#wishing on space hardware

[wordsandrobots]

First go at sketching Takaki's rather sad 'I promise I'm a grown-up' beard (as featured in The Haunting of Takaki Uno) over a screen-grab of his series epilogue appearance. Not completely happy with this and I'm starting to think I need to get a decent drawing tablet (that is, one that actually lets me draw on the screen instead of fighting my screwed-up proprioception).

Still, this is more or less what I was imagining.

Yes, he does get mocked for this, by Ride, who is not what you might call gifted in the facial-hair department, so the insult is a bit of a no-sell. The extent to which the beard helps with its intended purpose of getting people in the Arbrau government to stop assuming he's an intern on work experience is, however, highly variable.

[gonk2020]

terrible, low effort, high frustration with the photo editor meme i made.

go read Wishing on Space Hardware. it's good

[batbetbitbotbut]

Low space & low budget weaving

Want to weave but don't have space for a loom? Have a few sticks and yarns but no DIY skills? Come, be tempted anyway. Weaving is a whole family of crafts, some of which don't require a loom at all.

Small-ish looms like box looms (as basic as yarn wrapped around a cardboard grocery tray), inkle looms, and rigid heddle looms exist, but I'm assuming every possible space for a box in your life is already filled. In this post we're going even smaller and cheaper. As far as possible, everything either is flat enough to stow behind/under furniture or rolls up safely into a bundle of just sticks and yarn.

Many of these crafts have some crossover - the same setup can be used for multiple styles of weaving. Most of them can be improvised at home depending on what you have on hand, or if you need to buy something there is not a huge gulf between homemade vs professional equipment. Alas I am not skilled in any of these and my descriptions will not be wholly accurate; corrections and additions welcome! If you need help, I'd only be able to tell you to seek out books and tutorials yourself, ask other weavers, and just try stuff out.

All photos included with permission. My thanks to the people allowing me to use their projects! I saw so many gorgeous and skillful projects when assembling this and I wish I could have included them all.

Fingerweaving

Projects by @kitteniestkitten (here) and @wefty-weaver (here)

Culture - I am aware of this as a Native American technique, I don't know its history with any more specific nation.

Fabric - "Warp faced" cloth of any width, insofar as warp and weft have meaning for this craft as the weaving is on a diagonal. Often used for sashes or blankets.

Method - There is no loom! A couple sticks hold the yarns to begin with, but then it is all freehand. Starting at one corner, you use your fingers to weave a strand through the other strands, and... that's it. Very simple beginnings work up to very complex patterns that no loom is capable of. The whole project can be rolled up when not active.

Backstrap loom

Projects by @calendae-creations (here) and @weavingforlooms (here)

Culture - I am most aware of this from the Andes but I think it is much more widespread than that.

Fabric - Warp faced or balanced fabric of any width up to your own reach, suitable for blankets and clothes and many other things.

Method - You are the loom! Several horizontal rods hold and manipulate the warp threads but your body provides the tension, with the other end hooked to some furniture or around your own feet. When not in use, you can roll up all the equipment into a small bundle of yarn and rods. You can also use a backstrap loom setup for other methods like tablet weaving.

Warp weighted loom

Projects by @shadowcreepling (here) and @doctormead (here)

Culture - used by ancient Greeks among many many others.

Fabric - any kind of fabric at any size. Shadowcreepling is using a warp weighted loom for a tablet-woven band, Doctormead is probably using heddle rods to make a wider piece of cloth.

Method - the warp threads are held by a bar at the top and tensioned with weights on one end that hang down towards the floor, then the weft is woven into them with any method such as tablets, heddle rods, or by hand (if you have a lot of patience) and beaten into firm fabric at the top or bottom of the loom. Warp weighted looms can be very big, but they are simple and can also be very small and taken apart when not actively weaving.

Tablet weaving / card weaving

Projects by @damage-ko (here) and @foxease (here, hardware from CellesKit on Etsy)

Culture - found as far apart as textiles (geographically and temporally) from Byzantine Egypt and the Vikings

Fabric - a warp faced fabric with patterns made by twining warp threads around each other, usually used for strong narrow bands like collars, belts, and shoelaces.

Method - the cards hold open the shed so you can pass the weft through, then rotate the cards to advance the pattern. Many people make their own with cardboard or playing cards, or you can buy some. The rest of the weaving setup can be improvised with a backstrap (or just a shower curtain hook clipped to your trousers), a cardboard box loom, or warp weights.

Rigid heddle band weaving

Projects by @pisaracraft (here) and @crookedtines (here)

Culture - small rigid heddles like the first project have been found in Roman archaeological sites across Europe. The larger rigid heddle in the second project is being used for "baltic pickup" style designs on the band.

Fabric - can be warp faced or a balanced weave, size limited by the size of your heddle.

Method - you provide tension with any setup you please such as an inkle loom, backstrap, or warp weights. The heddle creates sheds so that you can pass weft yarn through the warp easily. Infinitely many "pick-up patterns" let you weave patterns and even words into the cloth.

Pin loom / potholder loom

Projects by @pardalote (here) and @weavingmyheartout (here)

Fabric - a small square (or rectangle or triangle) of balanced weaving, which can be used alone or patched together into larger fabrics. Pin looms are finer and suitable for many knitting/crochet yarns, potholer looms are chunkier and designed for big elastics, but the method is similar.

Method - wind yarn lengthways around one set of pins and then pull yarn widthways through these strands with a hook. Or, work at 45 degrees in continuous strand weaving! Lots of room to experiment with colour and texture. You can improvise a pin loom by cutting notches in a square of sturdy cardboard.

Needle weaving / stick weaving / peg loom

Projects by @thaylepo (here) and @pastelispunx (here)

Fabric - weft-faced fabric and rugs of any size.

Method - thread long thin warp threads through the pegs, then wind a thick weft (eg heavier yarn, sheep fleece, or long scraps of fabric) around the pegs. Push the weft down along the pegs as they fill up, so that it slides off onto the warp. The pegs can be secured in a base to make a peg loom for large projects, or just handled freely. I believe these evolved as separate crafts and the nuances are different, but the overall method is similar.

Frame loom / tapestry loom

Projects by @squeakygeeky (here) and @battlestar-gasmacktica (here)

Fabric - weft-faced or balanced fabric ideal for wall hangings and upholstery, size limited to the frame being used.

Method - (usually) thinner warp threads are wound round a frame, such as heavy cardboard with notches cut in the end, a picture frame, or a small and flat purpose-made loom. Thicker weft threads are woven in by hand using needles or just small lengths of yarn. Some people make lifelike images, others make more ordinary fabrics or geometric patterns.

Bobbin lace

Projects by @crochetpiece (here) and @noxx-notions (here)

Culture - began in renaissance Italy and spread throughout Europe, often as a cottage industry.

Fabric - balanced fabric usually made of very thin threads in freeform shapes. It's not usually considered "weaving" but the basic cloth stitch is definitely a woven fabric!

Method - each thread is wound onto a bobbin (e.g. a clothespeg) and then bobbins are crossed over each other to weave threads together. The lace is pinned to a cushion to hold everything in place while the design grows.

[therainscene]

[ST5 spoilers ahead. This theory is largely grounded in canon evidence from S1-4, but I will be referencing a couple of old S5 leaks below the cut.]

Stranger Things is a show that delights in escapist fantasy; it's packed with nostalgic references and celebrates the protagonists' love of gaming in order to remind us that we don't need to abandon our childhood interests just because we grew up.

But escapism is a double-edged sword that all too easily turns into an unhealthy coping mechanism, and boy is this show also one that delights in the horror of unhealthy coping mechanisms.

I reckon they'd be missing a trick if these opposing themes didn't crash into one another for the final season.

Vecna seems to be motivated by a desire to help the kids he targets -- he wipes away their tears, he reassures them that their suffering will be over soon -- but he also barely seems to notice or care that he's just making the suffering worse. Which is exactly the attitude you'd expect from a villain who personifies the urge to turn to shitty coping mechanisms.

Since S5 is going to focus on Will's coming-of-age, then whatever Vecna is up to must resonate with Will's worst coping mechanisms.

What better fit for Will "wants to sit in the basement playing games for the rest of his life" Byers than a fantasy world in which everyone is forced to be a carefree kid forever while their bodies rot in the Upside Down?

Think about it: Henry wants to transform the world into something beautiful, but the world he currently seems to be ruling over is nothing of the sort -- is a cold and barren facsimile of Hawkins populated with monsters really Henry's idea of beauty?

Doesn't it make more sense for the Upside Down/Mind Flayer to simply be the hardware that helps him run his simulation of something more relatable -- an idyllic vision of the childhood he wishes he had, populated with all the kids he oh-so benevolently rescued from the fate worse than death that is wake up, eat, work, sleep, reproduce, and wait for it all to be over?

-------------------

We know for a fact that one of S5's episodes is titled Escape from Camazotz -- a reference to the misleadingly idyllic world from A Wrinkle in Time -- and leaked BTS photos from last year show Henry hanging out with a Hawkins child at a mysteriously pristine Creel house.

It's promising, but I'm not a huge fan of using leaks as evidence. They always come devoid of context, and even difficult-to-fake things like BTS photos could be staged by production to throw fans off the scent -- so what does the canon suggest?

One possible hint is that the Upside Down has consistently borrowed imagery from The Matrix throughout the seasons:

But more importantly, this theory is thematically consistent with what we currently know about Will in S1: while trapped in the Upside Down, he retreated to Castle Byers (his escapist safe space), and that's where he was caught, dragged to the library (another escapist space), and plugged into the vines that connect him directly to Vecna.

It's also subtly implied by Will's behaviour in S3 that part of him wants Vecna to succeed: he sticks with El after realizing Vecna is back, despite knowing full well that being able to spy on Vecna means Vecna can also spy on him; and he makes a suspiciously helpful-to-Vecna suggestion about how the party should go about investigating the monster of the week:

Could Will be under Vecna's control here? Perhaps. But I think this is a choice he's making of his own volition.

Consider: At one point Will destroys Castle Byers in a fit of grief that his childhood is over, and this just so happens to be the same scene in which he becomes certain that Vecna has returned.

He has to grow up and face the horrible truth that he's gay and broken and in love with a boy who can't possibly love him back and he does not want to deal with this -- wouldn't he do anything in that moment to find a way to escape back into childhood? Is this not the perfect moment for a seductive voice in his head to start whispering offers?

Bargaining is one of the five stages of grief, after all.

But then, so is acceptance. Will isn't walking the path of villainy here; he's at the temptation stage of his hero's journey.

S4 took him far away from Hawkins and allowed him to work through some of his feelings without Vecna breathing down his neck, and he comes to a very final-sounding decision about it:

He's realized that longing to sit in the basement playing silly games with his crush all day is immature and turning him (in his opinion) into a jealous asshole--

--and now that he's ripped off the band-aid with Mike he's gonna kill that underlying desire once and for all. Right?

Wrong. I mean, that's certainly what he believes at the end of S4 -- but he's still got a whole season of main character coming-of-age shit left to do in this show that delights in escapist fantasy and reminds us we don't need to abandon our childhood interests just because we grew up.

The visual similarities between the Upside Down and the Matrix aren't the only parallels between these two stories -- a theme present in both is the realization that the rules of the world you were raised in are an oppressive lie that you have the freedom to reject so long as you're brave enough to accept the truth.

Much like Neo, Will has a deeper connection to the horrors than any of its other victims (beyond Henry himself), and that connection grants him the gift of True Sight:

Stuck between the View-Master slides is how he describes it. Will can't bring himself to conform to 1980s expectations of normalcy, but he also can't bring himself to retreat into Vecna's time-frozen fantasy and hurt all of his friends.

The solution is to understand that Will's unique position doesn't mean he'll be forced to pick a side and either become a villain or sacrifice himself for the greater good: it means that like Neo he has the power to transcend the rules of false realities.

Will can defeat Vecna without castrating himself in the process, and he can play D&D in Mike's basement for the rest of his life if he wants to...

...just so long as both he and Mike are brave enough to accept the truth first.

[super-ion]

The Engineer

Part 5

(Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4)

I sure wish I could get some hardware interface testing, today's tech tells me with a disgusting smirk. His eyes make a shameless sweep of my skinsuit.

Normally, I wouldn't stare him down. Normally, I would hunch my shoulders and pretend that the joke slid right off me.

I haven't felt normal since my encounter with the Pilot in that dimly lit observation room two nights ago.

I stare until his smirk slides from his face and he begins to squirm.

I turn away, putting him out of my mind.

Morrigan and I have a date. That is to say, we do, in fact, have hardware interface testing on the schedule today. Her primary neural interface has been upgraded and I need to run it through its diagnostics, a task I am uniquely qualified for with the engineer's rig and my intimate knowledge of Her systems.

I'm… giddy. Nervous, even.

This will be the first time I plug into Her since my encounter with Her Pilot - the first time since she touched my face, since she roughly pressed her lips to my neck while I surrendered to her, with Morrigan watching the whole time.

I shudder at the memory and linger in the vestibule. I place a hand on Morrigan's bulkhead as I always do. I feel that distant thrum of Her, the dull rumble of Her heart.

“Hey beautiful,” I say to Her as I always do.

I think of the Pilot. I think of piercing blue eyes and I think of neural bleed.

I think of teeth scraping against tender flesh at the base of my neck. I think of those slender fingers winding themselves through my hair.

A noise behind me. The tech clears his throat.

My face heats and I flinch my hand away.

I climb into the cockpit to find that the cradle is already reconfigured for me. Every one of Morrigan's cockpit cameras are focused on me with a new, special kind of eagerness.

She did watch us. I'm certain of it. Even if she hadn't, the Pilot has been here and already shared everything with her.

I let out a nervous breath and clamber into the embrace of her cradle. I let Her slip into me, physically and mentally. I let Her fill the space where my loneliness is a tangible aching thing.

Telemetry streams fill my consciousness. The ping comes almost immediately after connection is established.

- STATUS?

What is my status? Before two nights ago, I had enough trouble answering that question. Now everything is more confused than ever.

“I met the Pilot,” I reply. “Your Pilot. She kissed me. I let her…”

I drag my hands over my face. Why does this feel like I'm admitting to cheating on her?

- DID YOU ENJOY IT?

I nod.

Her delight (at least as much as a machine like her can experience delight) is palpable over the neural interface. Something like relief flows through me.

Of course it doesn't bother her, why would it?

I sigh and kick off the first of a long series of diagnostic tests. As firmware validation check results start popping up in my hud, I let my mind wander.

Wander is a generous term. My mind immediately returns to the singular subject that has occupied my thoughts.

The Pilot presses herself against me. Her lips press against the space where my neck meets my shoulder, her teeth nipping gently. Her hand trails down my side, finds the hem of my shirt and lifts slightly, skin touching skin...

The memory brings with it the ghost of sensation.

All around me, Morrigan hums. All the little noises in the cockpit, all the clicks and whirs and beeps, seem to take on a new meaning as she witnesses the memory play back in my mind.

“You think a lot about neural bleed.”

I'm thinking about neural bleed now. I'm thinking about how the next time the Pilot jacks in, she will find the ghost of my thoughts in Morrigan's system. She will know how it made my breath come fast, how the memory made me stiffen. How my hands wandered unbidden along my skinsuit…

I'm not alone.

My eyes snap open in a panic and…

There she is, hovering at the threshold to the vestibule.

I don't know how long the Pilot has been watching me. Her eyes shine with the same intensity as ever, but… hungry, wanting.

It's too much. Her knowing about Morrigan and me, Morrigan knowing about us, those are one thing. Her being here now, me here with the two of them together, it's too much.

My face heats and I mumble some unintelligible apology. I send a command to Morrigan to disengage. I attempt to sit up and-

She presses a hand to my chest and shoves me back into the cradle.

“You're not going anywhere,” she purrs.

Morrigan has not disengaged.

My breath catches in my throat.

The Pilot climbs the rest of the way into the cockpit and cycles the bulkhead closed.

The space is barely big enough for the two of us and the intimacy of it sends my heart racing anew.

“Wh-what?” I gasp. “Somebody will catch us.”

“I don't fucking care,” she says as she straddles me and produces an auxiliary neural interface cable from an overhead receptacle. “Me or Morrigan could get dead in the next engagement. I don't have the time or patience to pussyfoot around.”

