours — though Soonyoung always exaggerates the story into him laughing for days.

You sit down next to him with your own plate of waffles. There’s flour dusted on your arms, but you don’t seem to mind.

“You’ve got a little...” You point a finger at the corner of your mouth.

He knows. Soonyoung can feel the cool whipped cream right where you say it is.

He smiles wide. “I’m saving it for later.”

“Hmm...”

You say nothing, just smile as you lean in, kissing the corner of his lips. It’s quick, chaste, and barely a real kiss, but Soonyoung’s heart bounces in his chest. He’s never been kissed like that before.

He wonders if this is what it’s like to be loved.

That thought, though, he pushes back for another time.

“Gross. You guys made me lose my appetite,” Jihoon says. He keeps eating.

•

With eyes drooping shut every few seconds, Soonyoung decides it’s time to call it quits on the chemistry homework. It’s nearly one in the morning, anyways. He flips his textbooks shut and gathers up all his notes, putting them all in a haphazard pile that he’ll worry about in the morning. Swivelling in his chair, his eyes land on you.

Oh. He forgot you’re here.

You’re snuggled up on top of his covers, one arm wrapped around the pillow your head should be on, eyes closed as even, slow breaths come past your slightly parted lips. One of his hoodies is draped over your legs like a blanket. He wonders why you didn’t just get under the covers.

Well, he has been walking you home ever since he hadn’t some time ago. Maybe you were waiting.

He feels a bit guilty as he brushes his teeth and washes his face, but not too bad since you only have afternoon classes tomorrow. Maybe he can treat you to something in the morning to make up for it.

After he tucks you under a fluffy throw blanket, he crawls into bed and lies on his side, facing you.

Your other hand is lax, palm up and fingers curled, almost like you’re holding something invisible.

His hand would fit perfectly.

The tips of his fingers graze over the lines on your palm. Slow. Trepidatious.

You shift, fingers unconsciously curling around Soonyoung’s hand.

He closes his eyes.

•

The moves aren’t working.

The moves aren’t working and the music isn’t working and the dance isn’t working and nothing is working.

Soonyoung groans in frustration, almost screaming with his fingers threaded through his damp hair as he messes up yet another landing. He’s drenched in sweat, and it’s only been so many hours since the rest of the crew left for the night, not that he’s kept track.

It’s less than a week until the showcase. Six days, as Chan is apt to remind everyone with his stupid holiday countdown app.

That freshmen choreography is already over and done with — Soonyoung’s made it, he’s taught it to those over-eager nuisances, and if they need anything more, that’s on them. They’re no longer his responsibility.

That’s not what has him in such a state right now.

His solo — the one he’s been planning for the entire semester — it just doesn’t... feel right. He’s been slaving over it for days now, reworking the steps, figuring out what to take out and what to replace. But the more he fixes it, the more it feels wrong.

He can’t get the steps right. He can’t get anything right.

What is wrong with him?

He starts the music again at exactly one minute, thirty-eight seconds. The moves are clear in his mind. One step. Two steps. Sweep. Spin. Jump—

He falls.

The music goes on.

Soonyoung slams his fist onto the softwood floor, cursing at his ineptitude. He stays like that for a moment, eyes screwed shut and fists clenched so tight his nails dig into his palms. The song ends, only to restart again, but Soonyoung barely notices.

Screw the music. He stands; positions himself; tries again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

He falls.

He yells out at the floor, at his feet, at whatever is holding him back.

His reflection in the mirror stares back at him.

Mind blank, he sits there, legs stretched out in front of him as he hunches over, eyes closed to the world around. His breaths come out shaky and uneven, but even though every moment sitting still feels like eternity, his lungs fail to calm.

Someone knocks on the door, and for a second, Soonyoung thinks it’s Jun coming to tell him to go home for the night. He doesn’t want to, so he doesn’t look up.

The door opens, he can hear the quiet shuffling of hesitant feet that have removed their shoes just because the sign on the door told them to.

“Soonyoung?”

Your voice is clear — like a single drop of water coalescing into a whole — and it cuts through the sound of blood rushing past Soonyoung’s ears.

He looks up to see you standing a good length away, almost like you’re scared to approach. You’re wearing pyjamas, a thick sweater pulled over your shoulders and fuzzy socks donning your feet. Something bulges from the pocket of your sweater.

“What are you...”

“Minghao called me.”

In the back of his mind, a small part of Soonyoung wonders exactly when you and Minghao have gotten close enough to call each other, but the thought doesn’t stay for long. It can’t, really, not when you’re in front of him.

When Soonyoung says nothing more, you take another step forward. “What’s wrong?”

To anyone else, he might say nothing. Absolutely nothing is wrong.

His voice breaks when he tries to laugh.

“Everything.”

Your eyes soften, a small smile tugging at your lips. It’s not one of those pitiful smiles, he can tell, but it’s not fake, either. You bring your hands together in front of you, fiddling with the tips of your fingers as your eyes move from them to his gaze again. “I’m coming over. Is that okay?”

He nods.

First, you find his phone and turn down the music until it’s gone. You sit right behind him, legs spread on either side of his body, and you wrap your arms around his waist, pressing flush to his back and resting your cheek between his shoulder blades. He squirms a bit.

“I’m all sweaty,” he tries to argue, but you only squeeze him tighter.

“Yeah, you are.”

He stops resisting. It’s much too hot, what with his hours of constant exercise and your thick layers, but he can’t complain.

“Do you want to talk about it?” This time it’s your turn to ask.

“...Just hold me?”

And you do.

You press a kiss to the back of his neck. Slow, soft, and when your lips leave his searing skin, your forehead replaces them.

That’s when the dam breaks.

Hot, fat tears roll from Soonyoung’s eyes down his cheeks as sobs rack through his chest. The vibrations shake him and you all at once, but your hold never falters. He can’t see anything, only a blur of what should be his legs and your arms wrapped around his stomach. His hands go to clutch at your arms, desperate to hold onto something; to not let him sink.

It’s ugly, the way he cries, but you let it happen. You hold him.

This is what it’s like.

Eventually, his desperate hands find yours, his arms crossed so his right is over your right, his left over your left. His fingers roam over the smooth backs of your hands until they reach your fingers and interlock. The palms of your hands are warm compared to his fingertips.

You’ve locked onto his body language by now — you’re fluent, so you know to continue pressing reassuring, slow kisses into his skin. You know to whisper little words that should mean nothing, but coming from your lips, mean everything.

He’s going to be okay.

For some reason, coming from you, he believes it.

You hold him until the hiccuping stops, until the tears are just dry streaks on his face, until his breath comes out in long streams instead of bursts.

His eyes stay shut as he feels you shift. One of your hands slips out of his grasp, your arm reaching back, and Soonyoung almost whines until he feels its return.

“Look,” you whisper.

It itches to open his eyes, but when he does, he sees what’s in your hand, right in front of him. A small stuffed tiger sits in your palm, positioned anatomically incorrect like a teddy bear, a velvet heart between its paws. Stitched white letters read:

Go get ‘em, tiger!

You chuckle lightly, repositioning yourself so your chin hooks over his shoulder. “Cheesy, I know. I was going to give this to you the day of the showcase, but I think you could use it right about now.”

Gingerly, Soonyoung lifts his hands together, and you place the plush in his awaiting palms.

His voice is slow to restart, but he manages to say, “Thank you.”

Hands now free, you wrap yourself around his waist again. “Anything for you.”

Such a simple sentence, that, and yet the confession sends blood to Soonyoung’s ears in the form of an awfully embarrassing blush. He runs his thumbs over the fuzzy fabric of the tiger plush.

“Soonyoung?”

“Hm?”

You press your lips to the crook of his shoulder, voice muffled in the fabric of his shirt. “I won’t force you to stop practicing. I know this is important to you.” Soonyoung feels your breath fan over his skin. “But I also want you to rest — you shouldn’t overwork yourself.”

One of your hands rises to his chin, guiding it up so he looks forward at the studio mirror and meets your gaze in the reflection.

“Whaddya say we do, hm?” You tilt your head, and Soonyoung thinks his pupils may be heart-shaped. “Do you want to practice more? Or can I take you home?”

“Just...” He swallows what’s left in his dry mouth. “Just once more.”

You smile. “Okay.”

As you get up, you run your hands up to Soonyoung’s shoulder and down to his hand, where you playfully pretend to pull him up with you. He laughs, hiding his face behind the tiger plush for a second before he stands, tugging your hands as he does so you fall into him when he rights himself. Both your hands are squeezed between him and you, while his unoccupied arm finds its way to your side.

Another smile tugs at your lips at the proximity. You shift your hands up so they wrap over his shoulders, linking behind his head. Leaning closer, your eyes gleam under the fluorescent lights. To the sound of silence, you sway together, waltzing in the dead of night.

“I’ll be outside, okay?”

Soonyoung’s expression tightens, eyebrows shifting in confusion. “Why?”

“Well,” you say. “I know how you feel about audiences during practice.”

Something about your smile right now makes Soonyoung feel so undeniably safe. You understand him. Never once have you questioned him over why he doesn’t invite you to practices, never once did you pressure him to change that.

“Do you know how I feel about you?”

“Hmm, do I?”

Do you?

“Stay.”

And you do.

•

Here’s the thing about dance showcases:

They’re big, they’re flashy, they take the entire year to plan, and they’re over in one night.

Soonyoung stands in the wings, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, hopefully not loud enough for anyone to hear. He watches as the group performing before his solo finishes up their dance, though he knows there is at least a minute before he’ll have to go on.

A tap on his shoulder makes him turn his head, and he sees Sehee’s smiling face.

“Nervous?” she asks, her voice hidden beneath the music.

She’s all dolled up, dressed in her costume with a sleek leather jacket to bring everything together. Her eyes glimmer just as much as her eyelids.

“You have no idea,” Soonyoung jokes, but his heart isn’t really in it.

Sehee tilts her head; blinks a few times. “You’ll do amazing. You always do.”

For what it’s worth, Soonyoung hasn’t forgotten his attraction. Sehee’s words soothe him to some extent, pump him up, even. It’s slightly terrifying — how much she still affects him even now.

You’re in the audience tonight, third row from the front, somewhere in the middle. Your seat is between Seungkwan’s and Jihoon’s, whereas all the other boys came (almost) too late and had to find seats elsewhere.

The music ends, applause erupts, and Soonyoung knows it’s his turn. He waits for the group to exit on the opposite side, and when the resounding claps quiet down, he takes the first step onstage.

Something Soonyoung has almost always known: stage lights are blinding. If they’re set up right, anyone onstage will have a damn hard time seeing anyone in the audience. He can’t see you — couldn’t during his previous performance with the crew, either. The only reason he knows you’re there is the million assuring texts you sent him before you had to turn off your phone for the show.

But he knows you’re there. He knows you’re watching.

Soonyoung stands with his left foot on the spike mark, right where he’s practiced time and time again ever since they transitioned into the space. Music floods his veins, and the world is gone.

He wouldn’t call it an escape. Soonyoung doesn’t use dance to get away, it’s not like that. This world he creates with dance — this other space where nothing exists except him and the music and the floor and the feeling — he chooses to go there. Euphoria, he thinks it might be called. Euphoric.

The space takes him. He lets it.

And then it’s over.

Soonyoung’s breath leaves him in bursts, his shoulders heaving despite how hard he fights to keep them still in his final pose. His back faces the audience, his right arm stretched out and up, fingers curling around nothing. Stars dance before his eyes — which he fails to catch with his outstretched hand.

He thinks he can faintly hear applause, but it’s nothing compared to the heart beating in his chest. Your voice plays in his ears, yet he knows it’s simply his imagination — his recollection.

I like your dance, you’d said that night. I’m no expert, no judge, but I like it. I love it, honestly. Your dancing... I don’t know. I wish I had the words. It’s like... a little box.

A little box?

You’ve got a little box in your hand. Brown, maybe the size of your palm. You open it and there’s no bottom, no sides, no shape, just an expanse of universe in blues and pinks and purples and whatever colours we don’t know exist. You look inside and reach your hand in, somehow fitting in the tiny yet infinite space. Your fingers brush through starlight like strands of silk, like the rays are minnows you’ve met during a summer dip. Like that. A little box.

I thought you said you didn’t have the words?

I don’t. Not enough.

Soonyoung vaguely registers the lights going black, the way his feet drift him offstage, the music of the seniors’ finale.

At some point, the lights are back on. Not the stage lights, but the harsh fluorescents once the audience has fully filtered out into the lobby. Most of them will leave, but the family and friends of performers are sure to stay, waiting there to congratulate and fawn over the dancers as soon as they’re let go for the night. Somewhere in his mind, Soonyoung knows his friends are outside waiting for him — him, Jun, Minghao, and Chan.

Roses are passed around. He’s never seen a blue rose before, but some dancers walk around with them as they change out of costume and gather their things. He points out a yellow rose from the bunch presented to him, but it turns out to be a bouquet for him specifically, and he takes the whole thing with his jaw slightly hanging. Everything’s a bit... slow. Soonyoung feels like he’s wading through water.

He hasn’t changed yet, simply standing in his costume as he watches people go back and forth. Other performers move from dressing room to dressing room, cleaning up what they have to while simultaneously patting each other’s backs. Techs go around making sure everything’s in order, nothing lost or forgotten. They put away the MC’s microphones and bother the dancers for not taking proper care of props even though it’s only been one night.

Another tap on his shoulder; it’s Sehee again.

“Can I talk to you?” she asks.

He follows her to a corner of the stage, where the curtains hang and hide the two — for the most part.

She turns almost too abruptly, causing Soonyoung to stumble over his own two feet to avoid bumping into her.

“This is really hard for me to say,” she starts. “But I have to get it out.”

Soonyoung nods, maybe saying something close to a confirmation, but he can’t really tell. He’s a little lightheaded. Sehee has changed out of her leather, instead now in a pair of grey sweatpants and a simple t-shirt. That’s the thing about Sehee, though, she has that unnamed sort of... effortless beauty. Even with her stage makeup wiped off, she glows.

“This might be one of the last times I ever work with you, you know? Next year, my parents are making me quit dancing so I can focus on my major. It sucks, yeah, but they’re right. I need to focus if I want to succeed. You know that too, don’t you? The need to succeed?” She takes a breath; laughs bitterly. “Sorry, I’m getting off track... I just — I wanted to tell you this because if I don’t tonight, I might never get the chance again.”

Maybe Soonyoung has dreamed of this moment. He can’t be sure, not yet, so he lets her continue.

