#✧ ❝i filled up that blank space by painting it black❞ ✧ relatable

[juliapilecki]

Part 1: Self-Love

Conceptual Goals: For this piece, I was really inspired by the lyric "You're on your own kid, you always have been" by Taylor Swift. I chose to make that the center point of my artwork because I feel like it is very representative of my twenties, especially as I'm preparing to graduate in the spring. It is a scary feeling to be thrust into the real world but it is also exciting and I think this lyric and song reflects that feeling quite well. I wanted to fill the rest of the canvas with images and colors that felt like me (with also a few more Taylor Swift references hidden throughout).

Aesthetic Goals: I used paint, colored pencil, and collage materials in this piece. I wanted it to be bright and hopeful but also hyperfeminine which is why you see a lot of pink and flowers. I have always loved wildflowers and flowers in general which is why I thought they were very important to include in my piece. I also drew a sort of celestial-yin-yang because I have always loved the sun and moon and have gravitated equally towards both of them. I decided to add the hearts, stars, and circles because I felt like the piece needed a little more color.

Course Inspiration: As I mentioned before, I really wanted this piece to feel hyperfeminine as a sort of juxtaposition to my second piece, which is more masculine. I used pink a lot and also used typically feminine objects, like flowers and butterflies. My artwork here really reminded me of my artwork from our Animals unit in the way I collaged materials and created a background with blank space.

Part 2: Spreading Love

Conceptual Goals: I made this piece for my boyfriend and I really wanted to make it representative of him and the things he loves. Every single little piece of the artwork has meaning that can be related back to him. I wanted to create something that matched his aesthetic and preferences so he could hang it up as a gift from me but still have something that felt like him.

Aesthetic Goals: My boyfriend wants to be a history professor so I definitely took that in mind when creating the background of this piece. I used printed cardstock with mostly worldly images, which reminded me of him. I also used a newspaper clipping from a hunting article because he has been getting into hunting lately. Next, I wanted to just fill the rest of the artwork with images that are related to him in some form. Because the background of the piece was so busy, I wanted to keep the images on top a little more simple. I used pen and paint to create the drawings and also used collage materials. The black and white nature of some of the images kind of reminded me of tattoos, which my boyfriend loves. I incorporated his favorite sports and activities and also his love for music and frogs. One of his favorite bands is Pinegrove and I represented that subtly with my painting of pine trees. The flower that I painted is meant to be a Black-Eyed Susan, which I always compare to the color of his eyes.

Course Inspiration: I was really inspired by the portrait unit and the feedback I received, which was to delve deeper into the psychology of my character. I was extremely thoughtful when choosing each of the items that went on this piece and I think that is because I truly spent some time considering what my boyfriend loves and values in this world. I made sure to incorporate many aspects of his life and I felt grateful to be able to know someone so well to create this piece for him. I was very happy with how it came out and it is very meaningful to me.

[k00279452]

Creative Recording Seminar

This seminar was on time based art , It can be made predetermined or spontaneous using forms such as photography and video.

Robert Longo recorded time by painting . However his research material of ‘Men in cities’ became art pieces in themselves. Performance art is another method, seen in Ysevs Klein work , very much so conceptual, ‘leap into the void’ which depicted him jumping off a building. I like the idea of this conceptual art , as it leaves a mystery , where we the viewers have to fill in the blanks and this takes precedence over the piece. Such as with William Wegman ‘ for a moment he forgot where he jumped into the ocean’ where the text and image Work symbiotically to create the art piece, as without , it looks as though he is just stripped and jumping in his studio .

The students example of their brief work on movement was helpful as they explained their work and process in their statement - rationale ‘space changes during dance’ , -set up ‘black painted board, handheld portable 500w light’ -presentation ‘combined two images making use of the shadows to create an abstract shape’ . This is useful to know when posting my own work on tumblr. Where the focus lies relates to what the artist wants to say - this is important for my own post as I can narrate a post with the use of focus.

Scrapbooking is a record of work , and can become an art piece in itself as seen with ‘notes on movement’ and following people , which also lead to making strange maps of where he followed the person.

Suspended movement with the photographed sculptures is by far my favourite. ‘Quiet afternoon’ shows the sculpture that looks as though it could snap or shoot out of the 2D image , it’s important to note the use of black and white - it emphasises the shadows and graphics and the colour highlights the object. A creative recording can look like a picture and be a video , as seen with Gillian Wearings work. This is interesting as it confuses and excites viewers. Recordings can come in series of photos to convey a point .

I liked Jeff Walls work , of the disconnect, the juxtaposition between two environments , I think I could work with this idea in my project as I work with the plastic pollution - effecting an environment negatively(marine dumps)/ positively ( clean spaces , hygiene , ease of living - before they’re thrown away)

Th context of the work is more important then the visual image , so when researching images it’s important to look into it more and understand why they made it and what it means . It matters which method best communicate the idea I want this put out .

#k00279452 seminar

[laurenrivero201]

P5. Decode Fractals

For this project, we were assigned to analyze the structures of the wood and see their relationship with each other, how we would interpret the patterns, and why we chose this specific. Before starting my creative process, I did some reflecting on the lecture and really tried to think outside of the box. In relation to these patterns, I asked myself questions like "why do they look the way they do?" "Was it intentional, or was there something much deeper than that?" I looked at the shapes and thought, "Wherever there is a blank space or something that has not been filled in, our initial thought is to fill in that space with something, right?" So that is what I did. I tried to give this piece a very colorful vibe, experimenting with patterns that are not usually seen too often. Art is up to the interpretation of the individual, so while I did follow the original pattern of the wood, I also decided to alter the patterns of the wood a bit and add a bit of my own twist to it. I used primarily acrylic paint and micron pens. I did this in order to add some contrast to both structures so that it wouldn't look too mundane. For the base, I decided to make it white while making the patterns black so that way it would not blend in with my piece. I feel that the white background also really added that dimension I needed so that this piece would come together and look pleasing.

#decodefractals

[shortstories-slp]

Love... No Thanks!

The autumn breeze in Kyoto carried maple and gingko leaves along, crisp as they landed on the cold uneven cobblestone. The streets were filled with couples walking together, admiring the colorful autumn leaves. Ito Kaede on the other hand grimaced, nose scrunching in displeasure as couples walked past him. Their sweet, sugarcoated words poured like honey on his head and he could hear his mother’s voice in the back of his mind.

‘Maple, when are you going to get a girlfriend? I want grandchildren, I worry that by the time you have children they will not see their loving granny.’

He shook his head, as if flinging his helicopter mother’s words out of his mind. Kaede did not hate the idea of love in particular the thing he disliked was the constant nagging of his mother, his fans, and his publishing company. Kaede was on upstanding man, an author and journalist by trade. To him, love was just another topic to bring in readers and appease his boss. He stopped in front of his company and pushed open the glass door, making his way to his desk.

“Hey! It is the man of the hour!” A loud voice bellowed across the office causing the hair on the back of Kaede’s neck to stand on end. He sank down in his chair, only wishful thinking that the statement was jabbed towards him. This was evident when heavy footfalls approached his cubical. His mind raced and he thought to himself.

‘Not this buffoon, please! I would much rather rush to a matchmaker and have my mom at least leave me be… but this... impossible boss.’

He pulled himself out of his thoughts and meekly replied.

“Hello Boss, to what do I owe the pleasure?” His boss beamed an impossibly large smile on his lips, as he asked.

“Mr. Ito, you are single, correct?” Kaede’s mind blanked and he raised his eyebrows, turning to look at him asking.

“Now, how exactly is this a work-related question?” His Boss’s smile faded slightly and he replied.

“I meant no harm by it! I was just wondering if you would be available for overtime. I know almost everyone here is coupled up and tomorrow is sweetest day!” Before his boss could continuing going on about something so minuet. He responded dejectedly.

“Yes, I am free for overtime tomorrow.” The bright beaming smile reappeared on his boss’s face almost as quickly as it disappeared earlier.

“Like I said man of the hour! You are wonderful, Mr. Ito.” He says, as he dropped a decent sized box on his desk. He continued talking.

“Tomorrow, I would like you to sort through these files and put them in order. From there you will put them in the filing cabinet. Got it?” Kaede only nodded, before his boss zipped off to talk with one of his coworkers. Kaede finished writing up his article for the paper and he saved it, before forwarding it to the person who puts everything together. His attention turns to the box and he sighs, not really wanting to do all this nonsensical busy work.

‘I will just work on it tomorrow while everyone is out enjoying their sickly-sweet relationships.’ He shook his head involuntarily and walked outside of the building, happy that he finished the article. He could now slink off to go relax somewhere. Somewhere without a bunch of people giggling together and holding hands.

Kaede sits at his safe space, a secluded bridge that looked as if it would collapse. The once beautifully red paint faded and chipping away. He steps onto the bridge having always trusted it. After all, he was scrawny and probably only weighed as much as a feather. He took a seat where he always had and carefully pulls stones out of his pocket, skipping them across the surface of the ink black water. He watched the ripples as the rocks gracefully skipped, before sinking into the deep abyss.

In truth, the water under this bridge had always scared him it was unnaturally dark and he had no clue how deep this water actual was. A noise pulled him out of his and the dark waters trance. He hopped off his spot and walked cautiously to the sound.

“Hello?” He asked, unable to conceal the quiver in his voice. Kaede cautiously moved some bamboo stalks apart and he spotted a silver fox with enchanting icy blue eyes. He carefully reached out to it, asking in a soft tone.

“Are you hurt?” He stopped his hand a few inches away from its nose, allowing it to familiarize itself with his presence. Kaede gently patted its head and crouched down next to it.

“You look okay.” He murmurs and carefully scoops it up into his arms, continuing to talk as if the fox could understand him.

“I will take you to a veterinarian friend of mine. Just because you look uninjured doesn't mean that you are not hurt internally.” He walks to the veterinary clinic and he walks straight to his friend’s office.

“Hey Ty, I found this fox and it sounded like it was hurt.” He explains and his friend chuckles, replying.

“Okay, you know the drill by now Kaede. Sit the fox down and just leave it to me.” Kaede frowns and starts to feel like he is being a burden to one of his only relatable friend, sitting the fox down he begins to apologize profusely.

“Ty, I am sorry for troubling you all of the time.” Ty smiles and starts to tend to the fox, talking to his assistant before beginning to address Kaede.

“You are not being troublesome. You are just really compassionate when it comes to taking care of and bringing in animals. Kaede, I really think that you should try to hang out with more people. Animals are nice and all, but I think that…” Before Ty could nag him anymore, Kaede had already made himself scarce. He drags his feet, finally admitting some sort of defeat.

“The village matchmaker.” He mutters and steps through the beaded curtain, making his way to the all too familiar room. The old woman looked up at him, deep wrinkles set in her face as her nose scrunched up. Her voice cold and monotoned.

“No, there is no match for you. Dismissed.” Now it was Kaede’s turn to return the childish gesture, scrunching up his own nose. He walked out of the matchmaker’s den and stepped back out into the crisp autumn air, muttering to himself.

“Love… No thanks, who just begs for that kind of trouble anyways?” Before he can continue, he feels like someone is looking at him. In a swift and gracefully he turns on his heel to face whoever it is, but when he looks no one is there. His brows knit together and suddenly; he feels something as if he is weighed down in his spot. It feels like he is stuck in molasses like someone poured something over him. He shivered and started down at the ground, vision blurring in and out akin to that of static on an old TV.

Ito Kaede felt lost.

Ito Kaede… (Save File Corrupted)

X

Would you like to relaunch the program [Love… No Thanks]?

[Yes]       [No]

Relaunching program…

…

…

Program relaunch failed

“No! No! Please work, I do not have time to remake another game for class!” A voice shouts frantically, tapping buttons, opening the task manager, trying to rework the coding in a frenzy. The game developer opens the files and looks around for his save file, only for the screen to flash.

[Error: error code 404. Ito Kaede not found]

His heart sinks along with the hopes of passing his game development class. He looks back up at the error’s dialogue box and it glitches out before disappearing.

#writer #fiction #story #original fiction #writer on wattpad #writer on tumblr #short story #oc #fictional work #writing

[mmvalentine]

The Bargain Pt 6 | Feysand

Modern AU. Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 7

Feyre and Rhys sat in a cafe, where sunlight streamed in through the wide glass window and punk music was a pulse the walls had.

They were sitting in the centre of the space, where there were small armchairs around a coffee table, and spread out on said table were their cups of coffee, a large sheet of butcher's paper, and an assortment of art supplies. There were also various magazine clippings and postcards they had gathered over the morning to serve as reference pictures. Feyre's German was still coming along and she had ordered a slice of their Kirschtorte, thinking it was a cherry cake and not at all expecting it to be full of Kirch liqueur.

The two had spent the morning discussing how they would proceed with the design. Rhys had encouraged her to take the lead, said she was the better painter, and that he had never really been a sunshiney kind of guy anyway. But Feyre was shy about starting, since she saw Rhys as the more experienced artist and found his talent slightly intimidating.

In the end, it was agreed that the mural be more of an abstract piece, where Rhys would sketch the structure and bones of it, and then Feyre would take lead on the colours and detail.

After that was settled, they rolled out their art supplies and Rhys picked up a black marker.

Feyre settled back in her arm chair with her second coffee, and watched as Rhys knelt down on the floor at the low table. She couldn't see what he was drawing yet, so she contented herself with watching the movement of his shoulders instead.

Today, Rhys was wearing a black waffle shirt with long sleeves, and black jeans that hugged the muscles of his legs.

After Rhys had finished her tattoo, Feyre thought about him often. She would inspect her arm to check the how everything was healing, and remember the pressure of his fingers on her skin.

At the time, she thought of Rhys as a sort of escapist fantasy, a contrast to her life with Tamlin. She figured it didn't matter too much who he actually was, as long he was not Tamlin it was a fun daydream. And she had always wondered what it'd be like to be in a relationship with another artist. To have someone to bounce ideas off, or critique your work, or inspire and challenge you.

By the time she and Tamlin had broken up, Feyre had filed Rhys away in her mind as someone whom she knew nothing about, and had probably been crushing on as the idea of love rather than a person himself. And she did not put any further thought into it than that.

But now that Rhys was here, in Berlin, right in front of her, she was sharply reminded that there were other, non-Tamlin related things about him that were... undeniably appealing.

The shape of his shoulders, for one and two. Rhys was now moving back and forth over the massive sheet of paper, filling the space with what looking like undulating curves back and forth across the page. The marker in his right hand made a faint scratching sound as he moved, and his left hand was braced on the other side of the paper. He had strong looking hands, and long fingers.

While Rhys was deep in concentration, Feyre stole a peek at his face. When he moved up to do the top left corner of the page, he turned enough toward Feyre that she could study him in profile. The toffee of his skin was warmed in the afternoon sun, and although his hair was very short in the back, a thick curl of it fell into his face as he leaned over the table.

"Okay, I think that's a start for me," Rhys said, sitting back on his heels. He turned back to Feyre, who quickly dropped her eyes to the page.

"Oh, this is lovely," she said, standing up to get a better view of the whole page.

Rhys had stretched a curving pattern, high and cresting on one side like a wave and then trailing off toward the other. Dark swirls and shadows curled around the bottom edge, like something brewing underneath. He ran his eyes over the page, and scratched the back of his head.

"Summer always means sea and storms, for me," he said. "You'll have to brighten it up for me."

They swapped spots then, Rhys taking Feyre's place in the armchair and Feyre biting her lip as she surveyed what Rhys had made. She loved the movement of it, and it was characteristically dark and restless like Rhys' tattoos.

Feyre selected a tray of pastels, which she thought would move most like paint without having to get messy in the cafe, and tried to ignore the pricking feeling of Rhys' gaze as she worked her way through his pattern. It was a strange thing, adding to someone else's work. Like picking through their mind and putting your own thoughts in there, slotting them amongst theirs. She hoped Rhys wouldn't mind her intrusion.

Summer, thought Feyre. She dreamed scorching sand, frothing seafoam, melting ice cream and heart-shaped sunglasses. One thousand rainbow butterflies. Soft swirling seashells and wildflowers in droves.