“They could reassign me,” I protest, “or worse.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” she says with a hint of a sly grin. “You'll find that pilots usually get what we want around here.”

I can't tell if she means getting what she wants from me or from our superiors.

She hesitates, interface cable dangling in her hand. It's that same hesitation from two nights earlier, only this time it's a question for me.

Morrigan herself seems to pause with her own bated metaphorical breath. A sort of gentle hopefulness trickles over the link.

I should say no. I should excuse myself. That would be the smart rational thing to do.

I'm too close. I'm too close to both of them now.

I give the Pilot a nod.

I watch as she contorts herself, stretching her lithe arms to reach the jack in her own rig. I watch as she slides the the plug of the interface into herself. I watch as she shudders and sighs, dropping her arms and closing her eyes. I watch as her body relaxes, and for the first time since I've known her, she becomes still.

New status messages flash in my field of vision. A second user has logged in.

She opens her eyes and looks around the cramped cockpit.

“This is how you experience it?” she says.

“What?”

“The link,” she says. “There's no haptics. No biochem. It's so... shallow.”

My heart falls.

She blinks in surprise, her eyes distant.

“Fuck. I'm sorry,” she says softly. “I didn't mean it like that. I...”

My face must have given me away, or my body language. She leans towards me and brushes her lips tenderly against mine.

Then I understand. It wasn't anything on my face.

I can feel her. I feel her against me, but I also feel me against her.

It isn't sensorium. I can't feel what she physically feels. But emotion is information and information flows freely over the link.

I don't feel her so much as I feel her emotional reaction to the touch.

Neural bleed.

I open my mouth and drink her in. I wrap my arms around her to pull her close. One of us moans, I can't tell who at this point.

She pulls away.

“Holy shit,” I gasp.

“Yeah?” she replies and…

Holy shit.

Morrigan begins playing back the moments just before the Pilot Interrupted us - the memory, my need, my wandering hands.

The Pilot makes a small self-satisfied grin. I can feel her satisfaction over the link. I can feel her own reactive wanting.

Fuck. I can even feel Morrigan's need.

"The three of us, we're just this fucking tangle, aren't we?"

“You liked that, huh?” she says, leaning towards me. "Our little tryst?"

I nod.

“Can't stop thinking about it?”

I nod again.

She leans in real close and I dare not move as she brushes her lips against my ear.

“There's just one problem,” she whispers. “I think that Babygirl feels a bit left out.”

I gasp as something closes over my wrists, my ankles.

I crane my neck to look over to where safety restraints in the cradle have closed over me.

"Can't let Her get jealous, can we?" she whispers with a nip at my ear.

The Pilot straightens and spreads her arms. The space in the cockpit is so close that her fingers touch both sides easily. She draws her arms overhead, fingers drifting over the panels. She stretches languidly, the hard lines of her body on full display under her own skinsuit.

Desire and need pulse over the link - the Pilot's and Morrigan's and my own reflected back at me.