“I like you, Soonyoung. I have for a while. But things happened, and you got together with...” her voice trails off. “And you seemed happy, after a while. I thought maybe I could just keep it hidden but, I don’t know, I think I need to tell you, to get closure because I'm not sure if I can go on without at least—”

Choices. Soonyoung — and everyone else in the world — has only made it through life with decisions. He’s made good ones. Bad ones. He’s had regrets and he’s had none. This, though, this choice is intensely apparent.

Apparent in the way he knows it will affect much more than he wishes.

He kisses her.

God, this is what he wanted, right? What he’s wanted for so long. He used to toss and turn at night over the thought of Sehee’s eyes; her smile; her lips.

And on his, they were heaven. Plump and soft just like the romance novels say, moving at the exact pace of his heartbeat.

The hand holding his bouquet drops to his side as the other goes to cup Sehee’s cheek. Faintly, the sound of paper fluttering to the ground reaches his ears, but nothing can distract him from this moment.

Until, of course, it ends.

Sehee pulls away. “We can’t— I don’t—”

Someone clears their throat.

Soonyoung turns, finding Minghao standing just off from the curtains, arms crossed and face contorted in thinly-veiled anger.

And you.

You’re standing next to Minghao, obviously shocked — over being seen or what you’ve seen, Soonyoung doesn’t know. Hands fisted and held close to your chest, your eyes widen as they meet Soonyoung’s.

It’s not so dramatic as the movies.

Soonyoung stares at you, tongue unmoving with nothing to say. You stare back, almost frozen, until Minghao gently takes you by your shoulders, forcing you to turn and leave the way you must’ve come. Nothing happens in the time it takes. Soonyoung simply watches.

He’s never been good at reading lips, but he thinks he knows exactly what Minghao whispers in your ear.

There’s something you should know.

Sehee mutters, “Sorry,” and leaves. She looks guilt-ridden as she does, but even in his half-frozen state, Soonyoung knows all of this is on him.

He stands alone in that corner of the stage, the only noise being the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of the last stragglers in the dressing rooms. His hands clench, and the brown paper of the bouquet crumples. He looks at it then, at the yellow roses and baby’s breath, at the beige note that’s fallen to the floor.

Slowly, he crouches, picking up the note with his thumb and forefinger.

Congratulations Soonyoung!! I know how hard you’ve worked for this night, which is why I ordered these to be delivered. Joshua told me yellow roses represent happiness, or something. Pretty, right? You deserve every happiness, so I decided to start with flowers. Tonight may be over, but who knows, maybe we’ll find happiness in tomorrow, too.

It’s stupid. It’s not a love letter. It’s laced with love, though, and he hates that he recognizes your handwriting.

Time moves heavily as Soonyoung turns to the backstage door. He’s the only one left now, his station in the second boy’s dressing room is messy, unlike everyone else’s. His reflection stares back at him while he sits in front of the mirror, motions halved in speed as he wipes off his eye makeup.

It’s over.

When was the last time he thought about how it would end?

He changes out of costume, arms growing stiff, and stuffs everything in his bag without much care for how. His regular clothes itch; he longs to scratch at his skin, but he doesn’t.

He leaves your bouquet on the counter.

His friends stand in a circle in the lobby, brows furrowed and voices hushed as they discuss... something. Soonyoung has a bad feeling he knows exactly the topic. Minghao isn’t there. Nor are you.

Jihoon isn’t around, either, but Soonyoung remembers he had to leave immediately after the performance. Something about an essay. It doesn’t really matter now, not compared to this.

When he approaches his friends, they quiet down further. Half of them look his way with a frown, while the other half choose to avert their eyes. What do they know?

Seungkwan stands out the most. His arms are crossed, his lips are pressed together in a thin line, and anger radiates from his very being. Of course he’s mad. You’re his friend.

The silence consumes Soonyoung as he nearly shrivels under his friends’ gazes. He must have taken his time, the lobby is empty except for them.

“Where’s Minghao?” he asks.

Seungkwan lurches forward, but both Seungcheol and Wonwoo bring up their arms to hold him back. 

“Where’s Minghao? Where’s Minghao?” he seethes. He jabs an accusatory finger in Soonyoung’s face. “You just kissed some girl and broke my best friend’s heart and you’re asking about Minghao?!”

So they don’t know. Not really.

Soonyoung endures the scolding. The looks. The questions. The noise.

No answers are really given.

The great thing about having best friends is that they know not to pamper you when you’ve done wrong. That’s also the worst thing about having best friends.

Seungkwan would go on and on, surely, but soon enough the boys notice how little Soonyoung is reacting — how his face and expression is slack and dull.

Joshua holds up a finger to quiet down the ones still complaining, then gestures towards the front entrance.

“Minghao left with her a while ago.” The look on his face is one of pity. Soonyoung hates it.

He nods; stuffs his hands in his pockets as he turns to the door.

“Wait! I’m not done—!” Seungkwan struggles against Wonwoo and Seungcheol, but he’s no match.

Soonyoung doesn’t stick around long enough to hear what happens next.

He has no sense of what to do when he walks out that door. Go home, maybe.

The night breeze hits him with more force than it should, making his eyes go dry and his lips tremble. Outside, everything is almost too loud. There’s traffic on all sides, surrounding the lot of the theatre; the sound of humming engines and honking horns assaults his senses.

He walks — though it feels like wandering — to the parking lot, where he plans to look around for a bus stop.

You’re there.

A mirage, he thinks at first, but you’re really there, sitting on one of those concrete barriers, legs outstretched and ankles crossed. You have your head lowered as you sit, hands braced on the cold concrete.

His held breath escapes him, and you look up.

“You’re here,” you say. The smile on your lips, ever so slight and ever so bitter, causes a ringing in his ears. “I almost thought you forgot about me.”

“I...”

“It’s a lie, right?” Your eyes glisten, but no tears fall. “You wouldn’t— I’m not— I’m not that naive, am I?”

Soonyoung’s lips part, but nothing moves past them. His hands itch to leave his pockets, but with nothing to reach for, they stay still.

“...I see.”

You drop your head again, bringing your hands together to fiddle with your fingernails. He hears your breath, shaky as it is, and his lungs constrict.

“God, it felt so real. I thought— I guess I don’t know what I thought, huh?” A shiver runs through you. “Was any of it real?” you ask the ground.

Soonyoung longs to answer. That’s the thing, though.

He doesn’t know.

Can any of it be real?

You laugh. Before, your laugh was spring strawberries; summer warblers; winter snowdrops. Now, your dry laughter echoes in Soonyoung’s mind like a pebble in a failed attempt of skipping stones.

“Guess not.”

You hop off the concrete barrier, wiping off your pants of dust and dirt. Still, you don’t meet his eyes.

Soonyoung’s heart beats in a way he knows isn’t natural. Guilt seeps through every orifice. “You’re not... you’re not yelling at me. You’re not crying — you’re not angry,” he stumbles through. “Why?”

It’s then that when you meet his eyes, he notices the dried tracks lining your cheeks. You have been crying, just in the time it took for him to come across you.

“I’m just disappointed in myself, Soonyoung,” you say. “I’m the one who fell for it so easily. I’m the one that was tricked. I’m the one who—” a breath “—who loved someone that didn’t love me back.” You step closer, arms limp at your side. “Once I get home, sure, I’ll cry my eyes out. Is that what you want to hear? I’ll curse myself for being so... so stupid.”

“It’s not your fault—”

“No, it’s not. This is not my fault. All I did was believe the words you said to me. All I did was hand myself to you on a silver platter.” Unshed tears brim at your eyelids, but it seems you refuse to let them fall. “But you know the worst part, Soonyoung?”

Everything?

“The worst part is I can’t yell at you. I’m not angry because I fell in love with someone who doesn’t love me back and it hurts and I can’t bring myself to hate you despite being told you’ve never thought about me the way I think about you.”

A breathy gasp escapes you, and you turn on a dime, the sight of your back an icy reminder to Soonyoung of what he’s yet to learn. You take a deep breath to gather yourself, shoulders rising and falling.

“I’ll be going now. I’ve got a lot to think about.”

Soonyoung doesn’t move from his spot when you walk away, or when you get into Minghao’s car, which pulls away after a moment of sitting there in its parking spot. His feet are stuck in stiff mud, unable to shift, even.

Perhaps he stands there for too long. It’s not until he’s staring down the front of his apartment that he realizes one of his friends must have dropped him off.

•

He hasn’t heard from you in a few days. He hasn’t heard from anyone in just as long.

Jihoon already knew (not everything, but enough) by the time Soonyoung rolled out of bed the day after. He hasn’t said anything about it, but Soonyoung can tell this silence isn’t the same as usual. They rarely eat meals together anymore. Last movie night, Jihoon didn’t even pretend to be busy, instead saying he simply wasn’t in the mood.

Seungkwan hasn’t left your side ever since... that happened. If Soonyoung happens to see you on campus, which is almost never, he backs out of approaching you because of the sheer force that is Seungkwan’s glare. Besides, he wouldn’t know what to say even if he did find the courage to face you.

Classes go by in blurs. Not quickly, like scenery past a car window, but so slow that once Soonyoung leaves, he remembers nothing but hours upon hours of staring at his empty notebook, even if the lecture was only fifty minutes long. Days are kind of like that too.

•

Sehee apologizes. She shouldn’t, but she does.

Soonyoung didn’t really hate what he did at first. He liked her, after all.

But when Sehee chokes on her own words, pleading to whoever will listen that she’s not that kind of girl, Soonyoung regrets kissing her more than he ever wanted to kiss her in the first place.

•

please let me explain

I’m sorry

it’s been a while, but still

I’m sorry

[🍥] Explain what?

[🍥] ...

[🍥] Soonyoung?

sorry I just

I wasn’t expecting you to answer

[🍥] Maybe I shouldn’t have

no

wait

I’m sorry

[🍥] So I’ve heard

I just want you to know why what happened, happened

[🍥] But I already know why

it’s not that simple

[🍥] You lied because you suck at lying. Because you knew Sehee was there that night and panicked. I was just collateral damage

[🍥] ...

[🍥] No answer, huh?

[🍥] So it really is that simple

please wait

I’m just trying to figure myself out

[🍥] Let me help you

[🍥] You want my forgiveness because you feel guilty. Maybe you don’t know it yet, but you want me to say I forgive you just so you won’t have to carry this around for the rest of your life

[🍥] I know this isn’t some romcom. I know you’re not here to get me back

[🍥] So just let it go

[🍥] Let’s just forget about this. About what happened

what if I can’t

[🍥] I don’t know

[🍥] Figure it out, I guess

[🍥] But do it on your own

•

Soonyoung doesn’t measure his time anymore.

He wakes up. He eats. He goes to class. He skips lunch. He goes home. He eats. He falls asleep.

When was the last time he went out with someone? When was the last time he had a real conversation?

He doesn’t know.

•

[Minghao] You should tell everyone else

why

[Minghao] Would you rather they think you’re a cheater or just an idiot?

I don’t know

[Minghao] I think they deserve an explanation

[Minghao] Want me to do it for you?

does it even matter anymore

[Minghao] It’s your choice

[Minghao] You just have to make it

then tell them

I don’t care

[Minghao] Are you sure?

tell them

•

These days, Soonyoung stays late at the studio. No one really practices there anymore, not since the showcase finished and finals have rolled around. Actually, Soonyoung should be studying too, but he can’t find the motivation. He thinks it might be the guilt.

You were right. He doesn’t want to carry this around.

The thing is, despite spending entire evenings in the studio, he can’t remember anything as he walks home. It must be hours spent in there, and yet, when he walks out, he can’t recall a thing. Like he was never there at all.

Where does the time go?

With his luck, the elevator is broken when he returns to the apartment building, so he has to take the stairs. Normally that wouldn’t be a big deal, but after hours of mindless, sloppy dancing, he’s much too tired. He fumbles with his keys when he tries to open the door, and he rests his forehead on the cool wood for a moment, sighing before he tries again.

The door creaks open. Though it’s late, the lights are still on, which Soonyoung frowns at when he realizes. Lately, Jihoon is never up when Soonyoung comes home. But there he is, sitting at the table right next to the kitchen with his eyes on his hands and his feet tucked under the chair.

Soonyoung freezes after shutting the door behind him, not wholly sure what to make of the scene before him.

After a moment of silence, Jihoon looks up from his fingers and meets Soonyoung’s gaze.

“Minghao called me today,” he says.

Soonyoung gulps, but doesn’t respond — doesn’t know how to.

“I didn’t want to believe it at first, you know.” His voice is slow, croaky; tired. “But it sort of makes sense, doesn’t it. I don’t know how I didn’t see it from the start.”

Slowly, Soonyoung slips off his shoes and steps further into the apartment. “So now you know. I’m really not in the mood for a lecture right now.”

“I just have a question.”

Soonyoung pauses, halfway through the apartment and only a few meters from his bedroom door. He turns to face Jihoon, sighing through his nose and digging his palm into his eye sockets. “Fine,” he concedes. “What?”

“If you never loved — never liked her, why are you acting like this now?”

“Acting like what?”

“Like a dead man walking.”

Soonyoung scoffs, a dry, empty sound as he looks away for a moment before meeting Jihoon’s gaze again. “You’re kidding, right?” he asks. “I lied to someone for months. I pretended to love someone I didn’t. I used her because of my own stupidity and pride, and then I used Sehee, too—” Pausing, he closes his eyes; takes a breath. “Isn’t it obvious? It’s guilt. I feel guilty for... for everything.”

“That’s the only reason?”

“Excuse me?”

Jihoon rhythmically taps the pads of his fingers on the table. It’s not loud enough to be heard, but Soonyoung’s eyes train to the sight. “It’s only the guilt?”

“What else would it be?”

This time, it’s Jihoon who sighs. He looks at his hands again for a second. “Do me a favour,” he says without looking up.

“Look, I already—”

“Just do what I say.”

Soonyoung groans, but he knows he can’t argue with Jihoon and win — not now at least. He rubs his eyes, shoulders rising and falling as he takes in a deep breath. Mumbling under his breath, he says, “Fine.”

Jihoon stands from his chair, and in such stagnant silence, the sound of the legs squeaking on the floor is profound. He points to the middle of the apartment, the large bit of floor-space that’s too big to be considered part of the kitchen but too small to house any furniture.

“Stand right there.”

“...What?”

Without answering, Jihoon simply points at the floor again, and Soonyoung can only groan in defiance as he moves to stand in that spot. Grabbing a throw pillow from the couch, Jihoon steps a few feet away, facing Soonyoung with the pillow held in one hand at his side. He seems to consider something for a moment.

Soonyoung has never been unable to read Jihoon this much, so he asks, “What is this all about—”

Jihoon screams. Not a high-pitched screech, but a guttural battle cry, and Soonyoung’s eyes widen. Faster than he can comprehend, Jihoon runs towards him and tackles him to the ground. Soonyoung’s legs crumble as he falls, and he feels the throw pillow pressing onto his face.