And then as she got lost in the colours, suddenly she found herself thinking of the deep gold of Rhys' skin, the white of his teeth, the sparking violet of his eyes. She had just found the perfect colour for them, and then dropped the pastel abruptly when she realised what she was doing.

Feyre was so embarrassed, her mind went blank and she couldn't keep going. Rhys took this to mean she was done.

"I love it," he said softly, coming down to kneel beside her. He moved a finger over a stretch of turquoise, and slowly looked over the whole thing. Taking his time to appreciate it.

"Well, as you say, it's a start," Feyre murmured. "You get the idea, at least." "Yeah totally," Rhys said. "I can see where it's going, and I think it'll be great on a large scale." He picked up a black pastel and started deepening shadows here and there.

"Yes, that's what it needs," Feyre agreed. "Tarquin's going to love it," she said.

Rhys stood up, and took a photo from above. He spoke out loud as he texted.

"Something... like... this?"

He sent the text to their contractor, and grinned at Feyre. "Well, I like it anyway." Feyre found herself smiling too.

"So do I," she said.

And although it had only been a day, she thought that if this was what Rhys' mind looked like on the inside, she might be quite fond of that, too.

****

Sorry I actually had a bit more action planned, but as you may know by now I'm not driving the fics run themselves... and this bit wanted more space than I had anticipated. Hope you don't mind it moving a little slow!

Also, I didn’t quite know how to reply to all of your kind comments individually but please know that I hoard them like a dragon and I really, really appreciate you guys. Thank you so much.

MASTERLIST

TAGLIST: @ghostlyrose2 @highladysith @stardelia @feysand-loml @tillyrubes10 @ratabrasileira @live-the-fangirl-life @maybekindasortaace @annejulianneh111 @thebonecarver @rowaelinismyotp @loosingdreams @whythefuckdoiexist @inejsarrow @swankii-art-teacher @sjmships @courtofjurdan @teddytdr @positivewitch @thalia-2-rose @darling-archeron @rapunzel1523 @fairchildjace

#feysand #feysand fic #acotar #fluff #mine

[stoney-siren]

May I Have This Dance? PART 2 (Sal Fisher x Reader)

 Link to Part 1 

Summary: After you confront Ash on your crush on Sal, she takes you to some friends who she believes to have good advice on what you should do. Meanwhile Sal is trying to work up the courage to asking you out.

Warnings: Swearing, possible mentions of drug use, slight angst?

It had been a few days after your conversation with Ashley, that day she had taken you to go meet up with Maple and Chug, who were somehow excellent advice givers. Not only that, but they knew how to keep a secret too, you weren’t too trustful of them at first, but after a couple of days with their lips sealed, you started to trust them a bit more.

So there you were sitting in your apartment with Ash, your mom was out getting groceries, so it gave you two some time to try and plan out how to ask Sal to the prom. Little did you two know that Larry and Sal were doing the exact same thing on the fourth floor in Sals room.

“I was thinking of either wearing this purple dress I have, or a green one.” Ash commented as she messed with her polaroid camera.

“I think the purple would really compliment your eyes.” Ash smiled at your feedback and nodded her head in agreement.

“What do you think Larry, Todd, and Sal are doing?” She questioned, getting up and sitting beside you at your desk and taking a look at what you were writing.

You have been spending almost the whole day writing down ideas on how to ask out Sal, but everything that came to mind just sounded either cheesy, dumb, or both.

“Probably playing some video game on Sals gear boy.” You responded, sitting next to Sal and watching over his shoulder as he attempted to beat a video game was one of your favorite things to do, you found it adorable how he celebrated every time he beat a level.

“Speaking of Sal, these ideas of yours are starting to get pretty creative!” Ash took the paper you had been scribbling on from the desk and started to read what you had been writing. 

Quickly, you snatched the paper back, even though you appreciated the compliment, you couldn’t help but imagine every way Sal could turn down every idea you came up with.

Sal stood in front of a mirror in Larrys room, messing with his hair and thinking of how he’d style it for prom.

“You should do a bun, I heard a lot of people find those attractive.” Larry commented from somewhere in the room, he himself was occupying his time with a painting he was working on.

“Nah dude.” He let his hair fall to his shoulders as he removed his pigtails, messing with the blue strands in his face.

“They’ll probably like your hair regardless what it looks like! If you wanna go with something mature then maybe you should just wear your hair down.” He continued to suggest from his easel.

“Yeah maybe,” he began, touching his prosthetic. “Larry, what if I want to kiss them?” That caught his attention real fast.

“Then do it bro! Nothings holding you back, unless of course they don’t want to.” He set his brush down and made his way over to the mirror, putting his hands on Sals shoulders.

“Yeah but.. They’ve never seen me without my prosthetic before, what if I scare them?” This was Sals usual nervous thoughts, always afraid of how his appearance would affect others.

“You’re not gonna scare them, trust me. You know (Y/N) better than that, they’ve gotta be the most kindest, and accepting person we know!” Larry tried to reassure his friend as Sal lowered his hand from his prosthetic, turning his gaze to his feet.

“I guess.” Deep down he knew Larry was right, but all the anxiety pent up inside just wouldn’t budge. 

“The dance is in two days, you still have time to think of what you want to say to them.” And that’s all Sal thought of for the next two days, practicing in the mirror, even asking his dad for advice, which ended horribly since Henry was more proud of the fact that Sal wanted to ask someone out rather than giving him advice.

“Mom, I have to get going soon.” You tried to exclaim as your mother snapped another photo of you in your prom dress, part of you was feeling disappointed that you never got to ask Sal to the dance, but he had been avoiding you for the past few days now. 

In fact, you actually started to grow worried that somebody might’ve told Sal about your little crush on him, your bets were on Chug. You could see him somehow spilling the beans on accident and then immediately trying to take it back and playing it off as a joke.

“Oh just one more photo!” Your mother cheered, snapping you from your thoughts, but before your mother could continue on with her photo shoot, there was a knock at the door.

“Those are my friends, can I go now?” You asked in a more harsh tone, trying to hint that you were getting impatient. Honestly, your mother could probably fill a whole scrap book with the amount of photos she had taken of you.

“Oh, fine! Maybe I could get a picture with you and your friends though?” She attempted one last time to get a few more pictures out of you.

“Mom!” You whined as you stepped over to the door, opening it to see your dear friends, Larry, Ash, and Sal.

“Heya (Y/N)!” Ash chirpped, she was wearing that purple dress that she spoke of a couple days ago. Larry and Sal were both in suits, and even though Sal still wore that blank prosthetic mask, he looked nervous for some reason.

“Hey (Y/N), y- you look nice.” Sal spoke, and wanted to punch himself for stuttering. Larry nudged Sal lightly and did his best not to burst into laughter right there.

“Thanks Sal! You look lovely too, are we ready to go? Where’s Todd.” You questioned, looking around for that brainy friend of yours.

“He’s helping Chug out with his outfit, he’s kinda nervous since he wants to ask Maple out.” It was Sals turn to nudge Larry back and give him a look from behind his prosthetic.

“Dude! We weren’t supposed to tell anyone!” Ashley and you both laughed a little, and honestly it was because you both knew Chug liked Maple from the start.

“Trust us, our lips are sealed!” You commented, stepping out of her apartment and waving your mom behind before closing the door before she could come attack you four with her camera.

You and the others stepped out of the building into the night, Larry pulled some car keys out of his pocket and unlocked Lisa’s car, which wasn’t far.

“We’re taking your moms car? Please tell me she’s okay with this.” You asked Larry, he only laughed and patted your shoulder.

“Yeah, she’s completely chill with me using her car tonight as long as I don’t wreck it! Only problem is that one of the seats is unavailable, and there’s six of us.” Larry explained.

“I call shot gun then!” Ash shouted as she rushed to the car in heels, it amazed me how fast she could run in those, even if they weren’t that high.

Chug and Todd had made their way out of the apartment just as Ash got to the car, you could now see what Larry was talking about when he said Chug was nervous. The poor guy was sweating bullets.

“Two people are gonna have to sit in the trunk.” Larry continued to explain, and Todd immediately spoke up.

“Chug can’t sit in the trunk, this nervous wreck will throw up all over Lisa’s car.” Chug tried to protest, claiming he wasn’t nervous, but it was clear to everyone that he was.

“I don’t mind sitting in the trunk.” Sal finally spoke, he seemed less nervous than before has he proceeded towards the car.

“Well then it’s settled I guess, (Y/N) and Sal will sit in the trunk, Todd and Chug will sit in the back, and Ash and I will sit in the front!” Before you could even try and argue with him, Larry was following Sal to the car with Chug and Todd close behind.

Why would you even try to fight with him on this? Being stuck in a small space with Sal Fisher? It was the perfect moment to try and make a move, you supposed you just didn’t want the others to overhear you, or end up having Ash tease the both of you.

“So you decided to join me?” Sal joked as you climbed into the trunk and laughed.

“Guess so!” You sat beside him as Larry closed the trunk and got into the drivers seat, starting the car and putting on some heavy metal music. Nobody really seemed to complain since he was giving everyone a ride.

“How are you feeling, (Y/N)?” He continued to conversation as the car was too noisy for anyone else to hear the two of you.

“Fine I guess, a bit nervous.” He seemed to relate to that as he nodded and stared up at the ceiling of the car, the both of you sat side by side, with your hands dangerously close. His nails were painted black, his hand looked so soft and holdable.

“What are you so nervous about? We’re gonna have fun tonight.” He stated that with enough confidence that it almost felt like a fact.

Silence fell between the two of you as Larry’s metal music started to overtake the car, the sound of Todd reassuring Chug mixed into the ambiance of the car. Slowly, just ever so slowly, your hand creeped closer to Sals, your mind raced with thoughts both positive and negative, what if he pulled away? What if he held your hand? Before your hand could even touch his, Larry took a tight turn, and Sals body crashed into yours.

“Larry!” You could hear Ash yell from the front of the car, your head hit the floor of the trunk rather roughly.

“What!” Larry cackled as he continued to drive the car, the pain in your head instantly faded when you made eye contact with the blue haired boy on top of you in a rather intimate position.

“U- Uh- I- I’m so- so sorry (Y/N)!” He immediately sat up and pulled himself off you as you sat up yourself. Before you could try and say anything, Larry took another tight turn and this time you fell against Sals chest, his back colliding with the side of the trunk.

“Larry! Sal and (Y/N) are in the trunk without seatbelts! Could you be a bit more gentle on those turns!?” Todd spoke up this time, you were just praying he wouldn’t turn back and take a look at the two of you, now smushed together.

“S- Sal I’m sorry!” You could feel your face practically about to burst into flames as you tried to pull yourself up, and his hand wrapped around your wrist to help support you.

“I- It’s okay, it’s neither of our faults, just Larry’s reckless driving.” He chuckled off the tension between the two of you as the car started to come to a halt. Todd turned back in his seat as Chug exited the car.

“Hey, we’re here.” He stated bluntly before leaving the car. Larry opened the trunk for the two of you as the both of you climbed out, Sal gave Larry a punch on the shoulder.

With that, most of your friends vanished into the crowd of students you have known for a while, you stuck close to Larry and Sal though as you made your way into the schools gym, which was now decorated surprisngly nicely by your peers. Students were dancing, chatting, and overall having a nice time.

“Hey, hey (Y/N)!” Ash shouted over the music, she looked relieved that she finally found you. It had been almost an hour into prom, and you have just been standing to the side and dancing to some of your favorite songs. Maple had came by a few times to ask you about the Sal situation, but you didn’t have much to say to her. You just didn’t know how to approach him after that moment in the car.

“Yeah Ash?” You responded to her, you knew your voice was gonna be a bit soar after tonight, but who cared?

“I got the DJ to play a slow song after this one! You need to go find Sal!” Ash yelled to you, instantly your face heated back up almost similar to that moment in the car.

“Why would you do that!?” Now beginning to panic, Ash took you by the shoulders and looked you in the eyes.

“Because the both of you need to just get your shit together and dance!” And with that she pushed you off into the crowd to go find Sal.

Instead of finding Sal, you found Travis Phelps, school bully and your friend groups worst enemy. You couldn’t help but sometimes feel bad for the guy though, since you heard his dad was a preacher and he was always looking a little beat up. Travis gave you a disgusted look.

“Oh, it’s you, I overheard you and that bitch.” He sneered, you wanted to defend Ashley, but he went on. “Do you really think that freaks gonna wanna dance with you?” 

“Shut up Travis, all you ever do is pick on us, I don’t understand what we did to deserve your cruelty!” You replied, clearly upsetted by his comment.

“Whatever, can’t wait to hear all about how Sally Face rejected you tonight!” His final remark made your heart sink, as you heard a familiar voice from behind you. Sal was standing there with Larry close behind, looking ready to beat the crap out of Travis.

Waves of embarrassment washed over you as Sal just seemed to blankly stare at you, was Travis right? Did he really not like you like that? You didn’t want to think about it, you did the only thing you could think of, which was to run away from the three of them and escape to the outside of the school. 

You hated Travis for doing that to you, he let everything you worked so hard on just slip out right in front of Sal. Hot tears filled your eyes as you collapsed to your knees, attempting to frantically wipe your tears.

“Stupid, stupid..” You mumbled, the music from the gym had made its way outside the building now muffled though and more quiet, you always hated how loud school gatherings would play their music. As you attempted to contain yourself, you heard the door you exited from open and close, and a soft and gentle voice call out to you.

“(Y/N)?” Sal called, the sound of his shoes against the concrete floor rang in your ears as you lifted your head.

“Sal.. I’m sorry. I..” You were lost for words, what were you suppoed to tell him? Try and lie? Tell the truth? You soon snapped out of it again as you heard slow music begin to play from inside the gym, and Sal offered his hand out to you a bit hesitantly.

“(Y/N), may I have this dance?” Your heart sank as you quickly took his hand, he pulled you onto your feet and wrapped an arm around your waist, keeping his other hand entangled with yours.

The both of you were so close that you could hear him softly breathe against his prosthetic, your heartbeats were almost in sinc as he began to lead you passively with the song. His eyes remained on yours, and yours remained on his.

“Sal,” you began, he was all ears, “Do you like me?” He lightly laughed at your comment, which made you a bit nervous until he responded.

“(Y/N), I’ve had a crush on you for like, three years. I’ve been waiting for a moment like this since forever.” He spoke softly, you never knew that he could be this romantic, it made your heart just want to burst from your chest.

The song eventually ended, but Sal continued to hold you, slowly he untangled his hand with yours and touched the bottom of his prosthetic. You had always silently theorized what Sal may have looked like under his prosthetic, so excitement overcame you as Sal slowly lifted his prosthetic off his face.

“You’re.. A work of art.” The compliment escaped your lips before you could even process them, his cheeks grew deep red as he sheepishly smiled.

“Thank you, (Y/N), would you.. Or.. Could I um.. Kiss you?” He softly asked, of course you responded with a nod before pulling him into a light kiss. Sal instantly dropped his prosthetic and carressed the side of your face with his now free hand, you wrapped both your arms around his neck as he kissed you back lovingly and passionately.

When the two of you separated, you both were blushing messes, and lost for words. Your moment was at and end when you heard Larry open the door and call out for you two, Sal took your hand and gave you a caring smile.

“We should head back now, okay? Enjoy the rest of the night.” 

A/N: Thanks to everyone who read this :) if you want more Sally Face content lmk! 

#sally face #sal fisher #sal fisher x reader #sally face x reader #larry johnson #ashley campbell #todd morrison

[lovelylogans]

the words you read (my heart’s been displayed)

how did you know 'cause I never told but you found out I've got a crush on you the words you read, my heart's been displayed you found out I've got a crush on you —“crush on you,” the jets

warnings: awkward clueless teenagers, crushes, slightly overbearing matchmaking uncles, mentions of government surveillance, mostly fluff, please let me know if i’ve missed any!

pairing: virgil/logan, secondary patton/roman and janus/remus

word count: 5,761

notes: this is for day 5 of @analogicalweek! the prompt of the day is “vocab card/skateboard” and i have decided to write about vocab card! please enjoy!