“How about we give you something else you can't stop thinking about?”

~~~~~

(Next)

@digitalsymbiote @g1ngan1nja @thriron @ephemeral-arcanist @mias-domain @justasleepykitten @powder-of-infinity @valkayrieactual @chaosmagetwin @assigned-stupid-at-birth @avalanchenouveau

If anyone else wants to get tagged (or if I missed you), let me know! Two more updates planned (fair warning, they're not going to be as happy as this one)

[teamslime]

The scans are complete, and your handler sees just one blip on the radar. A small spaceship, drifting aimlessly, with a signature that couldn't belong to anyone but her... Right? Don your gear, grab your weapons, and take up the mantle of Space Lass! as you navigate a spaceship overrun with hostile lifeforms, searching desperately for its pilot: Your best friend... and the one that got away. space threnody is a first person shooter adventure with atmospheric sci-fi horror sensibilities and sprite-based 3D environments that push portable 8-bit hardware to its limits.

We're also excited to announce a publishing deal through WOW! So Limited Games! Their team has been working closely with us up until release day to make sure the standard physical cartridge release and then limited edition physical collector's edition of space threnody are everything our fans want them to be. You can place your pre-order here!

EDIT: Hey Team Slime fans! Our sincerest apologies to those who pre-ordered a physical copy of space threnody through WOW! So Limited. If you aren't part of our mailing list, you may have missed news of their sudden closure. We have nothing but love and well wishes for the former employees who are searching for new positions right now. Just an update on where we're at with refunds, since some of you have been asking and we want to be as transparent as possible... communication with their CEO has broken down, so we are currently reviewing our legal options. Our legal advisor says we can't share anything further at this time just to maintain the integrity of our case, but we'll let you know when there is more we can say. In the meantime, we encourage you to enjoy the digital release of space threnody!

[ PLAY NOW ON ITCH.IO ]

[hunnylagoon]

When I Was Your Girl

Stage Fright

Rockstar! Ellie Williams x pop star! Reader

‘Fame is a poison most would drink happily despite the warning of a slow and painful death’

Premise: You and fell in love as nobodies and fell out of love in the limelight. Now you are forced to deal with ghosts who haunt you like a melody.

Warnings: small mentions of drinking and drugs / wee bit of violence / Ellie is a dick

Fake albums mentioned: Solstice / Smokey Eyes

I've never been anything more than a joke.

I'm so childish they took it for maturity, and I'm so serious they took it for silly.

Even since I began my career, I was spotted at eighteen by a skeezy producer when I sold myself at a strip club to make ends meet, because dreaming never paid the bills. I wish that I had been found somewhere else, maybe one of the restaurants I sang at on karaoke nights or the park where I poured my soul into art through my uncle’s old acoustic guitar. 

"How are you feeling right now?" A tanned woman with slick back hair shoves a microphone into my face while an emotionless man holds the camera. "I mean, seven years in the industry and you've just received your first Grammy nominations."

"I'm feeling kind of freaked out, to be honest," I face the woman with a sheepish smile on my face, trying the best I can not to look at the large camera lurking beside me.

"Rightfully," Her teeth are so white that they almost blind me and I get distracted by myself as I try to figure out whether they are veneers or not. "Do you think you'll be bringing any hardware home tonight?"

She moves the microphone back to my face and I flinch out of instinct, we both laugh for the camera but I can tell she's annoyed "Honestly, I'm just happy to be here, as corny as it sounds it is such an honour to be around so many incredible artists."

"So humble," She smiles then turns to the camera to address the viewers "I think we all know she's gonna be sleeping tonight with a golden gramophone under her pillow," She forces a laugh, trying to capture the raw essence of this overly manufactured moment. The interviewer turns back to me "Now, I know this isn't your first rodeo, is there anyone here you aren't looking forward to seeing, you don't have to name any names."

Fuck I hate these bloodsuckers. She is so obviously trying to milk my broken engagement which was still very much fresh. I uphold my false smile though and shake my head "Nope, if anything I think I'm looking forward to some mingling,"

She looks irritated, covering it up only by a close-lipped smile. "Well, then I'll let you get on with that."

I give her a curt wave and continue my way down the red carpet, maneuvering through other celebrities, we all have common ground, we are blinded by the flashing lights. I try my best to avoid any more journalists but I see Abby Anderson speaking to one and sneak up behind her, tapping her on the shoulder.

She turns around and greets me with a huge smile "I was wondering when I was gonna see you," Abby smiles and slings an arm around my shoulders looking to the journalist while I glance at the camera "I'm telling you, this girl needs to clear some space out on her trophy shelf."

I grin at her, genuinely. Abby had always been kind to me, we first met when I was nineteen and the both of us signed up for Atlantic Records. "She's just being nice," I say.

"And she's just being humble!" Abby squeezes me, it's a simple gesture but it means the world to me, it's her way of saying 'I got you'.

I shake my head "Abby is gonna be the real winner tonight."

The man holding a microphone in front of us smiles "We'll see who's right, my bet is both of you," He turns his attention to me directly "So I understand that you took a bit of a break after releasing your album, Solstice, is this considered your comeback?"

"Nope," I smile despite wanting to snatch the microphone from his hand and beat the camera with it until it shatters "There isn't anything to come back from."

He tilts his head giving the over-animated 'Are you serious?' look for whoever is watching. Every journalist was like a vampire trying to bleed me dry. The journalist, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit that exudes both sophistication and confidence searches his mind for another question "Well your album honestly was such a work of art and there has been talk that you are working on another one, is there anyone here that inspired any of those songs?"

"Nope."

"I think we should ask Ellie the same question," He laughs at his joke like it was funny. 

"And I think we should be heading off now," Abby answers for me and guides me away from the barricade of reporters and journalists, away from the cameras prying into my soul.

As I walk along the red carpet, I don't bother to stop and pose for any more pictures, I pick up the long skirts of my dress and usher myself to weave between the other celebrities. I nearly turn my ankle and take a tumble, wow, sure glad that 30 photographers caught that moment.

I was drenched in a deep, enchanting shade of midnight blue, the gown captivated with its sleek silhouette. The magic shows in the intricate details that adorn the fabric, reminiscent of the cosmos itself. Delicate embroidery of constellations graces the entire dress, forming a celestial tapestry that seems to come alive under the harsh shine of lights. The celestial patterns are meticulously sewn into the fabric, resembling a night sky filled with stars and constellations, creating an ethereal and otherworldly charm. Paired with the constellation dress, I wear a diamond choker and matching teardrop earrings.

I had lost Abby at some point in my little runaway leaving me to get into the auditorium where the award ceremony is to take place. 

Nearly the very second I walk in I hear a man yell my name, he is seated in the second row and it takes an awkwardly long amount of time for him to jog over to me. "Hey, kid!" He grins, hugging me, I don't hug him in return, I just freeze. It was Graham Wilson, I could smell the liquor on his breath.

Graham Wilson was a man who used to write very successful rock songs in his twenties with his band (the majority now deceased), he was nearing his sixties and was the definition of a has-been. I remember when I was a kid and I would listen to him on my iPod; though in recent days he's become known for ridiculous stunts, DUIs and homophobic tweets, even better known for how he found out I was gay and announced that he was no longer homophobic because, in his words 'Those gays can sure write good music' and then thanked me in his tweet, even tagging my account.

His frame carries the weight of a bygone era, specifically his beer belly. His once-lustrous, shoulder-length hair has succumbed to streaks of gray, hanging limply around his face like faded echoes of a rebellious past. Despite the passage of time, a few remnants of the rockstar allure linger - a faint scar above his right eyebrow, a reminder of a wild night in an underground club, and the subtle tattoos peeking out from under the sleeves of his wrinkled suit jacket.

"Hey, Graham," I give him a tight-lipped smile out of courtesy, in no means do I wish to talk to him. 

"You better win best album tonight," He gives me a hard slap on the back. Every time I see him he acts like we're friends just because he was a judge on a singing reality show that I was on seven years prior.

"I'll try my best," I try to excuse myself but he speaks again.

"I said seven years ago when I saw you on that stage that you were gonna be a star so don't let me down," He points a finger at me and gives me a weird smirk. When he smirks I almost think he's having a stroke until he starts to laugh and reveals his rows of teeth that are beginning to rot from his not-so-subtle drug abuse.

"Okay," I give him a nod and a quick wave goodbye to sneak away and pretend that I didn't converse with him. It seems like I'm early to take my seat, people are still piling in and being ushered to their spots, and seat fillers are standing around sheepishly while they try to take discreet photos of celebrities.

My seat is on the end of row two, right on the aisle, I feel myself split into a grin. If you weren't aware, Who sits where is a major status symbol. And though awards show organizers may deny it, it's awfully convenient to be sitting in the front row or on the aisle if you're about to accept a ton of trophies.

I was shaking with nerves, I got nominated three times and maybe there was hope that I would win at least one category.

When I saw Ellie I almost wanted to hide my face, she walked in with a new girl she slung her arm around, Jesse, Dina, and Cat in tow. I'm thankful to see that they're sitting front row of the opposite section of me and have yet to notice me.

I'm not sure if you have ever fallen in love, dated, gone on tour, moved in together, adopted a dog, written a couple of songs, got engaged, then broken up with someone and had the entire thing be documented publically but it's not the best feeling when you have to be in the same room as them again.

Everything with Ellie used to be so perfect.

The first thing I ever noticed about her were her eyes, her sad eyes. She looked like a puppy that had been kicked around for far too long; neglected and mistreated by whoever was cruel enough to show her such torment. Her eyebrows furrowed like each thought running through her head was a worry.

It's hard to look at her now, I know this girl inside out but we are strangers. 

I liked to pretend that the beautiful girl she was with was just there for show but I knew it was untrue when I saw her snake her hand around her waist just like she did to me. She runs through girls like they're cigarettes, she uses them until they burn out or she grows sick of them.

Two years ago at this very same award show, Ellie accepted Song of the Year for the song she wrote about me, 'Everlong'. She had even invited me on stage during her speech and announced to the world how in love she was with me.

If only I knew I could come to hate someone I used to love to death.

My hate was only solidified when Ellie and the Ashmen dropped their most recent album titled 'Smokey Eyes' just three months after our broken engagement. The entire album was about me and dear god it almost ruined my career.

Ellie had managed to paint me in a horrible light that made me seem like the scum of the earth. She wrote about me having substance issues and overall just sang happily about how much she despised me. Her song 'Me vs Your Friends' wrecked me. After speculation began over that song online, her fans decided that they loathed me just the same as Ellie did; this meant that I was doxxed, sent death threats, had my home broken into, and forced to move.

She wasn't the slightest bit sorry.

I spent the award ceremony dazed out, to be truthful, these types of events were boring. They dragged on for ages and you had to sit through the same generic speeches over and over again of people thanking their parents and producers, I hated both of those.

I watched as Amelia Swan walked on stage, she was a nepotism baby, the daughter of some big-shot director and beautiful all the same. In the glittering spotlight of the grand award show stage, a vision of elegance takes center stage as the next announcer for the evening. A beautiful woman, her porcelain skin seemingly kissed by moonlight, graces the audience with a timeless allure. Her dark, cascading hair frames her face in a sleek, sophisticated manner, accentuating the delicate features that radiate a captivating charm.

Draped in a resplendent pink gown, the fabric sits tight against her slim body. The gown is a masterpiece of design. Its silhouette accentuates her figure with tasteful precision, while the soft hue of pink complements her fair complexion.

"Hello!" She smiles and the crowd begins to cheer "I'm going to cut to the chase because I know all of you are as excited to find out the winner as I am."

Amelia begins to go through the nominees, my breath hitches in my throat when she says my name, though I play it cool the best I can and smile softly when the camera zooms in on me in the crowd.

Her eyes, framed by carefully styled lashes and a hint of rosy eyeshadow, exude warmth and confidence. Lips adorned with a subtle shade of pink curve into a welcoming smile, inviting the audience to share in the excitement of the announcement. 

"The winner of Album of the Year is..." I could've sworn I nearly passed out when Amelia said my name.

Nothing felt real, it was like I was living the dreams that I made up when I was a little girl staying up late in my uncles back yard, talking to the indigo sky and speaking to it with delusions of security and stardom.

I shake when I stand up from my chair. The person next to me hugs me and I don't even know who she is but I hug her in return.

Amelia gestures for me to join her on stage with a huge smile on her face. I make my way down the aisle and up the steps leading to the stage. Amelia handed the statue of the golden gramophone to me along with the microphone to give my speech.

At this moment, the stage is my kingdom "I didn't prepare anything because I honestly didn't think I would win but I'd like to thank my little sister, Marceline, and my late uncle, Richie, god rest his soul. Everything I've done leading me to this moment has been for them, every lyric, every night I'm up till dawn writing. Even though Richie can't be here in person, I carry a little piece of him with me everywhere I go, he's all around me, I see him in the songs I write, in the melody of an acoustic guitar, and in the faces of those gentle enough to show me kindness."

The audience applauds for me, even Ellie who stares me down bitterly. I had sung in front of thousands of people but it would never compare to this moment.

I wipe a tear away from my eye "I would also like to thank all of my fans, you guys are just the fucking best," I giggle through my crying "I feel like you've been sent down by Richie and Marceline I know you're watching me right now, please give my dog some love for me. Please know that I don't come from anything, I was born from dirt and dreams for something more than a ratty town in Canada."

I lived for the applause.

"I mean, I've always been good and never great so this means a lot to me-

Ameilia places a hand on my shoulder to stop me "There was a bit of a mix-up," She announces "I'm sorry, love, you didn't win," She says just to me, dark eyes full of remorse.

"What?" I almost think it's a sick joke.

Amelia holds the microphone to her face to be heard by the audience "I'm not joking," She shows the contents of a card to the crowd "The real winners for album of the year are Ellie and the Ashmen for their album Smokey Eyes." Gasps sound from the audience and I can only imagine what those watching from home are doing

The camera pans to where Ellie, Dina, Jesse, and Cat sit, Ellie is laughing; not laughing, cackling, it only grows and now she's laughing so hard she can barely breathe. Suddenly I didn't feel like I was king of the world, it felt like the desolation of a hangover had hit me in the span of 90 seconds.

Dina gives Ellie a harsh elbow to her bicep, telling her to be respectful. The four of them rise from their chairs and make their way up to the stage, where I stand, paralyzed.

"Congratulations," I give Ellie a tight-lipped smile and hand the award off to her.

She smiled smugly at me and took it "Thanks, smokey eyes," Ellie held the statue up to display it. Smokey eyes was a nickname she had given me when we first met since I always had dark circles she said they looked like smoke from a forest fire. I told you that album was about me. What made me more mad is that it was such a stupid fucking nickname.

My mouth goes dry, it tastes like salt and failure.

I take many steps back, trying to hide myself at the back of the stage while I watch the Ashmen bathe in the glory I thought was mine.

"I didn't prepare anything because I honestly didn't think I would win," Ellie begins to mock me "But I'd like to thank my best friends, Dina, Jesse, and Cat, I couldn't have done it without you," She motions at her band members beside her "But I also couldn't have done it without my dad, thank you, Joel, you're out there in the cheap seats but I fucking love you," She waves out into the crowds somewhere before handing the microphone off to Dina.

"I am so beyond grateful-

"No!" Someone yells from the ground and all attention turns to him "This is not fair!" Graham shouts, walking up the stairs. Everyone in the room looks at one another trying to figure out what is going on. Graham snatches the microphone from Dina "I'm proud of you four but listen."

Everyone is silent completely, no one is sure what to do so we let Graham continue.

"I met everyone on this stage seven years ago," He throws one arm out for dramatics "Except for Amelia, I don't know you," Graham is more dishevelled than he was when I saw him earlier that night "Let me tell all of you that Ellie was in love with this girl since the day they met!" Graham points at me, now things are getting weird, well weirder. “I know because I was there and you all saw it on TV!”

It was no secret that Ellie and I were together since we met on Road to Stardom, a singing reality show where people compete for-well, stardom. Every step of our relationship had been very public, not by choice but by unfortunate circumstances. It is for this reason I was afraid of what Graham would spout next.

"Without her, Smokey Eyes wouldn't have ever been written, Ellie would've had no inspiration for it," He babbles "But more so my point is, Solstice deserved to win, Smokey Eyes is mediocre at best!"

People in the audience look genuinely concerned, I spot Abby in the third row. She has one hand covering her mouth from pure shock, her eyebrows are furrowed and she almost looks like she's going to throw up.

 "Solstice is the best album to listen to when you're high off salvia on your bathroom floor!" Graham points back at me.

I see Cat mutter something to Jesse along the lines of "He's not wrong."

"Smokey Eyes has three good songs and Solstice has thirteen!" Graham suddenly stops to turn and look at me, he grabs my wrist "Come up here and finish your speech," I shake my head no but he pulls me up anyway.

I freeze, petrified. My eyes are wide and my lips are pressed together in a thin line. I didn't know what to do. Why wasn't anyone doing anything?

Graham's head suddenly snaps from me to Ellie where he takes an intoxicated step closer to her "Give me that damn award, you don't deserve it, especially not after mocking the woman who inspired it!" He lunges for the statue, at first Ellie is stubborn and holds onto it tight.