This is it, he thinks. This is how he dies.

“Jihoon!” he cries, but his protest is muffled by the pillow. “What the fuck are you—!”

“You fucking idiot! You don’t know shit!”

“I know that!” Soonyoung thrashes to get the pillow off, but Jihoon is way stronger than he looks.

“You miss her you fucking buffoon! You’re all in your doom and gloom because you had a good thing going and had to go fuck it up!”

“I don’t!”

“Don’t try to argue with me, fucker, I know you better than anyone. Now scream!”

The pillows squishes further down, and while Soonyoung can still breathe, it’s far from comfortable. He continues to struggle even though he knows it’s useless.

“What?!”

“Scream into the pillow! You’re mad at yourself and you should be! Let it all out!”

“I—”

“Scream!”

And he does. He lets out a loud bellow that’s nothing but sound roaring from his lungs. He does it mostly to appease Jihoon — so that maybe he’ll finally get off.

But it feels good.

No, not good, really. It feels awful. Everything feels awful. Yet, something about screaming makes him want to do it again. He yells once more into the pillow, the sound muffled in the fabric and yet intensely remarkable. He screams and he screams and he screams until he can’t scream anymore and his voice is raw and there’s no more sound aside from the fractured gasps of his sobs. Tears soak into rough fabric, and he doesn’t even notice that Jihoon isn’t holding the pillow anymore — he’s pressing it to his face himself. His body shakes under Jihoon. Soonyoung feels pathetic, but he can’t stop.

He tries again to scream into the pillow, but his voice cracks and all he knows is to cry.

This is what it’s like.

Quietly, Jihoon maneuvers himself so he sits by Soonyoung’s head. He slowly lifts a corner of the pillow and peeks at Soonyoung’s red face. “So,” he whispers, voice soft and full of care. “What are you going to do now?”

Soonyoung wraps his arms around the pillow, hiding his face again.

“I don’t know,” he says. He’s never felt less sure of anything. “I don’t know.”

•

That night, Soonyoung cleans his room. He doesn’t reorganize or anything, just picks discarded clothes up off the ground and throws them in a hamper, spreads his blankets so his bed actually looks bed-like, and takes his overflowing garbage bin out to the door, where he’ll take it out tomorrow morning. As he stretches his arm between his bed and the wall, his fingers close around the sweater he’s trying to reach and... something else. When he brings his hand back up, a small tiger plush stares back at him.

Go get ‘em, tiger!

He stares at the words for a moment, sitting up on his bed and leaning his back against the wall. The plush feels frail in his hands, almost like the velvet heart held in the tiger’s paws could crumble at any moment. Maybe it will.

Soonyoung settles down above the covers that night, and the tiger sits on his other pillow.

The one that still smells like you.

•

He cries. (For the second time since you left.)

•

After everything that’s happened, one would think it would take a miracle to fix what’s been broken. Soonyoung thinks it will take more than that, but still; he’s no miracle worker. He thinks it will take magic to just see you again.

Turns out, it takes a coffee.

Jihoon forces Soonyoung to join him in visiting one of the campus cafes. He doesn’t think about it too much, just believes Jihoon’s trying to keep him alive with a little kick of caffeine. That thought is pushed away when Jihoon blocks him from sitting at the little table, pointing instead across the space to the student printing center.

You’re talking to a customer at the front counter, forearms rested on the white faux marble. A smile is on your lips as you say whatever it is you’re saying to the girl, and Soonyoung finds it almost impossible to tear his eyes away. But he does. He scans the rest of the building for a second. Seungkwan is nowhere to be seen, and neither is Minghao.

He turns to Jihoon, a question on the tip of his tongue.

“She told the bodyguards to back off,” Jihoon explains without needing to be asked. “It’s been a few days.” He nods his chin towards you. “Go on. Talk to her.”

Soonyoung shakes his head, gulping down the words he can’t yet think of. “I don’t... I’m not... ready.”

“If you back out now, you’re going to keep backing out until it’s too late.”

Jihoon’s eyes blaze with an unfitting determination for such a setting. He looks stupid, like some self-made, all-knowing relationship guru who likes the coke he’s gripping too much. Still, he’s right.

Soonyoung licks his dry lips and looks at you again. You’ve sat down, relaxed after having helped that customer and now conversing with one of the other students working there. He misses the way you looked when you were happy — when you were happy with him.

What will it take to see that again?

What will it take to hold you again?

His feet move before his doubts can stop him, and the scene feels awfully familiar. This time though, Soonyoung can’t help but feel like the bad guy.

You don’t notice him until he’s right in front of you, and he doesn’t know what hurts more: the immediate frown, or the fake smile you use to cover it up.

“Hi, what can I do for you today?”

If Soonyoung had to define heartache, he might use this moment. Feigning to forget rather than acknowledging the past... it’s effective, but it hurts.

“Can...” He hesitates and curses himself for it. “Can we talk?”

“About printing, yes. About anything else? I really would rather we didn’t,” you say under your breath. It’s hushed, and you don’t shy away when Soonyoung leans closer to hear. That has to mean something, doesn’t it?

“But there’s something I need to say.”

“I don’t think I want to hear anymore apologies, Soonyoung.”

“It’s not that,” he argues.

Your eyebrows scrunch together. “It’s not an apology?”

“No— I mean, well, yes I want to apologize. I don’t think I’ll ever stop apologizing, but— but that’s not what I—”

“Soonyoung.”

He stops at your word, knowing that speaking will only get him further into trouble. Around you, his words keep failing. Instead, he meets your eyes, which under more inspection, seem hardened.

Have eyes ever looked so hardened when brimmed with tears?

“I don’t know if you know this, but seeing you makes me hate myself.” By now, your coworker has walked to the back, probably to respect your privacy. Your voice almost cracks. “I’ve felt worthless before, but Soonyoung, do you even realize what that — what you did to me?”

He barely breathes before saying, “What if I... what if I said I fell in love with you? Somewhere along the way?” A pause. Your eyes waver, but steady themselves. “What if I said I love you?”

“Soonyoung,” you say after a second.

“Yes?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

•

[🍥] Give me a reason to give you a chance

this is real right?

[🍥] It’s not a dream if that’s what you’re asking

all of a sudden??

[🍥] Minghao and Jihoon said I should

[🍥] And I think I should too

[🍥] But it’s hard

[🍥] What you said yesterday... I don’t know if I can believe it just yet

will you meet me?

I want to see you

[🍥] Can you give me some time?

yes

all the time you need

but will you?

will you meet me?

[🍥] I don’t want to

[🍥] But then again, I do

[🍥] Just give me some time

•

A strange thing, time. It passes by much too quickly when you want it to last, and it drags on when all you want is to be there. There; right then; right now.

Soonyoung stays up late turning on and off his phone, waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting.

It’s only been two days.

Jihoon thinks he’s crazy, though he hasn’t said it out loud — Soonyoung can tell.

He also thinks he might be a little crazy, but that’s okay. If it means he’ll get the chance to make it up to you... maybe he’s fine with being crazy.

At some point, Jihoon barges into his room and takes away Soonyoung’s phone, snatching it straight out of his hands like the little thief he is. He keeps it out of reach despite being shorter, preaching bullshit like, “You need to calm down and act like a normal person!”

Fine, whatever.

Soonyoung goes out for some air. And instant ramen.

There’s a twenty-four hour convenience store right on the edge of campus, manned by a single tired university student that everyone is aware of, yet no one really seems to know his name. It’s one of those spots where time doesn’t exist; maybe names don’t, either.

Compared to the blackness of night, the blanch white convenience store sticks out like a sore thumb, especially with all the bright posters and fluorescent tube-lights. Soonyoung feels just as out of place with no people around just outside the store, but really, it’s to be expected at a time like two in the morning.

He’s right at the door when it chimes and slides open. And so are you.

Both of you freeze where you are, you in the doorway and he just in front. His jaw slacks slightly as he takes you in.

You’re in casual clothes again, a thick sweater and presumably pyjama pants. This version of you comes with good memories — for some reason he likes it more than he cares to admit. Maybe he liked that you could share a more vulnerable side to him, and he to you in return. Although, you’ve shown this side to even the unnamed convenience store guy.

It’s your voice that breaks him from his reverie.

“Soonyoung,” you say, and it’s softer than before. Maybe your voice is lighter from the fact that it’s two in the morning, maybe just because you’re tired, but a small part of Soonyoung wishes that it’s something else — that you sound softer because you’ve missed him too.

He hopes it isn’t just hope.

He says your name, the sound beautiful and battered on his tongue. A small smile passes your lips, so fast that he almost misses it, but he doesn’t. That’s one thing he knows about you: how much you care. Even if someone hurts you, you always take the time to hear them out. You give them chances. Soonyoung should thank his lucky stars that you’ve done the same for him.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

You smile again, and it reaches your eyes, however sad.

“Is it time?” he asks.

“It can be.” The plastic bag in your hand crinkles as you sway it back and forth. “Do you want it to be?”

“Yeah.” His voice comes out like a breath. “Please.”

“Then that’s what we’ll make it.”

You gesture to the ground, where the curb meets the asphalt, but Soonyoung is still a little shocked that he’s even met you here in the first place, so he watches, dazed, as you sit down on the curb before joining in. He stays silent as you pull out an ice cream cup and hand it to him. He stays silent as you procure a second one and peel open the plastic lid, digging into it with the wooden stick spoon-wannabe that comes with the package. He stays silent as you look at him, the wooden stick hanging from your mouth.

“So,” you say, scraping the side of the paper cup. Meeting his eyes, you sport a sly smile. “I hear you’re in love with me.”

The ice cream stays unopened in his hands. He finds it so easy to smile back.

“Yeah. I think I am.”

“You think you are?”

“I’ve never loved someone like this before,” he tries to explain, though the words are slow to his tongue. “I can only think.”

“I guess so.”

“But—” he looks at his fingers, fiddling with the plastic lid of the cup, and a small laugh escapes “—I’m thinking really, really hard.”

You laugh too; his heart blooms.

“Is that so?” you tease, smiling around the wooden spoon. “It’s gonna take more than that.”

“I think I can do it.”

“You think?”

“I think really hard.”

Soonyoung might be in love with every part of you, even if he never realized. Your laugh, your smile, your tells, your habits. He wishes he knew sooner, that this laugh could’ve been his forever long before now.

You scrape the last drops of ice cream out of the paper cup and leave the stick in your mouth, a bit chewed up. Your shoes tap against the asphalt, the rhythm something that draws both his and your eyes.

“You know...” you say, turning your head to meet his gaze once more. “You know you hurt me, right? You know this won’t be easy?”

“None of what we had was easy.”

A scoff runs past your lips. You bump your shoulder against his. “Speak for yourself. I fell hard and fast for you, asshole.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. I know.” You take the still unopened ice cream from his hands and stuff it right back in the bag it came from. “Say it again, though.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hmmm... maybe it’ll take a few more times.”

“I’m—”

“But not tonight,” you say. “Tonight...”

Your hand beside him closes the distance, grazing over his and pulling it over to your lap.

“...just hold me?”

And he does.

Bonus (gn) epilogue: Fluff and Context Bonus (gn) blurbs: [a fate of my choosing][pick a struggle]

[tangibletechnomancy]

With the WGA and SAG-AFTRA on strike, I want to take this moment to talk about one really important thing that I've alluded to but haven't gone into depth on, and people don't like to hear because of a lot of the noise, but-

We need to also support VFX unionization efforts (everyone's with me so far right...?), and in doing so, acknowledge the labor actually involved in using new technology (not just AI, but whatever the NEXT big breakthrough is too, and the one after that, and the one after that, indefinitely) and credit the people operating it properly-

Aaaand I've lost some people, but hear me out.

Sure, it's easy to type a single prompt and get a result that looks kinda nice. "Kinda nice", however, isn't going to cut it for most productions! It's like photography that way. As ubiquitous as good-quality cell phone cameras are, anyone can just point and click with some very basic understanding of what makes a passable composition and get something that's pleasant on the eyes.

And yet, generally speaking, people aren't grabbing random people with cell phones off the street to shoot movie posters! Because even a layperson can tell the difference between the photo you get when you stop a random stranger on the street and ask them to take a photo of you and your friends together, and the photo you get when a trained professional sets up the actors in a studio, with deliberate lighting, a thorough understanding of what lens(es) to use, and so much more.

Photography is easy. To be able to get a professional quality result? Not so much. Sure, sometimes a total rando who barely knows how to use a camera will luck out and get the shot of a lifetime - but it sure doesn't happen often and you DEFINITELY can't make a whole profession out of hoping for it.

The same goes for AI.

Most singular AI pieces that are high enough quality to get people really excited take hours, and hours, and hours of work and refinement and retrying and tweaking to get right. I mean, go test out a free image generator and pay attention - you might get a lot of results that look fun just by typing in a very silly prompt, but good enough to be a major part of a movie without any alteration? ....maybe one in a million - and then you still probably have to upscale it! And the standard for "nice to look at for a moment" vs. "good enough to be a major part of a professional production" will only get stricter and stricter as things get more saturated and people see Default Midjourney Style or the like as being super boring and amateurish for anything bigger than a literal one-man production, too (which sucks on a tiny level for me personally because I like Default Midjourney Style, but that's not important).

I point this out because bringing this up in the context of unionization helps to kill the entire motivation behind using AI to undercut manual art. The higher-ups want the world to think it's just mindless, super-easy button-pushing that anyone can do, so it's fine to crunch people even HARDER than they already crunch VFX artists or outsource it to people they can pay subminimum wages, right?

It's not. It never is. It never will be. We need to cut it off at the pass before one more studio even fucking tries it.

[shy-urban-hobbit]

Have some Aiden & Kid!Jaskier interaction!!

"It's you!"

Aiden turned his attention towards where Jaskier was sat by the fire alongside the wolves, the bard's face a strange mixture of disbelief and elation, as was his scent. Aiden crinkled his nose slightly as he fought back the urge to sneeze or cough at the unfamiliar combination being directed at him.

"Yeah, it's me. Happy to see you too?" Aiden ventured, despite the fact that it couldn't have been more than an hour since they'd last seen each other. Aiden had gone back out into the courtyard after dinner to run some drills, despite the harsh weather, and get rid of the excess energy he could already feel building up. Vesemir was gracious enough to refer to it as 'extra training' and not act like it was a necessity if they all wanted Aiden to avoid getting so restless he literally started climbing the walls.

"No! I mean...I didn't realise before now until I saw you silhouetted like that with your swords and everything, but it's you!"