⁂

In Virgil’s opinion, Logan Sanders is the cutest boy in all of the sophomore grade.

He was the cutest boy in freshman year, too, and eighth grade, and seventh, and all the way back to kindergarten, but Logan’s changed over the summer. 

He’s sprouted up a few inches, so now he’s a half-head taller than Virgil. He still looks a little gangly, like he’s going to grow more. He’d always been shorter than Virgil before. He’d gotten new glasses, too, black frames that suit him way better than the silver ovals he’d used when they were little. His voice has gotten a bit deeper, his jawline’s gotten stronger, and Virgil’s helpless crush on him has only grown with Logan.

Logan isn’t just cute, either, he’s smart. He carries around stacks of notecards, blank and filled in, and there’s all sorts of things written on it—interesting fun facts and the latest slang terms, in rubber-banded stacks next to rubber-banded stacks of notecards of terms that will be on their next exam. Logan has a way of explaining anything and everything in a way that is really understandable and never makes you feel dumb. Logan’s always top of the class.

And to make matters worse, they’re next-door-locker-neighbors this year, because Chloe-who-was-between-them-alphabetically moved away. Which means that Virgil cannot quite get away with admiring Logan from afar, the way he has since they were little. Which means that when school starts, on the first day when Logan asks him what homeroom he’s in this year, Virgil’s brain can only go ahhhhHHHHHH and the fact that oh my God Logan is tall now oh my GOD Logan has the locker next to mine now! makes him delay his answer because he’s just staring at Logan, and Logan looks at him a little oddly and then repeats his question as if he thinks Virgil didn’t hear him, and Virgil kind of wants to crawl into his locker to hide there forever thanks.

“Oh,” he manages. He closes his locker. “Um. I’m in Mr. Morales’ homeroom this year.”

Logan smiles at him. Logan SMILES AT HIM. And then he says, “I am, as well. Perhaps we’ll be seated next to each other in homeroom, in addition to being locker neighbors. I would enjoy that.”

He would ENJOY THAT!!!!!

Logan clears his throat and fiddles with his glasses, finally just pushing them a little further up his nose, even though they’re pretty high up on his nose already. “Would you like to walk together to Mr. Morales’ classroom? I was in his home economics class last year, I know where it is.”

“Um, sure,” Virgil says, voice cracking embarrassingly, and he considers opening his locker back up again so that he can hide there. He’s pretty skinny, he might be able to fit.

So they walk to Mr. Morales’ classroom. Logan’s the one talking, mostly; Virgil’s grateful for that, because he’d probably just be rambling nervously the whole time, and it’d be tempting fate to have his voice crack in front of Logan again. But now he can just listen to Logan’s various opinions about their summer reading for their English class, which is much safer. He sure has a lot of opinions about it, which makes Virgil sweat a little nervously—Logan sounds like he’s ready to sit down and write an essay about it, as if they’re going to have to, and Virgil’s pretty sure that if he sat down to take a multiple-choice quiz about that book right now he’d flunk it.

They end up not being assigned to sit next to each other. Mr. Morales says to just sit wherever, since they’re all going to go to an assembly once he takes attendance anyways, and that he probably won’t assign seats for the whole year.

And then Logan ends up sitting next to him anyways.

Like he really meant that he’d like to be next to Virgil in homeroom.

Mr. Morales smiles at them, and then, inexplicably, gives Logan a double thumbs up? And then Logan’s cheeks go kind of red? Logan turns his face away from Mr. Morales, turning to more fully face Virgil.

“You were in his class last year, right?” Virgil says.

“Erm, yeah. Yes. I was.” Logan clears his throat, turning away from him. “He supervises my study hall, too.” Then he mumbles, “also he’s my uncle.”

“He’s your uncle?” Virgil repeats. This is news to him.

“Through marriage,” Logan explains. “Mr. Regnant is my father’s brother.”

Mr. Regnant is the arts-and-music teacher, and, though they don’t talk about it very much (students do, but then, students always gossip), Mr. Morales’ husband.

Mr. Regnant is also, not that Virgil would ever tell him so, Virgil’s favorite teacher.

“Which dad?” Virgil says, because Logan’s two dads were basically his only version of real-life gay representation when they were really little. He knows Mr. Sanders better than Logan’s other dad. 

Mr. Sanders always volunteered to be part of the PTA moms who supervised them during holiday parties and field trips, though, looking back, he doesn’t think the PTA moms liked him very much. The kids, on the other hand, loved Mr. Sanders, who would treat them like very short adults and once a year would bring in his mamba Eve for kids to pet and hold.

Logan’s other Dad had been the one who encouraged the kids to throw paints and roll around in the mud and tear things up. Logan’s other Dad had come to supervise one holiday party and was politely asked to never do so again.

“Not Pa—I mean, Janus,” Logan says, looking briefly embarrassed. “He’s Dad’s—Remus’—twin brother.”

Virgil makes an “ohhh” sound, because that makes sense. Now he’s thinking about it, Mr. Regnant and Logan’s dad really do look alike, if one looked past their contrasting senses of style. 

“That’s cool, though,” Virgil says thoughtfully. “That you’re related, I mean. Mr. Morales is really nice.”

“Yes, he is,” Logan says. “It’s been a bit strange to adjust to calling him Mr. Morales instead of Uncle Patton, though.”

“Yeah, I guess it probably would be,” Virgil says. 

The bell rings, and Mr. Morales ushers them off to the assembly.

Logan sits down next to him on the bleachers at the assembly, too. Their knees bump together as they listen to the principal welcome them back from summer vacation and give some announcements.

And Logan keeps sitting down next to him.

At lunch, in their two shared classes, in homeroom. He wishes Virgil a good morning and good afternoon every day at their locker. As the months of the school year slowly creep by, Virgil definitely does kind of feel like crawling into his locker, sometimes, but less and less so, because.

Because he and Logan are kind of friends now.

Logan asks him about his favorite hot beverage and then starts bringing him chai when he and his uncles stop by a café before school. Virgil sketches out drawings of astronauts and space when Logan goes on a loving tirade about it that lasts, on-and-off, for a week. 

He still definitely has a crush on Logan. His increased presence near him is both a blessing and a curse.

They share earbuds and laugh at videos in homeroom, they sit quietly side-by-side and do their homework together in study hall. Virgil even tags along, sometimes, when Logan takes time out of his day to visit his uncles. His uncles always seem delighted whenever Virgil drops by, which Virgil guesses makes sense—Mr. Morales is just kind of Like That, and he’s been taking classes with Mr. Regnant since freshman year, and they’ve been sassing at each other for just about as long.

Logan makes those visits rare, though. He always seems a little self-conscious about how excited his uncles are during their visits, the way they elbow Logan and give him thumbs-ups and wiggle their eyebrows. Virgil doesn’t really get it—he thinks it’s nice that his uncles are so excited to see Logan with his friend.

But then his mom unexpectedly comes by and drops off his lunch and ruffles Virgil’s hair right in front of Logan, and Virgil spends the rest of the day going beet red even Logan assures him that it’s okay and he thinks it’s nice, something in his brain... clicks. A little bit. Even though it doesn’t make sense.

Does Logan...?

No, his brain tells him. There’s no way.

But Virgil keeps an eye out for the next week anyways.

On Monday, Logan’s uncles give him a ride to school and also drive him by the café, so Logan hands over a chai for Virgil. Virgil smiles and thanks him.

Have Logan’s ears always gone red whenever Virgil thanks him for bringing him tea?

On Tuesday, their fingers brush when Logan’s passing over a stack of notecards for Virgil to study for an upcoming exam during their study hall. Simultaneously, they look away from each other, redirecting their attention to their textbooks.

Have they always done that?

On Wednesday, Logan and Virgil swing by Mr. Morales’ classroom. After Virgil laughs at a somewhat sarcastic comment that Logan says, and redirects his attention to the sketch he’s been doing to turn in for approval for his end-of-semester art project, he peeks through his bangs to see Mr. Morales waving his hands eagerly, and Logan go red and gesture sharply for him to stop.

Has Mr. Morales always been so excited whenever he and Logan spend time in his classroom?

On Thursday, Logan seems chilled by the overenthusiastic air conditioning, so Virgil gives him a spare hoodie he had in his locker. Logan looks at him, looks away, and then proceeds to huddle in Virgil’s hoodie for the rest of the day, even after the school adjusts the temperature and it isn’t quite so cold.

By then, his brain saying no way! No way, you cannot afford to be wrong on this so you aren’t even going to try, there’s no way—

It’s after school on Thursday, and Virgil makes sure Logan has already gone home when he descends the stairs to Mr. Regnant’s art-and-music studio.

“Oh, Virgil, hey,” Mr. Regnant says, distracted, looking up from the sheet music he’s laying out across four desks. “Gimme a second, I’ve got the feedback for your sketch on my desk somewhere—”

Virgil looks to Mr. Regnant’s desk. He can’t even see the mug of pens on his desk that Virgil knows is there, it’s so buried in papers and models and paint palette piles. It��s like an avalanche waiting to happen.

“Uh, that’s not—you can give it to me tomorrow,” Virgil says awkwardly. “Um. That’s not why I’m here.”

Mr. Regnant blinks at him. “All right.”

“I,” he wipes his hands on his jeans and grimaces, not quite believing that he’s about to do this. “I need advice.”

Mr. Regnant pauses, before he manages to find an empty desk and sets down the sheet music. “Okay.”

“Before I say anything,” he says. “I need you to give me this advice as Mr. Regnant, faculty supervisor of the GSA club.”

“Yeah,” Mr. Regnant says. “Yeah, ‘course, Virgil. I’m always—”

“Mr. Regnant, faculty supervisor of the GSA club, is a separate person from Mr. Regnant, Logan’s Uncle Roman,” Virgil interrupts, twisting his fingers together anxiously. “Right?”

Mr. Regnant opens his mouth. Closes it. He gestures for Virgil to sit on one of the choir risers, settling there himself, but Virgil sits on the floor. This is a time in which floor-sitting is necessary.

“He could be,” Mr. Regnant says eventually.

“Well I need him to be,” Virgil snaps. “Okay?”

Mr. Regnant presses his lips together and nods.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice a little higher pitched. His lips twitch and he clears his throat. “Yeah! Yeah.”

“Oh my God, you’re about to laugh at me,” Virgil says, horrified. “I knew this was a terrible idea, forget it—”

“No!” Mr. Regnant says hastily. “No I’m not, no I’m not. I swear I’m not. Mr. Regnant the faculty supervisor of the GSA is not about to laugh.”

“Is Mr. Regnant Logan’s uncle about to laugh?!”

“I thought they were different people,” Mr. Regnant sasses back, seemingly on instinct, and Virgil buries his face in his hands and screams a little bit. Just a little bit.

“Shi—shoot, I mean shoot!” He says, and tugs lightly at Virgil’s arm. Virgil peeks at Mr. Regnant from between his fingers.

Mr. Regnant’s face is very serious. There is no more sign of lip-twitching, throat-clearing, or mirth in his eyes.

“Mr. Regnant the faculty supervisor of the GSA is here and listening,” he says. “Mr. Regnant the faculty supervisor of the GSA does not have any relatives to speak of. Mr. Regnant the faculty supervisor of the GSA does not have any twin brothers or nephews. What on earth even are those? Mr. Regnant the faculty supervisor of the GSA would have no idea. Mr. Regnant the faculty supervisor of the GSA doesn’t even have parents, or a husband, that’s how absolutely relative-less he is. Okay?”

“Mr. Regnant the faculty supervisor of the GSA is an asshole,” Virgil mutters.

“Faculty supervisor of the GSA is starting to not sound like words anymore,” Mr. Regnant says, “also, you are so lucky school is technically over, otherwise I would have totally given you a detention for language.”

“You’re such a hypocrite, you literally just almost swore.”

“Almost,” Mr. Regnant says, “is not the same as did. Now. What can I do for you, Virgil?”

Virgil takes a deep breath in.

“What do you do if you think the boy you have a crush on likes you back?”

Mr. Regnant’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead, but otherwise, he doesn’t react.

“You could talk to him?”

“Okay, maybe I should be more specific,” Virgil says, “What do you do if you have an anxiety disorder, and you think the boy you have a crush on likes you back?”

“I know you’re not gonna like this,” Mr. Regnant says, “but my answer is still you could talk to him.” 

He holds up a hand before Virgil can protest. “I know it can be scary, I know it can be anxiety-inducing. I know that can be a deterrent for a perfectly neurotypical person, let alone someone who’s got a diagnosed anxiety disorder. But, I mean. Your only options, as I see them, are, A, tell him, or B, sit quietly and wait for him to maybe make the first move.”

“But how can I be sure?” He says.

“Well, why do you think he likes you back?” Mr. Regnant says reasonably.

So Virgil tells him. Virgil tells him all about it—thinking he was cute since they were kids, then suddenly becoming friends this year: the chai, the sketches, the music listening, the blushing and the awkward chats, and how they’re friends now but Virgil still really likes him in a romantic way.

“Does that sound like he likes me back?” he asks anxiously. 

Mr. Regnant bites his lip. “As the faculty supervisor of the GSA? I think it could definitely be likely.”

“Likely?” Virgil wails.

“Well, as the faculty supervisor of the GSA,” Mr. Regnant enunciates carefully, “I can’t be certain.”

“I can’t go and tell him based on if it’s just likely! I need to be sure he likes me back or else there’s a chance he says he doesn’t like me and then I’m going to have a heart attack and die!”

“Virgil! As the faculty supervisor of the GSA! I really think you should go for it!”

Mr. Regnant looks like he’s about to reach out and start shaking Virgil by the shoulders. His eyes are huge, the way he always looks at actors onstage who have forgotten their lines, like by just staring at them he’ll be able to psychically impart the script to them.

“Forget it,” Virgil groans and reaches for his backpack, swinging it over his shoulders and standing up. “I’m doomed to suffer in silence. Thanks, I guess, I’ll see you in class tomorrow. Please don’t tell anyone I told you all this.”

As Virgil is closing the classroom door behind him, he’s pretty sure he hears Mr. Regnant screeching.

Honestly, Virgil should be the one screeching. He can’t believe he just told him all that—who knows if Mr. Regnant will be able to keep the information of a crush concerning his nephew to himself?!

⁂

“Okay, here’s your mocha-with-extra-espresso, please don’t tell your Dads,” Uncle Patton says cheerfully, passing back a to-go cup to Logan. “And the chai! I think it’s very sweet that you keep getting this for him, kiddo.”

“Gestures are a good way to express affection,” Logan says anxiously, carefully setting the chai in a cupholder. “I’ve been trying to vary my approaches based off the five love languages. I’m not sure if it’s working.”

Uncle Roman in the passenger seat, his arm thrown over his eyes, makes a sound of great discontent, the way he’s been doing for the past week whenever Uncle Patton has tried to give him any advice concerning Virgil.

“Are you okay, Uncle Roman?” Logan asks again.

“Thinking about being the faculty supervisor to the GSA,” Uncle Roman moans, as if in pain.

“Is the club schedule about to be particularly busy?” Logan asks, frowning. “You typically enjoy your work with the GSA.”

“You could say that,” Uncle Roman says tightly, then groans again.

“Well, if there’s anything I can do personally, in order to relieve any undue stress,” Logan begins, but is cut off by Uncle Roman shrieking.

“Um,” Logan says, looking to Uncle Patton, who snorts, shaking his head.

“He just, um,” Uncle Patton says. “Well, I think something’s happened, except he told me he can’t tell me what it is without betraying someone’s trust, so.”

“I see,” Logan says, frowning, except for the part where he doesn’t see, really. But that happens fairly frequently with Papa and Dad. Honestly, it’s rather curious that Uncle Roman has not acted in a way that seems strange to outsiders. Dad does it all the time, and they’re twins.

Oh, well. He’s sure he’ll understand eventually.