After 30 seconds of Graham trying to pry the stature away, Ellie gives up and releases it, figuring it best not to fight with a drunk man; in doing so Graham's elbow flies back from sudden loss of resistance and hits me dead in my nose. I yelp out in pain bending over into a crouch and clutching my nose. Graham stumbles back and trips over me, though he is still holding on tight to the statue.

Jesse approaches him slowly. "Hey, man, It's me, I think we should all just settle down and talk this through," He tries to act cool but his eyes are full of worry "I agree, I think Solstice is a great album and it really deserved to win."

Graham clumsily rolled onto his stomach and then stumbled back onto his feet. He was staring Jesse down like this was the Wild West.

Dina rushed over to me to make sure I was okay "Let me see," She gingerly moved my hands away from my nose, it had been knocked crooked and blood was pouring down to my chest where it pooled at the neckline of my dark dress.

Graham chucked the golden gramophone at Cat who jumped back when he did so and took a swing at Jesse who didn't move an inch or even shudder from his drunken punch. It also didn't help Graham that he was a solid four inches shorter than Jesse. Just as Graham was hyping himself up to send another hit, two bulky men grabbed either of Graham's arms and dragged him off the stage and out of sight.

I went home that night with nothing more than a broken nose, and no award but I could rest knowing that night went down infamously in history. My blood dripped onto the stage of the Grammys.

That was the night I truly became famous.

Grade eight- Age thirteen 

Middle school is hard.

Even harder when you have two friends, one of them is a guy who is obsessed with Star Wars and is hardly at school because he's always having an allergic reaction, and the other friend is my English teacher. I ate lunch in her class while he graded schoolwork on days that Milo was too sick to show up for school.

I never understood why kids are so fucking mean. Like sometimes I'm having a good day and then I remember when I sang at the middle school talent show.

Some kid who was destined to have a blunt in his hand finished doing tricks on his skateboard rolled off stage and it was my turn.

In the dimly lit auditorium, adorned with colourful decorations for the annual school talent show, I took center stage with my guitar, a blend of excitement and nervousness etched across my face. The hushed whispers of the audience faded as I strummed the first chords, the notes carrying the beginning to the first of many performances in my life

"If you gave me only one wish,

I wouldn't want to feel this way.

They told me I'd have your memory

But all I want is you to stay

And I can't stop my mind from haunting me,

It's like a scar on a butterfly's wing,

I wanted you to know."

I had worked tirelessly to perfect the lyrics to my first ever song, begging my uncle who was far more practiced for his input. This was way back when I still lived in fuck ass nowhere Alberta, I had that country twang in my high voice though it carried a specific tenderness.

"This beautiful pain that I feel is all because of you

And one day these bones will heal

And they'll leave me with the truth

And I'll give you everything if it's the last thing that I do.

This beautiful pain, this beautiful pain

This beautiful pain for you."

However, as I sang my little heart out, a different melody began to play in the background - the snickers and hushed comments of some classmates who couldn't appreciate the vulnerability I laid bare on the stage. Their laughter, like discordant notes in a once-harmonious piece, reverberated through the auditorium.

"If I sailed the world on stormy seas

Chasing sunlight that I can't see.

I was a dreamer here before,

Before I woke up and fell to the floor

And I'd climb to heaven if I could find you,

Even with a scar this butterfly flew.

I wanted you to know."

I spotted one group in particular, they hated me already and this would give them all the more reason to bully me.

"This beautiful pain that I feel is all because of you

And one day, these bones will heal

And they'll leave me with the truth

And I'll give you everything if it's the last thing that I do

This beautiful pain, this beautiful pain, this beautiful pain."

Maybe the lyrics were the slightest bit corny but I was thirteen and these girls were being little cunts. I bit back the tears I so clearly wanted to release when I saw a teacher had to walk over to the group of girls to stop their laughing. It wasn't just that one group though, kids scattered all over were fighting back giggles and that made it hurt all the worse.

"And all I'll ever need

And all I'll ever be,

Within every part of me is this,

This beautiful pain that I feel is all because of you

And one day these bones will heal

And leave me with the truth

And I'll give you everything 'cause it was all I ever knew.

This beautiful pain,

This beautiful pain,

This beautiful pain,

For you."

As the last note hung in the air, the room was divided. Some applauded, recognizing the authenticity of my performance, while others continued their derisive comments. So the majority who liked my singing were teachers, but that didn't matter, at least my music got through to someone.

The rest of the day was even more difficult than my three-minute performance, at least that was over quickly but the comments from Kennedy and her friends left me leaving school in tears.

I didn't go home that day, I walked the extra ten minutes to get to my uncle's house. Lugging my guitar and newfound hate for music with me. The façade, adorned with a mismatched collection of potted plants and a welcoming, hand-painted sign that read ‘Home Sweet Home’ hinted at my uncle's efforts to infuse joy into his surroundings. The paint on the wooden shutters might have faded, but they held stories of many seasons gone by. The roof, patched with a variety of materials, showed the resourcefulness of my uncle in their attempt to shield the interior from the whims of weather. 

He tried to make the house look nice for me and my little sister. He was by no means rich in money but rich in what mattered, the love he had for me was overflowing.

It wasn't a particularly nice neighbourhood either, his house was small, with two bedrooms and a basement I wasn't allowed in. But every time I think of the chipped blue walls, I feel a warm sense of nostalgia run down my spine.

"Who's there?" I hear Uncle Richie call from the kitchen where he is cooking something.

"Just me," I yell back, dropping my guitar case on the ground and belly-flopping onto his old brown leather couch that had more tears in it than I could count; he had tried to stich some of them up with embroidery floss but ultimately gave up, deciding to let it be since he couldn't afford to replace it.

"Why aren't you at your mom's, Chickadee?"

"I don't wanna see Mom right now, she's gonna put me in an even worse mood," I call back grabbing the TV remote off of the water-damaged coffee table.

"What happened?"

"I don't wanna talk about it."

Minutes later Richie walks into the living room to join me, he carries a bowl of Kraft Mac and cheese with two forks shoved in it, he taps the bottom of my socked feet, signalling for me to move them so he can fit on the couch with me. Uncle Richie has a buzz cut and beard stubble that I have never seen him without, he has never been seen without a flannel on, not as long as I've been alive. What I remember the clearest about him though was the scar beneath his right eye, when I was younger he would tell me that he got it from a pirate though I stopped believing that. "So are you going to tell me why you're sulking?"

I ignore him and he reaches for the remote to turn the TV off "Hey, I watching that," I mutter.

"Well I'm waiting for you to answer me, Chickadee," He tilts his head "Or you won't get any kraft dinner."

"I sang at the talent show today."

"And?"

"Everyone made fun of me."

He furrows his eyebrows "Why would they do that?"

"Why do you think?" I snark "Because I'm not good enough and I'm a bad singer and I have a shit guitar." I immediately regret my words. Uncle Richie was the one who gave me that guitar, it was all he could manage with his income, it was his back when he had dreams of his own but he fixed it up so I could pick up where he left off. The guitar itself had a cracking between the face and the side that was being held together with duct tape, not to mention the whole thing was basically reinforced with superglue and there were Sharpie drabbles on it of poems and potential songs Richie started that I will be sure to finish.

"This is the best guitar in the world," He reaches behind the couch where I left it slugs the case onto his lap and opens it to showcase the guitar "Because it's full of something money can’t buy, there is love built into this guitar and every time you play it you feel that love."

"I don't feel love when I play," I say, eyes brimming with tears.

"Then you're not playing right," He smiles, discarding the case on the floor "Did you play the song I helped you write?"

I nod "Kennedy said it was worse than shoving nails into her ears and that my guitar was decrepit and even more fugly than I am."

"Well Kennedy is a little cunt," He answers "Don't tell anyone I said that." His words make me giggle. I watch him intently as he begins to strum some chords on the guitar, the beginning of Beautiful Pain, he stops when I don't sing the lyrics, glancing at me until the words finally fall from my lips.

After the first two Stanzas, he hands the guitar off to me, nodding his head along to my gentle strums.

When I finish the song and strike the last chord, Richie claps a huge smile on his face "Do you feel the love yet?"

"I dunno."

"Then play again," He says "Don't think about those bitchy little girls," His tone is dead serious "You just gave all of those people a free performance, in ten years they are going to be paying hundreds just to get a bad seat at one of your shows and they will buried so far in the back of your mind that you won't even remember their names or all of those awful words they say to you, the only words that will matter are the ones you sing."

"So what do I do?"

"Play music because you love it, it doesn't matter if it takes you anywhere or if it makes you any money. That's why you should play, play for love not greed."

Wordlessly I begin the song over again, blocking out the rest of the world while I softly sing the lyrics. I strum each cord perfectly, my singing to match. I will forever think back to this moment, this is where I can pinpoint the exact second I fell in love with music.

I wrap up the song and Richie speaks up "Do you still want to watch TV?"

I shake my head "Can you help me write another song?" 

-

Sinjinisoverboard: I love love love the new single but does anyone else miss her debut era?????? I feel like she's sold out

     woodmonkey92: Reply to Sinjinisoverboard╰┈➤ this is so true, I remember when she would sing in parks and she was actually happy just being herself

     theend_is_n3ar: Reply to woodmonkey92╰┈➤ bruh you don't remember that, she was a nobody when she sang in parks plus she literally got heckled and ridiculed by her classmates so bad that she gave up on singing in public and almost gave up on music as a whole

     user37768638493: Reply to sinjinisoverboard╰┈➤ as much as I love her it really seems like she's fallen off the rails

conner_stoll_it: She's not even the same person anymore. I fell in love her original music and who she was when she wrote it, then she signed with a record label now she's an in-genuine copy of every pop star.

     Alina_b12: Reply to conner_stoll_it╰┈➤ you fell in love with her old music?? 💀💀💀 she wasn't even past 100 subscribers when she released her debut album and after she released she literally gained 11 listeners on Spotify to get a total of 24 so don't lie and say that you heard it before hearing her mainstream music

     Luciaisdonewithlife: Reply to conner_stoll_it╰┈➤ Her old music was so relatable, she got famous and it’s kind of hard to relate to someone who's net worth is more money then I can even fathom

     hazeinmorningcraze: Reply to Luciaisdonewithlife╰┈➤I think that's why it was so easy for everybody to side with Ellie during the breakup, Ellie kept true to who she is, her girlfriend however did not.

     Luciaisdonewithlife: Reply to hazeinthemorningcraze╰┈➤*fiancé

     hazeinthemorningcraze: Reply to Luciaisdonewithlife╰┈➤ ew don't remind me

     maiya_onthec0ast: Reply to conner_stoll_it╰┈➤ We should remember that no one listened to her when she released her debut music. She said in an interview that before she signed with Atlantic Records she had 24 listeners and 76 subscribers. We only know who she is because of her mainstream music, you aren't better than anyone for needlessly hating on her.

stargirlthesequel: God who else misses the southern twang she used to have in her voice?

      Vampire_empire2: Reply to stargirlthesequel╰┈➤LMAO acting like you know her is crazy

      Aline_b12: Reply to stargirlthesequel╰┈➤parasocial relationships are really becoming apparent rn

thismightbeskylarwwhiteyo: It's soooooo annoying when people hate on Solstice for being mainstream like all Ashmen discography isn't top on charters since they dropped their first album

     dancedancerev0lution: Reply to thismightbeskylarwwhiteyo╰┈➤I've been saying this! Ellie has been in the industry way longer, she's always had a big fan base, even when she was still a solo artist!

    elliespurplemonster: Reply to thismightbeskylaarwwhiteyo╰┈➤ Ellie Williams on 🔝

    call_urm0ther: Reply to elliespurplemonster╰┈➤ kys she treated her fiancé horribly

    elliespurplemonster: Reply to call_urm0ther╰┈➤ how would you know that????? Were you there??????

    follow_kendra88: Reply to call_urm0ther╰┈➤Ellie was the one who was treated horribly in that relationship, have you even listened to Smokey Eyes?

    ellies_no2girl: Reply to call_urm0ther╰┈➤Ellie was so in love and just got used for fame 🥺💔

     call_urm0ther: Reply to ellies_no2girl╰┈➤fuck off with your cringe ass emojis

sorryyileft___:You guys are so weird for saying Ellie was used by her ex for fame, they literally were on the same show at the same age at the same time and got thrown into the limelight at the same time, Ellie and the Ashmen just got more popular.

   mybodyisacage: Reply to sorryyileft___╰┈➤Ellie had a bit of a YouTube presence before she was on Stardom, it wasn't a crazy number but it was a cult following and that's why she won Stardom, bc she had fans to begin with then gained even more after being on national television

    elliespurplemonster: Reply to mybodyisacage╰┈➤She didn't win bc of following she won bc she's a good artist

    mybodyisacage: Reply to elliespurplemonster╰┈➤I never said she wasn't

bodhi_van34: I thought the whole thing at the Grammy's was an act until I saw all those news articles about Graham Wilson getting arrested

  carlyswarly: Reply to bodhi_van34╰┈➤They did a drug test when he got arrested and found coke in his system

    may0mayyyo: Reply to carlyswarly╰┈➤A busboy who worked the event said that Graham was doing cocaine in the bathroom

   body_van34: Reply to may0mayyyo╰┈➤ LMAO WTF 

charlotte_5freakingdidit: EVERYONE IS TALKING ABOUT ELLIE WILLIAMS BEING MEAN TO HER EX BUT GRAHAM WILSON LITERALLY ASSAULTED A POPSTAR ON STAGE AND TRIED TO THROW HANDS WITH JESSE LMAO IM DIFFUSING

juliaa__stirling: The way Ellie was laughing when Amelia said she messed up the cards was so rude and immature. Her fans are insane for defending her. All of that just because her ex fiancé gave a speech about working hard, imagine how she felt after being so honest with everyone just for her to not actually win and think about how she feels now reading all of these posts.

botoxangel: Celebrities have feelings too, Amelia made a mistake she's probably embarrassed but not as embarrassed as that poor woman is for putting her soul into a speech just for her ex and all of her fan girls to ridicule her for a mistake that wasn't even hers.

    karaleaah778: Reply to botoxangel╰┈➤exactly! And why are people blaming Amelia??? She was given the envelope by someone else, she genuinely thought her friend won.

carlosislost: Why is Graham even invited to these events?????????

katie_katelynsm1th: Reply to carlosislost╰┈➤Bc it's funny when he causes a scene

howto_nevrst0ppbeingsad: I know you guys think this Grammy situation is so funny but it's really not. Graham is clearly mentally ill, this is a cry for help.

   elleryc3llery: Reply to howto_nevrst0ppbeingsad╰┈➤Dude it's hilarious

  3emmettttt: Reply to howto_nevrst0ppbeing sad╰┈➤The way you're worried about the has been and not the girl whose nose he broke

allysaaaa663638: LMAO THE WAY SHE ACTUALLY THOUGHT SHE WON THE AWARD AND SHE DESERVED IT SHDBDBEGHWWBSV

jessicadacoolest: Ellie is so real for laughing bc I would've done the same tbh

hennyrumwine: Dumb bitch deserved to be hit lollllllll

4444carmencarmen4444: I love the Ashmen's music but I hate Ellie sm, I just feel like she's a fuck girl and she gives me very rude vibes. Like laughing at her ex and then mocking her heartfelt speech is INSANE anyways stream Solstice

sittingwaiting_wishing: I honestly have hated Ellie since the breakup, she's changed so much since then. She used to be funny now she's just mean.

carissaandher_h0ttakes: I still think it's kind of crazy that Dina and Jesse followed through with Ellie on Smokey Eyes because they were really close to her when she was engaged to Ellie, can't imagine how many ties that album severed

    elliessmokeyeye: Reply to carissaandher_h0ttakes╰┈➤I think about this all the time! She was literally the god mother for Dina and Jesses kid

     carissaandher_h0ttakes: Reply to elliessmokeyeye╰┈➤it make me think that she might've done something to them to make them hate her the way Ellie does, Ellie did say that she didn't write all of the songs for Smokey Eyes 🤔🤔🤔

"Do you see how this backlash doesn't look good for anyone?" My agent, Caroline asks after showing me several Twitter posts that are under the trending tag.

"Well, it's not really my fault."

"Nonetheless, I think It's time for a rebrand." She sets her phone face down and looks at me from across her desk "Do you remember when you went on tour with the Ashmen when you were around twenty-one?"

My eyes go wide, I'm already shaking my head "Please-

"This is an awful event that you can turn into an amazing opportunity and capitalize on it," The backdrop behind Caroline is almost blinding, it's an annoyingly hot LA day and I want nothing more than to be back in Canada and swimming in lakes with my little sister.

"Caroline, mentally I can't handle a tour with Ellie."

"Mentally, you're gonna have to," She says, getting stern "Your fans either hate each other or they love both of you and feel like their parents have divorced."

I know that I will argue with Caroline for the next hour and threaten to fire her but eventually, she will win, so until then I am preoccupied with thoughts of everything but Ellie, soaking in the last moments I will have until she envelopes my brain and suffocates me from the inside out.

I am sure that with Ellie, I will die before winter comes and I am doubtful that I will ever bloom again.

[hellishjoel]

in bloom

599 words / pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

← masterlist | notifications blog | seasons of life challenge masterlist

word: blossom

warnings/information: fluff, frankie has some lingering issues after being sent home from deployment

a/n: thought of this while staring at my boss' orchid blooming and about my failed attempts at keeping a cactus alive. the center picture is from @wildemaven! my banners are by @saradika-graphics. shoutout to @berryispunk and @lady-bess for putting this together on @fanfictionoverload!

Frankie imagined that being sent home from deployment would be heaven. However, his life as a civilian was lonely and a little terrifying, if he’s honest. 

Often surrounded by a band of his brothers, there was never a quiet moment. He once longed for silence and prayed for a moment of solitude. Being home, everything changed. 

He hated the sound of his breathing at night, how it ricocheted off the walls and filled the emptiness. He hated the quiet drives in his truck and fucking despised how there was no one to sing along to the radio. This wasn’t the freedom he had envisioned.

Instead of searching for company in all the wrong places, he found himself somewhere he never expected: the local farmer’s market. 

Frankie saw the flyer pinned to the bulletin board at the hardware store, decorated in bright, vibrant colors that listed the spring dates. 

Hell, why not?

With his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, he wanders through the market. Golden jars of honey glinted in the sunlight, freshly scored loaves of homemade bread filled the air with a delicious aroma, and vibrant blooms spilled from every corner, painting the scene in vivid color.

That’s when he saw you. 