Aiden suddenly found himself with a limpet of a bard hanging off him, determined to cling despite the rainwater which now soaked both of them.

"Jaskier, I-"

"Oh right. You probably don't remember, what am I saying, of course you don't - Jaskier you fucking idiot. It's been thirty years, no doubt you've lost count of how many humans you've dealt with in the meantime. But-"

"Jaskier." Lambert huffed out from where he was dozing on the fur which acted as a hearth rug, not even bothering to open his eyes, "Let Aiden go dry off and then maybe some context to go with your twittering, Birdie."

By the time Aiden returned, Jaskier's excitement was enough that even the Wolves were giving him their full attention as he re-entered the main hall. Eskel and Geralt's books lay abandoned on a side table while a now awake Lambert was sat leaning against the wall by the hearth. He pulled Aiden down to sit next to him, the fire hot stone through his thick, wool shirt creating a pleasant warmth against his back.

"Alright then." Jaskier started from where he was sat cross legged in one of the old armchairs, leaning forwards as he once again addressed Aiden directly, "Before I start, do you remember anything about a night in Lettenhove thirty years ago. At the Viscount's estate."

Aiden shook his head, although something about this was starting to niggle the back of his mind.

"Name of Panktratz. Little boy, around six years old?" Jaskier continued, eyes growing sadder as it became clear this memory was potentially very one-sided, "Somehow convinced you to-"

He wasn't sure if it was the name or the wide-eyed look the man was throwing him, but Aiden felt something suddenly tumble into place. "Wait, I do remember that night!"

Aiden fought back a growl as he took in the various toys littering the floor, the miniature four poster bed...whose occupant was an even smaller lump under the covers.

That son of a bitch! That slimy twat had hired him to 'take care' of his nephew so he'd be next in line for the title instead, implying the whole time that his relative wasn't exactly deserving of the title. Aiden had accepted the job - what difference did the inner squabblings of Nobility make to him afterall.

In hindsight he probably should have asked more questions but he didn't have a copper coin to his name and this guy had paid upfront; enough for him to be able to eat regularly and maintain his gear for the foreseeable. He started planning after his employer graciously provided him with a blueprint of the estate and pointed out the targets rooms. He'd failed to mention however, that said target looked to be scarcely old enough to wield that wooden sword properly, nevermind any degree of power.

Fuck it. He should stay as far away from this potential mess as possible. It was bad enough when their employers pointed the finger of blame at them when they assassinated an adult, but a child? That was a complication none of them needed. Mind made up, he turned to climb back out of the window (which had been concerningly easy to coax open from the other side), making sure hood and mask were still firmly in place.

"Hello."

Aiden froze. Speaking of complications....

Rookie mistake! He'd been so caught up in everything else he'd forgotten to keep one ear focused on the other heartbeat in the room. He ran through possible scenarios: he could do what he'd been paid to do, but now the kid was awake there was every chance he'd scream and alert the house before Aiden could even lift a finger. Same potential problem if he tried to leave. He could always cast somne...

"You're a Witcher aren't you? I can see the shape of your swords!" Aiden's nose twitched at the boys scent. Strange. Even through the cloth covering the lower half of his face he could tell the boy didn't smell afraid. He smelled excited, happy even?

"I know all about Witchers. You keep us safe from monsters. Is that why you're here, is there a monster in my room?" The small voice turned slightly fretful as a faint whiff of fear started to sour the air - yet more strangeness in the fact that it was due to imagined monsters rather than him.

Aiden dared to turn and look, something about this child's initial boldness piquing his curiousity (who the hell starts questioning a stranger in their room instead of screaming the place down?). A small boy stared back at him with large eyes as he clutched the soft looking sheets to him like a shield as he curled up in the centre of the bed. "My Uncle Desmond says that monsters like to come out at night and eat little boys. I don't like him. He's mean."

Aiden gave a bittersweet smile at the pout he could see on the little face.

'Oh. You have no idea just how mean, kid.' He thought to himself.

"No, no monsters here. Go back to sleep."

The boys pout turned into a frown, "You didn't even look."

"Because I don't need to."

"Please, Mister Witcher." His bottom lip wobbled in a practiced tremble as his eyes grew even bigger.

Aiden bit back another smile. Kid was good, he'd give him that. Such audacity deserved some sort of reward.

"Alright. One very quick monster check, then you go to sleep. Deal?"

The boy nodded enthusiastically, "My name's Julian, by the way."

"I don't care."

"...are you going to tell me yours?"

"No."

"Can I see your swords?"

"No."

"How about your-"

"How about no talking until we make absolutely sure there's nothing waiting in your wardrobe?"

Turns out the only monstrous thing in Julian's wardrobe was a few hideous combinations of frills and lace. Behind the curtains yielded nothing, as did underneath the bed.

"Ok. Now you hold up your end of the deal and go to sleep."

Julian scowled at him in response from where he was now stood up on the feather mattress to watch rather than huddled under the sheets, arms crossed expectantly.

"What?"

"You're supposed to say sweet dreams."

Aiden blinked at him before replying "Sweet dreams." Monotonously.

"Tuck me in?"

Aiden cast the sign for somne, Julian's body flopping down before he'd even finished. Cheeky little fuck would've been wanting a lullaby next. Still, it wouldn't do for him to get cold, there was no fireplace in this room after all. He grabbed the quilt from the bottom of the bed, not bothering to straighten it as it fell haphazardly over the small body before doing what he should have done thirty minutes ago and taking his leave back through the window.

"I told my parents about you the next morning. They didn't believe me of course. Said it was probably just a dream and that if there had been a Witcher in my room I'd be dead. Although, I suppose that explains why my Uncle Desmond looked apoplectic when I came down to breakfast. I never knew he'd hired you to, you know." He flicked a hand across his neck in a throat cutting motion. "Why didn't you by the way? Not that I'm saying I wish you had or anything. I was a human child, you could've killed me multiple times as easily as scratching an itch but you didn't. Why?"

Aiden's features settled into a frown, "Oh trust me, if your Uncle had waited ten more years it probably would've been a very different outcome. As it is, once I had all the facts, I just decided against accepting a contract on a kid. The one who offered me the contract however..."

Jaskiers eyebrows shot up as he shuffled further forwards, "Are you saying you offed my uncle? He did just sort of... disappear."

"Not exactly. I merely broke back in and left evidence of what he'd planned somewhere I knew the current Viscount would find it. What he chose to do with that I had no involvement in. If he just so happened to be on the lookout for an assassin and I was coincidentally still in the area, well...no Witcher is ever going to turn down such well paying jobs so close together."

Jaskier laughed, causing the wolves to look at him in shock, "Oh don't look like that. I didn't learn the extent of it until I was older but besides trying to murder me he was an absolute cock. Definitely not somebody you'd want in charge of anything!"

"The ones that desperate for power usually aren't." Eskel mused, Lambert raised his cup in agreement.

"You know, I'm so happy that Geralt ended up being the Witcher I ran into in Posada. But when I started out from Oxenfurt, I was actually looking for you."

Aiden straightened up in slight surprise, "Why?"

"Because I wanted to do this." Jaskier got down on the floor and once again wrapped his arms around Aiden, the Witcher returning the hug this time.

"Thanks." Jaskier muttered, "For humouring a scared, probably irritating as hell, little boy."

Aiden tightened his hold slightly, "You're welcome, Julian."

[thepersonperson]

Seeing your latest post. Do you think there is a connection with JJK 0 ending theme? It's title is "Sakayume". It's by King Gnu too.

Believe it or not, someone else in 2022 was intrigued by the JJK 0 ending theme being called Sakayume. Quoting this poster directly:

"逆夢 sakayume Is a dream that contradicts reality. It’s unrealistic meaning that it can’t or won’t happen in real life."

This song is then compared to the anime's ED 2, Cö shu Nie's give it back.

"I feel this song is about 逆夢 sakayume in a sense. The song speaks about “giving back the dream” It’s called “Give it back” and it’s like “give me back the dream” “what happened to rest of the dream and why did I have to wake to reality”  basically it’s longing. It’s longing to go back to the dream and not a reality that contradicts that dream. So when I hear this ED I also think of the movie’s theme song for them which is Sakayume!"

Keep this in the back your mind. It only gets worse from here.

Yuji and Megumi's Character Songs

Recently, I got this in my replies from @mizzi14-blog.

(Here's a link to all the character songs with corresponding videos for listening.)

A translation for Megumi's character song Uchujin's Hakujitsumu (Daydream). From the last stanza:

This is not a song to just forget about the painful past This is a song that confronts the sadness The moon in the night sky waxes and wanes There are no stars in sight. But even in the darkness, tomorrow shines brightly And this is a song I share with you.

In summary, this song is about someone trying to confront their trauma but getting swept up in a daydream with their beloved.

A translation for Yuji's character song Kuchiroro's Itsuka dokoka de (Sometime, Somewhere). From the last stanza:

Nobody knows… Ah. The heart of my real self is so cowardly. I try to scream until I lose my voice. I don’t need anything… I bear a fate I still cannot accept. If I can share my feelings somewhere then I might speak about how my dream continues…

In summary, this song is about someone who feels lonely and isolated dreaming of their ideal world through the pain.

Y'all this diabolical. What the hell.

But wait there's more!

Sukuna mocked Yuji and Megumi's doomed love when he made the Enchain Binding Vow with Yuji using some ridiculous wordplay way back in JJK 11.

Enchain doubles as Megumi Activities. But let's break that down some more. (Unfortunately the Twitter account of the person I referenced may or may not be nuked so here's this screenshot I've doctored.)

So we have the translation of Enchain from 契闊 (Keikatsu), which might be better localized as Separation.

This term comes from a Chinese poem about lovers who are husband and wife in The Book of Odes, Section I (Lessons from the States), Chapter 3 (The Odes of Bei), Poem 31 (Banging the Drum). (Here's a link to the full poem and context of it.)

In summary, it’s about a soldier who is on the brink of death, having lost nearly everything after being abandoned by those in power, lamenting the happiest days of his life with his love are ones he can never get back. (Hey that sounds just like what Sukuna did to Yuji!)

Keikatsu specifically comes from this passage:

“Our vow is beyond death and life”, I and you are together I always remembered. I will hold your hand, And together we grow old.

Too pitiful we are faraway apart, The distance separates us to meet again! Too miserable this takes forever, And it does not let us fulfill our vow!

Keikatsu is used to exemplify how the physical distance between the husband and wife prevents them from fulfilling their wedding vows. And that's just what Keikatsu/Enchain does to Yuji and Megumi, it causes painful separation neither of them wanted.

In Conclusion?

GEGE GREGORY AKUTAMI IS THIS JUST DOOMED YAOI ALL THE WAY DOWN?????? GEGE!!!! ANSWER ME!!!!

[drdemonprince]

This is prompted by your most recent substack about fame, because my point is extremely tangential, I'm putting it here.

It's interesting to have seen the internet go through many stages. From the newsgroups/BBS era, to internet forums, to blogs, to social media, and how the respective environments shaped things.

In the early days, it's very much a group thing, some people became Big Name posters, pseudonymous, but still a group thing. The blog era was more personal, but still something made by someone who's just a person, even if not literally pseudonymous. Also, still text based, a lot of it even often. Social media changed that, with it's focus on follower counts on one hand and to snippets of text (twitter) or images (insta), and even though it's social media-ness is debatable, video (insta, youtube). The semi-anonymous nature however, was completely lost by now.

The doing it because you enjoyed it, or whatever, also recedes into the background because this is where monetization really takes off. The deleterious effects of the interaction between monetization and follower counts (notability) need no introduction, but painting with broad strokes, make something appeal as broad as possible deepens the flattening effect a medium like video already has, the visual aspects often being more important than the messages. It also has a much higher barrier to entry. Spinning up your own blog is cheap, text takes only a tiny amount data. Video is not. It's expensive to make (especially if you want slick videos), expensive to serve, so it's predisposed to big, single platforms that can leverage economies of scale.

The natural result is that you have a few people with big audiences, instead of many people with small audiences. If audiences is even the right word for that. If I'm talking about say, some TV show on my blog, and someone responds, it's a fairly equal conversation. More between peers, of sorts, just two people talking about something they share. As opposed to a Youtuber who makes a video about it with 100,000s of viewers. Because there are so many fewer voices, you lose the breadth of conversation too, narrowing to a small range of popular topics, and the distinction between You, and You as Your Brand gets eroded.

It's kinda notable in the autism sphere. Blogs where people talk about their experiences, how they dealt or didn't deal with things, have fallen off. Twitter came and went, and now there's Youtube and insta, where everything gets simplified down to a few slides or a 10 minute video about only the most basic aspects. Which is just... sad. I wouldn't have known that autistic burnout is a Thing many people struggle with if not for a blog post a friend came across and shared one day.

There was a comment from someone, a while ago, about how they used to have ASMR videos on, until they were able to get out into nature, and their desire for those videos completely disappeared. We're all very deprived. Of social contact, foremost. The pandemic poured gasoline on an already smoldering fire I feel. Latching onto someone 'famous' in a surrogate of social contact & context, like that person with their ASMR videos, feels like an understandable (though not good) outcome of that, which brings with it very regrettable excesses.

I think this is all pretty much a correct analysis, thank you! Though I would qualify that we have shifted away from the period of the Youtube mega content creator a social media ecosystem of intimate-seeming connections with smaller influencers, these days. Think of your Twitch streamers with a dedicated base of like 50-200 viewers per stream (and a Discord and a Patreon that supports them), the fitness Instagrams that sell meal plans online, the tarot witches and activist influencers offering one on one sessions, etc. Those communities can be more niche, but they still offer the illusion of a connection -- and if anything, that illusion is more strong because the creator is a "micro" famous person, and can take time to interact closely with fans here and there. We might already be heading out of that period of social media, though, especially with the disintegration of Twitter and the slow death of Meta's apps, too. I don't know what comes next but I hope we are due for a reappraisal of all of this, and the norms surrounding it.

[juztscrollingthrough]

Seven by Taylor Swift

I always interpreted this song as someone looking back at their childhood nostalgic memories and remembering that one troubled friend who left a deep mark in their psyche but for whatever circumstances they lost touch with one another.  This edit kind of depicts the time during the “between years" where they thought of one another but never reached out. This one’s especially from Ian’s POV and all those flashback of memories that compelled him to finally reach out and arrange the meet up with Anthony after a nudge from Dianne.  Ian wonders if Anthony still thinks of him, if he still reminisces about their past as fondly as Ian does. 