“I’m fine,” Uncle Roman says, and he sniffs loudly. “I’m fine, it’s all—fine.”

Uncle Patton pats his hand sympathetically, before directing their car to school.

Logan sips his drink, before he says idly, “I think I’m going to tell him I’ve had a crush him today.”

Uncle Roman immediately spews coffee onto the windshield in an impressive spit-take. It is hilarious. Even though Uncle Roman is choking a little. 

Uncle Patton meets his eyes in the rearview mirror, his eyes bright with excitement. “Really?!”

“Really,” Logan confirms. “I mean, it’s been—it’s been a couple months. We are friendly enough. I do not think that Virgil will discard our friendship if I confess that I have had a crush on him since last year.”

“Well!” Uncle Patton says, so flustered that he accidentally turns on the windshield wipers when he means to signal a turn, and then when he tries to fix that he turns on his hazard lights, before he manages to get the car under control again. “Well, that’s great, kiddo! I’m so excited for you!”

“You are the smartest kid I know,” Uncle Roman says, turning in his seat to face Logan, his expression near-worshipful. “I love you.”

“Um. Thank you?”

“I know you don’t believe in psychics, but are you—?”

“Why are you bringing up psychics?” Logan says, perplexed. “I figured—well, I’ll tell him. And it is time that the Halloween festival will begin this weekend. That seems like a date that Virgil would enjoy.”

“Right,” Uncle Roman says. “Okay. Well—go for it! Please go for it!”

“I have already told you I will,” he says. 

“I think it’s gonna go great if you go for it!”

Strange. Uncle Roman is acting as if he has had too much caffeine. As far as Logan is aware, the beverage they have just stopped to get is his first coffee of the day, and he does not metabolize the effects of coffee that quickly.

“Right,” Logan says, adjusting his glasses and taking a sip of his coffee. Then, “Right.”

Then, “What if he says he doesn’t like me back?”

Uncle Roman throws his arm across his eyes and makes that same groaning sound again.

Uncle Patton absentmindedly reaches over and bracingly rubs Uncle Roman’s thigh, again meeting Logan’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Well, kiddo, if he says he doesn’t like you back,” he says, then frowns. “It’s understandable to be disappointed, or a little bit upset, but it’s important to accept his answer graciously and kindly. No means no. No is a full sentence. But Virgil seems like a very nice boy, I can’t imagine he’ll be very mean about it at all, and you two have gotten close over the past few months. It might be kind of awkward for a bit, but with a little work, your friendship will be able to survive it.”

“I suppose,” Logan says quietly, looking down at his lap.

“But,” Uncle Patton adds hastily, “I think the chances are really good for him saying yes to the date! We both do, don’t we, Roman?”

Uncle Roman lets out a very strangled “mm-hmm.”

Logan chews his lip, before he says timidly, “Can I borrow one of your phones to call my Dads?”

“Cupholder, just a bit in front of ya,” Patton says cheerfully. “You already know the password.”

Logan does. He swipes it in—his uncles’ wedding date—and presses on Papa’s contact number. Dad’s phone is lost more often than not, and almost always turns up in strange places, like inside the gateau he’d tried to make, or inside the neighbor’s rain gutters.

His father picks it up almost immediately.

“Patton, if this is about the adopt-a-thon, if I have told you once I have told you a thousand times—”

“Um, hi, Papa,” Logan says awkwardly; he does not want to get into the family squabble about sharing a pet between their households again. Eve is a sufficient pet, even if she’s not as cuddly as Uncle Patton might like.

His father’s voice transforms from chiding to concerned in a second. “Logan, is everything all right?”

“Yes, everyone is operating under adequate parameters,” Logan says. “Is Dad there?”

There’s the sound of something crashing in the background, as if on cue. Knowing Dad, it might have been.

“I’ll get him,” Papa says wearily.

He hears his Papa say Remus, our son is on the phone, please put down the—Uh, Jan, sexy-pie! I thought you were! On the way to work!—what the—REMUS, we’ve TALKED about this, how did you lay hands on a HERON—and then the conversation gets a good deal more muffled. He is pretty sure that Papa is shouting at Dad about capturing local wildlife again.

He waits patiently, before he hears the clatter of the phone being passed into someone’s hands, and Dad asks, “Did someone die?! Do you need help covering up a murder?!”

“Remus, please,” Papa groans, “the boy is too smart to implicate himself by opening the opportunity to be recorded over the phone lines.”

“That’s right, Logie-bear, the government is always watching,” Dad says solemnly. “Big brother, all hail. Also lean over and give my little brother a wet-willie for me, it’d be so funny—”

Logan, accustomed to conversations of this tone since birth, continues stolidly onward. “I’m going to tell Virgil I like him today.”

“Finally!” Dad hoots.

“That’s excellent, Logan,” Papa says placidly. “Please know that I am fully aware of the misogynistic roots of the what are your intentions discussion, and I’ve been doing research in order to make our version as feminist as possible. Also, your father has been warned to discuss minimal amounts of gore when he comes to our home.”

“What is the point of a shovel talk then!”

“We already agreed no shovel talk,” Papa says irritably. “When we threaten the boy, we’ll do it subtly.”

“Please don’t threaten him,” Logan says anxiously. “I don’t even know if he likes me back yet.”

“Of course he likes you back!” Dad says, outraged on his behalf. “Why the hell wouldn’t he like you back?!”

“How did you two know that you loved each other?” Logan asks. The question feels slightly childish, and he feels even more so when he curls up in his car seat, but he cannot deny the posture brings a certain level of comfort.

There’s a pregnant pause.

“We’ll tell you when you’re older,” Papa says.

“I’m sixteen in a matter of weeks!”

Dad makes an absurd gagging noise, because he is ridiculously averse to the concept of Logan (and therefore, himself and Papa) aging. Logan thinks that it might have to do with a latent existential crisis, but he has not asked, because knowing Dad, he will spin it out into thirteen separate absurd reasons, and ten of them will make Logan cringe away, repulsed.

“Trust my judgment on this,” Papa says. “You do not want to know the origins of how our romance developed. However, when we actually had the discussion concerning feelings, your father—”

“I wrote him a beautiful letter in my best calligraphy,” Dad says proudly, then, “You probably don’t want to hear about the ink, do you?”

“Is it disgusting?” Logan asks warily.

“Quite, but,” then, in a voice that literally every other person wouldn’t realize is Papa’s version of profound sappiness, “that’s your father.” 

There is the sound of kissing. Logan resists the urge to make a gagging noise of his own, because somehow, he is the mature one in the entire family.

“As it is, just,” Papa says, then sighs. “I cannot believe I am about to give such... Pattonish advice. But. As it is, just be yourself. If this boy likes you back—”

“—as he should, and if he doesn’t he’s in desperate need of a lobotomy,” Dad mutters.

“—then he will like you for you, just the way you are,” Papa says, as if Dad had not said anything remotely worrying. “Tap into your strengths, Logan. You are intelligent, and observant, and thoughtful—”

“—and the best son there is—”

“Well, that goes without saying, clearly,” Papa says. “As long as your confession comes from you, then there is no way that it can go wrong. You are simply too excellent a person for it not to.”

“Even if it turns out he doesn’t like me?” Logan says timidly.

“If it does, then have your uncle forge an excuse note for you to get out of school early today and we’ll plot accordingly,” Papa says evasively. “But I do not think that outcome likely.”

Logan chews his lip. Papa is the best liar he knows, but—

But hearing his encouragement is too comforting to really analyze if he is lying.

“Thanks, Dads.”

“Knock him dead, kid!” Dad shouts. “And if he doesn’t then I will!”

“What did we just say about discussing potential evidence over the phone lines,” Papa scolds, and Logan hangs up, smiling.

Just be yourself.

Uncle Pattonish advice it may be, it has given him an idea.

⁂

Waiting over this past week to see if Mr. Regnant will crack and spill to Mr. Morales, or even worse, Logan himself, has been absolutely agonizing and Virgil’s kicking himself over going to Mr. Regnant for advice surrounding Logan at all.

That morning, though, Mr. Morales is at his desk, and a chai is waiting for Virgil at their usual spot, but Logan is nowhere to be seen. Virgil tries his hardest not to act too much like he’s keeping an eye out for Logan, but he is pretty sure he’s not succeeding, because Mr. Morales is smiling at him way too wide.

He actually seems really excited about something. Like, Mr. Morales usually gets excited when it’s fresh chocolate chip cookie day at lunch, but this is beyond the pale for fresh chocolate chip cookie day. Maybe the assembly they have today is something special? Except Virgil’s pretty sure it’s to pass out honors for the last quarter and talk about fall sports. That’s nothing particularly special.

Logan slides into his seat just before the bell rings, though, wrapping a rubber band around one of his notecard stacks. It’s a thin stack, it must be for something that’s just started; usually Logan compiles every unit of every class into thick stacks, able to be differentiated by the different colors of the notecards. These are just basic white ones.

He fiddles with it, darting looks to Virgil as Patton takes attendance, and, as they’re all filing out of the door, Logan holds out the stack of notecards.

“Here,” he blurts out.

Virgil blinks. “I don’t think we have a test soon?”

“They’re not for a test,” Logan says. “Just—take them. Read them during assembly. Please,” he adds belatedly.

“Uh,” Virgil says and takes them. “Okay?”

“Okay!” Logan says and nods. “Okay. Okay. Great! Um—please take your time to consider them carefully, and I await your response,” and then he practically runs off to fall into line near Mr. Regnant.

So that’s... weird.

But Virgil sticks the notecards into his hoodie pocket, anyways, ready to read them during assembly like Logan directed.

He waits until the principal is droning on about the importance of school spirit to take the notecards out of his pocket.

He spares a glance for Logan—who is several rows ahead, near the faculty, sitting next to Mr. Morales and Mr. Regnant, Mr. Morales occasionally reaching over to rub Logan’s shoulder bracingly—and then angles the notecards so that a teacher looking into the crowd wouldn’t really be able to see them.

He stares at the title on the top notecard. Blinks hard. Blinks again. Looks down at Logan’s back, then back to the notecard.

Reasons why I have a crush on Virgil.

He reaches over to pinch himself. Nope. Not dreaming, then.

And Logan really doesn’t seem like the type of person to make a joke like this.

He flips the cards and reads them slowly, savoring each and every word written in Logan’s blocky, neat script.

He is exceptionally witty.

He is knowledgeable about a great many things, such as music, art, spiders, novels, and mental health issues.

He is sarcastic.

He is thoughtful and deliberate in the formation of his opinions, even ones as small as the proper preparation of chai.

He is very handsome.

He is never rude without reason, and when he is rude, it is usually because the other person is “an asshole” and should be receiving backlash.

He is a remarkably talented artist.

Virgil keeps reading on, he is, he is, he is...

When he gets to the end—I would like to take you on a date. I would also like to be boyfriends, though I understand if you would like to table that conversation until we have established a rapport. Please let me know if you would be amenable to that suggestion.—he feels kind of dizzy. His throat is tight, his heart is pounding, and his hands are so sweaty he’s had to wipe them off on his jeans twice already.

Is it really possible that someone as wonderful as Logan would think of him so highly? 

It’s like he’s describing someone entirely different—awkward, anxious Virgil couldn’t possibly be the snarky, witty, caring, deep-thinking guy that Logan’s writing about. There’s just no way. But, Virgil thinks, heart twisting, but Logan doesn’t lie about things like this. Is this the way Logan sees him?

Is it really possible that someone as wonderful as Logan would have a crush on him at all?

He likes Virgil. He wants to take Virgil on a date. He wants Virgil to be his boyfriend.

There’s the rumbling of everyone standing up from the bleachers, and Virgil jumps—has it really been the entire assembly?—and hastily gets to his feet, so he won’t get swept up in the crowd of students returning to their classrooms.

As he’s heading for the door, Logan practically materializes in front of him, hugging his books tightly to his chest.

“Did you read them?” He asks fretfully. Now that Virgil’s close to him, face-to-face, he isn’t sure if he’s ever seen Logan so nervous. He isn’t sure if he’s seen Logan nervous at all. Logan’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, drumming his fingers on his books, holding the books like they’re a teddy bear.

“Do you,” Virgil says, his voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “You really like me?”

“Since last year,” Logan admits.

“I’ve liked you since kindergarten,” Virgil blurts out.

Logan blinks at him, jaw dropping. Then he says, “Really?!”

“Really,” Virgil promises. “My mom has this journal entry saved where I kept writing about how I was going to be Mr. Virgil Sanders, oh my God, she’s going to be so embarrassing about this—”

Logan snorts, ducking his head. “You’ve withstood my uncles handily.”

“Your uncles are cool, though,” Virgil says, confused.

“My uncles are embarrassing,” Logan says, “and my Dads are going to be so weird, I’m very sorry in advance, but—but if you can handle all of that, then I’d—I’d really like to take you out to the Halloween festival. I’d really really like that.”

Virgil’s smiling so wide that it hurts his face. “I’d really really like that too.”

And then the bell rings, and the pair of them jump at the sudden loud noise.

“I—we have to go to class,” Logan says, sounding very put out.

“Yeah,” Virgil says, then, “I’ll see you at lunch?”

Logan beams at him. “Lunch sounds wonderful.”

Virgil hesitates, before he reaches out and places a hand on Logan’s shoulder. He leans in and presses his lips to Logan’s cheek.

Logan’s bright red when he pulls away.

“Lunch?” Virgil confirms.

“Lunch,” Logan squeaks out, his voice cracking.

They emerge from under the bleachers, and have to split ways. Even when Mr. Regnant pulls him out into the hall under the guise of talking about his project and starts whisper-shouting about “do you know how HARD IT WAS to keep QUIET when i KNEW all along that you both LIKED each other bacK,” even when Mr. Morales ducks his head into his math class to pass over papers and gives Virgil some super-obvious thumbs up, even after he texts his Mom and his mom sends him screenfuls of exclamation points and immediately asks him to invite Logan over so that she can show Logan all of Virgil’s baby pictures—

Virgil cannot stop smiling.

#my post #text #my fic #analogical #analogicalweek #sanders sides #sanders sides fanfic #sanders sides fanfiction #virgil sanders #logan sanders

[taetaemilktea]

Sick in the Soop (Part 1)

Summary: Poor Jimin catches a cold while Bangtan is filming “In the Soop.” Cue some cuddly caretaking and some much needed time to rest.