Hair tamed by a red bandana, hands caked in dirt, an adorable smile on your pretty lips that had him in a trance. Truly, he had no idea he was even walking towards your stand until you greeted him. 

“Good morning, how are you?”

For a moment, he froze, words failing him as he stared blankly, his brain scrambling to catch up. Finally, he cursed himself inwardly, forcing a smile and managing a simple “Hi.”

You smile softly and nod, turning to speak to another customer who had wandered up. Frankie takes a moment to compose himself and looks around your stand, decorated by a red and white checkered picnic blanket and a chalkboard that displays your prices. 

“If you have any questions, let me know.” 

He flicks his eyes up to yours, taking in how they’re framed by dark lashes. He doesn’t want to lose your attention, so he points at the first potted plant he sees. “What’s that?”

You gasp softly at Frankie’s apparent good taste, moving to the folding table behind you to retrieve the plant with a colorful blue pot. “This beautiful blossom is actually a cactus. It’s kind of hard to tell because it’s covered in these little pink flowers, but she’s super easy to take care of. Good in small spaces.” 

“This plant is prettier than me,” Frankie jokes, his tone light but his eyes searching yours.

Your smile widens, breaking into a laugh so warm and sweet it feels like the closest thing to heaven. He soaks it in, wishing he could play the sound on a loop forever, anything to keep the crushing silence at bay.

Frankie’s never cared for a plant in his life, but he hands you a twenty-dollar bill and insists you keep the change. 

"Thank you," Frankie speaks softly, his eyes warm as he sends you a grateful nod. "I'm back home after a while away, and it's been... an adjustment."

"Hey," you say softly, your hand gently catching his arm before he can walk off. You hold out the cactus, your smile kind and warm. "Cactuses are survivors. They adapt and bloom, no matter how tough the environment is. Feels like a good thing to have around, don’t you think?"

Your eyes meet his, and for a moment, Frankie wonders if you’re talking about more than the plant in his hands.

← masterlist | notifications blog | seasons of life challenge masterlist

[kremlin]

after many years my old company has finally allowed people back into the office, haha, not to go to work, no no, solely to collect their belongings from their desks. i picked up my stuff and remembered what a psycho i was about my office back then, let me show you..

i set up an old VT-420 on a side of my desk to read my email on (to flex my computer dick) which is unfortunately a bit too yellowed now for me to post exposed but hilariously enough i did take the chance to fix the faulty RS-232 chip in it and i no longer get a bunch of keystrokes interpreted as ŸŸŸŸs randomly. the fix was great too, instead of having to throw the whole thing out like you'd need to today, i literally just had to pull the PTH chip out of its socket, didn't even need to desolder. nor throw the old one out. i blasted it with a blowtorch for about half a second and it's fine now.

(it is amber by the way, which is the best color)

the keyboard is another story, i think a lot of like, entry-level vintage computing people get this concept that every old keyboard is some treasure, and boy let me tell you, some of them make you want throw up, like the vt420's:

you'll have to take my word that the typing experience is pure ass, but if you look at this fucker for more than two seconds your blood pressure will start to raise. and i'm not just talking about the euro return key. where is the super key? and what is going on left of 'a'? did they decide to solve the age-old "caps lock vs ctrl" debate by putting both of them there (??) what the fuck is going on north of the arrow keys?!?! and even further north, 'help' is funny enough on its own, the fact its next to DO, a truly existentially puzzling key, makes it that much better. why is DO so wide?? why are there so many F keys? and apparantly 20 F keys wasn't enough, they had to go on and invent "PF" keys above the numpad. and it doesn't stop there..

the pre-USB world was pretty nuts, but most keyboards still had sane connectors like DE-9's, PS/2, DINs, etc, but not this one

it uses, a, uh, looks like an ethernet cable. weird. but look closer. six pins. AND, big honking square to key it specifically and make it incompatible with the very-similar already-existing 6P6C specification (why?) anyways, that's enough of this crap, moving on

this is the keyboard for my lisp machine, the famous "space cadet keyboard", i get so many fucking emails about this keyboard, christ almighty. people trying to buy it from me, it's a shame, the machines don't boot without them so seperating them to satisfy reddit guy wish fulfillment breaks my heart. it's a lot better. it's from an era where a good computer would set you back half a million and the hardware reflects it. honeywell made it, it's "solid state" insofar as that makes sense for a keyboard, uses the hall effect. there weren't any rats at my office but just in case i seem to have taped something to the underside:

lol. now for accouterments to cover those hideous eggshell white walls:

in order, openbsd, you know it baby, middle is a weird polish promo for the holy mountain, the last thing was a joke whose meaning has been lost to time. chicken and turkey!

i seemed to have been working on some very bizarre electronics projects, personal, during my workday:

god, what the fuck was this?

oh, duh, it's bort's hat. (??)

some reading materials. K&R C is a first edition, somewhat rare. the 9front manuals:

classic, natch. and a huge gear that's clapped

that's it. that's my office apparently.

[wordsandrobots]

Seasoned

Series: Wishing on Space Hardware [extra]

Fandom: Iron-Blooded Orphans

Rating: T

Pairings: Yamagi/Shino

Summary: Sometime after the events of Wishing on Space Hardware, Yamagi and Shino see in the new year.

Notes: As promised, here's a short ficlet for the end of 2024! It references events in one of the audio plays (which @lilenui put me on to a couple of years back -- thank you!): my own interpretation of how Yamagi ended up a mechanic didn't quite square with the play, but it's close enough to fudge.

May you all survive and thrive in 2025. Make art. Enjoy art. Be who you are and wish to be. And stay safe.

----

It's Dwindling Season, which means everything is cold and dark and mornings basically aren't happening, and if there's a better argument for hibernation, Yamagi has yet to hear it. When he wakes to see not a single chink of light coming through the shutters, his first instinct is to bury himself back under the bed-covers and take full advantage of the on-site heating.

The problem is, where Shino ought to be there's only a chilly, cover-less patch of mattress.

Whining at the betrayal, Yamagi rolls the other way and checks the clock. Disgustingly, it is in fact a reasonable hour to be out of bed, even if the weekend means it isn't currently required. He pulls the pillow over his head, just to be dramatic, then checks Shino's side more closely. Must have been gone a while. But there's no sound from the bathroom, or the rest of the apartment…

Maybe he went for a jog? Even if the idea of exercising outside during Dwindling Season is appalling, Shino has different standards and also the capacity for radiating heat that makes his current absence so frustrating. He'd probably have fun, running up a sweat in the middle of winter, just to prove he could.

Yamagi curls into a ball, shuddering, and that's when the second thoughts come worming in. Because of course his nightmares these days are all about Shino not being there come the morning. As if the last five years might just puff out of existence at a second's notice. As if bringing him home was the dream and hard reality is waiting to wrench it away.

Which is dumb. Yamagi only has to turn on the light and he'll see Shino's clothes scattered around the room, the extra side-table by the bed, the posters pinned on the wall 'so we'll have something cool to look at while we make out' – said with the biggest, goofiest grin that was begging to be kissed stupid, and was, as a reminder of where attention ought to be focused…

Breathing deep, he sticks out his arm, groping for the switch. It clicks and there the signs of their life together are, present and correct. Still no noise or other clues, though. The only way he's finding out where Shino went is by getting up to check.

All things considered, he thinks he's very restrained, only swearing every other step as he jitters his way across the floor to the door and the massive, thick robe hanging there. Technically, it belongs to Shino – a gift from Merribit, who found something similar for Yukinojo at a sale and discovered that it came in bright pink as well. It's Shino-sized, without a doubt, and swamps Yamagi entirely as a result, which is why he wears it on days like this.

Suitably armoured, he opens the door. This instantly dispels any lingering fears because Shino is sitting on the sofa, large as life and twice as beautiful, a mug of tea in hand. He's staring into space. Whatever he's thinking, it's occupying him enough to dull his sense of his surroundings. Yamagi has padded right over to him before he stirs, big brown eyes lighting up. “Hey there, sleepy-head! Happy New Year.”

“Mn,” Yamagi agrees, dropping down beside him.

“Didn't wake you, did I?”

“Nh.” Leaning against Shino's shoulder, he surrenders to a jaw-cracking yawn. “You a'right?”

Nightmares are not a limited resources in this household and Shino deliberately taking himself away from other people to think isn't usually a good sign.

“Yeah! I just…”

“Mm?”

Shino swigs some tea, gaze roaming the room, settling eventually on the shelves they put up next to the vid screen and the lovingly-painted model Shiden perched there. He sighs. “I'm going to be thirty this year. Or I already am.”

Huh.

He's never let them make a fuss over his birthday, on top of nobody being sure the date in his ID record is close to accurate to begin with, so it's a bit hard to keep track. But, yes, give or take, that must be about right. “It's only a number. You don't need to feel bad just because –”

“I don't! I don't feel bad. That's kinda what I was… I like it? I like that I'm gonna be old.”

“Oh.” The part of Yamagi concerned with practicalities and accuracy even when the rest of him is changing gear mid-conversation has him add, “I don't think thirty counts as 'old'.”

“Older than I ever thought I'd get.” Shino rests his mug on his knee, tilting it slightly to one side. “I mean, most of the First Group guys weren't thirty, were they?”

Honestly, it's hard to remember. Maruba aside, they tend to blur together, lacking any personal details beyond 'bigger' and 'meaner'. “I guess.”

“Seemed like forever away. And I, um…”

We could have all died tomorrow. Why waste today on wishing when I could be having fun?

Looking back, Yamagi suspects he was guilty of thinking that way too, in his own pessimistic fashion. Not that Shino's version was especially optimistic, boiled down to its core. Another of those things they shared without realising.

He can remember – it was early on. He'd been reading maintenance manuals as fast as humanly possible, skipping meals and cutting sleep for the sake of an education. Shino caught him napping, exhausted, curled around an ammo case. For a second, he thought he was in big trouble. Only, of course Shino bubbled with enthusiasm at the idea of him learning be a proper mechanic. And not to repay Yukinojo for taking pity, oh no. Yamagi needed to aim higher, to fight alongside everyone, like the Old Man did, keeping each weapon in perfect condition. Then, one day, when Shino got his own mobile suit, they'd be a perfect team!

Ridiculous, as was standard for Shino's out-sized encouragement. The CGS had one mobile suit and it hadn't moved for years. Still, at the time, those words meant the world. Someone believed in Yamagi, in his potential as something other than an infantry drop-out. If he'd not already been half in love with Shino, he certainly would have been after that.

But there's something painful about realising how narrow their horizons were, that 'aiming high' meant nothing more than becoming better fighters.

“Sorry,” Shino murmurs. “I don't want to talk about miserable shit I'm over and make you sad too.”

Yamagi elbows him. “That isn't a reason not to tell me if something's bothering you. I was just thinking about when you got me to stop calling you 'Mister' all the time.”

“Oh, shit, yeah! Geez, it really was all the time. Mr Shino this, Mr Shino that, yes Mr Shino, definitely Mr Shino.”

“Hey, I wasn't that bad.”

“No. But I was glad I got you to stop.”

“Me too.” The change felt both wrong and surprisingly easy, thanks to how Shino had beamed at him. He's always found it desperately hard to say no to that smile. “I'm glad you're happy.”

“I am!” Shino puts his mug down at his feet and slings his arm around Yamagi. “I'm gonna get old and I get to do it with you and Eugene and everyone. Isn't that great?”

“Yeah. It is.” More than great. The highest they could possibly aim.

Oh, that's so incredibly soppy. If Yamagi weren't so incredibly comfortable, squashed against the great, warm mass of Shino's body, he might break the moment from pure embarrassment.

Then again Shino has a habit of making embarrassment feel like a colossal waste of time.

“I think… maybe… I'd like to have a birthday party this year.” Smiling at Yamagi, he gestures with his other arm, which would certainly be throwing out a hand to encompass the whole of their family if he had his prosthetic on. “Get everyone together, have a big cake. What do you think?”

Yamagi snorts. “You expect me to say anything except 'yes'?”

“Hey, I still gotta ask!”

“How about I wrap myself in ribbons this time? Will that make it clear?”

“…am I supposed to say 'no'?”

They sit there a while, daydreaming, pressed together snug as rats in a nest.

Then Shino asks, “You don't mind, do you?”

“Mind?”

“Me getting old. What if I start getting wrinkly? What if I get a beer gut?”

Smothering another yawn, Yamagi rolls his eyes. “You barely drink any more. And so what if you did? Are you planning on giving up exercise?”

“No?”

“Then I don't see what the problem is.”

“…so I only need to worry when I can't carry you around any more. Gotcha.”

He turns to plant a kiss on Shino's cheek. “You've nothing to worry about at all.”

“Thanks. Still need to hear that, sometimes.” The hand on Yamagi's shoulder squeezes once. “Speaking of exercise, you want to come for a jog? The streets should be clear right about now.”

Making a pained noise, Yamagi tries his best to disappear inside the robe.

“Heh. OK, OK. How about I stay here and make breakfast for my amazingly hot husband instead?”

And really, who'd want to say no to that?

[peppermintmagicianlynn]

TimBer Week 2024: First Sleepover

TimBer Week 2024 Day #7: First Sleeepover

Last one of the week. We made it!

It was amazing how casually it had come about.

They’d been dating for six months, officially boyfriends for only a few weeks. And yet…it felt like they’d been together for years. Bernard came by almost every day, they shared meals and swapped clothes, then bickered over whose turn it was to do laundry. It felt like they were sharing the boat as a home together and that filled Tim with delight that he couldn't fully express.

But the one thing they had yet to do was spend a night together.

N-not like that! Just…you know, sleeping in the same space. They’d done that a lot in high school, when they’d stay up late playing video games or watching movies, then crash at one person’s house. They’d make pallets across the floor or just collapse on top of someone’s bed, where parents would drape them in individual blankets.

It wasn’t a new thing… but this was a new thing!

One bed. One blanket. A pre-planned slumber party.

Granted, it had come about for a very non-romantic reason.

--

“Fumigate?!”

Bernard winced at his boyfriend’s outraged exclamation, setting the phone aside while he struggled to fold his clothes into his duffel bag.

“Yeah, some idiot called the health inspector on one of the neighbors. I don’t know what they found, but they gave us all an hour to pack up and get out. They said it won’t be safe to come back until tomorrow.”

“And where exactly do they expect you to go until then?”

Bernard wished they were on video chat so Tim could see his deadpan look. “Tim, babe, this is a low-income district. They don’t care if I sleep on the street as long as I don’t come back until they give the go-ahead.”

Tim squawked over the line while Bernd packed some underwear. “I’ll just sleep at a friend’s house. It’s fine. Jared has a pull-out couch and as long as Toby didn’t get kicked out of his girlfriend’s place again, I can just-”

“Stay here.”

“Huh?”

“Here. At the boat. With me.”

“Uh, are you sure about that?”

“Am I- Bear! You just told me you’re going to be homeless for a night. Why wouldn’t I want you to be here with me?”

“Well, when you put it like that, sure. I have a work shift for the next few hours, but I’ll come around sometime after 8. That cool?”

“Sure, that’s perfect. See you then.”

“Love you.”

Tim was quiet for a moment. Bernard was patient. Then, “I love you, too. See you later. Bye.”

Bernard grinned. It was a tactical risk pulling that on him. It hadn’t been that long ago Tim could call them boyfriends without stuttering. And now, they were going to have their first sleepover together since high school.

Bernard looked at his clothes as he packed them up, particularly his pajamas. They were hand-me-downs from Toby, and while Bernard liked them well enough, would they be a little too ratty for this? And moreover, would showing up there in Batman pajamas be a little too on the nose? He loved teasing Tim about his secret identity but that might actually get him suspicious that Bernard knew the truth. He’d need to pick up something else after he was done with work. He would not show up to his boyfriend’s boat looking like a slob!

--

Tim was a slob messy person. His mind was sharp, his deductive reasoning unparalleled, and his skills across various fields were masterful. But like most geniuses, he thrived in chaos of his own making, and there was no clearer sign of that than his houseboat. Once, his neighbor Lauren had stopped by to ask him to have dinner with her and Tammy, and nearly killed herself walking down the stairs when she slipped on a discarded takeout bag. Not Tim’s fault, though Tammy’s wrath after that incident said otherwise.

So while Tim definitely had to clean up any evidence of his Robin activities - case files, hardware, suit pieces, gadgets - he also gave the space a proper cleaning. Like on-the-floor-with-a-scrub-brush, window-washing, dishes-put-away kind of cleaning. The laundry… well, that went under the bed. He only had so many hours!

The fervor with which he cleaned his living space surprised even him. He had ignored it when his siblings talked about his junky boat; Bernard had already seen it this way from the very start. But he still wanted to make it shine for him. Make it just a little bit better for his boyfriend’s first night over.

--

Bernard arrived in the evening, with his necessities and valuables he didn’t want to leave behind where strangers might rummage through his drawers. A Gothamite born and raised. Tim tried not to linger over the idea that his boyfriend's whole life could probably fit in just three bags and met him on the dock for a welcoming kiss. They had been sharing a lot more kisses since officially calling each other boyfriends (though apparently, Bernard had been calling them that way longer). When they finally pulled back, Bernard was beaming with unrestrained glee. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Tim returned, picking up one of the bags and bringing it into his home.

Bernard gawked at the place. “Uh, did you buy a new house without telling me? Because I swear I haven't seen the floor of your boat since the day before you moved in.”

“Ha-ha,” Tim said, setting the duffel bag down on his clutter-free floor. “If you wanted to sleep in a Five-Star hotel, you should have spoken up sooner.

Actually, his back-up apartment over near Crime Alley might qualify. If Bernard was really uncomfortable sleeping on the boat, maybe he could bring him over there instead. He’d have to be extra careful about the access points to the Nest but…

“No way!” his boyfriend declared, sounding offended at the idea. “I love your boat. It's so cozy and homey and so totally you. It’s perfect just as it is, even when it’s messier than a frat-boy’s dorm!” He just couldn’t resist that last dig.

But Tim appreciated his words all the same.

--