Below are the lyrics with explanation/interpretation in Ian and Anthony's context:

[POV IAN] :

Please picture me In the trees I hit my peak at seven feet In the swing Over the creek I was too scared to jump in

Ian wants his friend to remember him by the fun escapades they shared together. He reminisces about their first 6th grade science project, all their sleepovers, the trips, their first experience with alcohol near the riverside in Sacramento. In their big group of friends how these two became closer due to the fact that he didn’t know how to drive and Anthony was the one who drove him home after school, how after graduation when everyone left for college, these two remained in the suburbs, unsure about their future.

But I, I was high in the sky With Pennsylvania under me Are there still beautiful things?

Ian once said "I'm not exactly the poster child for following your dreams, because I never had any”. He never had exact dreams about career or whatever the future had in store for him. Smosh became a place where Ian and Anthony expressed themselves, an outlet to make each other laugh and with smosh blowing up he finally found his dream: to keep making fun stuff with his best friend which for some reason random strangers over the internet connected with. They were riding the high that came with smosh’s success unaware of the fact that this newfound business relationship would tower over their years of close friendship.

Sweet tea in the summer Cross your heart, won't tell no other And though I can't recall your face I still got love for you Your braids like a pattern Love you to the moon and to Saturn Passed down like folk songs The love lasts so long

Their genuine love and adoration for one another, how they shared every secret with each other, how Ian lied to Anthony about his first kiss in hopes to impress his new friend in 7th grade and in later years opening up about the lie as he finally got his actual first kiss…. in his friend’s bedroom. Slowly these tender moments fizzled out as they grew up, as their channel grew, and so did their stress and workload. Though, they aren't the people they once were, but their mutual love and respect for each other remained deeply ingrained in their hearts.

And I've been meaning to tell you I think your house is haunted Your dad is always mad and that must be why And I think you should come live with Me and we can be pirates Then you won't have to cry Or hide in the closet And just like a folk song Our love will be passed on

Ian knew that Anthony came from a broken home, and how he lost an authoritative figure, his step dad, who abandoned Anthony’s mother and his step-brothers when he was merely a 12 year old, and due to his tumultuous situation at home, Anthony got this heavy responsibility on his shoulders of his family. Anthony feared that his mothers agoraphobia would somehow find a way towards him too and he would stay stuck in this haunted situation which he desperately wanted to break away from. When Anthony fell sick due to his autoimmune disease, Ian’s mom urged his son to visit his friend. The get well soon card he got signed by everyone in their class and gave to Anthony. After their graduation Ian’s parents invited Anthony for a trip to Hawaii and that was the first time when Anthony got to experience something away from his haunted house back in Sacramento. He got to experience what a complete family felt like vicariously through Ian. 

Passed down like folk songs Our love lasts so long

No matter how many obstacles there were, the power of friendship conquered it all. They not only got their company back but also rekindled their friendship. They said everything had to happen the way it happened for them to eventually reunite. They might be complete opposites but there is this red string of fate that lingers between them. Their creative partnership is too strong and in the end they proved that “Friendship always wins”.

[accessible-art]

how does one describe an image?

hello! sorry for how long it took to get to this ask

so. an image description. first of all, why are they there? to provide accessibility, to clarify details that might've been lost/misunderstood etc. (which is why it is important for original posters to provide the description, but that's not the point of this post)

this means we should provide an image description that touches upon every aspect of an image. remember: the viewer won't know anything about the image unless you tell them. even for plain text screenshots, a screenreader won't be able to read it. therefore, we must provide a transcript for even the clearest of text images

but then, how to actually describe an image?

try and put things that pull your attention or give context. imagine you are telling someone about an image you saw – which parts would you emphasize? what details would you give?

aside from that, let me start this off with a small disclaimer: descriptions of art like we do here and general image descriptions have different principles.

for general image descriptions, details aren't of that much importance. the goal is to state the reason why the image is there: what is it telling you?

thus, unless it provides a relevant and important piece of information, you do not need to go into details of an image

for example, imagine a twitter post screenshot. when describing it, you would put the user and the post itself. unless the timestamps or like counts give context or add to a joke or something similar, you need not include them

art descriptions are a bit different. because there aren't any parts in an art piece which the artist didn't intentionally place. therefore, all of it must be accounted for.

does this mean list each and every little thing? no, not particularly. we are trying to paint an overall picture in the viewer's mind's eye. while details are important, don't drown the description in them.

then what to do? how do i know what to list and what to not list?

well, in describing art, you should first and foremost describe things you immediately notice. touch upon the different aspects placed in the artwork.

there are also a few things that are bound to give context, like medium, materials, art category, style. listing these are also important. you can start out with them, so the viewer knows what to envision

for example, putting the statement "an abstract installation done with metal wires," would help the viewer know what is going on in the artwork. if you then list that the metal wires are loosely shaped like wings, they would know that this is an installation, and not a painting of metal wings.

another thing of note, if you are using jargon, whether in art descriptions or general descriptions, not everyone might be privy to it. descriptions are for accessibility for all. therefore, if using jargon, a brief detailing to explain what it is will be suited

if you don't meet each and every point of this post, don't worry. don't feel pressured. any image description is better than none

lastly, here is a post also about image description. there are a number of links. i would suggest checking it out

hope this helps!! i tried to go over as many points as i could think of. in the end, if you don't know how to describe something, you can always ask for help!!

[gaykarstaagforever]

1970

The Silver Age was coming to a close in 1970. But DC wasn't quite out of amazing ideas yet.

I'm not going to review this. There is nothing more to say than what this cover says. Superman turns into a giant stupid Superman for like 2 hours, wrecks a bunch of things, then it wears off. It is exactly as cool and entertaining as that sounds. They finally got one right, boys.

Here he is fighting a bunch of soldiers.

Here he is, doing the thing.

Here he is, using the tip of the Washington Monument that he broke off to write a giant message about how oops, he's sorry about all of this. ...Which seems like it kind of contradicts his point, since there were probably a hundred ways he could have written this message without destroying a national monument.

But we're not here to be nerds about writing, we're here to see this:

I'll tell you how he got out of this mess, because it is probably the most fantastic thing in this entire story. Maybe one of the most fantastic things Silver Age Superman ever did. And NO, it doesn't involve one of his stupid awful robot clones.

But first, you need some context. This is the very first panel of the story, after the splash page:

Now. If you're like me, you are immediately lost. Who is Titano, and why are these idiots talking about him in front of a King Kong movie poster?

Well. I don't know how to tell you this, but back in 1959, there was a Superman comic where NASA sent a monkey into Space, and it came back 50 feet tall with kryptonite laser eyes. It did a King Kong with Lois (of course), until Superman defeated it and whisked it away to a Planet of Giants he knew about.

You know that thing in comics, where they'll reference some old story only nerds will remember, and they'll put an asterisk and tell you what issue it was from so you know what the hell they're referring to? Yeah, no, they don't do that here. This panel is all you get. They just expected you to remember that 11 years ago, they did a story where Superman fought a giant monkey from Space.

Which, sure, is memorable, as far as these things go. But 1960s Superman fought all kinds of crazy things from Space! It seems a little presumptuous to assume anyone would remember this specific incident, after 11 years of growth rays and shrink rays and 5th dimensional pygmy wizards and that time Superman was fat. But here we are.

Yes this is relevant to the ending. As the bigness whatever is wearing off, Superman jogs out into the ocean to finish his shrinking. He then returns to Lois and Jimmy as Normal-Sized Clark Kent. This was during the era where Lois and Jimmy were finally both suspicious that maybe Clark was Superman, only because the two were never at the same place, at the same time.

And yes, even they knew about the damn robot clones by now, so they weren't going to fall for that sitcom nonsense.

So Clark, the perpetual liar that he is, has to make sure Lois and Jimmy don't point out how he was conveniently absent the entire time Superman was giant. Before they declare him Superman, he points out to them that while he is here with them now normal-sized, a giant in a Superman costume is still visible, running away through the ocean. See? He can't be Superman. Even if he looks exactly like him, in face and build, but with glasses.

So how does Superman callously deceive his two closest friends?

He flew real fast to the Giant Planet, abducted a confused and terrified Titano (remember him?), created a giant Superman costume and dressed the giant monkey in it, flew him back to Earth, and dropped him into the ocean in just the perfect way where Lois and Jimmy could see him in the Superman outfit, but not see he was in fact a giant monkey. The giant monkey they would both specifically recognize, because of the thing they went through with him before.

Don't worry about Titano though, if you were. Once this lunacy is over, Superman rips his clothes off and dumps him back on the Giant Planet.

...I appreciate that you're probably still trying to process all this. And best of luck with that. But before we end, we need to talk about this:

They buy Cracker Jacks at the movies. Jimmy's box has red kryptonite in it, and that is what makes Superman grow big and stupid, because, and I very nearly quote, red kryptonite makes weird stuff happen, and Clark was watching King Kong, so he was thinking about giant monkeys.

That is the ONLY explanation we get for any of this. No, they don't explain why red kryptonite was in a box of Cracker Jacks. Or why two panels of this comic are an obvious ad for Cracker Jacks, except the boxes don't look like real Cracker Jack boxes, and they always did that for ads, so this can't be one. Plus this isn't a separate page in the comic, this is just...how the story starts.

Was this a tie-in that fell through, last-minute? It has to be, right? LOOK at this. Why did they do this?

Also, King Kong is technically public domain, in the sense that you can print the name and show a giant monkey. But the movie rights are exclusive to Universal. And I don't know if that was true in 1970. So was this ALSO some kind of Universal King Kong tie-in? Again, it isn't a proper ad, it's just part of the story.

Though they very specifically only feature Titano in person in the comic, so maybe this WAS just a reference, and they were careful not to put actual Universal's King Kong in the story.

They just used their own ripoff of him from 11 years earlier. Where he was brown and looked more like a giant chimp. And now, here, he is a black gorilla, sort of. Like King Kong.

...There is a whole entire other feature in this issue, and I haven't even read it yet, because I have been thinking about this story for like a week.

I hope you understand why.

[possibilistfanfiction]

argument pt 2?

[here's argument pt 1 (i guess lol); u don't need to read it for this to make sense fully but if u are so inclined & haven't read it yet it might be helpful context.]

//

you don't know what else you expected. upon a very quick reflection — once your brain reorients itself from beatrice is so hot — you realize you were foolish to think anything else, especially not without a discussion. but, still —

'what are you doing?'

it's clear what beatrice is doing, standing with jillian in one of her fancy labs. she's dressed in all black, a t-shirt delightfully tight on her biceps (focus, ava) tucked into loose pants reinforced at the knees, boots that are tougher than normal but lighter than those you would typically wear in combat — ones she prefers when fighting because it allows her quiet, stealth, full range of motion. 'trying on new armor,' she says, and if it was years ago, the spike of anger that starts in your gut and shoots up your spine — anger, and sheer panic — would have set the halo off.

jillian looks between the two of you — your fists clenched; beatrice's arms crossed over her chest — and says, 'well, i'll be looking over some specs in... another room,' and excuses herself.

wisely.

it hits you, all at once, when you look at beatrice — your fiance, your life partner — that, right now, maybe more than ever, she looks like a soldier. it's not been lost on you over the years, not with her nightmares and the quiet, chronic pain she bears with little more than a tender wince some mornings, the way she loses herself after loud noises or too many people in a crowd, her usually steady hands trembling — it's not been lost on your that beatrice has been fighting for a long time.

'you can't seriously be telling me you're not going to stop.'

'i'm fine, ava. i was cleared by my surgeon and my physical therapist to return to all normal activities.'

you're so used to gentleness, now, even with demons to fight on occasion and the lingering affects of a holy war too great to fully comprehend. you're used to beatrice's loose cotton crewnecks you like to steal; the rust-colored linen pants she loves, light in the breeze off the water. you're used to her whining for posterity about couples halloween costumes, her afternoon naps with her kitten purring on her chest softly. you're used to dates she plans meticulously that you don't even try to mess up because she's so intentional with how she loves you, full of thought and care. you're used to your big house on the beach and her laugh in the afternoon, the freckles on her shoulders, her hand in yours.

'i don't understand.' you release your fists with the progressive muscle relaxation you've worked on in therapy, then take a deep breath. 'you — you want to keep fighting?'

you're the one who changed her dressings after surgery, who took her to months and months of painful and slow-going, steady physical therapy. you're the one who washed her short hair with the gentlest hands you could, even that hurting the bone bruise along the back of her skull. you're the one who filled the prescriptions for her pain meds, who held her hand when she woke up. you're the one who loves her the most. you're the one who thought she was going to die.

'i —' she seems at a loss, for a moment, and then, 'it's my duty.'

'your duty?' it comes out shrill; so much for your muscle relaxation. 'beatrice.'

she clenches her jaw.

'you're telling me that you're, what, just fine getting fitted for new armor because your last vest got punctured by shrapnel and almost killed you?'

'ava.' it's a warning, and a tired one — exhausted from over a decade. 'you're still fighting.'

'i don't have a choice.' you hate yelling but you're overwhelmed by the idea of having to go through what you did again and again. 'don't you want — don't you want to choose?'

she swallows and leans back against the counter. 'if i —' she shakes her head.

'bea.'

'i — i can't.'

'i want to live,' you tell her, an echo of one of the first things you knew years and years ago, and her lower lip trembles. 'for so long i have wanted to live so badly, bea.'

'i know.' her voice is laced with unshed tears.

'i — do you want to?'

she sniffles and tilts her head back to look at the ceiling; it's a sure tell she's trying to compose herself but you can see her shaking, holding it in. 'i never thought i would.'

you step toward her, wait until she offers her hand. you lace your fingers together and wait. 'did you want to?'

'i didn't think — i didn't think i deserved to. i didn't think that me living a good life would be nearly as valuable as, well —'

'dying young in a blaze of glory for god?'

it takes her a moment, because it's the hardest thing in the world to hold, this grief, but then she laughs a watery little sound. 'something like that.'