Sickie: Jimin

Caretaker: Taehyung, mild Hoseok and Namjoon

Word Count: 1570

Author’s Note: Much of this fic is inspired by actual dialogue and clips from “In the Soop”! If you haven’t seen the show and are wondering what clips were used, message me and I can clip/post them! Please look forward to some sickie Tae and caretaker Jimin in part 2!

~~~~~

“hH!—hH’tSHh’iiew!”

Jimin wrapped his FILA jacket more tightly around his shoulders as he let out a shivery sneeze in the evening briskness. He and the group were stationed out by the Bukhan River, enjoying some relaxing time to themselves as they filmed a new series. “In the Soop” came at just the right time. The Bangtan members had been busy with hectic schedules and various promotions, all the while drained at the news of having their world tour postponed.

Jimin would admit to feeling run down by it all, spending a few too many nights awake into the late hours as he and Yoongi worked on prepping their new, soon-to-be-released BE album.

So, he was not too surprised to be feeling a sneezy and sniffly cold coming on. He was quite grateful to have a few days to enjoy some video games, play ping pong against Namjoon, and try out wood carving. Perhaps the relaxation would help him nip this cold in the bud. The group was to return to Seoul after a few days before coming back to the forest, and Jimin wanted to be well before heading back to work.

Until then, Jimin planned to join the 94 liners out under the tent. He had been watching Hoseok and Namjoon chat for some time from his spot inside the house. Jimin’s throat was starting to hurt from all the karaoke he had been doing with Taehyung. The last song had him in a coughing fit with Taehyung patting his back. Jimin had waved off any of Taehyung’s concerns by attributing the coughing to the last set of heartfelt ballads they had sung.

He excused himself as Taehyung cued his next song, telling him he’d see him in the morning. Taehyung waved him off and picked up the microphone.

Time for a nice and peaceful chat, Jimin told himself as he walked out the sliding glass door onto the grassy field. But it was colder than he anticipated. He shivered as the crisp air blew lightly around him, and he jogged over to his friends to sit by the fire. Hobi and Joon were engrossed in deep conversation. They looked up when he sat down, offering him to head towards the house to join them for beer.

“I’ll just sit here and zone out,” Jimin smiled. “I’ll ask for some cold medicine later.”

“Cold medicine?” Hobi’s smile turned to a frown. “Are you feeling sick?”

“I’m not feeling so good,” he admitted. As if to prove his point, he sniffled wetly and scrubbed a finger under his now red nose.

Namjoon began to worry about Jimin.

“Put your hood on, Jimin. Wear your hood.”

Jimin chuckled at his hyung’s orders. “I’ll be fine.”

“Seriously, wear your hood,” Hobi nodded at him too, noting the chilly evening air. “Wearing the hood makes a big difference.”

“I’m obedient,” Jimin complied, pulling his hood over his fluffy black hair and beginning to poke at the fire as they continued their light conversation. They were all beginning to tire, the warmth of the alcohol from dinner setting in. Hobi and Namjoon continued to chat about the weather, noting the fluctuation in temperature. Their weather-related conversation eventually turned into giggles about their plans to play ping pong, already looking forward to the championship game.

Jimin tried to control his sniffles as his nose began to run more. He didn’t want his caring, and sometimes overbearing, friends to worry more than they already were. He was planning to ask the staff members if they had any cold medicine handy, and mentally noted the need to ask for some tissues as well.

He was thankful when Namjoon suggested they play a round of ping pong before bed. It would give him the opportunity to go back towards the house where it was much warmer. He figured that a game of ping pong, combined with the beer, would be a perfect way to send himself off to bed.

-

Taehyung woke up to the bright sun shining into his and Hoseok’s bedroom. Rolling over happily, Taehyung allowed himself to snuggle into his pillows before heading downstairs to gaze upon all of the activities the staff had planned for the group.

He excitedly grabbed his toy boat, slipping his feet into his favorite slides and trekking down to the lake. After a few loops through the shimmering water, Taehyung whipped out his phone. He wanted his fellow 95 liner to join him. He and Jimin had talked throughout the car ride there about their plans to try new activities together.

30 minutes later, and Taehyung had heard no reply. Checking the time, he noticed the group would be getting ready for lunch. He realized just how hungry he was and jogged to the upper house to help out and find Jimin.

-

Still? He was still asleep?? Taehyung peeked into Jimin’s room. Walking in, he stood over Jimin’s bed as his soulmate rolled over and looked up at him with bleary eyes. Taehyung plopped into bed, cuddling up close next to Jimin. Feeling playful, Jimin tickled his sides, causing Taehyung to giggle and curl up. Laughing Taehyung rolled over so that he laid across Jimin’s small form.

“You slept for so long. How are you, Jimin-ah?” Taehyung murmured into his friend’s shoulder with his eyes closed. He paused, frowning when Jimin didn’t answer. He peeked up in confusion—had Jimin fallen asleep again? Nope.

“hH’tsh‘iiew! hH’iKSHh!!” Jimin had been teased by his nose, finally letting out two breathy sneezes while turning away from Taehyung. With Taehyung draped over his body, he had his arms pinned to his side, so he was forced to sneeze away and down towards the floor.

“Sick,” he sniffled.

Taehyung frowned, standing up to get a better look at Jimin. His poor friend had deep bags under his eyes, his nose now beginning to run from the sneezes.

“You look bad,” Taehyung stated, tilting his head to the side as he gazed upon Jimin’s pale complexion.

“Wow, thank you,” Jimin groaned. Taehyung plucked a tissue out of the box on the bedside table and handed it to Jimin who blew his nose with a sigh.

“You’re warm,” Taehyung placed a hand on Jimin’s forehead before sliding under the covers. He wrapped his long arms around Jimin and threw a leg over his small waist.

“You’re an idiot,” Jimin sniffled as Taehyung pulled him in closer.

“Why?”

“You’re going to get sick. You know that.”

“Shut up. You like this—you feel better already. I know you do.”

Jimin couldn’t argue with him on that. Instead, he nuzzled his head into Taehyung’s shoulder and sighed admittedly in content. Taehyung was warm from being out in the sun with his toy motor boat, and Jimin was chilled. He was trying not to shiver. His sore throat had only worsened over night, causing him to cough lightly.

“Did you take medicine?”

“Last night,” Jimin croaked. “It hasn’t really helped.” The cold medicine only made him drowsy.

“Poor Jiminie.”

“Can you massage my back,” Jimin murmured with his eyes closed. Taehyung sat up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and getting to work. Jimin sighed happily as Taehyung’s long fingers kneaded into his sore, achy muscles. He’d almost fallen asleep when Hobi walked in, pushing the door open.

“Taehyung-ah, go and get it for me.”

“What?”

“The blowtorch, the one we used last night.”

Obediently, Taehyung left Jimin to help his hyungs cook. He didn’t leave without forgetting to give Jimin’s head a comforting pat. Jimin allowed himself 5 more minutes in bed before forcing himself up to eat lunch. He silently wished that one of the other boys could’ve gone to get what Hobi needed—he had quite enjoyed Taehyung’s massage.

-

The Bangtan members finished a delicious and filling lunch. Tired and under the weather, Jimin aimed to spend his day resting. He had wandered around throughout the afternoon, unable to find something he was interested in. His brain was a bit too foggy to write lyrics with Yoongi. His throat was too sore to sing more karaoke with Tae. His body ached way too much to even attempt boxing with Kookie.

When he found Hobi on the patio, he smiled and sat down in the chair beside him.

“Want to paint with me, Jiminie?”

“I don’t know, I’m not that great at it,” he scrubbed a hand under his nose and coughed into his elbow.

“Me neither,” Hobi giggled, patting Jimin on the back. “But it’s fun. Here, use this.”

Jimin took the other FILA sneaker from Hoseok and smiled, already imagining a beautiful cherry blossom tree on the blank, white space. He spent the rest of the afternoon there, happily conversing with Hobi, who didn’t seem to mind the frequent sneezes or sniffles that much.

By the time he had finished his beautiful masterpiece, the members were ready for a quick dinner and to head home to Seoul. By late afternoon, the group was packed and ready to take off. Despite the increasing congestion and growing aches in his body, Jimin was feeling peaceful and content to have spent his afternoon painting with Hobi and to have some much needed rest. He knew that going back to work would only prolong his sickness, so he yearned for the next few days to pass quickly so he and the boys could return to the forest.

#bts snzfic #bts snz #sick!jimin #caretaker!taehyung #caretaker!hoseok #caretaker!namjoon

[theunknowncryptid]

5. Night One

Next

Masterlist

Namjoon x Y/n

After her brother makes a deal, Y/n is forced to spend seven nights with the leader of the Kim crime family, Kim Namjoon.

Taglist: @amordesiempre01 @jiminals @unadulteratedlyunique @parkmaeri @bbyjoonies @lilacsmoon @s0228 @kelitt @xxxanimangxxx @chogiyeol-utopia @atomickokorox @irenebutfancier

~     ~     ~

The drive was longer than she expected. Y/n figured the quiet man at the wheel would drive her ten minutes across town, if that, but before she realized the skyscrapers turned to oak trees and all she could see were country fields.

“Where are we going?” She asked. The man glanced back at her in the rear-view mirror. He looked like he could be related to the Kim’s.

“To the private estate. Out of town.” His voice was brighter and kinder than Y/n expected. Her stomach churned. What was Kim Namjoon going to do to her that required miles of privacy.

It was a full hour before the driver turned off of the main road and onto a dirt path. Rust colored debris flew into the air around the SUV. A grove of trees opened around the road and gave way to, what Y/n assumed was, the Kim Estate.

“Whoa,” The house in the clearing looked like something out of Clue. It was old and Victorian, built with red brick. It was massive. Large enough for twenty people to live comfortably. 

The SUV parked beside the front of the house. The glass of the door and the windows, yellow light illuminated the grass. The driver stepped out and walked around to open Y/n’s door. 

“You can follow me.” He said as Y/n stepped down. Until then, she hadn’t realized how young he was. Maybe only a few years older than she was. 

He led her into the manor. The inside was just as grand. Decadent rugs covered dark hardwood. It was difficult to place the wall color because of the hundreds of decorations. There were paintings, photographs, bookcases and sculptures covering every available piece of wallpaper. The only light in the main entry was an overhead chandelier. Thousands of diamonds, strung together, cast a warm glow. Stairs lined the left wall.  Directly across the room, an archway led to some sort of living room, but it was too dim to see. Instead of taking her up the stairs or  through the arch, the man turned to the right wall and knocked on large double doors.

He didn’t wait for a summons. The man opened the door and offered for Y/n to walk ahead. Fear raided her body, but she walked through the doors. 

The room was warm. A fire burned in it’s pit against the East wall, filling the space with the sound and smell of a campfire. A beautiful desk was cluttered with papers, files, pens, books and nicknacks. Again, Y/n couldn’t tell what color the walls were. Hundreds of books lined the wall shelves. They were obviously worn and read. Blue velvet chairs sat facing the desk and a large window. The room would almost be cozy, if it weren’t for the tall man standing stiff in front of the fireplace. 

The driver shut the door behind him. It slammed shut and made her flinch. He cleared his throat.

“Your guest is here.” The man at the fireplace turned to look. Y/n struggled to maintain a bored expression. She had heard about Kim Namjoon before. Serious, Intelligent, Dangerous. He was someone to fear. He had to be, being the head of the Kim Crime Family. But simple descriptions didn’t prepare Y/n for the man in front of her. He was incredibly handsome. Dark hair fell over his eyes. His skin was tanned and, by his collar, Y/n could see a thin, white scar leading up his neck. He was dressed in a dark grey suit as if he had just come from a business meeting. His tie was loose around his neck and his hands were shoved in his pockets, making him seem more casual than the situation called for. His features were soft, but his eyes were full of judgment and annoyance. He looked Y/n up and down. 

“You’re late.” His low voice deadpanned.

“Blame your driver.” Her voice came much calmer than she felt. His eyes flickered to the man that stood behind her. 

“That will be all, Jimin.” He said. The air shifted and the sound of the office door shutting echoed. Y/n clenched her jaw. She didn’t want to be left alone with this man. She didn’t want to be here at all.

“You must love your brother very much to come here willingly.” He didn’t move at all. He just stood and stared at Y/n with a blank face. 

“Less and less each day.” She answered, dryly. The corners of his lips twitched up. The fire roaring behind left him as little more than a silhouette. 

“You’re aware of the arrangement we made?” He walked to the desk and picked up a half-drunk glass of scotch. 

“Obviously.” Y/n spat out. Anger flared in her.

“And yet, you still came?” He raised his brow at her.

“What choice did I have?” She glared. Kim Namjoon knew very well that her brother's life hung in the balance. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a swig of the alcohol.

“Your brother had a choice.”

“You knew when you gave the loan that Jungkook wouldn’t be able to pay his debt.” Y/n sneered. Over the last few days, with the help of Jin, she had come to that conclusion. It was a known fact that the Kim’s kept tabs on the Min’s, and vice-versa. Kim Namjoon knew that Jungkook had been cut off from the banks and from the Min’s. Jungkook was broke and addicted to cards. Kim also knew his money would not be repaid. He wasn’t after a simple business transaction. He was after her.

The man grinned. “You’re smart.”

“Why?” She demanded. Her hands fisted at her sides.

“Why not?” He tilted his head. Y/n continued to glare and he sighed. “A chance to have a beautiful woman in my bed. And to watch Min Yoongi squirm.”

“Why would Min Yoongi Squirm?” She feigned. The annoyance returned to his face. 

“Don’t play dumb, Y/n.” The sound of her name coming from his lips made her skin crawl. “You think Yoongi won’t notice one of his closest friends is missing for a week?”

He had her there, but she couldn’t let him know that. “I think you overestimate my worth.”

“No. But, good try.” He smirked. With an air of playfulness on his face he looked even more handsome. His eyes travelled over her body, taking stock. He stepped closer to her and she jumped back in alarm. 

“What are you doing?” She asked. She cursed her wavering voice.

“Claiming my debt.” Kim Namjoon stalked toward her again. Her lips trembled. With her back pressed to the door, Y/n came chest-to-chest with the man.

“You’re evil.” She glared. Again, he smirked.

“Oh, come on, Y/n. You’re a young woman who spends most of her time in a bar.” His hand reached up and gently placed a lock of hair behind her ear. She flinched away. “I can’t be the worst to spend some time between your legs.”

Her mouth dropped in shock and fury crashed inside her.

“You would be the first!” A furious blush covered her cheeks. For the first time that night, she could see a chink in his armor. It made her happy. His eyebrows raised and confusion contorted his features.

“You’re a virgin?”

“Surprise.” Y/n smirked. Pressed this close together she could feel his breath dusting her face. His hands were pressed to the door beside her, caging her in. His face was unreadable. She couldn’t tell if he was about to kick her out or bring her to him. Surprisingly, he pushed away from the door and walked back to his abandoned drink.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t?” She paled. Her remaining virginity was her one and only playing card. 

“Nope.” He said. His bored confidence was firmly back in place. “Some would say it makes you even more desirable.”

Y/n scowled. “Then what are you waiting for? Get it over with.”

He smiled at her coldly. “I haven’t had my dinner yet.” He turned back to the fireplace, but spoke over his shoulder. “Will you join me?”

“I’m not hungry.” She stared at him as if he’d just told her he had ridden a seahorse here.

“Pity, you’ll need your strength later.”

Horror filled her features as, on cue, the man named Jimin entered the office.

“Show Ms. Y/l/n to the bedroom, please, Jimin.” Kim demanded. Without a word, both left into the cold of the house. 

Kim Namjoon only wished he could see Y/n’s face when she realized her bedroom doubled as his.

~     ~     ~

The room was huge. Her entire apartment could fit inside. The walls were a bordered forest green with dark hardwood floors. A leather loveseat and a matching chair faced a flat-screen TV. A large, white rug covered the sitting area, bringing light to the dark room. A large mirror covered the interior wall. The far wall had two black doors, one leading to the ridiculously luxurious bathroom, one leading to a closet full of suits, shoes, and surprisingly, hoodies, t-shirts, and basketball shorts. The room smelled like the cologne from earlier. Y/n frowned at that. She felt surrounded by Kim Namjoon. The room was freezing, but the thought of climbing into the ginormous bed made her want to cry. The duvet was black with matching silk sheets. It must have been a king size, but it was hard to tell in the large space. Eventually, she caved and climbed in. With the sheets pulled up to her chin in the dark room, Y/n felt like she was waiting for a death sentence.

Fuck Jungkook, fuck gambling, and fuck Kim Namjoon. Not literally.

At the sound of the door opening, she shut her eyes, pretending to be asleep. Footsteps sounded across the room to the closet. Y/n cracked open one eye. The closet light illuminated Kim Namjoon's silhouette. He shrugged off his jacket and hung it with the rest of the suits. His back was turned to the bed. 

“I know you’re awake.” His voice broke the silence. Grumbling, Y/n sat up. She didn’t bother to ask how he’d seen through her. He turned to look at her. He looked wearier than he has a couple hours ago. His hair was ruffled and the top button of his shirt was undone. He walked to the dresser and picked up a plate he must have brought with him. She flinched as he came nearer. 

“Eat.” He demanded. The plate he offered had crackers, cheese, and grapes. Cautiously, Y/n took a couple crackers. She nibbled on them, but kept her tight grip on the sheets. Kim wandered away and leaned against the bed post. A ghost of a smile played around his mouth. He rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, casually. When Y/n finished the crackers he held out the plate again. Without thinking, she took a few grapes. She watched him carefully.