They ordered delivery for dinner, a local Thai place that they both adored. While sitting around Tim’s table, Bernard brought out his laptop to show him his latest discover: a fan-made Green Lantern movie. Tim was genuinely impressed by the flick and was already plotting how to get Bruce into a situation where he couldn’t escape watching it. The aroma of green curry and spring rolls, Bernard’s theories that the filmmakers were actually part of a Lantern Corp splinter group wishing to sway public opinion and take over the universe - all of it felt right. For them, at least.

“It just makes sense,” Bernard insisted between bites of his curry. "By hiding in plain sight on YouTube, they can secretly influence galactic events and just blame it on the more famous members!”

Tim laughed, urging him on. Bernard's eyes sparkled when he was passionate about a new idea.

The conversation flowed effortlessly, weaving through topics of jobs, school, family and anything else they wanted. There was a lightheartedness to it all, but also a deeper connection, an unshakable comfort and safety that let them be as unfiltered and silly as they pleased. As the night went on and their movie ended, they were still talking, ignoring their food that had long gone cold. Bernard leaned back against the bench, a satisfied sigh escaping his lips. "This is what I like most about being here. It’s just you and me. It’s nice.”

Tim smiled, reaching out to squeeze Bernard's hand. "I love having you here.”

--

Bernard’s yawning told Tim they’d stayed up long enough. He had already called off of patrol for the night but the other still had work tomorrow, so they couldn’t burn the late-night oil like the might any other time. Tim insisted Bernard could head to the bedroom first and get changed while Tim cleaned up the mess.

“He’s already mending his ways,” Bernard wiped a fake tear from his eyes. “I’ve never been more proud.”

He ran to the bedroom, closing the door fast before the couch cushion could hit him.

--

Bernard felt far less sure about his choice of sleeping clothes now that they were on his body. He’d only allowed himself thirty minutes after his shift to dash into a store and grab a “respectable” set of pajamas off the shelf. No garish logos, no quirky patterns; just something nice and neat for when he shared a bed with his Significant Other.

But seeing himself in the light blue, pinstriped flannel, he looked...wrong. Like he was trying to hide behind something "presentable" and fake his way through. A harsh reminder to his teen years, causing a rush of those old insecurities he'd tried to hard to shed. He shouldn't have bought this. He was proud of who he was and what he liked. So why did he keep having these moments of doubt that made him do things he would end up regretting?

Tim knocked on the door, politely refraining from barging into his own bedroom. Bernard would have given anything to rewind, hit pause, and change his life’s decisions. But he couldn’t.

“Come in,” he said, his voice as steady as he could manage.

Tim pushed the door open, took one look at him, and smiled. “Cute.”

Usually, that word from Tim would make him happy, but this time it hit a little wrong. “Yeah, I know it’s… it’s stupid.” He gripped the offensive fabric between his fingers, hating it more with each passing second. “I should have worn the Batman ones instead.”

“Well, that would be very much your style, you fanboy,” Tim said, coming closer. He wrapped his arms around Bernard’s waist, pulling their bodies together, then murmured into his ear, “But these are nice, too. You're a handsome guy, Bernard, no matter what you wear. These look good on you."

Tim’s boldness was unusual, but his ability to read Bernard's insecurities and immediately sooth them was commonplace. Bernard hugged his wonderful boyfriend in gratitude for those words. He then left the room so Tim could change into his own pajamas, which were a lot simpler: basketball shorts and an oversized T-shirt.

Bernard didn’t let their dissimilarity of outfits bother him a second time. He chose to savor the moment; brushing his teeth together in Tim’s tiny bathroom, hip-checking each other for space in the mirror, and trying not to choke on foam amidst their laughter.

--

Tim’s bed wasn’t small, but it was compact. Enough for one person comfortably and two if they didn’t mind touching in the middle. Bernard waited to see which side the other preferred climbing under the sheets with him, taking the spot closer to the wall.

Was that intentional?

The dock lanterns outside shone their light through the windows, the only illumination they had. Bernard was 80% certain Tim could actually see in this dark, so he felt a little more self-conscious than he might have otherwise. A calloused hand found his beneath the blanket and squeezed it, offering silent reassurance to what he must have read on Bernard’s face.

Finding the right sleeping position was hard; Bernard was used to a much firmer (and lumpier) mattress, so his body was a little unsure how to work with Tim’s memory foam. For his part, Tim couldn’t seem to settle on what part of the bed he actually wanted, going from the very edge of his side to taking up a good chunk in the middle. There was a lot of shifting limbs, sometimes kicking each other which provoked retaliation, but that was a familiar part of their old sleepovers too. It was nostalgic.

“Fair warning: I’ve been told I snore,” Tim whispered.

“That won’t bother me. My roommates are like grizzly bears trying to harmonize with one another in an all-night concert. When my eyes are closed, I’m deaf.” Bernard paused, considering, before adding, “But, um, I might wake up in the middle of the night. I get nightmares sometimes.”

Tim was quiet; Bernard wished he could see his face. Then warm arms came up around his shoulders, pulling him into a hug that always felt like a safe place to hide. “I’ll be right here if you do,” Tim promised, soft yet unyielding. “I’ll be here when you get up tomorrow, too. You're safe, Bear. "

Bernard bit his lip to keep the tears of gratitude at bay. How had he found someone who care so much, who actually paid attention enough to see the fears he’d never admit to. Bernard shifted until his lips found warm skin, trailing them across Tim’s cheek until he could properly kiss the man he loved. It was gentler than what they’d had outside, but twice as meaningful. Simple but perfect, just like this moment. Just like every moment they got to share in this comfy houseboat.

The night dragged on, their attempt to sleep interrupted by whispered comments and gentle touches. Snuggling under the blankets was the best part by far, feeling heartbeats and gentle breaths, the warmth and safety of having a lover’s arms to hold you tightly through the night.

The bond they shared was already strong, but taking a step like this made it feel like they were truly unbreakable.

---

I wonder if you can tell how tired I was after a week of writing. Still, I gave it my best to end TimBer Week 2024 on a good note. That said, I might come back through these on a later date and do some editing. Not for a while, though.

Thank you to everyone who read even one of my posts and a special thanks if anyone joined me in this project!

Let's see what next year brings!

[wildthings04]

[sugassemicircularcanal]

Burgundy Thorns Act I: Lock You

🖤 Yoongi x Reader

🎤 Rapper!Yoongi | ☁️ Fluff | 🤍 Tenderness | 🔞 Smut | 🎶 Lots of $uicideboy$ lyrics

📝 Word Count: 9.1k

⚠️ Warnings: depictions of psychosis, self-harm, dying, drug use

🏥 Reader and Yoongi (in their mid-20s) meet in a psychiatric facility and fall into obsession maybe love, we'll see.

Please give my corny little fanfic a chance.

📖 Will be two acts!

🎧 Inspired by the songs Burgundy and Thorns by $uicideboy$

💿 Album: New World Depression

You still don’t know how your parents can afford it. This place is really nice. 

The floors are marble stone polished to a mirror.

The air in every hallway is infused with lavender, eucalyptus–sometimes sandalwood. 

All the furniture looks like it’s all from Restoration Hardware, like the catalogs your mom used to leave on the counter and never order from. 

The bedding at the residential house is so comfortable you figure the blankets cost more than your wardrobe. 

“___ is there anything you’d like to share today?”

There’s a pause before you speak. 

You’re not sure what you have to offer to this room of people with problems bigger and uglier than yours.

“…I fantasize about dying–just so I’m not alone with my thoughts about living,” You say fiddling with a stim toy. 

Your feet reposition themselves on the shiny floors. If someone slipped and fell they’d definitely crack their head open. 

Across the circle, Burgundy shifts in his chair. He’s quiet, but not invisible.

He’s wearing a Yohji Yamamoto jersey tracksuit with a brass safety pin brooch. You couldn’t help but notice. 

You continue sharing. 

"Sometimes it’s not on purpose, my mind just goes there, and that’s when I wish it would stop.”

You’re not allowed to share details about drugs or gore in session so you leave it at that. 

Earlier, you want to say, “I thought about putting my hand in a pot of boiling water. Like the water would stop the trembling for the two hours between lunch and going back to the residential house. It’s a terrible feeling to look out of the window watching cars speed past the lackadaisical pace of the bus that may or may not crash”.

And before you know it you’ve said all that outloud. 

You feel your eyes widen for a moment and then relax.

You look at the counselor directing the session. They give a slightly disapproving look.  

“Right, sorry.” You murmur. 

Across the room “Burgundy” laughs. Just once. Sharp. Defensive.

You glance at him.

“It wasn’t funny.”

He says, a smile lingering in his voice,“I know. That’s why I laughed.” 

He doesn’t apologize. 

–

You’re spacing out after the last session of the day, pleasantly blank, until a familiar voice interrupts you.

“Still think the bus might crash?”

It’s Burgundy but you don’t turn. 

“Thanks for reminding me,” you sigh.  

Talking about it in a group had helped. To your disbelief. 

After a moment of silence you expect him to walk away but he doesn’t.

You glance down and he is unmistakably wearing a pair of white Margiela sneakers, the split-toe ones. Perfectly out of place. 

On the bus, he takes the seat beside you. You don’t protest. You don’t dwell on him laughing in group, either.

Before you know it your hands start to shake as fear crawls up your spine. 

The bus lurches into movement. 

Slowly, cautiously, you feel his hand near yours. Fingers brush. Then he laces them together.

Something in you latches on quickly and the trembles turn into you squeezing his hand. 

You don’t want to let go. 

He starts talking to you.

You realize what he’s doing before he does. 

Distracting you.

"He was talking in circles like he just snorted a line of Ritalin.”

“Who?” you sak. 

“The counselor.”

“So what”, you say, eyes closing as the cars start to blur past the window. His hand is soft and warm, bigger than yours.

“So, I stopped listening after he said the word ‘wellness’ for the third time.”

You almost smile. 

“Your real name isn’t Burgundy, is it?” You ask. 

“No, it’s Yoongi,”He says gently.

“Why the alias?”

“I’m an embellisher. I like decorating things.”

You accept this,“What does your name mean then?" 

"It’s a song I’m working on.”

“You make music?”

He nods,“A lot of it.”

“About what?”

“…You’ll have to listen.”

“Can I listen now?”

“If you want.”

Yoongi leans over his leather bag on the floor, subtle, wrinkled like it’s old, and pulls out a pair of headphones that look like you’d wear them to space.

He hands them to you and lets you put them on as he pulls out his phone.You don’t expect what you hear. It’s polished. Cinematic.

The song starts with a haunting refrain full of bone rattling bass and then rides like a cadillac into lyrics:

Emotionless, but the dose is up 

Fuck affection, I don’t cozy up 

You in my house, and that’s close enough

I got problems with trust, I got problems with lust 

Bitch, that’s powder, not dust

You laugh. 

Once quietly when it’s over. Not out of humor but nerves. 

There it is again, problems bigger and uglier than your own.

He says it. Soft and flat: 

“That wasn’t funny.”

You hand Yoongi back his headphones. 

You look at him, truly look at him for the first time and you think for a moment he looks like an alligator. 

Eyes peeking up over the water, jaws hidden below its murky surface. And he was holding your hand, the ghost of which is still there.

You smile deeply satisfied. With everything.

“I know. That’s why I laughed." 

And you’re there finally, at the residential house.

–

It’s late. 1:04 am. The lights are fluorescent, uninviting, perfect for cleaning. 

Yoongi is in the dining area with an apple in hand. 

The nurse let him have his snack in exchange for going to bed right after.

His phone screen glows with your profile open. 

You’d exchanged handles earlier—offhand, like it meant nothing. 

Now he’s scrolling through it, thinking.

The apple creaks when he bites it. It’s sweet and cold. 

One hand scrolls. The other wipes juice from his mouth.

Your feed is neat—old selfies, concert videos, pictures of things clearly significant but to him immediately mundane. A key, a plant, the edge of a plate and a glass. 

The captions are to the point: thoughts, designers, quotes. He can appreciate it. 

Yoongi concludes you’re cool. The sort of person worth befriending while he was here. 

He’d decided that earlier when he first noticed you as he was checking into the facility. You were there, dressed like most of his friends, polite to the concierge, talking about some musician he knows personally in the living space at residential. 

He taps an old video: you laughing. He watches it twice.

You’re supposed to focus on yourself while you’re here, no one else.

And here he is, staring at you 

He locks the screen.

Sets the phone face-down.

Takes another bite of the apple.

Hard. Loud.

It’s not fair. 

It just felt nice. That for a moment, he could consider someone other than himself.

He remembers your trembling subsiding in his hand. 

The nurse watches him from behind the office window. He looks normal, like nothing is wrong. 

–

The next day, Yoongi feels a little sick.

He didn’t sleep well. The apple gave him energy, not rest. 

For a moment, he wonders if it poisoned him.

It’s about 7:05 AM. 

Everyone in the house is dressed and ready except for two people—an older woman, and you. He notices your absence before anything else.

He tells himself he wants to be worried about himself. That he should be. That it’s logical to monitor his vitals, his sleep, the residual tremble in his own hands.

But he knows the truth.

He’s just relieved.

Relieved to be somewhere safe.

Relieved that no one expects anything of him here. That the outside world, with its clocks and invoices and unpaid favors, doesn’t touch him in this house and the facility.

He’s still on the edge. Still half in the fog of the drug-induced psychosis that got him there. 

The voices haven’t fully left—they murmur now, not shout. Still, he hears them. Whispering that people are following him. That the rehab program is a set-up. That the point of it all is to make him kill himself, finally, so the world can sigh in relief.

He half-believes it.

He half-believes some of the others are here for the same reason: because they are burdens. That the facility is just to test how much they can take before they drop like flies. 

Good-for-nothings.

It’s what his parents said.

It’s what he still says to himself.

For the past year, that’s all he could hear in any voice.

Even if someone just mentioned the weather—“soggy,” “wet”—he’d take it as code. A metaphor. For how he was feeling. 

Because everyone could read his mind.

Because of the chip. In his brain.

And now, this morning, you’re gone.

Not there at breakfast. Not on the porch.

And he wonders—maybe "they” told you.

Maybe “they” updated your file this morning. Said: He was watching you. Last night. He was scrolling through your feed with an apple in his mouth like a villain in a fairy tale.

Maybe they said it out loud, and you listened.

Maybe that’s why you’re not here

They’re already loading in when you arrive—hair half-damp, sweater sleeves rolled up, backpack slung low. You jog the last few feet like you didn’t notice how late you were. Or maybe you did and didn’t care.

Yoongi sees you from his window seat—eyes half-shut, face turned toward the glass like he might disappear into it.

For a moment, he thinks maybe you’ll pass him. That you’ll pick a seat in the back. Or near the counselor.

But you don’t.

You slide into the seat across the aisle, drop your bag with a soft thud, and glance sideways at him.

Then—like nothing’s wrong, like no surveillance report has been sent, like he didn’t ghost through your Instagram feed last night with apple juice drying on his lips—you nod at his feet.

“Nice Rick,” you say.

Yoongi looks down at his shoes, cream laces tied into stars.

He’s not sure if the sound in his chest is panic or relief. His body can’t tell the difference yet.

You lean back against the window and close your eyes. Like you didn’t just tether him back to the world with two words.

He stares at his boots.

He doesn’t remember putting them on.

And Yoongi stares at them after you’ve closed your eyes.

—

About a week later, you’re in your room. Thinking.

There aren’t many ways to kill yourself in there. 

The only thing you can think of is the light bulb in the lamp.

Breaking it. Cutting your wrist. Locking the door. Even though the nurse has a master key.

You imagine bleeding out under the glow of the fluorescent overhead light—something bright and cold. Something fitting.

You decide you don’t want to be in the room anymore. 

The quiet that sets in after imagining your blood soaking into the carpet is too unsettling. 

You open the door, check the hallway and enter the room across from yours.

You’re not supposed to be in his room. But it’s prophetic that it’s right there.

The lights are off, the door’s cracked.

He’s outside smoking, with the nurse, or maybe just not here.

You don’t care.

The bed’s messy but intentional—like he only ever sleeps under half the blanket.

There’s a blue electric guitar on the dresser and another blanket draped over the mirror. It smells good. Too good. 

On the floor: a pair of white Margiela sneakers. 

You kneel down.

You don’t pick them up—just rest two fingers on the heel of one.

The leather is soft.

You don’t know what you’re doing. Maybe you do.

“Why the fuck do you need $800 shoes in rehab?”

You say it out loud.

To the empty room.

Like it’ll answer you.

You stand and glance over his wardrobe. 

You see a dsquared2 hat, an Alexander McQueen jacket, a Celine sweater—diverse seemingly unrelated choices. 

You reach into the pocket of a black jacket, and pull out one euro. You drop it feeling like you weren’t supposed to touch it. 

You don’t move anything else. 

And leave.

You don’t notice another client leaving their room as you make your exit.

Back in your room you fiddle with an opal guitar pick. The space doesn’t feel disquieting anymore. 

—

The next day you’re feeling assured, like the evening before gave you some vitality. Like the day was worth working through.  

You’re wearing bright orange. 

Your movements are light and airy; you move between sessions like a colorful fish moving down a stream. 

Bees buzz around the flowers, the warm air clings to your skin like a kiss. 

After the last therapy session of the day, after the air thins out from the thickness from a worksheet on “radical acceptance”, you all wait for the bus back to the residential house in various locations: the gym, the art room, the music room, the garden. 

You swing on the garden swing slowly. 

Across from you, Yoongi’s on a bench surrounded by bushes of blue hydrangeas. His knee is bent, hand absently picking lint off his black sweatpants. It’s slow, distracted. Unsuccessful. The fuzz seems endless. You watch him try to roll it off with the side of his palm. It doesn’t work.

There’s a lint roller on the bookshelf in the art room. 

So you stand up, walk across the garden and into the art room’s back door. No one pays attention.

You return and sit next to Yoongi without a word. He looks at you—questioning.

You reach out hesitantly and press the sticky roller to his thigh. It makes a quiet ripping noise as you roll upward, the fuzz lifting clean.

Yoongi doesn’t move. Doesn’t joke. Just watches your hand move—slow, careful—over the curve of his knee, down again, up toward his hip.

You roll once more. The strip is full. You peel it off, crumple it and put it in your pocket. 

You look up at him and you’re close, so close. Not close enough to kiss but close enough to lean in. He doesn't move away, he doesn’t lean in, in fact to Yoongi it was the perfect distance.

Something small and warm had ignited in his chest, quiet and terrifying. The hair on the back of his neck stands. 

His eyes glitter a little bit in the light.  

“Are we married now?” He asks quietly, sarcastically. 

You can’t think of what to say. 

Then—he adds casually…

“You were in my room.” 