'okay, but — do you want to now?'

it hangs heavy in the air. you know that she goes to therapy faithfully and you've seen her cry multiple times watching the sunset; she touches you like a benediction. but the answer is impossible to come by, sometimes — worthiness, and belief. 'who am i, ava, if not... this?'

you remember a book you'd read a few months ago, one of mary's favorites, that had made you cry often — where does it all lead? what will become of us? these were our young questions, and young answers were revealed. it leads to each other. we become ourselves. it's easy, to kiss the faithful gold band on her ring finger and then take her in your arms, put a protective hand to the back of her head. 'you're a fucking miracle,' you pray into her skin. 'you're the love of my life. you're a genius, and a black belt, and someone who avidly watches reality tv and tennis, only one of which is worthy of that kind of devotion.' you feel her laugh, snotty, into your shoulder. 'you're so pretty, and so handsome, and really funny when you want to be and sometimes even when you don't. you're remarkably forgiving; an incredible friend, a wonderful sister. you're someone who surfs because the ocean is beautiful and you want to see the sunrise. you're a very hot lesbian, and you're my fiance, and you're going to be my wife. you're my life partner. you give the world so much more than it has ever, ever deserved.' you both back up, just so you can look into her eyes. you hold her face in your hands, as gently as you can, run your thumb along a cheekbone, the constellation of freckles there that have bloomed in the sun by the sea. 'you will always serve the world, i know that about you. you're a child of god,' you say. 'you're beatrice.'

it doesn't surprise you when she kisses you gently and then tucks her face into your neck and lets out a full body sob. you rub her back through it, hold her up when her legs grow weak. eventually, as she always does, she calms and composes herself, steps back and dries her tears, runs a hand along her hair. her eyes are red but she takes a deep, steadying breath.

'thank you.'

you kiss her cheek. 'you're also my favorite.'

'now that i do know.'

you grin. 'don't get me wrong, like, fuck the military industrial complex obviously, but this is kind of a look.'

she rolls her eyes but her shoulders settle and then she looks at you seriously. 'i want to live a long life.'

'yeah?'

'so badly.'

'it's a little scary, right?'

she lets out a shaky, honest breath. 'yeah.'

'well, we'll figure it out.' you kiss her, the first of a kind stretching out ahead of you, infinite. 'i have an idea?'

she sighs, and you can't help but laugh.

(you watch her slice a plum on the shore of the lake in the alps you used to train at all those years ago, the lake you knelt down in front of her and she agreed to be your wife. the fruit is juicy and a color you can't quite bring yourself to comprehend: blood, your favorite sangria at the beach, natal dahlias. the house you stay at now — a few quiet days before you head home — is small and gorgeous, with a giant bed and a wall of windows that overlook the mountains. i love you here, you tell her — i love you like this; i love you however you are meant to be — i love you in peacetime, and you watch her slice a plum, the juice red and sticky on her fingers. she puts it to your mouth gently and the taste explodes like a kiss. she smiles and you feed her too; she sucks your finger into her mouth and you close your eyes — there will be time enough to touch her later. the water is calm, and the flowers are in bloom, and the sun shines bright.)

[roseshewrites]

BEING DADS WON! It only took a month idk. God. So for the long wait, here's 7,418 words of Alastor and Lucifer being Dads. Mostly Alastor because the idea of him being a girl dad is just ughhhh 🥰😘😘 please ~

Brought to you by several original characters, and "I don't know how to write long fics in order" and "Here's an out of context ending from my extended Male Pregnancy radioapple AU and I hope it makes sense but it probably doesn't."

QUESTIONS YOU MIGHT HAVE:

Who got pregnant with who?

LUCIFER, and they were twins.

HOW?

He's a hermaphrodite idk what to tell you.

WHAT ARE THEIR DAD NAMES?

Lucifer is dad

Alastor is pops

SUMMARY!

Melody Hartfelt-Morningstar has noticed her pops has been distant lately, and wants to know why.

Melody stood in the kitchen doorway, shifting from foot to foot. In all her sixteen years, she knew her pops only made Jambalaya on one day of the year, and that it was really important to him; but he tended to get a bit sentimental and snippy (more than usual) and you were in for a fifty-fifty chance of loving to sarcastic if you happened to bug him. 

But the video camera she was holding in her hands was seriously busted and she needed help. Like, on the level of thirty thousand subscribers waiting on another family vlog update that she was -never- late on.

Taking a deep breath, staring at his back as he mixed away at a bubbling, delicious smelling concoction at the stove, she said, "Pops." 

No answer. 

She sighed. "Pops. Poppa." 

Back still turned, still clattering around, now chopping something up, probably shrimp. 

"Pop," she said again, "POPSICLE." 

He slammed a knife down on the counter and whirled around, snapping, "WHAT, Melody!" 

She gave him a sheepish smile, holding up her busted camera. "I need a new one." 

He sighed, seeming to ease up a little, thank god. "Can't you ask your dad? I am busy." 

"No," she wandered over to scoop up a spoon and pop a steaming hot slice of sausage into her mouth, expertly dodging a swift hand slap which caught her elbow instead. She said around a hot mouthful, "I want you to do it." 

"What happened to this one I made you?" 

"Harmony. She dropped it." 

That was a lie. Her sister, in a fit of rage during another of their fights, had actually thrown it at the wall so hard that the screen had shattered and now hung despondently attached by just a sad little wire. She wasn't about to mention that dent in the wall either, which she had carefully covered with a poster. 

There was a flash of green, and her pops handed her the newly fixed up camera, commencing his cooking. Melody leaned against the island counter in front of the stove, hopping up and watched him silently, fiddling with the camera, "Blutooth capabilities, pop?" 

He cast her a sharp red eyed glance. "Do I look like I care about that?" 

"Yes," she flashed him a sweet little grin, "Pleeeese." 

When he had refixed it, she did a little happy kick with her feet. "Yay. Thank you."  

Melody lost no time turning on the camera, pointing it at her pop's head and pressing Record. She watched him through the little screen. Red hair, black streaks at the end, the ears on top of his head turning back a little when she said, "So..jambalaya. Grandmom's death day?"

"Yes, dear." 

"Tell me 'bout her." 

 "She had a sense of humor." 

"Really? Like how?" 

"Well...." 

Her pops whirled around again, a glint in his eyes, taking in how she was pointing the camera straight at his face, and she didn't have time to react before his hand closed over the lense and shut the little screen with a neat snap. 

"She used to do things like this!!" 

Her foot was pulled, and she fell off the counter, screeching. 

"The paain! The disrespect!!" She had swiftly opened the camera again and wallowed on the floor pretending to cry in agony while her pops dug a toe into her armpit making her giggle. 

"Go bother your dad or something. Scoot." 

"This is what I know- ow- about Grand mom," she relented, holding the camera above her face and zooming in on her pop's unamused eyes, "Her name was Eleanor. She had dark skin. Curly dark hair. Curly hair that I have," she added, "She had a sense of humor. And was an excellent cook. That's all. Sixteen years of life in this existence and that's all I know about her."

"Bon Diyè, Melody..."

"See," she zoomed in further, "You stopped teaching me that Haitian stuff a long time ago. Like when I turned ten. How come? But I still know that meant 'good Heavens' which means you've become QUITE exasperated with me-" 

"Exasperated would be an understatement-" 

"-So are you gonna teach me more Haitian Creole? Or more French?" 

"This minute, I'd like to teach you a lesson for bugging the stew out of me when I desire some peace and quiet!"

"Your southern is showing. Why do we bother the stew out of things? What's more, why do we bless each other's hearts when we really mean 'fuck you?' 

"Language." 

"But I have so many questions." 

Finally she got bored of trying to pull more answers out of her pops and got to her feet, dusting off her ripped jeans and shaking her head so her blond curly hair fell back around her cheeks instead of nesting up. 

"Fine whatever. We don't talk about shit in this house anymore."

She thought she saw her pops tensing a bit at that statement but it could have been her imagination. Camera pointed at her conversed feet, she left, ignoring her pops voice going, "Mels.." 

Nah, too late, if he wanted to apologize for being distant, whatever. She'd leave him alone. 

She managed to zone in on her twin in the living room. Finding Harmony wasn't hard; all you had to do was detect which area of the house Metallica or Blink-182 was vibrating the walls. When she walked in though, she was greeted by such a silly sight that she immediately grinned and held up her camera again, her sour mood lifted for now. 

There was her dark haired twin sitting criss cross on the coffee table, leaning forward and wielding a tube of black lipstick which she was currently using on their dad, who had abandoned his usual white suit for an all-black getup. 

"Stretch your lips out," she was telling him, "Like really, or the lipstick will cake up." 

Lucifer obeyed her, going, "I think that's called SMILING. Oh hey!" He caught a glimpse of Melody in the doorway. "Hey Mels. Check it out. Am I cool yet?" He flashed a peace sign, duck-facing his half-madeup lips at her camera.

Melody zoomed in on her dad's pale, black makeup-covered face, and yelled "Yeah-heaah!!! The coolest!!" 

It really did look amazing. Harmony had done a smoky eye on him and it really brought out the crimson color of his eyes.

"Are those false lashes?" 

Melody walked behind him to cam-focus on her twin now, who, true to her edgy punk nature, gave her sister the bird.

"You betcha. Oh Harms, stop. Give me that," he added to his other daughter, who was silently waving at him impatiently to finish her project. 

He swooped the lipstick up and finished it, peering into a mirror popping his lips a couple times for good measure. Melody saw him frown in the mirror he was holding up, locking eyes with her reflection behind him. 

"Hey you good, kiddo?" 

Melody shrugged, looking away from her dad's eyes in the mirror and accidentally locked eyes with her twin instead who gave her a quizzical 'what's up?' expression, her dark brows raising. 

"Nothing," she replied to Harmony's silent question, then, "-I mean yeah I'm good," she answered her dad. "So good. I'm so good right now." 

"Uh-huh." 

Lucifer shut the large compact mirror with a snap and leaned around, "Cause that's the face of someone having a really good time." 

She stuck her tongue out at him and he retaliated by grabbing at it. She dodged his hand, smiling despite herself.

"Don't get cheeky." 

Just then, a familiar radio-tinged voice fell into the already loud metal-music filled room saying, "Dinner is ready. Oh my ears, what is this noise!"

"Aren't Charlie and Vaggie supposed to be coming by?" Harmony hopped up from her seat at the coffee table, plopping several tubes of makeup into a nearby container, "And that noise is Metallica. Dad likes it. Don't you, dad?" 

"I can tolerate it. And I don't know, they mentioned coming by, but my feelings won't be hurt if they don't. They're so busy lately.." 

Melody edged back as her family made their way to the door where her pops was standing, and she was trying to make her way toward the hallway and then her room when she realized they were the only two left in the living room. 

She pointed her camera at him. God, he seemed annoyed.

"Come eat," he said, then, "Ugh!" She watched him through the camera as he reached to hit the power button on the CD player by the door, then he repeated, "Melody, dinner is ready. And will you put that blasted camera down for one minute?"

"I'm not hungry. And no. It's my eyeballs."

"Well you don't need eyes to eat." 

"I'm. Not. Hungry." 

"Young lady, what is your problem!" 

"I don't have one," she snapped, "And you do. You have all the problems and you won't talk about them. You won't even talk about the good memories. You won't talk about HER. Why?!" 

"That's none of your concern." 

"Fine," she snapped her camera shut and began to stalk off, "I bet Eleanor Hartfelt just loooooves who her son became! What a gentleman! He only cooks her favorite food once a year, and the rest of the time he acts like she bloody never existed!!"

She heard her dad rushing back in to defuse whatever it was, heard pops' exclamation of frustration and her sister piping in, but Melody paid no attention to any of it and just yanked through the first door she came to, shutting it behind her. 

 

Upon closer examination she was actually in her sister's room, but it didn't matter anyway. She just curled up on a dark purple blanket and grabbed the nearest stuffed animal and pressed her face into some pillows, silently listening. She heard footsteps and her dad's voice, muffled through the door and directed at his husband. 

"No. Nuh-uh leave her alone you'll just make it worse." 

Melody dug her face further into the pillow and waited till she heard receding footsteps before she sat up, her sister's dragon plushie still in her arms and hugged it, staring blankly at the wall. 

It wasn't fair, not at all. 

Pops used to be so open with stuff. Melody remembered sitting in his lap, pressing her ears to his chest just to feel his heartbeat while he stroked her hair and sang to her in that musical language she had grown to love. Even now she struggled to remember it. She tried to sing some of it to herself now, but she got tongue tied and gave up. 

She sat there for a while. Till hell's sun began to set and cast orange and red gleaming beams through the slats in the blinds and eventually gave way to blue and black darkness; the door opened softly and her sister entered, sitting on her own bed and sliding neatly to sit beside her twin, putting her arms around her. 

"Don't sit in the dark, Mels. That's my job." 

Melody sniffed. Now that her twin was close, she felt near close to bawling. They laid back on the bed in each others arms and Melody clung to her, plushie and all, and finally let loose with it. 

"I'm sorry I broke your camera," Harmony whispered. 

"It's not- about- that," Melody sob laughed as her sister settled closer to her, arms all the way around her. 

"I know." 

When Melody's gross sobs had ebbed till she hiccupped, Harmony said, "Why's it bother you so bad?" 

"I don't know. Pops used to do all this stuff. Like talk to us in Haitian Creole, and sing, and now it just seems...it seems like all he does is push us away. The older we get. I don't understand it." 

"I think maybe he wants us to be more independent. Like he was. Maybe. I dunno, I'm just guessing." 

"That's the thing, he never talked about being our age," Melody whispered, "You think it was that bad?" 

"Dunno. We might never know." 

"But I wanna know. I want to know all the things." 

A little bit later there was a soft knock on the door and their dad entered, dressed down in his pajamas and bathrobe and leaned down to smooch the two sleepy sisters on their cheeks. 

"Good night, girlies. You okay, Mels?" 

"Yeah dad. Love you." 

Melody reached out one arm to make him come closer and he gave her a hug from over Harmony's hug, giving her an extra kiss on her forehead. 

"Love you too ducky. Sleep good." 

He ruffled both their hair, Harmony protesting this, and left, softly shutting the door behind him.

But Melody couldn't sleep. Long after her dark haired twin had melted into the covers and began snoring, she stared at the dark ceiling with light pangs of anxiety squeezing her heart. Maybe she had overreacted just a tad. She had really pushed pops today, and on a hard day of the year for him, too. Maybe he just hadn't wanted think or talk about certain things today, and that was certainly valid- she'd more or less forced a reaction out of him. Even if it was a negative one. 

Maybe she should just go and apologize. Her pops was a night owl; he was probably still bumping around in his office. 

Sliding off the bed careful not to disturb her sleeping sister, Melody untied her converse shoes and slid out of them, replacing them with a pair of mismatched fuzzy socks and tiptoed down the hallway, past the kitchen, and down toward her parents' end of the house.

Well, Pops studio was dark, but their bedroom lights were still on. She was just about to knock on the halfway cracked door when the conversation from within floated out and made her freeze. 

..."Not *like* that, Lucifer, I just.."

.."Can't just admit that you've been really distant lately?" 

Oh shit, she'd been about to walk in on them bickering. Well, no...she frowned. It was more like a low-voiced intense discussion. Huh. It was rare that she heard them talking to each other like this. Curious, she settled on the wall opposite the open door and leaned in, ears perked. 

"That's besides the point. It is like she's not happy until she gets me angry with her." 