“You’re different than I thought you would be.”

“I can imagine.” He directed his gaze to the window overlooking a garden of wildflowers.

“Why are we here?” She asked.

“In this house?” He raised an eyebrow at her. As beautiful as it was, Y/n got the idea the house stood unoccupied most of the time. “I promised your brother no one would know about our transaction.”

Y/n rolled a grape in her fingers. “Not because you evil plans work better in the country?”

“Well, that too.” Y/n suppressed a smile, then cringed at herself. There should be nothing enjoyable about her situation. Kim Namjoon planned to use her as payment and if mental or physical damage came with that, so be it. Anger flared in her.

“Stop playing with me!” She glared. Y/n overdramatically threw the covers off herself. She threw herself back onto the sheets. “Get it over with!”

Silence filled the room again.

“Dear lord, Y/n, you desperately need some new pajamas.”

“What’s wrong with them?” She demanded. She looked down at the clothing. An old, stained Dartmouth t-shirt and baggy sweatpants. 

“Did you steal them off a homeless man?” He mocked. 

“What did you expect me to wear? Lingerie?” She snarled. His eyes crawled over her intensely and she knew he was imagining her in just that. Her skin burned from the observation. It reminded her just how horrible and disgusting the man in front of her really was.

“Take it off.” He said gently. Shit.

It was time. She could do this. Who cares if she wasn’t a virgin anymore. 

Slowly, she lifted the ratty shirt over her head and threw it on the floor. Then, she lifted her hips and slid off the sweatpants. Goosebumps formed on her bare skin. She was left in just white panties. She refused to meet his gaze. In the mirror on the wall, Y/n saw her exposed body with Kim Namjoon looming over her.

The room stayed silent until she couldn’t take it anymore. All he did was stand there, staring at her with pure hunger in his eyes. A muscle jerked in his cheek and his fists clenched at his sides as his investigation paused at her breasts. Her face burned in embarrassment. 

He stepped closer and slid his hand across her raised leg. The feeling of his hand on her made her want to pull away and hide. Every nerve in her body twisted and made her gasp.

“You’re beautiful,” He said in a hoarse voice.

“Do it.” Y/n begged. “Please, just do it.”

The minutes stretched forever before he moved again. Slowly, his face lowered to hers. For a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her, then he turned his head and pressed his lips to her cheek. It only lasted a moment and then he pulled back, lifted the covers back over her and walked to the door.

“What-” 

“I’m sorry, Y/n. I guess I’m not interested in martyrs tonight.”

#bts fake texts #bts fake chat #bts v #bts #namjoon social media au #smut #namjoon fake chat #bts smau #bts social media au #namjoon smau #bts jin #bts suga #bts jhope #bts rm #bts jimin #bts jungkook #namjoon x you #namjoon x reader #bts series #bts smut #bts Kim namjoon #namjoon au #the seven nights #theunknowncryptid #romance #humor #angst #story #bts fanfic #fanfiction

[sanktnikolais]

We Got Married

For @grishaversebigbang mini bang! <3 

Check out the amazing fanarts of @notbynary (x) and @ninaaswaffles (x)! 

Summary:  Waking up with a hangover in the morning without any recollection of the night before, Zoya and Nikolai are up for another headache because of their new status. 

Word count: 1821

AO3

Nikolai woke up to a throbbing pain in his head. Even opening his eyes was a challenge, everything was trying to knock him out to oblivion and slowly becoming successful, but he stood his ground.

               “Fuck,” Nikolai muttered as he brought a hand up to his temple to massage it. When he finally had the strength to open his eyes, the world was still spinning and threatening to black out, but he fought to stay awake and turned to the side.

               It was then he felt a breath on his neck from did he stop his movements, and the sudden weight of someone pressed tightly against his side snapped him awake fully. He turned his head slightly to the side and was greeted with a mess of ebony hair of a certain someone that he was sure he knew who it was.

               Almost half of Zoya’s body was perched on top of him and her arm was sprawled over his chest, pinning him down tightly on the couch. Nikolai winced through another wave of headache that hit. How had they gotten into this position, anyway? His memories were a blur of loud laughter and endless shots of alcohol of Zoya’s birthday blast. Aside from that, there was a huge blank space in between that needed to be filled.

               Nikolai carefully untangled the arm on his chest without risking to wake the raven-haired woman up because he was very much aware of her wrath when disturbed during her sleep even at the slightest state. And he was definitely going to get axed when she woke up and realize that they had been this close. He still loved his life to be cut short. Though as much as he wanted to stay in this position for much longer—probably even forever—his head needed to be soothed with painkillers.

               A few gentle tugs later, Zoya involuntarily moved away from him and turned to her side, finally putting off her weight from him all the while mumbling to herself. Nikolai gave a sigh of relief and rolled to his side, only to be met with the edge of the couch and he fell right off with a string of curses.

               It was a good thing that the floor was carpeted and it somehow cushioned his fall a bit. The abruptness of the act sent another wave of dizziness to him, making Nikolai struggle to sit up and using the glass table as his support. It had been a while since he got wasted like this. The last time he had, he woke up by the stairs of his unit, legs spread on the steps, and he spent most of the day in bed because of a terrible headache.

               Nikolai had vowed not to do that again, but the circumstances seemed to not be on his side.

               A small patch of paper on the glass surface caught his eye and he squinted to see something scribbled on it. He didn’t know if it was the font that was shitty or just his vision swimming, but he did recognize it as David’s handwriting—the messy strokes of lines adding to the swirling of his vision.

               Sorry to leave the mess for a while. We’ll be back in an hour, just went out to get breakfast. If you wake up before we come back, painkillers are in the cupboard by the kitchen. – D & G

                 P.S.

               Enjoy your new status!

               New what? Nikolai frowned at the note. It didn’t make any sense at all. Or had he missed something?

               As if on cue, a memory flashed in his mind of him taking off the chain around his neck that held his father’s ring, and the rest was blank. He whipped a hand up to his throat, feeling the absence of the necklace and sending his mind to a panic. What if he had been dared to do something crazy to it? Though he wasn’t that close with his family, the ring was still an heirloom, and Nikolai would never forgive himself if he lost it due to his own recklessness.

               He started to pat down on the carpet just in case it fell right over when he removed it from his neck. As he was doing so, he was berating himself in his mind for being so drunk to not be able to remember anything from the previous night.

               A gleam at the corner of his eye caught his attention and Nikolai turned to the direction he had seen it from, surprising him when he finally saw where it was.

               It was on the ring finger of his left hand.

               Nikolai narrowed his eyes on the band. It was just a simple gold one with a black cursive L engraved on it, the dark font of the letter contrasting with its light background and making it stand out. The blond breathed out another sigh of relief, even if he was confused on why he had it worn around his finger.

               At least the ring was still intact.

               He carefully stood up from the floor and walked towards the kitchen to try and find some painkillers, all the while Zoya was still snoring in the living room. Several minutes of rummaging through the cupboards, Nikolai was startled to a stop by a loud voice from somewhere behind him.

               “Lantsov, would you keep it down? It’s like you’re trying to go to war with—what in the fuck’s name is this?”

               Nikolai raised a brow at the sudden change of Zoya’s vocabulary and started to walk back to the living room. He spotted the woman at the side of the room, looking at the expanse of the wall that was covered with a carelessly hanged tarp.

               Zoya turned to him, eyes focused on the papers she was holding, her brows narrowed tightly.

               He tried to ignore the beautiful mess of her bed hair or the way one of her shirtsleeves almost fell off her shoulder and revealed the skin around her collarbone, but failed of course, and Nikolai was all too aware of himself gawking at the woman in front of him.

               Zoya tore her gaze away from the paper and looked at him, causing Nikolai to snap out of his daze and focus on the tarp behind her. From where he was standing, he could make out huge letters written (in spray-paint?) on its surface.

               Nikolai squinted and read the writings.

               He was mortified with what he read.

               “Married?” Zoya exclaimed, her voice still hoarse from all the drinking last night, and she hitched a thumb over her shoulder. An expression that was in between confusion and anger was evident on her face. “What the fuck?”

               The writings glared back at Nikolai, and he winced at the sight of it.

               Congratulations, newlyweds! it said in a sloppy handwriting, and Nikolai had to blink repeatedly to make sure his eyes weren’t playing games on him.

               Another memory flashed in his mind, and he turned to Zoya with a mortified look. They were absolutely screwed. “You dared David to wed us.”

               Zoya looked back at him with wide eyes. Perhaps he should savor the moment of catching her off guard, but their current situation deemed it void. “What?”

               Some of the events from the previous night came to Nikolai with a wave of headache. He brought a hand up to his head. “You still wouldn’t believe that he finished his judge training this year and you—” he gestured vaguely in the air with his other hand— “made him do it.”

               There was a complete silence in the room, with Zoya narrowing her eyes at him as if she were trying to remember if she really had done the said deed. Nikolai took the moment to glance at her hand and was able to catch a glimpse of the gold band around her ring finger.

               She held up the papers she had been holding. “Is this even legal?”

               Nikolai squinted as he made his way closer to the raven-haired woman, trying to make sense of the wordings on the paper. He gave a wince. Marriage certificate. “Maybe we should ask our friendly neighbor judge?” he offered. “As far as I remember my college days, engineering did not cover anything related to this.”

               There was another silence, and Zoya’s deadpanned expression only made his wince turn into a nervous smile. “This is madness,” she said later, breathing out an annoyed huff.

               Nikolai nodded in agreement. “Completely.” He sighed. This meant another complication, and he knew this could take a while for it to be fixed, so he decided to make the most out of it instead. “Though I wouldn’t mind calling you Mrs. Lantsov.”

               He then felt the papers get shoved on his face and he stumbled back a few steps with a light chuckle. It started to fall from him and Nikolai barely caught the material with his hand. Zoya was already by the wall, trying to tear the tarp off from the expanse in a rush. The blond couldn’t blame her—the writings were really a sight for sore eyes.

               “I wouldn’t change my last name for you in any way.”

               “Ah, that’s fine. So, you don’t mind being married to me?” He was rewarded with a glare, but Nikolai had already been used to it for years. By now, it was actually safe to say that he was fond of it. “Well, you were the one who dared David to wed us, which brings me to the idea that you’ve thought of being married to me. Did you?”

               Zoya quickly tore her eyes away from him and turned back to her work on the wall. “Whatever,” she muttered.

               A thought came to Nikolai as he stared at the certificate in his hands. “Wait, if we got married last night, did that mean you actually kissed me?”

               He saw Zoya’s fingers falter from removing the last corner of the tarp, and Nikolai almost let out a loud laugh. Maybe she remembered something about last night. “Shut your mouth, Lantsov, or I will smother you with this,” she said, voice laced with threat.

               Nikolai put a hand up to his chest and feigned a hurtful expression. “You’d hurt your husband?”

               “If he’s that annoying, I probably would.”

               “Harsh.”

               “Honest.”

               Zoya finally finished removing the tarp from the wall and began to fold it in brash movements, to which Nikolai watched fondly, a small smile gracing his lips. He’d never say it aloud, but Nikolai knew to himself he didn’t mind the thought of being married to her.

               Now he was left wondering if she felt the same.

               The blond snapped out of his thoughts and clasped his hands together a little too enthusiastically. “So, who kissed who first?” he asked with a grin.

               This time, Nikolai wasn’t able to stay upright when Zoya threw the entire tarp over to his face.

#zoyalai #nikolai lantsov #zoya nazyalensky #king of scars #grishaverse mini bang #my writing #check out those fanarts!!! uwu #grishaminibang20

[virtual-toast]

Scream Queens VH1 recap - Season 1 Episode 2

Michelle, Sarah, Kylah, and Jessica come back from the grand ballroom and the rest of the girls are shocked and/or pissed that Jo-Anne went home instead of Kylah. Lindsay says “This house will mourn the loss of Jo-Anne” and Sarah, in tears, calls her “such a sensational actress”, which are both super melodramatic reactions, you knew Jo-Anne for three days, but okay. Meanwhile Kylah has no idea why everyone is upset that she’s still there haha.

The following day sees Kylah declaring the house has been divided into the “queen bitches” (herself, Michelle, Lina, and Angela) and the “more homely girls” (Marissa, Lindsay, and Sarah). I’m assuming she’s put Tanedra and Jessica in the latter category too but she doesn’t mention them specifically. The bitchy girls talk shit about the other girls behind their backs, specifically about how they think Sarah didn’t deserve to win the previous episode, that she’s ugly and annoying, etc.

The girls meet up with Shawnee who tells them they have 15 minutes to dress themselves up and impress a casting director (Kelly Wagner, who seems pretty cool tbh) with the winner getting a guaranteed callback. While getting ready, Michelle and Angela mention that if the winner is not one of the bitchy girls, the competition must be rigged. An awful lot of confidence for week 2, lol.

The girls go back into the room with Shawnee and meet Kelly. They take turns doing a sort of one on one interview / audition, which I’m gonna summarise in dot points because they each get a small amount of screen time:

Lindsay talks about being a child actor and Kelly says that means she probably actually has a harder job than someone just starting out. Lindsay is wearing a weird sort of frilly top and skirt with polka dots but it somehow doesn’t really work for her shape, and Kelly mentions it as well as Shawnee straight up calling her frumpy. True, but also, rude.

Lina goes up and immediately shakes Kelly’s hand. She doesn’t even get a word out before Kelly is like “yeah no, don’t shake casting directors’ hands, personal space / germs” etc.

Kylah talks about playing Price is Right with her brother which Kelly says is a bad choice because she’s automatically associating herself with being a model rather than an actress. Kylah proceeds to mention that she wants to “get ugly, get dirty, like Halle Berry did in Monster.” cringe

Marissa gets up and starts off on this huge spiel about how horror films are like modern Greek tragedies and everyone is just staring at her like GIRL WHAT.

Michelle introduces herself and Kelly asks if she primarily does theatre because of her big personality. Michelle proceeds to brag about being Miss Teen Texas.

Jessica is wearing a smart-casual outfit of jeans and a simple white top with her trademark giant hoop earrings. Kelly comments on her look being unique. Jessica is kinda speaking like a cute little girl who doesn’t want to let the evil out??

Angela mentions how she thinks she has the stereotypical horror “look”. Her outfit isn’t relevant but I have to mention it anyway - it honestly looks like she cut the top off a blue evening gown to wear as a shirt?? and then just jeans. Like idk.

Sarah introduces herself and Kelly immediately comments on her unique nasally voice.

Tanedra tells Kelly that she has no formal training. Kelly says “And you think you can beat out all these girls?” and Tanedra’s like YES. Fuck yeah get it girl.

So Kelly goes ahead and gives her overall impressions - Kylah has no personality, Angela has the best horror look, Lindsay looks like the best friend rather than the leading lady, Marissa is the one she didn’t remember, and she liked Jessica’s personal style. Ultimately she gives Jessica the guaranteed callback, and also sends Lindsay and Marissa for makeovers which Michelle finds hilarious.

The girls go back into the house and Kylah proceeds to have a tantrum about not winning, stating that if the casting director was a man the results would have been different. But get this, she DOES NOT CHANGE EXPRESSION THE ENTIRE TIME. Even when she’s yelling “I’M ABOUT TO CRY” she literally just has this blank look on her face like is she actually made of wax?? Meanwhile Lindsay and Marissa have their makeovers, Lindsay gets a cool short reverse A-line bob cut and looks really badass, while Marissa gets her hair dyed jet black and cut in choppy layers. It looks fine but you can tell by her face Marissa is not happy.

The girls go to Homa’s class and since the week is all about first impressions, they have to do freeze frame shots of particular expressions, I guess so they can see what they actually look like vs. what they think they look like or something. Most of the girls do pretty well, Tanedra kills it again, Marissa bombs, and Kylah once again LITERALLY DOES NOT CHANGE EXPRESSION. What the fuck.

Back at the house the girls are all gushing over Lindsay and Marissa’s makeovers, Michelle voices her jealousy despite earlier thinking it was hilarious, and Angela is mad that she’s no longer the only one with her “look”, even though she and Marissa don’t look the same at all, the only similarity is the colour of their hair?? Marissa goes and has a cry about her hair because she’s now lost all her confidence and honestly it’s actually kinda sad / hard to watch.