Caught, you quickly reach into your pocket and hold out his guitar pick like a confession. 

Your voice is soft,“Sorry.” 

After a moment, he takes it. And remembers the moment he opened his drawer and saw it was gone. He figured he must've misplaced it. Didn’t even think of it when Jimin snitched. 

“Thanks for holding my hand,” you say, voice gentle, “that was thoughtful.” 

Something about him tells you he isn’t going to report you. 

Then you stand.

And walk away.

Yoongi sits there with the pick.

He has a new proclivity from his psychosis he's found: a residual acceptance of absurd things. 

You were in his room. You touched his things. You stood in the middle of his mess and picked something out just to keep, like a person pocketing a souvenir from a museum. 

It should bother him more than it does but it doesn't. There’s a part of him that says “I deserve this”, “it’s part of the process”—part of “them” trying to get into his head even though he knows the delusion isn’t real anymore.

And with that post-psychotic haze there is a quiet arrogance curling around the edges of the moment. 

Of course you were in his room. Of course you took the pick of all things. 

It’s not romantic. But it feels weirdly intimate and Yoongi decides officially, in the warmth of significance he feels, that he is disturbed as much as you are incursive. 

—

It’s 8 pm. You’re standing in line for meds. It’s quiet, dull, the fluorescent buzz thicker than the air. A nurse calls each name like a teacher doing roll call. 

Yoongi slides in behind you at the last second. You don’t turn around. He doesn’t say hello.

He hesitates for a moment but decides to go ahead with the plan he thought over. 

He leans forward just enough to glance over your shoulder.

“Low-dose Hydroxyzine,” he murmurs, barely audible. 

You glance back, startled.

He doesn’t meet your eyes—just studies the medication card in your hand. 

Then, calmly: “You don’t seem like a biter. So what is it—impulse control? You just want to sleep a lot?”

You don’t answer. You figure he’s wondering what kind of crazy steals a guitar pick. 

He finally looks at you. His expression is plain, like he’s not asking a personal question. 

“It’s not a bad pick,” he adds. “Knocks you out clean. Fewer dreams.”

Then he steps back. Just enough space to break the tension. Still too close to forget.

The nurse calls your name.

“And Lamotrigine?” He asks. 

“Yeah. Mood stabilizer, ” You reply, feeling obligated.

“Risk of Stevens-Johnson syndrome. You titrate slow?”

“I… don’t know?” 

“Figures.”

You go to the nurse and take your medication. Then you turn back to him. He’s still watching you and you start to feel like you might have something else of his in your pocket. 

“Who else was rapping on your song?” You cut the moment. 

He hesitates, reminded that he shared that with you. Usually people already know, or they don’t like it enough to ask. 

“Hoseok, my cousin.”

–

That night you dream of a swamp. Something dangerous brushes your ankle.

When you wake up you hear Yoongi’s voice, his lyrics in your head, they unravel slowly like a spool of ribbon. 

Your sheets are damp with sweat.

–

The sky’s a low gray ceiling.

Yoongi’s quiet. He always is after group. Still caught in the lag between saying something out loud and realizing he actually meant it.

You’re walking beside him, a little behind. Your steps scuff the gravel. You’ve been following him around lately, it feels like. It’s not something he resists but to his concern, he feels fond of. 

“Hey,” you say suddenly, not loud. Just enough for him to know it’s not for anyone else.

He glances sideways.

You keep your eyes forward, like it’s nothing.

“When you asked me that one time… if I titrate well. What did you mean by that?”

He’s quiet for a second too long. Then: “It’s just how your body adjusts to medication. If you can go up or down on the dose without too many side effects.”

“Oh,” you say, “so like… if I cry all day when I miss a pill, that’s a no?”

He huffs out something like a laugh, but it’s not mean. “Yeah. That’s a no.”

You nod like you’re filing it away. Like you really wanted to know.

“I think it’s cool you knew that,” you add.

You don’t say anything else. And neither does he.

You head to lunch and hope he decides to sit with you and he does. 

He’s across from you, golden hour shining on his face. He figures there’s no need to sit alone. You’re a friend maybe. You’re something.

Before he can begin eating you break the silence: 

“I think I had a dream about you.” 

Yoongi looks up at you disarmed. 

Then someone sits with you both, you break eye contact, scoot over and comply not thinking as you put a spoon of food into your mouth, sweet potatoes.

“Pretty boy. Pretty girl. How does lunch taste?”

You nearly cough.

“You catholic, Burgundy?” Jimin asks. 

You remind yourself he’s talking to Yoongi and keep your eyes on your plate.

Yoongi is wearing a rosary around his neck, delicate and silver, thin floating in the black Ekhaus Latta shirt he’s wearing that’s mesh enough to see his skin beneath but cotton enough to leave room for imagination. You like Ekhaus Latta.

Yoongi responds, “I don’t believe in God.”

Jimin sighs, “Blasphemous, I like it.”

He keeps going to your delight.

“Heading to the music room again after half eating today?” Jimin asks mouth half full before swallowing.

Yoongi fixes his mouth and nods. It’s barely there, the nod like he doesn’t want any attention.

You shift your foot under the table so the toe of your shoe touches his. It’s a half accident.

Yoongi straightens his back like a flower in the sun. Like a reminder to be polite. You’re looking at him again but he’s looking at Jimin.

“You heading there as well?” Yoongi responds. 

Jimin looks playfully smitten, smirk on his mouth, “Of course I am and you should come too—what’s your name again? ”

Jimin looks at you. 

“It’s ____,” you say curiously. The music room.

—

The music room is damp and dim.

Dust and late-afternoon light filter through the blinds like static.

The couch is half-collapsed. The walls don’t absorb sound, they hold it.

You sit on the floor, legs splayed out. Jimin sprawls on the couch, bass across his lap like it belongs to him.

Yoongi moves toward the upright piano in the corner. 

…

Jimin’s been plucking around for ten minutes—showing off, but not obnoxiously.

Just enough to make you smile.

“Used to play in church,” Jimin lies, effortlessly.

Then he flirts with Yoongi, “Bet you were the reason half the congregation kept sinning.“

Jimin grins wide.

Yoongi just looks at him. 

You’re quiet after that. Just watching.

“You play anything?” Jimin asks, eyes on you.

You shrug.

“I have a bass. At home. I don’t know how to play it.”

“That’s hot,” he says,“emotional support instrument.”

“Something like that.”

Yoongi presses a single key on the piano.

It echoes—low, clean.

Jimin glances over.

“Do the golden hour song.”

“No.”

“Why not? You want attention. We’ll give it to you.” 

Jimin is referring to something confessed in a group you weren’t in. 

Yoongi sighs,“Because it’s ridiculous.”

“I think it’s beautiful,” Jimin breathes.

A pause.

Then, Yoongi begins.

He plays like he doesn’t want to.

Like the music is already in his bones and he’s just letting it fall out slowly.

But then—

It blooms.

Rich chords.

Chimey right-hand notes that hover like breath. 

Jimin sings, carrying a note:

She’s got glitter for skin 

My beautiful beam in the night 

Yoongi looks up at Jimin. It’s like they’re talking to each other.

You don’t move.

You just listen.

When it ends, the silence feels sacred.

Yoongi doesn’t look at either of you.

He stays facing the keys. Hands in his lap.

“That’s what golden hour sounds like,” he says softly.

"You know we’ve only been here a week and I feel like I’ve found my life long friends.” Jimin says putting down the bass and shutting off the amp.

You don’t ask how he knows you got here the same day.

But Jimin asked Yoongi once.

And everyone who pays attention knows there’s a whiteboard in the nurse’s office.

It lists all the admissions dates.

Right there on the wall.

Like it’s not supposed to matter.

Like no one’s counting.

And you remember—there’s no discharge date for you yet.

You’re stuck here.

But somehow, it’s okay.

In this room.

With these two people.

When Yoongi gets back to his room later, he writes the word “titrate” in the margin of his sketchbook, even though he already knows how to spell it.

–

Maybe I shared too much in group, Yoongi thinks. It’s 3 AM and he’s slowly pacing in his room.

He remembers Jimin repeating his own words back to him earlier, in the courtyard during break—when the air still smelled like wet dirt and grapefruit hand sanitizer.

They were lying on the sun chaises staring at the clouds. Yoongi figured it’s just a thing that happens at a facility like this, attracting people, orbiting with them for a while. 

Jimin said it seriously—like he was trying to open a door with a lock he knows too well: “I feel like I’m under a spell and it makes living on Earth feel like living in hell.”

He adds, “I liked that one.” 

Yoongi can hear the smirk in his voice.

He doesn’t respond. Just watches the steam rise from Jimin’s paper cup.

“I also liked that you shared you blow it up when you love someone. It really touched me.”

Yoongi turned slightly, slow like was recalibrating.

“I wanted to warn you, I think you’re falling in love right now, Burgundy.”

“Been watching me?”Yoongi finally speaks up. 

He’d been listening to me, he thought. And it felt like a relief for a moment before a creeping fear crawled across his skin like spiders might.

Was he so obvious about you? Not the falling in love but the falling into your orbit.

“Yes actually,” Jimin said, without a hint of shame.

“I watch everyone.”

Yoongi exhaled through his nose. You flickered into his mind, the lack of any sign of fear for going into his room, the way you look at him like you’re daring him to do something, say something, the way you and him both are poking  for something. Maybe a connection. He doesn’t know. 

Yoongi’s voice was steady, almost bored. 

“I don’t love anyone.”

No anger. No emphasis.

Jimin watched him.

But he didn’t say anything more. 

They lied there like that—between sunlight and shadow, between sessions—two people with too much information and no plan for what to do with it.

3:42 AM. 

You can hear footsteps tapping against the floor.

You crack your door and find Yoongi pacing barefoot in the hallway. 

He needed more space. 

His back is lit by hallway fluorescents, sweat catching at the base of his neck like he’s just come back from somewhere farther than sleep.

And he had. He’d written lyrics. To no one in particular, violent, measured, angry. Tucked away in his pillow case scribbled in blue :

Off the radar

The angel slayer

Fuck your prayer

You interrupt his thoughts as he makes his way back down the hall. 

“Can’t sleep?”

“I don’t wanna dream,” he sighs, like a weight has been lifted. 

…

You sit beside each other in the media room. 

Your knuckles touch.

Neither moves.

There’s a moment that feels just right, to lean over and kiss you, eyes open to see your reaction. There’s nothing romantic about the impulse, in fact, it feels clinical…maybe scientific. 

What would it do? 

He could do it right now. 

He thinks you might want to.

He knows the way you don’t look at him sometimes is on purpose. 

He mulled that over. 

It’s a common reaction he gets from women his age. His girlfriends are the most guilty. 

Yoongi imagines it with you. Slow, aching, manipulative. Something to make you sigh into his mouth and close your eyes. Just to make you do it. 

For a moment he feels wicked.

But he does nothing. 

Your eyes meet and air feels heavy, a second later the nurse tells you to go back to bed.

As you both stand, he brushes past you too close. Not on purpose. Not exactly.

Just enough to leave a trace.

–

You’re sitting across from Yoongi in rec, half-paying attention to the group leader’s voice droning on about CBT worksheets and relapse prevention plans.

Yoongi has got a pen cap in his mouth again. Always the cap. Never the pen.

You don’t even mean it when you say it.

“You’re gonna choke on that thing.”

He takes it out slowly. Looks at it.

Then sets it down on the table.

You don’t think anything of it.

He doesn’t sleep that night.

Every time he closes his eyes he feels it—the snap of the plastic, the taste of blue ink, the panic when it blocks his throat. Not from experience, just imagination. But his imagination’s always been cruel like that.

He thinks:

That’s a stupid fucking way to die.

And it happens again and again. The plastic in his throat, the life leaving his body. Until he closes his eyes and imagines you’re there in his room straddling him, hand in his mouth to pull it out. 

You hold it in your palm until it bursts into flames. 

Then you’re under him, wrist pinned to the mattress, mouth beneath his. 

Yoongi rolls over and buries his head into his pillow. 

–

That same day you have a session with the art therapist.

He introduces himself. His name is Taehyung, he’s twenty-eight,  started working there a year ago, he likes going to art museums.

You tell him your name. You’re twenty-four. You like fashion and art too. You’re here as a dual diagnosis patient—mental health and relapse prevention—even though your drug use was mostly occasional. Recreational. You’re not sure if it counts.

Taehyung gives you white cardstock paper, colored pencils, makers, and crayons. You go for the colored pencils.

His prompt is: draw what feels like home.

You do just that after thinking.

You draw four figures. One is tall, hunched, in black. One is a little shorter with a yellow dot for a heart, and one is in the middle with a red dot for a mouth. Lastly, you draw your dog at home with your parents.

When you’re done, you slide the page to him without lifting your gaze.

You feel—surprisingly—unashamed. Maybe even proud.

Taehyung takes it, lays it flat in front of him and doesn’t smile. Doesn’t name anything. Just takes it in, letting silence fill the room.

After a moment he asks: “Who’s here?”

You point: that’s me, with the red dot

The yellow heart?

“Jimin,” you say. 

The black one?

“Burgundy.”

Taehyung nods once. Still saying nothing.

“It’s stupid,” you smile a little, you just met them. It’s been maybe a month. 

“Stick figures can say more than people do,” he replies. Not comforting–just honest.

You look at him. His face is pensive and receptive.

He turns the paper upside down and shows it to you.

“What happens now?” he asks.

You pause. “They’re still there.”

“What do you make of that?”

“I guess…I hope we stick together.”

Taehyung nods.

You continue, “ even if everythings upside down–not alright.”

“What do you think you’d do if they disappeared when it wasn’t?”

You feel uneasy suddenly. You didn’t want to imagine anything in the future, let alone a future without the people you want to call friends. You don’t have many of those anymore. 

Suddenly the colored pencils look like little daggers. 

You want to sweep them off the table.

“Probably try to end my life.”

Even though so far you’ve only spent one day all together.

–

You’ve been sleeping well in comparison to Yoongi.

It’s been another two weeks at the facility. It’s not just the therapy that’s getting difficult. It’s everything with it. Taking a shower each morning, brushing your teeth, doing your hair, getting dressed, trying to get your money’s worth with the slow drag of the pen on paper.

Yoongi looks tired. There are bags under his eyes hanging like the shadows on a crescent moon.

It’s the late evening after dinner, you’re both outside on the front porch. You’re sitting on the steps and he’s standing, leaning on one of the pillars. 

You both watch the sunset. 

“I’ve never smoked before,” you say

“Don’t start.” 

“Can I try yours.” 

Yoongi shakes his head no. 

You try to pull one of his shoe laces loose. He moves his foot away. 

“What are you five?” 

That just makes you smile. 

“Why is there a blanket on your mirror?” 

He shakes his head again, looking a little haunted. 

“Sometimes shit moves when it’s not supposed to. I like to think it does something.” 

The sun goes down, it gets dark quickly, the porch lights turn on, some of the other clients head in. Funny enough, the lights are just as white and buzzy as the lights inside. 

“Let me smoke one of your cigarettes. I’m making an adult request.” 

Yoongi just nods but he doesn’t hand it to you like you expect. 

Instead he reaches forward, brings it to your lips. His fingers brush your mouth. 

You inhale too hard and too fast. It’s smooth, doesn’t burn but the smoke chokes you. 

He takes it back, smirking just barely. 

“You’re kind of a ditz,” he teases. 

You cough again. Your eyes water, “You have a Blumarine rhinestone T-shirt.” 

“So?” 

“So your girlfriend curated your closet, not you.” 

“I don’t have one of those.”

After a moment he asks, “You want it?” 

“What?” 

“The bedazzled T-shirt.” 

You pause. 

“Yes.”  

“Finish this whole cigarette for it.” 

He pulls out the pack and lights another. 

You feel like you’re being hazed. 

“You wanna put it in my mouth again?” 

He kneels next to you—too close. 

“You want me too?” 

He holds it out, it feels like a dare. But you take it instead. 

“I’m not a baby bird,” You snark. 

Yoongi sits next to you. 

You smoke most of it before you feel anything. But then it comes, the world spins, you feel floaty and in a bout of clarity, Yoongi looks like he might want to kiss you. 

“I think you have a thing for me,” You say dreamily. 

“I think you secretly hate me.” 

“Why,” you ask. 

“You stole the string from my Extasia hoodie.” 

“I wanted to piss you off in some way.” 

You didn’t succeed, he thinks. Instead he found it funny. 

–

The meds they put Yoongi on are working, his mind is quieter. But with it he feels his creative prowess is leaving him. Something about being wound up inside all the time gave him a creative energy. His fingers don’t twitch to write anything anymore. 

And what is there if not his creativity or the paranoia making him feel important. 

Jimin has been there through these days, quiet, presumably thinking about himself and his future and if he has one.

In the span of a year, he graduated from a finance program at Columbia, landed a job in Chicago, and quit two weeks in—convinced his coworkers were trying to recruit him into a cult.

Shortly after he tried to kill himself with painkillers from a wisdom tooth removal. All scattered facts shared in the music room between reverb and chords.

You know a little less about Yoongi just that he’s a successful rapper that went into psychosis. The details of which he did not want to share. 

You’ve shared less about yourself, feeling like a fraud.

You’re taking a break from school, dissatisfied with your major, too scared to admit to your parents you’d rather learn a language than become a lawyer. Too depressed to function yes, sad enough to kill yourself no. 

…

In the music room, Jimin touches your wrist where there’s a raised scar.

“Why did you carve a star here?” He asks quietly, too quietly you presume for Yoongi to hear over the piano he’s playing.

Jimin leans closer across the bass in his lap.

His straight dirty blonde hair that suits him too well falls into his eyes a little.

You stop fiddling with the kalimba in your hands.

“For about six months,” you say, “I thought my thoughts were being broadcast to everyone around me.”

This was while you were in school. You never told anyone about it. Too afraid you’d be locked up and never come out. 

“You’re a star, huh?” Jimin asks thoughtfully, suddenly giddy you all have a psychotic episode in common.

“I thought so.”

Jimin sits back stunned, “You’re craaazy sexy.”

“I get it, Burgundy.”

Jimin plucks something soft on the bass—half-embarrassed, half-proud.

You laugh once. Quiet.

Yoongi stops playing with the piano.

“Talking about me again?”

“Just the opposite pretty boy,” Jimin sighs, satisfied.

Yoongi picks up a guitar and starts playing another haunting refrain.

“What are you talking about?” He doesn’t look up from the strings. You think his pale fingers look like claws over the chords.

Jimin plucks the bass again—this time a little sharper.

“____’s battle scars. Starry angel, I guess.”

“I hate metaphors, people aren’t stars,” Yoongi snips.

It’s clipped. Cold.

Like the air has dropped five degrees.

You start playing the kalimba again—metallic, hollow taps.

Just to keep your hands from shaking.

The guitar song shifts.

Darker now.

The chord progression sounds like falling into water.

“What’s this song called?” You ask. 

“South of Heaven's Chanting Mermaids.” 

Jimin gets up and puts the bass away—gently, but deliberately.

“You don’t hate metaphors. You just hate not being the only one making them.”

Yoongi stops playing. Jimins tone of voice has changed. 

“I like being poetic too. I’m allowed to embellish too as you like to say.”

You freeze.

Yoongi looks at you like you told Jimin that. 