"Because she *misses* you, Alastor. She wants your attention. You know she's always been a pops girl. Whenever things got bad, she wanted you. Not me."

Her pops chuckled slightly. "Yes. Every skinned knee...every nightmare." 

"Then when she got picked on at school, and that one bad friend breakup," Dad offered. 

"Yes, I know." 

"So are you gonna talk about why you're pushing her off like this? I mean, I don't think Harm cares all that much. She's pretty much aloof anyway, but Mels.." 

"She feels her emotions differently." 

"Yup. Just like you." 

"She is smart. Stubborn..." 

"Well," Dad mumbled, "Stubborn is both of us; but smart? Especially the tech stuff? That's all you." 

Melody grinned. Yeah, pops had done his fair share of teaching her all the ins and outs of radios. From taking them apart and putting them back together again, how they worked, what made them tick. She'd taken that knowledge a step further and carried it on to her passion for cameras and video. 

She supposed she hadn't really needed pop's help this evening. She'd simply *wanted* it. Wanted him. His time and attention, like her dad had been saying. She could have easily fixed that camera herself. 

Pops sighed, a radio-infested sound that coated downward into something more human sounding. 

"I'll talk to her tomorrow." 

"Thank you." 

Their conversation continued on to other topics that coasted out the door. Melody listened to the rustling and clicking of lights turning off, of them getting ready for bed and murmuring to each other in that tone of voice couples use when it's just the two of them. 

Sneaking back to her sister's room again, Melody changed into a pair of one of Harmony's purple pajamas and slid into bed beside her sister, snuggling close with her and shutting her eyes, willing her slightly buzzing mind to silence itself till it gave way to a drifting sleepy mood. 

Maybe things would be better tomorrow. She hoped so. With that thought in mind, she threw an arm around her twin and also a pile of plushies and allowed herself to go off to dream land.

~ 

"Ugh." 

Melody sat at the kitchen table, frowning at the gadget in front of her. It was a miniature working phonograph, complete with a vinyl record that currently sat amongst a pile of teeny tiny screws, and spare wooden paneling. She was fiddling with the wires inside, her fingers fumbling slightly and she held her hands up and waved them frustratedly as her sister walked in, dark hair nested, and a just-woke-up look on her face. 

Harmony stopped, stared at Melody for a hilariously awkward amount of time then waved her arms similarly in a mocking way with her face deadpan. 

"Shut up," Mel grinned. 

"No coffee?," Harmony had gone to the coffee station by the microwave, "You *suck.*" 

"I drank it all." 

Dad walked in, let the blinds in the windows up and commenced to making waffles while Harmony fixed another pot of extra-strong coffee -("Since my *sister* is too *busy*")- all in all, just a regular Saturday morning for the Hartfelt-Morningstars. Melody was whining, "It's not riiiight..." While Dad plunked a plate of waffles and a cup of orange juice at her place. 

"Trinkets away, ducky. Eat up. You didn't eat dinner last night." 

"In a minutttte," Melody muttered, attempting to connect the wires that were wacky in the little system, then when they sparked at her fingers she exclaimed, "Ah, God-DAMMIT!" 

"Hey," Dad said seriously, "Don't take my father's name in vain." 

She stared at him with an incredulous look, nursing her smarting fingers. 

"Kidding," he added. "Joking. Drink your orange juice. Eat your waffles." - he patted her head and walked off. 

"Drink my waffles, eat my orange juice. Got it," she yelled at his retreating back and heard his answering peals of laughter, then the sounds of him greeting his husband- "Mornin' deer. Get a load of that kid in there." 

Melody had never quite figured out if they called each other 'deer' or 'dear.' Maybe the terms were interchangeable. What if they just said it, and mentally interpreted as the situation saw fit? They did all have deer ears, minus Dad.

Maybe she'd never figure her parents out. 

When her pops walked in, she side eyed his profile while she continued ignoring her waffles in favor of her phonograph. He didn't *seem* upset, or anything, just his usual silent morning self digging into the refrigerator for his normal leftover venison, tossing it into a pan to heat it up. He did walk over to examine what she was doing and offer a helpful suggestion or two.

"That wire with this one, and that may work..what is it for?" 

Melody did as he said and replied, "Present for Lux. Bye sis," she added as Harmony wapped her on top of the head on her way out the kitchen door, presumably to either draw or write the day away in her room.

"Mm. He's coming by today." 

"Shit!" She looked up at him, "It's not finished!" 

-"How about this.." 

He sat beside her, "I'll help you with it. You're not going to touch your food till it's finished, I'm assuming." 

She shook her head, "I'm not doing shit till it's done." 

"I figured as much. And after you've finished your breakfast-" 

She opened her mouth to argue, but stopped at his stern look. 

"-After. You have. Eaten," he reiterated, "I've got something to show you. And I'd like to..have a talk with you. You're not in trouble," he added, his red eyes glinting with amusement at her sight pained look. 

"I'm really not?" 

She had thought for sure she would be. On the other hand, his retaliations for what he deemed unnecessary backtalk were usually pretty quick and dad had been able to get him to let that one go the night before.

"No, darling. So give the thing here let me show you."  

He walked her through it. Every wire and attachment that connected to the power device she had made with her own magic began to make sense as he showed her what thing could go where. 

"Where did it go wrong the first time?" 

"Well, it *was* working. But the wires burnt out from the power - the battery thing I made." 

"Might have been just a tad potent. Try easing some power out of it and see where that takes you." 

Eventually she was able to fit everything back together correctly under pops instruction and wolfed down some waffles while he put in the last screw and set the little phonograph on the table. She watched as he slid the vinyl record neatly on and set the needle, flipping the power switch. 

Mouth full of waffle, she waited with bated breath as the turntable rotated, filling the room with a tiny record crackle, then.. 

She raised her arms in triumph as music played, a little instrumental beginning to a song in one of her favorite movies. 

"Well, that's that," her pops left the table to continue heating up his own food, Melody doing a happy dance in her seat and then proceeding to take her dishes to the sink while he ate his venison and remarked, "It plays the one song?" 

"For now." 

She scooped the phonograph up and placed it on the counter, summoning up a little box and a bow, "I'm gonna program more for it though. I know he might not like Labyrinth as much as me." 

"Lux always did like his Hensen films." 

"Poppa.." 

Finished tying the little box up, she leaned on the counter and crossed her fuzzy pajama covered arms, glancing at him, "I'm sorry about last night.." 

In that moment, he seemed so enigmatic. His hair was barely brushed, and he was still wearing his red bathrobe, but he still managed to put so..put together. Tall, and strong, his posture always so straight and confident; and there was that unreadable expression in his crimson eyes that gleamed in the orange morning light that fell in from the open window while he absorbed her apology. 

"I think I should be instead," he said gently. Sometimes he could be spastic, the radio in his voice hiding everything- but it was dimmed down to a barely discernible crackle now. Sometimes it reminded Melody that her pops could actually have been human once. "You wanted to learn more about her, right? About Eleanor- my mother?" 

Melody nodded. "I didn't know her. But I feel like...like I miss her." 

"Come on," he put an arm around her shoulder. "Let's go, darling. And I'll tell you about her."  

~

It had been awhile since Melody had been in her pop's bayou dimension; the bit of her parents' bedroom that drifted off into a soft blue lit wood, surrounded all around by a cascade of wildlife noises and bugs trilling. They walked away, feet crunching on twigs and leaves. The air smelled humid but sweet, like flora and fauna heated and promising a beautiful sunlit day.

"Does it ever end?" Melody said curiously. 

"I don't know. I can walk for an hour and there's no sign of a barrier. I think over the years it may have grown, somehow. Let's stop. Here is good." 

There was no hint that they were actually still in her parents bedroom. This place was a little world on its own. It seemed like, if she squinted her eyes, she could see the shadows of frolicking deer in the vast foggy distance but when she tried to get a closer look there was nothing.  

They had stopped at a forked path amongst the trees, which her pops was looking at with a slightly amused expression. "And," he added, "No matter how I've tried to escape this path right here it always loops me right back. I do wonder about that." 

He beckoned her over and had a seat on a nearby fallen tree, and Melody obeyed and plopped down next to him, wiggling her toes and continuing to eye her bayou surroundings inquisitively. 

"Imagine," her pops said, "A kitchen table. Small. The year is nineteen-ten. We had electric lights at this time, but mother lit a kerosene lamp for me in the dark evening. 'Let's play a game,' she said. 'It's One, Two, Three.' Do you remember that one?" 

"Un, Deux, Troi," Melody recited, smiling. 

"French," her pops said. "My turn. Uno, Dos, Tres." 

"Spanish. That was too easy. Y'all really had nothing to do before the internet, huh?" 

He chuckled. "There's more to that. She taught me extensively whatever languages she knew. Lullabies. Nursery rhymes. On nights my...father...if that's what you could call him- passed out drunk, those were our nights. Lessons, and games, and drawing practice. Sometimes calligraphy." 

"Tell me what she looked like." 

"You know what she looked like!" 

"I wanna hear it again." 

With his words, he painted her a picture of a woman whose name was Eleanor. A woman with kind, intelligent dark eyes and an easy smile, curly dark hair, and a penchant for soft silly chaos. When his father wasn't around, pops said, she became this person for him. He td her all this not to idolize her memory or color the picture of her as if she could do no wrong; but to remember that she was human, that she existed, and did make mistakes just like everybody else. 

Like how she could have left pops father when the drinking got bad, could have spirited the two of them away, and lived elsewhere, even on the streets, when his father became more and more manipulative and violent. Perhaps she hadn't wanted that life for her boy and that was understandable; pops said he just didn't know if she even thought of it.

If she did, she didn't tell him, maybe to save him from the agony of such an important decision. Still, through the pain of what pops had gone through she stayed a shining light of hope for him till he was grown and able to begin a life of his own. 

"I had to think back," he said, "To the reality that there were not many options for single women of color in those days attempting to raise a mixed child. I was blinded to that fact in my young adulthood. Call it pride, or whatever you like...but our relationship was strained when she passed. I pushed her away. I was angry with her. Or misplaced. I was angry with my life, and she was my nearest outlet. So on I went without her." 

"You still feel bad about it?" 

Melody scooted closer and leaned her head on his arm. Just to be near him. She wasn't sure if he was sad, or just reflective; maybe both. She liked the warmth of his bathrobe on her cheek though, and the sleepy early-morning sounds echoing around them. There was nothing like this in hell. It was so peaceful. 

"Sometimes," he admitted. 

"Is that why..is that why you ..ah shoot," she tried to blink away the sudden burning in her eyes. She squinted, trying to blurr away the tears but they leaked down her cheeks anyhow. Dammit, she hated crying.

"Is that why I've been distant?" He finished for her softly. 

She sniffled and nodded. 

"I'm sorry," she blurted. "I didn't know. I didn't understand any of it. And that's why I lashed out. I thought you were just being mean, or- or I don't know. It never occurred to me you could have. Real feelings or something. Which in retrospect is fucking dumb," she was full out clinging to his arm now, her eyes making his shoulder wet because her face was pressed into his arm.

"Oh, Melody, no.." 

She felt him shift so his arms were around her, her face in his chest, and she reflexively put her arms around him too, inconsolably sobbing. 

"My behavior isn't your fault, do you understand me? It never is." 

He rocked her like she was little and she let him, clinging to him and drinking in his nearness. She couldn't remember the last time he had held her like this, or who must have said first that she must be too old for things like this. 

But she wasn't, she realized. She wasn't too old to be loved by a parent. She was sixteen. That wasn't an adult yet. 

"I could tell you more about her," he said. "But I think you'd like to hear her instead. Would you like to hear her voice?" 

Melody sniffed, hiccuping a little then withdrew to look up at him, "You can do that?" 

"With my radio. Yes. I don't often." 

She settled back down into his arms and listened while his radio scrolled around sounding just like it was changing stations as he struggled a bit to find what must be a very deep memory because the static went on for awhile. 

Finally, Melody's breath caught in her throat when the beautiful human woman's voice drifted into the humid bayou air seeming both near and far all at once. She was singing. 

"Dodo, ti titit manman l

Dodo, ti titit papa l

Si li pa dodo, krab la va manje l.." 

 

When the song had gone on and faded faded off into nothingness because that's where his memory stopped, her pops translated for her. 

"Sleep, little mother's sleep

Sleep, little father's sleep

If they don't sleep, the crab will eat.." 

Melody couldn't help a small giggle. 

"The crab will eat? It will eat me if I don't sleep? Who tells their kid that?" 

"It sounds better in the patwa, I promise." 

"Pat-wuh?" 

"Patwa. Haitian Creole." 

"Oh." 

They sat there for another few moments, Melody digging her face into her pop's chest. His heartbeat in her ear. Strong, warm. He stroked her hair and hummed while leftover tears from her most current crying sesh leaked from her eyes. 

"Poppa. I love you." 

He kissed the top of her head. 

"I love you too, cherimwen. My dear." 

She smiled silently. 

Eventually they rose to walk back to the real part of their house, Melody casting one last glance back to that forked path behind them before they went. 

"What about that road?" 

"Hmm. I suppose..it used to mean something darker to me. I always likened my journey through life to this. An unwinnable series of events. Whether left or right, it seemed each choice took me somewhere increasingly...malicious." 

"And now?"

"Now?.." They reached the wooden floorboards of her parents soft orange hell's early morning sunlit room, Melody blinking at the sudden contrast, "I can leave that behind. No more choices, except to love your dad, you, and your sister." 

"Huh. You're welcome, I guess." 

He laughed, his radio crackling cheerfully. 

~ 

"UNCLE LUX!!" 

Melody flew into the tall man's arms, causing him to go "-Oof- Hey, hey, short stuff!" 

Lux was already there when Melody walked out. 

He was absolutely one of her favorite people in hell. 

It had taken her approximately an entire decade of life to figure out that Lux actually shared zero biological connection with her pops or dad, that he was in fact nobody's brother down here whatsoever- a point Harmony made to drive home and tease Melody about whenever, and however possible. 

"He looks nothing like us, dodo brain, why are you so surprised about this!" 

Well, it was a little bit like learning that your parent has a name besides 'mom' or 'dad', or that your favorite teacher actually leaves school to go home or grocery shopping. Because for as long as she could remember, the angel with wolf ears and dark hair had been a fixture in her family. There were times he got lost mentally and forgot to come around, but he always did get back to them eventually. Melody had learned to expect that undercurrent of both chaos and melancholy with him. It was just another aspect to his person, like his loud sense of fashion or how his emotional presence made her think of times long past. 

"I'm not so short anymore," she frowned up at him. 

"Nah. Last time I saw you, you were this tall," he held a hand about a foot above her head, "You're shrinking. What's up?" 