The next day they find one of the rooms in the house has been filled with creepy dolls and of course one of them is actually a person that jumps out and scares them because omg what a funny prank haha. The “doll” tells them their director’s challenge is a photoshoot which many of the girls are stoked about. They’re basically given generic horror themes and have to shoot the poster. Dot points again!

Lina gets “Tie Die” and her costume is literally a length of rope that’s wrapped around her. She immediately cracks the shits and goes into full blown diva mode, complaining about her costume, how apparently difficult her theme is compared to other girls, telling the makeup and hair people how to do their jobs, etc. Whaaaaat, Lina is a bitch?? This is brand new information!! Unfortunately she still does a really good job with the photoshoot.

Lindsay gets “Blinded By the Fright” and her costume is a hospital gown and white contact lenses, which she has difficulty putting in but is EXTREMELY polite about it with the makeup lady (a nice juxtaposition to Lina’s bitch fest). Lindsay also does really well in the photoshoot.

Kylah gets “Thin Skin” which she comments sounds like a porno, lmao. Her costume is literally just black liquid latex painted all over her body and the other girls are fucking FROTHING with jealously. Kylah proceeds to completely bomb the challenge, giving absolutely no emotion and James literally has no idea how to direct her.

Michelle gets “Don’t Go in the Water” and is basically just wearing a bikini, but then James dumps a bottle of cold water all over her. She does really well in the photoshoot.

Sarah gets “Blood Skate”, her costume is just a bloody ice skating outfit, and she does okay.

Tanedra gets “Prom Scream”, she is wearing a bloody prom dress, and she does really well.

Jessica gets “The Butcher’s Girl” and she’s literally wearing a hat, gloves, no shirt, just an apron and shorts? And there’s blood? This one confuses me. She does okay.

Angela gets “Monster’s Wedding” which some of the other girls (correctly) complain is SUPER easy - she’s literally in a wedding dress posing with a bloody hand prop. She does fine but I mean all she has to do is stand there and smile??

Marissa gets “Mummy Maker” and she’s wrapped in what I assume are bandages but it looks like toilet paper? She’s pretty covered, including the bottom half of her face, and she’s supposed to be seductive but honestly it kinda just feels like an awkward interpretive dance??

The next day back at the house, Marissa vents to the other girls about her insecurity with her new hair. Like I know it’s just hair but it’s kinda sad, they completely changed her look which obviously fucks with her confidence. The girls get their photoshoot posters and everyone is stoked except Marissa (rightfully) and Lindsay, who basically has an anxiety attack and hates hers even though everyone is telling her how great it is. Whoo boy I relate to Lindsay so hard. Jessica reads the list which summons Marissa, Kylah, Lindsay, and Lina to the grand ballroom. They all think they’re at the bottom except Lina, who of course thinks she’s top shit.

In the grand ballroom, Lina gets pulled forward and despite doing well in the challenge, the judges straight up read her for being a bitch, which is hella satisfying let me tell you. Lindsay gets pulled forward and the judges tell her that she did an awesome job and that she needs to go easier on herself, before awarding her the week’s leading lady. Marissa and Kylah are predictably the bottom two, Marissa gets told she’s overthinking everything and Kylah just that she’s completely emotionless. Kylah gets the axe and Marissa lives another week.

Stay tuned for Season 1 Episode 3!

#scream queens #scream queens vh1 #vh1 #saw #saw 6 #saw vi #john homa #james gunn #shawnee smith #reality tv #lindsay felton #michelle galdenzi #tanedra howard #angela anderson #jessica palette #sarah agor #lina so #marissa skell #kylah kim #recap #tv recap

[michellesartjournal]

Sonia Boyce talk hidden in plain sight.

In the talk she discusses the issues that emerged during the making of six acts 2018

It was to do with the controversy that arose out of a performance that took place at Manchester art gallery in 2018. Which included the removal of the painting Hylas and the Nymphs (1896) It formed questions surrounding group endeavours and the format of consciousness raising.

She starts the talk by explaining how she and several others people where at the Manchester Art Gallery on a curatorial narrative discussing what the performance for the 18 of January would be. As with all previous sessions the conversation ends up in front of “ Hylas and the Nymphs” By John W Waterhouse.

A painting depicting the geek myth of Jason and the Argonauts, where Hylas a companion is beckoned to his death by the charms and beauty of prepubescent and naked females as nymphs. In this conversation a direct link was made between sexual desire, predatory and peril was made. Most people are in consensus about the negative depiction of this painting and what it suggests. In many ways the painting was a locus of issues that drove the project six acts and becomes the deserving headline of the project.

It opened up the discussion to how representation spills over into social relations.

Mierle laderman Ukeles (cleaning the museum 1973) as an early example of institutional critique as an artistic practice. One that speaks of the hidden in a space of harmonious visibility.

The issues

* Representation of female form and its recurring theme.

* The continue narrative of re-occurring naked or semi naked female images.

* Suggested narrative of young seductive women that causes danger to men.

* the idealised white female in quiet contemplation.

* Issues of femme Fatal

* Issues of male gaze

But hidden in the ensuing debate was that a significant number A female staff members at the Manchester Art Gallery had received unsolicited and unwelcome attention and how it had been considered a low level of harassment.

In the last conversations there were several consideration about whether the issue of grooming and predatory behaviour in the museum was as serious as some stated or overblown. Some had different views about “Hylas and the Nymphs” and thought it was more about sexual empowerment? Some people seem to subscribe to it being about male mortality. But decisions were made and the show was made ready.

Six Acts comprised of performances by:

1. Artist Lasana Shabazz was invited to respond to this painting Othello the moor of Venice 1826 by James Northcote Originally titled the Moor, meaning the Black or the Negro. Drawing ideas of the dandy of cross dressing or black face or it’s reversed white face. Lasana lead the audience on what was to become a bawdy and carnivalesque evening.

2. Michael Atkins as Cheddar Gorgeous as Unicorn a response to “Eve tempted lady in the night by John Spencer Stanhope 1877 What are unicorn did was to engage audience members by Sharing apples.

3. Dan Wallace as Anna Phylactic the Mad hatters responded to. Syrinx by Ather Hacker 1872,s he became the fairground master of ceremonies inviting audience members to peep through his structure to look at the painting Syrinx. The mad hatter draw attention to the relationship between the nymph and the nymphomaniac.

4. Catherine Simpkins as Vienna Venus as nymph insisted on audience members take one of the intimate polaroid portraits hanging on her self in response to the painting Hylas and the nymphs

5. John Roberts as liquorice black as Sappho painting by Charles August Mengin he sat quietly all night without speaking to anyone screwing up handwritten notes and throwing them on the floor in response to the painting.

6. The museum staff also took part in the performance by removing Hylas and the nymphs, returning it into storage. The blank space was then filled with an explanatory poster and surrounded by post-it notes from the audience members of there thoughts.

What took Boyce by surprise was what took place the days after. They were several newspapers articles about the performance and the taking down of the painting.

But the narrative was mostly negative and it was reduced to iconoclasm of prudish Marxist feminist activists masquerading as serious museum curators, taking offence to mildly erotic images of naked bodies. The museum itself received over 900 comments on its social media. Resulting in many calls for the sacking of the curator as well as death threats. For many it seemed it was seen as a shameless press stunt to promote retrospective exhibition. Within the week due to public pressure the painting was returned to the walls of the gallery.

mag blog post:

So what went wrong?

The criticism after the painting was removed was overwhelming and the social gang up grow bigger. Many argued that the role of a curator was to be a custodian of cultural heritage. And to some extent this is true but does that end up making limitations for progress?

Boyce said she reflected and after much consideration she thought the act of taking the painting down was an active censorship” and thought widespread conversation would have ensued a different understanding. That maybe engagement of the audience might come before her own inward thinking.

She spoke about how the whole experience made her re-evaluate her conception of social art practice in the wake of contemporary way of communicating.

She admitted that she was not fully aware of social media click bait. And how social mindsets can reflect so differently . Her first response was to be defensive, but she had to listen and understand what people wanted had to always be taken into consideration. ��� A small cohort of like minded people  can so far from the general  audience. 

My thoughts

I personally loved this talk and had my own retrospective thoughts on how to effects my own practice. Similarly my own practice has its own social separate context that is different from what I’ve come to understand.

There are many who think that the issues surrounding Afro hair are not issues at all.  some believe that wigs and straightening are not appropriation or a form of simulation. I used to be in that frame of thinking myself before I educated myself on the issues. But I also have to take into consideration that the view and reality of artists is different. Our ideologies are scholastic and many of our viewpoints are politicised or loooked at from A polarised viewpoint. 

We can easily live outside of the viewpoint of an audience and assume they see what we see and understand.  we can appoint an audience towards a sort of thought but we have to always remember that they are influenced by different social structures and beliefs. We have to find ways to navigate around their beliefs in a sensitive way that makes them understand what we are trying to convey. There is a thin line between provocative and insulting. And as a female artist there’s always the fear of being criticised as overly feminist by those who do not understand as we have learned to. 

The six acts event was designed to ask questions about beauty ideals and presentation of women. Especially the what the painting Hylas and Nymphs symbolises and the importance to address much issues, I liked how the performance was thought out. In my view the show was very successful regardless. But the sample taking down of the painting changed the whole direction of what the work should’ve been about which was saddening.

And made me aware of the perceptions of public opinion and how they can change the meaning of what are you trying to copy and how artists should be wary of this when making art work. 

but also the whole talk made me think about the work by Gorilla girls.

Art of behaving badly (2018)

About the poster campaign that they created to target museums The post is still relevant today I’m still in the direction of needs to go in terms of female artists Recognition.

Is it time yet to thinking about changing historical ways in which museum function. As times progress historical ways cause The statistics are alarming in terms of exclusion of women. Is it time to change the face of history.?

Another part of her talk that resonated with me was when Sonia spoke of how she has referred her own artistic practice as parasitic. Because of how it relies on the appropriation and involvement of others to take part in improvised performance.

I thought this was also a good way of me to describe my own work as it also takes a parasitic form in terms of appropriation. I parasitically appropriate images found online and become part of them 

She also spoke about the influence of French philosopher Michel Serres and specifically his booked the parasite. And how that had been incredibly important to how she approached and considered the sense of work with the agency of other people in the here and now. I intend to read this book she made it sound very fascinating to me.

[tsukaramachi]

Hi hi it’s background anon!! I meant for non-scenery pictures (where it’s really just a character) but you can explain both if you want to :000

Ah okie got it! Well for backgrounds that are just for one character or two I usually just add backgrounds that either patterns, gradients, or a solid color but with little doodles around it to make it look cute! Sometimes I do a mix of both where I doodle/draw something in the background that looks like it’s supposed to be something, but it’s in the back so you can’t tell but it can look like one thing or another to somebody else.

I personally prefer adding backgrounds to whatever I do since it makes it look less empty and even just adding a background can make the focus/tone of the drawing better! Also I’ll use some of my drawings as examples to better explain what I mean. Hope this helps!

(Warning: kinda long so sorry about that ^^; but these are just what I add into drawings without having to draw a detailed background)

(Patterns)

So for this picture of Yuuto I just added in a striped background. Most of the time I have to make my own patterns since the colors I wanna use are specific and I can’t find it anywhere online. So All I did was just use a tool to help me make straight lines. Then transformed it and tilted it to the side. The colors are already the colors in the character So like a light blue and the salmon color match the main subject. But it also slightly pops so it looked fun. I also added on little effects like the shiny things and the stitch marks around the frame to make it look cute.

(Gradients)

This is just a simple doodle of a fullbody but since I don’t want to take away the focus from Jasper. I only added a gradient background and the colors that I used are muted compared to his colors (which are predominantly black) Also you could say I could’ve used just a white blank background but this is easier on the eyes. Also I like to add a little silhouette of the character to make them look less flat against the bg, so I just copy a layer of the finished subject and then alpha lock it and put another gradient or solid color over it. Then play with the settings and the opacity

(Solid colors + doodles)

This isn’t my oc but actually @suprkidifficial​‘s oc and I drew him as prize she won on my instagram account. But I’ll be using this pic as an example because I don’t use solid colors often so this is the best candidate. Since Sora here has a mainly blue on him. I just used a sky blue color for the bg but it would be plain if it was just a solid color. So I added little stars and stitch marks on the top and bottom to keep it simple but nice! Also you can’t see it that well but I did the silhouette again behind him.

(Something that looks like something but not spending a long time drawing a background that’s detailed)

So here’s some examples that have like different things I do. The first is more abstract and for those kinds of backgrounds I rely on just the colors and make shapes or random abstract details. Like it looks like it’s dripping or is it a weird yellow mound in the back? Who knows but at least it looks good with the main subject! Also the warm yellow in the back was added in because I felt that it was a good color to put in that made the pic stand out.

2nd one is just the gradient once again, but I sometimes use an airbrush to add a darker area at the top or bottom. Then I added random lines and doodles with the eraser tool so it’s lighter and I don’t have to choose a new color lol. 

3rd one is me just doodling mostly lol. I didn’t want to drive away focus on Arlie and Odin tho so I only used 2 shades of red to do this. But you can do A LOT with just 2 colors and I added in those small doodles depicting perpetual city (the story that these two are from) So I added in some buildings and random things that pertain to their story but I never said what those things mean in the background because they were new at the time. But all of those doodles relate to them and their story or you can add whatever you like for fun ^^

Idk if people don’t like adding in a background because they don’t know what to add or they feel that it’s too much effort to sketch something out and then line + color but it’s just something in the background. You can use it to enhance your drawing and it’s fun too. So sometimes I like to make drawings like this where it’s only a couple or a few colors and I use it as practice in picking colors and also seeing how I can fill up all the empty space without needing to do something complicated. It’s fun to doodle/draw this way too since I make it like a painting. So I just draw out a sketch and draw over it to refine the shape of things or to add something on top without having to erase. All you have to do is use the eye dropper tool/color pick tool and go nuts.

#ask #anonymous #tips #my art

[bibliocratic]

@osirisjones jonmartin prompt:  Nothing wrong with some good ol cuddling in bed after a nightmare 👀

tws in tags, warnings for some tma-dark imagery despite being ultimately fluff

On the coast somewhere. A sentinel-stance, his hair knotty, wind-rushed. There's a craggy moss-stubbled headland jutting out like a broken jaw. The edges of his trainers toe the starting line of a curb. Before him, the grey waves of a cold-snap sea, broken by an irregular fortification against immersion, a patch of sand the colour of ashen skin that will soon be submerged.

A figure on the shoreline. Eyes out to the horizon, hair untethered, coat-less and shoe-less and immovable, reckless and wreckless against the sea that promises such storms.

Martin's the only one who can see the strengthening waves in the distance. Disturbed and agitated by some disaster, gathering to a tsunami.

There are stone steps, aged, foot-scored and weight-worn, and they're adorned with black railings kissed by rust. The steps curl around their path like hair around fingers to the beach front below.

Martin takes a step, and feels the glass of his legs crack. A hollow sound, reverberating with warning, the echo spiderwebbing through him. It doesn't hurt, not exactly, not really, and he takes another step, another, his eyes on the tide, the figure on the shore. The faster he goes, the more it splinters through him, feeling himself fragment, fracture, smithereens of glass crunching disconnected in his shoes, his socks, his trouser legs. Still he hobbles down the unforgiving stone, feeling limbs shatter with every shock of pressure, of misuse in a dull diamond cascade of the pieces of him that gather in his clothes where a man once was, and still he runs.

He's crumbling, an eroded cliff edge, a sand-swiped edifice to lost things and missed chances.