“And you know what I like better than that?"Jimin continues his lament.

"Real shit.”

Jimin walks over.

Takes the guitar roughly from Yoongi’s hands without asking.

“I like that you let someone go through the shit in your room because you’re aching for some attention.”

He says it calmly. Not cruel.

Like he’s just observing the weather.

Jimin turns to you.

“And I like that you write about it, in your notebook, for anyone to read.”

Jimin leaves with the guitar.

–

Later, you talk to Jimin at residential.

Curious about when and what all he read your treatment notebook.

You feel strange that you’re not upset about it. You’re actually feeling a bit amused. Something exciting is happening in this otherwise boring place.

It’s at dinner. Dinner Yoongi doesn’t come to.

You sit outside in the spring weather where no one else can hear.

Jimin eats around the melons in the fruit mix they provided as dessert.

“Mad at me?” He asks. He looks like a fairy with the sunlight hitting his face. 

“Quite the opposite actually.”

“You read my diary,” You say imploringly.

His fork pauses. Just for a second.

Then he puts it down and confesses, “I go into everyone’s rooms, and through everyone’s stuff…for the thrill of it, I guess. ”

“You’re not scared?”

“Of what,” he scoffs, wind blowing through his hair.

“Getting kicked out.”

“I know enough now to keep me alive for the next 6 months which is all this place is for.”

“Hm.” You glisten.

“How’d you get the opportunity, it’s a long read.”

“Played sick for a day. Read it over coffee. Took notes.”

“Took notes?”

“Mentally.”

“Mm.”

–

It’s late at night again. You’re in the common room. It’s not curfew yet. You’re finishing up some CBT worksheets for your individual therapist.

The room is dimly lit. The vending machine is humming. The light in the lamp near you flickers occasionally.

You’re sat alone on a couch, probably the most comfortable you’ve sat on. Your eyes bore into the muted TV screen playing the news.

Your mind drifts.

Yoongi’s voice echoes in your thoughts. You wonder if he’d let you listen to his song again.

You hear the cadence of his laughter, the way he says your name, the gummy smile he gives when he’s amused, the one he rarely shows. 

It’s a loop, playing over and over, like a song stuck in your head.

You close your eyes.

In the darkness behind your eyelids, images form,–-Yoongi leaning against the wall, cigarette between his fingers, eyes fixed on you. 

You open your eyes.

The room is silent, the television now displaying static.

The night nurse, Namjoon, stands by the doorway, observing you. His presence is grounding.

"It’s almost time to go to bed,” he says softly.

You nod.

He walks over, sits on the armrest of the couch, maintaining a respectful distance.

“Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me when i’m vulnerable,” he says.

“Dreams, fantasies–they blur the lines between reality and desire.”

You search for judgement on his face but there isn’t any. Just a person eager to connect with a patient.

“Thanks, for sharing that,” you whisper.

He stands, offering a reassuring pat on your shoulder before leaving you alone with your thoughts.

“Don’t think too much, hm?”

–

Yoongi is staring at his mirror. The blanket fell off as he set his guitar back down on the vanity.

He stands staring at himself. Nothing moves, nothing whispers, his mind is eerily quiet. 

He gets a text. It’s from Hoseok: “When are we finishing the album?”

Yoongi is not supposed to think about work. 

But his heart still pounds. 

He sits and after a moment scribbles out some lyrics:

Went from no one to someone, at least I thought so

Stuck in a bad dream watching front row

and then some performative ones:

Popping on pills like I pop cough drops

Multi-millionaire all from my laptop

He lets his eyes drag to the door. Where yours would be if it were open. He could take you with him, he thinks. If he left. 

It’s 2:30 AM.

Yoongi texts you: Want to do something bad?

You respond instantly: Yes.

He doesn’t knock. Just pushes the door slow, like exhaling smoke.

There's your soft pile of laundry, on the desk the notebook you stopped writing in, a bottle of lotion uncapped. 

Yoongi steps inside, careful, like he’s stealing something. And maybe he is.

You sit up slowly, heart pounding.

His face is cast in blue because of the light from the streetlamp through the window.

He lifts a finger to his lips.

His hand brushes the edge of your desk. His body responds instantly—skin prickling. Eyes dilating. Breath slowing. There’s no way he’s doing this. 

Then he lowers himself onto the bed like it’s dangerous. Arms behind his head. Eyes on the ceiling. Like if he moves wrong, the whole thing might disappear.

You lay down too. Breath shallow in your throat.

You’re not touching.

Not speaking.

The room smells like sweat, whatever they use to clean the floors, and dirt from the plant given to you at horticultural therapy. You remember that dream of the swamp you had. And conclude it must’ve been real. 

About 15 minutes pass. 

He turns his head and says something first. 

Low. Flat.

“Do you want me to leave?”

You shake your head.

“Then turn around.”

Not harsh. Not tender.

Just a command said like a prayer.

You roll onto your side.

He presses against your back. Breath on your neck. Your pulse quickens. 

Hands don’t wander—they ask. Slowly.

His voice vibrates through your body. 

“Here?”

You nod.

And a moment later…

“Here?” 

You nod again. 

The clothes come off piece by piece—not thrown, but peeled.

You guide his hand to your mouth.

He exhales like it hurts.

After, you lie on opposite ends of the bed.

“They’ll kick us out.” You say.

Neither of you moves.

And that’s okay, he thinks.

It’s not until later that you realize you haven’t even kissed. 

–

Nothing happens. No one sees Yoongi leave your room, no one saw him enter it.

Everything is normal.

It’s just after a long day that you decide to do your laundry.

The hallway smells like mint tea and detergent.

You’re carrying your laundry bag down to the basement room—one of the few places you’re allowed to be alone. You like it. The silence. The machines humming like heartbeats.

You open your bin.

Your hoodie’s missing.

The soft gray one. The one too big for your body. 

You scan the room. Empty.

You load what’s there. Set the washer. Sit.

After a while, Yoongi walks in.

He doesn’t notice you at first. He’s got earbuds in, sleeves rolled up, laundry bag half open. He moves like he’s dreaming.

Then he looks up. Sees you.

Pauses.

Too long.

You nod, embarrassed you trembled so hard in his arms and came all over his fingers. 

He nods back.

He opens the washer beside yours. Starts pulling things out—black jeans, undershirts, socks.

Your hoodie.

“Is that..mine?”

He says, too casual, “Laundry mix-up I guess,”

You don’t say anything.

He tosses it into the dryer with his stuff.

“You can take it out when it’s done.”

He leaves.

You don’t take it. You figure he needs it.

In a selfish way, you want him to need it.

He noticed you didn’t take it, and started wearing it in his room—wants you to smell like him. 

He imagines Jimin talking to you. Commenting that you don’t smell like you. It makes Yoongi feel—he looked up the word for this—supercilious. 

A week passes, eventually, you ask for it back.

He meets you at his doorway.

Close enough to step inside if you wanted.

You grab it.

He doesn’t let go.

Instead, he pulls—gently, then not—and you go with it.

Your lips meet.

It’s hungry and soft. A beat too long for a place with little privacy. 

You pull away, breathless, scanning the hall.

Left. Empty.

Right—

Jimin.

Staring.

Frozen.

—

Things are getting serious. Yoongi thinks because he can’t think.

He’s outside, it’s raining, he’s alone avoiding you and Jimin’s company for now. For today. 

Under his individual session notes he writes the lyrics Hoseok sent him for his own verse:

Life going good, can’t figure out why

Blank walls all around me, keep the pills nearby

Playin’ with the nine, then I close my eyes

And he thinks of you. His hand moves again, something to go with it:

Isn’t it so convincing

His hand stops. The ink bleeds a little where the paper’s wet.

“What am I doing.” He says to himself.

He thinks about kissing you in the laundry room. How good it felt. How good the night before felt. The fear, the adrenaline, the stupidity of it all. The way his body melted into yours, the way yours did into his. 

And then it comes, the cravings. 

Yoongi thinks he needs to go for a run. He needs to shake off the feeling. The craving for something more. The urge to do it all again but high. Because fuck it would feel incredible if he was fucked up.

But that’s why he’s here. To not do that. To stop doing that.

Because it destroys everything.

He feels guilty for a moment. It’s intense, makes him want to jump of a bridge, cold water crushing him from all sides. And again he’s reminded why he’s here. Why he writes, what he writes. The bigger picture.

Yoongi goes an hour early to his next session, skipping lunch and the music room, skipping you. Each step feels weightless, but he’s heavy like he’d just turned to stone.

Fuck you. He thinks, even though its not your fault. 

Fuck you.

Fuck you.

Fuck you.

He decides not to go to the next session, remembering you’re there and heads to his therapist to make a request. Do you both a favor.

–

You feel crazy. Like you could rip something apart or sink into the floor. You talk about it with your individual therapist. How “Burgundy” is side stepping you. But not how he made all the first moves, how he held you that night, squeezed you, made you feel like you had something to live for. Just how he brushes past you, only nods in your direction, won’t sit near you, won’t make conversation, isn’t in any of the same sessions as you anymore.

You consider leaving, because what’s it all for anyway. And it reveals to you, he has completely sidelined your treatment or really you let yourself drift off the road and into a tree.

Maybe this is the point, you think mid-sentence. Maybe he’s doing it so you see. And even if he’s not you can see clearly.

You think of some lyrics to a song you haven’t listened to in a while:

I go where the wind blows.

And Yoongi is the wind. You realize you’d follow him anywhere, you’d do anything for him, and you believe for a moment that’s just the sort of person you are. The sort that wants to become a part of someone else completely. Even if you’ve just met them. 

Everything is heightened, your skin, your breath, your nerves. You want to put your hands on him, you think to your horror. You want to push and shove and scream. You’re too old for this, you think. This place is making you regress you swear up and down.

Your therapist just watches you punch holes into your paper with your pen as you think.

She asks, “Are you maybe using this person to not think about your own treatment?”

Yes you want to scream.

You remember his hand on your mouth, how gently he pressed down, now he barely looks at you. 

–

The clock ticks. Yoongi won’t look at it.

He’s on the couch, legs spread, one foot tapping.

“I may need to stay away from ____,” he finally says. His voice is flat.

The therapist doesn’t react. Just nods once. Waits.

“It’s not about them as a person. It’s what I feel around them. That rush, kinda like using”

“That’s a craving?”

He huffs. Smirks like he wants to punch himself.

“It’s worse. It’s like I want to mix them with the shit I used to take.”

He stares at the floor. At a crack in the tile. Saying too much again.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to fully separate them from the drugs. I can’t tell if I just want to fuck them or fix them…or…a secret third thing. And that scares me.”

He finally looks up.

“Intimacy is a trigger.”

He finally feels like he’s getting somewhere.

–

That night, it’s quiet. Too quiet.

You stop in front of Yoongi’s door on the way to bed.

Slide a note underneath.

“Fuck you”

You wait. For at least 5 minutes.

Nothing.

You go to your room.

A paper slips back under your door.

“Fuck you too”

You read it on the floor.

Sit beside it for a minute.

Try to decide if you’re mad, hurt, or relieved.

–

The next day on the bus you sit next to him. He looks at you and you stare back.

He looks like he’s doing great. And you on the other hand have not showered in 4 days.

You don’t give a fuck if he can smell you or if anyone can. At least the stupid worksheets are getting done.

He breaks the silence.“We can do this all day.” 

“What did I do?”

“You make me want to use.”

You nod, shattered and try to switch seats. Jimin watches you both across the aisle.

Yoongi grabs your arm, looking like a hero in your story.

“You can still sit here.”

You sit, eyes watering. Crying? Are you kidding me? You swallow hard and blink them away.

He hands you his headphones. You take them.

He plays his song again, Burgundy:

I was left with no options, snorting Oxys off a Smith and Wesson

Body filled with narcotics, fuck the optics, bitch next question

You take them off. You can’t listen again.

“What’s a Smith and Wesson?" 

"A gun.”

–

It’s lunchtime again.

You’re already seated. Fork moving through overcooked rice like you’re trying to divide your thoughts. Jimin’s across from you, chattering about something you’re not really hearing.

The seat next to you scrapes.

You don’t look.

But you know it’s him.

Yoongi doesn’t say anything. Just sits. His tray clinks against the table. He picks up his spoon like this is normal. Like nothing ever happened. 

You don’t say anything either.

And then—

His knee touches yours.

Not hard. Not jarring.

Just… there.

You keep eating.

A minute later, his thigh presses lightly against yours again. This time, he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t adjust.

He’s letting it happen.

You chew slowly.

When you reach for your cup, his hand brushes yours.

Not an accident.

Not this time.

He doesn’t apologize.

And you don’t look at him.

But you don’t move your leg, either.

Later you’re both assigned cleanup duty after the art group. He decided he needed art therapy even if you’d be there. 

The project today was ink wash—everything wet and fragile, bleeding out at the edges. Like you.

You scrub trays in the utility sink. Yoongi stands beside you, rinsing brushes.

You don’t talk.

He rolls up his sleeves. His arm grazes yours.

You pretend not to notice.

The brushes clink against the steel basin. His hand moves over yours by accident. Or not.

You keep scrubbing.

He washes the same brush three times.

Your knuckles touch again.

Still, no one speaks.

Outside the art room, a nurse walks by humming. The hallway lights buzz faintly overhead.

You both pretend it’s about the task.

You both know it isn’t.

–

It starts with a look.

Not a touch, not a plan.

Just the way he glances at you across the hallway. 

You wait five minutes.

Then follow.

His door clicks shut behind you.

No one says anything.

The air smells like bleach and his body wash. The room is dim. The window’s cracked, just enough for the night air to hum against the screen.

He presses his forehead to yours.

You don’t move.

He whispers:

“You have to be quiet.”

You nod.

Your fingers are already lifting the hem of your shirt.

The clothes come off like a secret.

You straddle him on the mattress—one knee at a time. He’s already half-hard, breath shaky. 

He holds your hips. Not to guide—just to keep you there.

You sink onto him slow.

Too slow.

You gasp without sound. It feels like drowning with your mouth closed.

His hand clamps over your mouth for a second—not rough. Just reflex. 

You move.

Small movements. Rhythm measured by the creak of the mattress. Your thighs ache from holding tension. You hold eye contact because it’s the only thing that doesn’t make noise.

It’s desperate. Not fast. Not messy.

But felt.

Every inch.

Every clench.

Every breath.

You come first, and he buries his head in your neck, biting down on the skin just hard enough not to bruise.

When he finishes, he doesn’t speak. Just wraps his arms around you like maybe it could be enough.

You fall asleep for twenty minutes.

The knock wakes you.

It’s staff.

You’re both discharged within 24 hours.

Jimin was caught a few days before in a new patient’s room. Knocked over a lamp. Discharged.

You don’t even use the front exit.

Someone from staff hands you your bags—Yoongi’s guitar slung over his shoulder, your sweater stuffed into the top of your backpack. There’s no bus. No paperwork review. Just a signature and a door that shuts too easily behind you.

The parking lot is empty.

The sun is too bright.

You stand there a second too long, disoriented.

“I don’t want to go home,” you say.

Yoongi doesn’t answer. Just starts walking.

You follow.

He lets you. He expected you would. 

Thank you for reading! You’re a legend if you got to this point, love ya!

[ganondoodle]

watching a video of someone playing an older game (not even THAT old) and constantly having to hear them go 'omg can you imagine how much more pretty and good this would be if it ran at 60+ fps with highest end graphics of the current modern games and in 4k???' over and over while also commenting on some graphics looking slightly muddy and how ugly and shitty 30 fps is

and i just cant help but get incredibly annoyed at that, cant you just appreciate the game for what it is?? the constant focus on smoother everything and graphics so detailed it looks faker than the real world is such a limited view on games- more polygons and higher res textures doesnt equal better ffs

i, and i might out myself with an unpoluar opinion here, but remakes are in my opinion often rather unecessary, just rerelease the old game, just make it avaible for people, officially, you dont have to reprogramm the entire thing!! maybe upscale it a little so it doesnt get stretched into a blurry mess if possible but even that i will work with no problem!! there are cases where its pretty much an entirely different game (FF7?) and i get seeing one of your fav old games get some new paint can be really cool, not arguing against that- what i dont like is that those remakes replace the original as that isnt made avaible, only the new version- like i wish i could play windwaker on my switch, but i cant stand the "HD" remake of it and i know if it ever were to get ported it will only be that version like the original doesnt exist anymore and my earlier point that many people consider more fps, more polygons, more resolution as automatically better

i dont need games to be running at 60+ fps, 30 is enough, sure id like it to run smoothly on that without huge drops, but when its stable 30, why would i need more? more often than not i prefer simplified graphics bc they often focus on the most important parts of what they are trying to achieve or work with an interesting style to compensate and i LOVE THAT, also id like to not have to download 100+ GB even when i would turn it on its lowest settings anyway, save me the space- and that is if i even got hardware that can run it at all, my computer struggles with slime rancher and i dont have the funds to buy the newest consoles nor computers

im not against remakes per se, but the fact that the old will more often than not disappear entirely and remain unavaible forever and that higher end graphics are automatically seen as better drives me nuts

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This is some sexy condo, for the price. Look at this technique of highlighting the unit that's for sale. And, look at the waterfalls out front. I wish my apt. had waterfalls. There's a nice private terrace, too. Built in 1982 in Louisville, KY. It has 2bds, 2ba, 1,644 sq ft, $449,900.

Have you ever seen a more classy door? Wow, I can't get over the door. I have a plain door that currently has a squirrel "wreath" for the fall. Next wreath I put up, I'm putting ribbons on.

And, look at the other side of the door.

This is fabulous.

B/c this is a condo, you can paint and put up wallpaper. My pictures are falling off the walls, b/c you can't put holes in the apt. One disappeared last night, fell right behind the couch.

Look at how nice the dining area is.

This fireplace wall is beautiful. I think that the cabinets are built-ins.

Nice corner sofa. The bad part about this is that they're going to take all their stuff with them.

Look at the kitchen. They redid it and put in the high end counters and backsplashes. Love the gold hardware.

Love the two-tone cabinetry. Oh, look at the display cabinets, too.

Beautiful private terrace.

Hall to the bedrooms.

Beautiful primary suite.

Luxurious en-suite.

Nice large closet.

The 2nd bedroom is big, also.

And look at this elegant en-suite. It's amazing what they did with a standard 3pc. bath.

Laundry room in the unit.

2 Spaces with storage.

Lovely front entrance.

Beautiful lobby.

Nice pool area, too. This is all I want.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/5701-Coach-Gate-Wynde-APT-64-Louisville-KY-40207/2058789748_zpid/?