"With any luck, she and her sister both will get my height, and none of Lucifer's, or lack thereof," pops said from the doorway, jauntily leaning as he fixed his bow tie. He'd stayed behind to shower and dress for the day. 

"Hardee-harr," Dad said from over by the stove where he was fixing hot chocolate for Lux, "I've only had eighteen years of short jokes." 

"Sorry, darling, you make it so easy. Look, you're blushing already!" 

"And I'm gagging already," Lux rolled his eyes and took a seat at the table. 

Just to drive a point home pops snuck behind his husband to give him a pert smack on the rear and grinned when Dad objected "You're gonna make me spill this shit-!" He was interrupted by his husband dipping him into a kiss.

"POPS please," Melody vocalized, scrunching her eyes shut. "Eww-uhh."

"Yes pops. Please," Lux muttered. 

"So sorry. I thought you ordered breakfast and a show. Greetings, Lux!" 

The wolf man eyed pops outstretched hand warily, "After seeing all that I think I can greet you from here. Not wanting to touch you just this minute. Sorry." 

"You're not sorry in the least, " pops returned cheerfully, who had abandoned his now properly ruffled looking blond co-parent to have a seat.

"You're right," Lux returned. "Not a sorry bone in my body. Lucifer, yah sure you want to spend the rest of your eternity with this one? Not too late to back out, you know..." 

"Hmm.." 

Melody's dad was leaning against the counter, pretending to consider the options. "Well, we're one pregnancy and two children into it now.." 

"Plus seventeen years of marriage," pops offered. 

"Eighteen and a half years together, give or take-" 

"-It's not like we don't all share a last name."

"Yeah, you're right, you can take them all off my hands. Please and thank you," dad decided, pushing a mug off hot chocolate to Lux. 

"No worries. I'll come to retrieve you in the dead of night. If the radio demon intervenes I'll send him up to Heaven. Let them deal with him for awhile. Speaking of two children, where's the other one?" 

While dad vocalized that Harmony was most likely in her room lost in her own little world (Lux responding that that's a wonderful place to be and didn't wish to disturb her), Melody phased out of the conversation to fixate on the little box on the counter, grabbing it up, while also ignoring the topics which had turned to a bunch of blah-blah things surely invented for older men to catch up with each other and also bore the tears out of impatient teenagers. 

She hung around while Harmony finally showed up, and greeted Lux herself. 

"Barbara art?" She asked him. Not a hi, hello, just straight to the point. That was Harms.

"Barbara art," Lux agreed, reaching behind him to pull out a portfolio binder, which Harmony received with an excited grin and hopped to sit up on the counter and lost no time perusing. He'd learned a long time ago that if he didn't bring his best friend with him on his visits, he damn sure better bring her latest sketches otherwise he'd never hear the end of it from the darker haired twin who ate, drank and breathed visual art. 

"How is dear Barbara nowadays?" Pops asked while his husband dragged a chair over to sit beside him. Melody smiled at the sight of her dad promptly using pops lap as a footrest, and the resulting 'really?' Looking stare he got from the radio demon. 

"Good. On vacay with the wife again." 

Melody immediately ran over to look at vacation pictures when Lux pulled out his phone to show them. He was really close with Barbara, so of course he received constant updates. 

"Stop crushing on Barb's wife," Harmony said from atop the counter. "It's getting weird." 

"You're weird," Melody shot back, her cheeks flaming up just a little. Okay, so she was more than a little bit enthralled with Sunny, so what? People got crushes all the time. 

"It's okay," Lux said, letting Mels scroll through pictures and videos, watching her smile at the proceeding sight of the happy couple, "Barb said to me once 'I think Melody is a little bit in love with my wife.' " 

"Ahh!! Oh nooo," Melody cringed. "What'd she say after that? Was she mad? Pops STOP IT ISN'T FUNNY" 

The radio demon was snickering. Dad smacked at him, which only made him wheeze a little. 

"No!" Lux was laughing. "She looked at me real serious and said, 'Bitch, I don't blame her. Me too!' " 

God, Melody missed her. 

She watched over his shoulder while he texted his friend. 

•Mels and family say hi.• 

His phone dinged with a response. 

[Barb] •Alastor behaving himself?• 

Both Melody and Lux looked up at the table across them, where Mel's pops was bugging the piss out of his husband again. 

Lux glanced at Melody, who shook her head and mimicked taking a picture. 

The angel nodded, and promptly snapped a photo, sending it on to Barbara and captioned it,

•No.• 

Then as an afterthought, 

•Never, actually.• 

[Barb]•😂🤣 Is he trying to stick his finger in Lucifer's ear?? Save that poor man.•

When Lux had packed up his stuff, he said his goodbye's to all family members, shaking hands with Lucifer and hugging both girls while threatening pops with eternal torment if he made any of them upset. 

"That's a given," Pops responded. "This one here is always upset at something," giving Melody's ear a playful tug. 

"Ow!" 

"See?" He grinned. "Even as a baby she cried for ages..." 

"Don't remind me," Lucifer shuddered. "The great colic incident of twenty-four. Ugh." 

"Want me to rip apart his soul for you?" Lux said conversationally, draping his bag over his shoulder as he prepared to head out the door. 

"Yes," Melody grinned. 

As Lux waved a last goodbye to them all and headed out the door, Melody's attention was brought again to the little box she'd been holding this entire time. 

"Ah shit! Shit, Lux!!" 

She snatched the door open and ran after him, calling his name again to get his attention. 

"I forgot," she panted, catching up to him, "Here," she handed him the box, "I was waiting- I don't know. Till everyone got done talking, or.." 

Well really, she'd been wanting a chance to simply have Lux all to herself. Selfishly maybe...and Melody, as loud as she could be, enjoyed one on one time with her favorite people. And the idea of giving him the phonograph in front of just everyone, for some weird reason, made her cringe inside especially with everyone laughing irreverently. The gift she'd just worked so hard on with pops help was less than irreverent; it was downright special and deserved that treatment, she thought. 

She watched, grinning, as he opened it, his blue eyes lighting up as he examined the intricate little phonograph. 

"Ah, it's beautiful!" 

"It actually works," she told him. Put the needle on and press the switch!" 

He did so, marveling at the vinyl record crackling, then smiling as the opening score to Labyrinth drifted up to meet their ears. 

It's only forever..

Not long at all..

"I'll program more for you," she babbled, "There's a whole lot I can do, if you don't like that one much. It's only the one song-" 

But he had swooped her up in a hug, and she laughed when he said "You don't have to do more I promise! This is magical. I absolutely love it." 

"Really?" 

"Yeah, Mels. You did good!" 

"Thanks!" She stood back. "Hey, Lux..?" 

Her question lingered uncertainly. 

"Yeah?" 

She meant to ask a lot of questions, speaking of those. Starting with why old phonographs and radios made her think of both Lux and pops, or why their friendship seemed rife with both affection, and a begrudging willingness to get along; a tension she wasn't unaware of. Maybe there was a hint of respect too, for the other. 

"I just...I dunno." 

Maybe for once she shouldn't ask all the questions ever. And maybe there were complex things about adult relationships she'd never understand. And maybe that was all right. 

"Nothing I guess. I love you." 

The understanding look that came over his face surprised her, but he thankfully didn't push it.

"Love you too, kiddo. Bye." 

"Bye." 

No, she thought as she went back inside where her family was now cleaning the kitchen together, maybe there were things she was never meant to know. But she knew enough. That's what mattered. 

~ 

"How did it go? The talk?" 

Lucifer was sitting on the edge of their bed, taking his boots off and unbuttoning his collar. 

Alastor sat next to him and said, "It went well. More than that, I think. The little one's growing up. Both of them." 

He reached to help Lucifer with his shirt, giving himself to admire his husband's neck and shoulders and the little dip that formed his clavicle. 

"Hey now," Lucifer said. "Don't be starting something-" 

Alastor had pulled him close and had tugged them both down, smilingly wrapping Lucifer up in his arms and pressing his face into Luce's sweet smelling neck. 

"I'm not," he murmured there. 

He just wanted his angel near him.  

Thankfully, Lucifer let him just hold him. Alastor had trouble admitting it at first, a long time ago in the beginning of their relationship, that he just loved nonsensical skin to skin contact. Loved the feeling of Lucifer's bare back under his fingers and the way he just melded comfortably into being cuddled. 

"You're being quiet," Lucifer said. "What's up?" 

"I walked to my path again." 

He had. After everyone had gone their separate ways and Lucifer was in the shower, Alastor had wandered on a whim in his bare feet into the bayou again. Drinking up the warm, woodsy scent of home. A home he'd shared brief memories of with his daughter today.

 The moon had risen on his dimension and turned everything, including his white shirt- yes white, not red for once- a glowing ethereal blur color. He'd taken this trip many times. Sometimes out of sadness, sometimes for a reminder of something he couldn't quite place, and now to satisfy a slight curiousness.

Yet as he'd suspected, in the clearing he'd taken Melody to that morning there sat a grouping of familiar trees, a series of non growing and unchanging bushes, and that fallen stump he'd sat upon with her to tell her about Eleanor. His mother. But where the dirt forked path should be, there was nothing whatsoever but a fresh cropping of softly waving grass. 

"Well how about that," he had muttered. "What do you know." 

He'd immediately turned about and gone back to Lucifer, unable to tell how he was feeling, or moreover, *should* feel about this change. 

Lucifer simply pulled him closer and played with the hair at the back of his neck as they laid in silence. 

Alastor trusted that Lucifer surely must know...that this path of his- this devil's forked road that started off so dark and uncertain in his human youth and had taken on so many shades in the decades to come, meant more to him than he could explain. It was an almost abstract concept that, for once, left him unable to paint with words. But he saw the hues of it in his mind. 

The last color of it: golden, like the blood that beat with Lucifer's heart. 

Today, the path had breathed its last color to the winds. 

Alastor trusted that when Lucifer said, "What does that mean?" He understood anyway. He also trusted that when he said, 

"Nothing at all, dear," in his airy way, that Lucifer knew. 

Somehow..

That it meant everything. 

[sulrae]

Megatron likes Hip-hop

Megatron never really understood the Lost Light's love for human media. In part because of his...negative impact on earth. Therefore, he's left out of the several conversations and references that some (Rodimus and Swerve) bots tend to make.

He does eventually find interest in human poetry after receiving a datapad of earth's greatest literature, courtesy of Minimus. He goes through the likes of Emily Dickinson and Lewis Carroll with a fine tooth comb. He ends up learning a bit about earth history and culture as he attempts to interpret context and meaning. Arabic poetry leaves a tingle in his spark as the words of Maram al-Marsi's A Red Cherry on a White-tiled Floor has him enamored with human's relationship with love.

He pours over Maya Angelou's I Know Why The Cage Bird Sings several times that he has it memorized. He even finds video clippings of her performing the poem over the years.

Megatron ends up stumbling into Hip-hop through human forums.

A decacycle habit to observe discourse and theories gave insight to much of the works he had read. Perspectives surrounding word choice he never considered. There were times in which he wanted to take part. The lack of mechs interested in poetry left him itching for conversation. However, the concept of Megatron, former Decepticon warlord arguing about stanzas with humans would be frowned upon by many. So he was content with reading and mumbling to himself about his own opinions.

And then one of his forums becomes rife with discussion after someone posts a wall of text, filled with anger and passion on the disrespect of the music genre of hip-hop. A response that came from someone else's thinly veiled contempt towards an artist receiving a Pulitzer for his work. The poster goes in detail of how this form of rhythm and poetry combine in ways the require skill. How the stories of oppression and love are spoken with such intensity in one moment, and a quiet calm in the next. "You clutch pearls at the sight of it as if you don't rip them from the clams you so greatly detest". The scathing remarks provides enough intrigue for Megatron to finally look into music on earth.

He pulls up the Trapped by 2pac. It rattles the bones of his past. The words lingers in his processor for cycles after.

It takes no time at all for Megatron to dive into the rest of Tupac's discography. Once he's done with that, he takes in more. N.W.A lights embers that was similar to the early days of the war. Mobb Deep brings him back to the streets of Kaon. The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill centers him a bit; allows him to simply sit with the album's beauty over a cube of energon one evening.

He picks through the more modern hip-hop and rap. Megatron can't seem to let go of the sound of the artists before, his expectations set unbelievably high. Very few could provide the same captivation of hearing Trapped for the first time.

Which was why it was fitting when Megatron finally reaches the artist that was so ardently defended.

Kendrick's music surprised Megatron at every turn. There was serenity in one verse that would build into a maelstrom of vigor and fervor. He was playful with intonation that any form of monotone required stillness. His lyrics melded with melody and the quick change of beats felt as though Megatron was listening to master craftsmen. To Pimp A Butterfly pushed Megatron to fill datapad after datapad with his own analysis and excitement. He gets through the DAMN. album and sits in silence after Duckworth finishes playing. Megatron almost misses his shift due to filling over 4 datapads worth of thoughts. One of them being that the album- while phenomenal- comes second to Pimp A Butterfly (The sampling of the interview with Tupac certainly adds to the bias).

It comes to the point where Megatron has to find someone to talk to about the genre. Minimus will spend too long on the vulgarity of lyrics. While Megatron thinks that while Drift would take delight in some of the music, there's still an air of tension whenever the two are around one another that suggests their relationship should stay professional. Megatron's at a loss with all of his thoughts when Grimlock of all bots catches him humming and goes, "Is that Outkast?"

It's a strange comradery they build, yet one that Megatron's delighted to take part in over energon at Swerve's. They've gotten a few stares that intensify anytime they have any arguments on which region's produces the best rappers.

("You can't deny the impact of west coast rap." Megatron had threw his hands up.

"And I refuse to let you consider southern rap artists as a 'paltry attempt' of emulating New York!" Grimlock pointed at Megatron.)

Magnus gently asked them to have their conversations somewhere else.

The Lost Light ends up encountering a human ship that isn't thrilled to see Megatron (even in a parallel universe, Megatron still finds a way to cause fear), but doesn't outright attack him on the account of the autobot badge on his chasis. They give him a wide berth while on the Lost Light. That is until him and Grimlock play Juvenile (at Grimlock's request), and have two human's peaking around the corner with shock and judgement. They ask both of them their thoughts on the genre that has Megatron stand a bit straighter as he talks for joors about his descend into hip-hop. One of the humans nod- still wary of Megatron but regards him with the respect. The other (Jeremiah) revels in this fact and is brought into the fold. The three meet every so often, discussing the state of music.

Then one day, Jeremiah rushes to Megatron with the rap battle of the generation.

Megatron smiles so hard at Kendrick's responses that it scares the whole Lost Light.