The figure on the beach doesn't move back, though surely they must hear how the wind is rising, surely they can't have failed to notice the tooth-filled snarling ferocity of the waves. Martin's throat is a sheen of slippery glass where words have no purchase, can't escape the lock of his throat.

The wind's wiping tears into his eyes that freeze into painful ragged shards almost immediately, and Martin feels the friction of his broken pieces as he tries to keep his shattered body moving, to go a bit faster, to get a bit closer.

The figure doesn't look back as they tread in the low tide and the wave ascends to greet them.

Curling round immediately, mummified in sweaty bed blankets, something lost and feral scrabbling in his throat that soon manifests into sound.

Sleepy, rousing to wakefulness.

'Martin? Oh. Oh, right.'

Arms pulling close. Neck at an uncomfortable twist, ear over collarbone, but he buries himself in the thick embrace of it.

'It was – ' he feels obliged to say. 'It was nothing, just a stupid – I'll, I'm fine, I'll...'

A default slide into poorly build but easily manned habits. A 'hush', fingers wiping sleep from his damp eyes.

'Do you – do you want to talk about it?'

An offer given more easily than he takes it, but he is reclaiming the ground of himself steadily.

'I think you were there.' Whispered to the dark, to the hazy heat of under-covers. 'You wouldn't turn around, and I was so – I thought …'

Fingers setting in the handholds of hips, another 'it's alright, it's alright' as he relates his horrors to the patient dark.

                                                                  He follows Peter's bloody map to the forbidding centre of the Panopticon. The mouths of empty cells, their bars like bared teeth, all facing dead centre, the stage of this horrible show.

The throne has a newly crowned king.

They've taken Jon's eyes. The blood tracking like warpaint scratched down his cheeks, and what they plucked out, they replaced improperly, with eyes that are not eyes, wide gaping chasm things like the backs of moth's wings.

The magnetic tape of all those statements, those carefully archived reels, they've been unspooled and it gathers like it's clogged in Jon's mouth, down his throat. The black lines of it spilling out like the straw of some macabre scarecrow, and Martin's hands are shaking and he prays, ill-worded little invocations to an almighty scraped together from school assemblies, that Jon wasn't taken like that, choking on fear, overwhelmed and airless, fingers scrabbling at a winched-in throat as he tried to breathe around the morass of other people's terrors.

Martin's prayers are that Jon felt nothing at all.

His ribcage has been splayed open, pivoted neatly with hinges like the top of a musical box. Weirdly bloodless for all it is a gory butchery of a human body, sand-white ribs that Martin finds himself counting. The heart is still there, shrivelling, wrinkled by strain and abuse. The rest of his chest, where other lungs and organs and the mechanisms of life should be harboured, is compacted as though with stuffing, the brutal gavage of some farm-reared delicacy. The eyes that expand and swell in this space roll in their vitreous parcels like twitching frogspawn. And then they all swivel with the fluid grace of owl necks, look at Martin, a thousand bobbing pupils staring out of the meat of Jon's chest, and that's the moment Martin realises Jon isn't dead.

'M-martin! Martin!'

A harsh insistence poorly cloaking distress, hands against his shoulders, moving in aborted rocking shakes.

'I – er, what, fuck – was I...?' Returning does not sweep away the agitation, the shaking like an earth tremor through him, the branding recollection of those fathomless eyes.

'You were shouting.' Hair being wiped from his forehead, two eyes, two normal, worried, crow-footed eyes staring down at him.

'W-what time is it?' he asks, but it's not an answer he wants or needs, he's just making sounds, fronting calm he doesn't feel. Runs clammy fingers over the bony column of a throat, the round of an adam's apple, a shirtless chest unmutilated and breathing shallowly.

He feels the question form there, at the centre, the tentative journey it traverses before he hears 'Can I.... I mean, do you want to...?'

The question isn't fully born before he's heaving great waves of sobs into the chest he's pillowed on.

Like clockwork, the arms come round, always an inch too tight a grip, and somehow that makes this easier to bear.

There are no monsters. In the dream that is not a dream, more a memory played out to its worst extremities, Martin walks, meandering and careless, along a beach. The sand is greyer, colour-sapped, and the waves are choppy, over-touched with foaming white like a poorly rendered oil landscape painting. There are ships out to the distance, but they're too far away, dirt flecks on the windscreen of horizon.

After a while, he sits down on the sand. Soaking the seat of his trousers, the backs of his legs. He watches the immutable horizon, blank like a lost opportunity, like a canvas where something meaningful could have been painted, anything at all really other than nothing. There are no clouds, no birds, and around him the day happens, unfolding in undemanding hours and minutes that leave no footprints, ruffle no waves.

He didn't bring any gloves and his hands cramp, the skin of his cheeks pinched with the tweaking chill. There are the marks of hoar-frost, sparkling and spiking, beginning to carpet the hairs on his arm, the skin of his exposed ankles.

The temperature drops, though the sky doesn't change. His fingers are gripped into numb claws now, and he wonders without much of a sense at all if he'll lose them to the cold. The frost is curdling in his lungs and it's hard to breathe. It has become a sensation like all the rest of them, like hunger and fright and panic, it is something happening to him so far away, to the him before, the one burdening himself with feeling like a pack-mule and wondering why he never moved forward.

The light refracts snow-blind off the white of the waves, and soon it is easier to close his eyes. He is not tired, but maybe he could lie down for a moment. It would be so simple to –

Arms wrapped around chest from behind, a twinge as his ribs protest, his mouth forming a confused, displeased sound.

'Jon. W- are you ok? You having a nightmare?'

A voice night-rough and dry rumbled against the dip between his shoulder blades: 'You were going away again'.

'Oh'.

The taste of chill is still enchanted and twisted up in the marrow of him, but it thaws in the near-ache of such a grip. Threading fingers together, palm union with palm, the soft rucks of scar tissue sliding against dry skin. He is held and beheld so tightly he lies there for a moment, his skin prickling with newly rediscovered heat.

'Do you want to talk about it?'

An offer. Given and given and given, no thought to retraction. It is hard to be Lonely when that holds such a lantern to the dark of the forest beyond.

'I'm, I'm ok, Jon,' he says, meaning it. Pulling arms  slot around his stomach tighter. 'Thank you'.

A grunting 'don't mention it', already sweetened by a doziness. The weight against his back closer, the arms flung around him like  a mooring line.

Martin drops back off sweltering in the muggy heat and sleeps dreamless till morning.

#tma #the magnus archives #fic #prompt #tw body horror #tw mutilation #cw dread #cw nightmares #fluff #jonmartin

[writingfortoomanyfandoms]

Black and Blue - One

Pairing: Detective Loki x Reader

Summary: She saw the world in black and blue

Requested: Nope

Chapter Warnings: Some swearing I think??, panic attack

A/N: so guys... there’s been a lot leading up to this yaknow - the first part of my Detective Loki series!! I’m so excited to share this with all of you at last, I’m really looking forward to this series (I say series but I mean miniseries there’s not gonna be that many parts) but please remember to let me know what you think of it!!! Like, reblog, comment, send asks because they really inspire me to write more and I love talking to you guys :)

Two // Three // Four // Five

Y/N Y/L/N saw the world in black and blue.

Purple and yellow.

Bruised and unbruised.

Moving to Conyers had been simultaneously the scariest thing she had ever done and the best thing.

Every step she took in Conyers felt like a triumph. Every time she would turn the key to her apartment it felt like she had accomplished something great.

And yet so much of her believed it was too good to be true.

The bakery was her haven. The bread her safe place, the brownie’s her comfort, the pastries her joy.

She made friends. Regular customers would come in and ask her how she was doing, but not in the way that she was accustomed to. No sympathetic head tilt, no unsure smiles, no tiptoeing around the truth.

Y/N liked that. The unknowing. The blank space she could fill now with baked goods.

The kids loved her. And the teenagers. Mainly because she gave them free food when they came in looking too stressed or too sad - she remembered that that was like.

And that was how she met the Dovers.

///

“Good morning Y/N!” Grace chirped as she ushered her family into the bakery. Y/N turned away from the oven, hot tray still in hand.

“Morning!” She beamed.

“That smells good,” Grace told her as Y/N placed the tray down.

“It’s a new recipe I’m trying out - well, not really a new one, my grandma usd to make it for me but always refused to give me the recipe,” she laughed. Anna’s nose was pressed up against the glass, her eyes searching the Aladdin’s cave o sweet delights.

“It looks good,” Keller confirmed, his hands coming to rest almost protectively on Anna’s shoulders.

“What are they?” Ralph asked curiously.

“Cardamon cookies,” Y/N told him, filling up a box with the Dovers’ usual order.

“So, Thanksgiving tomorrow, any place?” Grace asked, looking through her wallet distractedly. Y/N winked at Anna and Ralph as she snuck four of the still-hot cardamon cookies into the the box, knowing that Grace and Keller would protest and insist upon paying.

“I don’t celebrate it,” Y/N admitted with a laugh.

“Why?” Anna asked, staring at the box in Y/N’s hand.

“It’s not really a thing back home,” Y/N shrugged, her mind wandering back to snapshots of the childhood she had left behind in the wide, green expanse of the English countryside.

She missed home more than she would never allow herself to admit.

“You should spend it with us!” Grace said with a warm smile. Y/N looked up in surprise to see Keller nodding along in agreement.

“We always go to the Birches and spend it there but they wouldn’t mind you joining us,” Keller added.

“That’s a lovely offer but I don’t want to intrude,” Y/N argued, walking over to the coffee machine.

“You wouldn’t be! Nancy always makes too much food anyway,” Grace promised her.

“Please come, Miss Y/N,” Anna added with wide-eyed innocence.

Y/N hesitated, looking around at the Dovers who were watching her expectantly. She let out a long sigh before conceding with a nod of her head.

“Okay.”

Perhaps it was time for her to allow herself to leave her haven for a little while.

///

Nothing in the world could have ever prepared her for this.

The rest of the evening had been bordering on perfect. The Birches had welcomed her with open arms, their enthusiasm only increasing when they realised she had come laden with three pumpkin pies and cream.

She had done her usual trick of skirting around Keller and Franklin as best she could by offering Nancy help in the kitchen, which had been accepted with great appreciation.

When dinnertime conversation had, somewhat inevitably, turned to her she spoke of her plans for turning her little bakery into more of a cafe with tables and chairs and an array of drinks rather than just coffee. She caught herself before it was too late, though, heat crawling up her cheeks as she turned the conversation back around to the subject of the Birches’ home, something which she knew to be safe territory.

Then, instead of heading home as so much of her was screaming to do, she squashed her nerves down into a tiny box, deciding to them them there for the evening and not let them dictate her life for the first time in a while.

Not let him dictate her life.

Instead, she had joined the group  of parents in the living room, talking and laughing over subjects not quite appropriate for conversations with kids present.

And then, so quickly, everything had gone wrong.

She went with Grace back to her home to look for Anna and Joy. She caught her when Grace almost fell on her weak, Bambi-like legs upon not finding the two young girls and allowed the older woman to cry her worry into her for a moment.

Y/N had been the one to call the police.

The families were too distraught, their words too shaky, their voices too close to tears for them to explain the situation to the operator.

When Ralph had begged her to stay she knew there was no way that she could deny him that. Not when his parents were in the state that they were.

Y/N made buckets of tea.

That was her solution to everything. A band aid of liquid. For months of her life she had filled herself up on tea, painting her insides pale brown to cover up the bleak darkness that lay underneath. The delicate aromas doing their best to replace the undeniable stench that she would never totally be able to loose.

She was her mother’s daughter in the tea brewing.

It was only once they had gotten the call to say that the police had caught the driver of the RV that Y/N went home.

She had expected that to be the end of it, her part in the whole drama should have been over seeing as though she was just a friend of the families rather than a relation of either girl. But she got a phone call early the next morning from the detective working the case saying that she needed to come in to five a statement and be put through a lie detector test.

Y/N had agreed pretty much immediately, though there was no denying how her palms instantly became sweaty, recalling the last time that she had been taken to a police station.

The last time she had been put through a lie detector.

Back home.

Her knee bounced insistently up and down as she sat in the waiting room of the police station. Her eyes darted sporadically around the room, seeing everything but taking in nothing.

“Miss Y/L/N? I’m Detective Loki, we spoke on the phone?” Y/N stood as the tall man addressed her, taking his offered hand with a quick, nervous shake before dropping it back to the other, tangling her fingers together. Her eyes fixed on his lips as they moved to form words, not daring to raise them higher than that.

“Yes, of course. Just Y/N is fine, though,” she responded, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Right. Follow me,” Y/N did as instructed, her mind wandering as they walked seemingly endlessly down the hallways of the police station, only rarely crossing anyone else.

She wanted to ask how long it would take - she had a shipment arriving of tables, chairs and another coffee machine that she had placed weeks ago but had been continually delayed. She needed to be there when it arrived but she didn’t want to ask the detective anything.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” Loki said, gesturing for her to take the seat on the opposite side of the table to him, next to the man operating the lie detector.

Y/N didn’t need a lit detector to hear the untruth in his voice. 

“Not as all,” she promised softly, her eyes fixing now on the grimy table between them.

“I just have a few questions for you about last night,” he opened his notepad and Y/N nodded.

“Anything to help,” she tried to hide how her breath quickened.

Her eyes moved from their placed locked on the table to search the room for an escape.

Just in case, she told herself.

Old habits die hard.

The first few questions were standard, simple answered that Y/N was used to having to answer by now. She pushed down the memories that tried to come to the surface as best she could, squeezing her eyes closed desperately.

“Is there something wrong, Miss Y/L/N?” Loki broke off from questioning to ask the woman. Y/N swallowed thickly and shook her head.

“No,” her voice was hoarse. “I arrived late to the meal because I had to close up shop,” she answered the previously asked question, wishing herself as far away from the police station as possible. There was a pause from the detective and Y/N hated herself for her panic causing a break in questioning.

He had to find the girls as quickly as possible and she didn’t want to be the reason for the investigation to be slowed down even just a little bit.

“Right.” Loki said unsurely and from the corner of her eye, Y/N saw the lie detector operator shrug his shoulders. “And where is it that you work?”

“The bakery up the road.”

The remainder of the interview passed in a blur with Y/N answering questions almost on autopilot.

She stumbled out of the confined room as soon as she was unhooked from the machine and crashed against the wall of the hallway, pressing her back to it and desperately gasping for breath. She slid down the wall to the floor, her eyes squeezed tight shut as she desperately attempted to gain control of her breathing. She pressed her forehead to her knees, willing herself to calm down, wishing herself away from the police station and from all the memories it forced to the surface.

She wasn’t trapped anymore.

#prisoners #prisoners 2013 #detective loki #detective loki fanfiction #detective loki imagine #detective loki x reader #jake gyllenhaal #jake gyllenhaal imagine #jake gyllenhaal fanfiction #jake gyllenhaal x reader #Black and Blue series #detective loki mini series

[stillellensibley]

Looking at the history of emptiness in modern art I am often reminded of Zeno’s paradox of Achilles and the tortoise. Zeno imagined a race, in which Achilles would generously grant the tortoise a head start of say 100 metres, and each would move at a steady, unchanging speed. His conclusion was that Achilles would never be able to catch up with the tortoise, because every time he came close, the tortoise would have had time to move a little further, so that the distance between them would endlessly decrease to a few yards, a few metres, one metre, 0.1 metre, 0.01 metre, etc. In the same way, every time the audience of modern and contemporary art is led to believe that the avant-garde reduction of the artwork to a minimal, barely perceptible form can go no further, along comes another artist who creates another even more minimal, even less perceptible, artwork.

Thus, it seemed that the history of modern art had reached its zero point when Marcel Duchamp presented a glass pharmacy phial filled with Paris air to an American collector in 1919, or when Kazimir Malevich painted his White on White composition in 1918, and two years later filled a room with, as one person noted, empty canvases ‘devoid of colour, form and texture’ on the occasion of his first solo exhibition in Moscow. Yet in a 1968 article, critics Lucy Lippard and John Chandler could only observe that ‘the artist… has continued to make something of “nought” 50 years after Malevich’s White on White seemed to have defined nought for once and for all. We still do not know how much less ‘nothing’ can be.’ Thirty-five years later, Gabriel Orozco’s sole contribution to the Aperto exhibition at the 1993 Venice Biennale consisted of an empty shoe box, eight years before Martin Creed notoriously won the Turner Prize partly for his installation Work No. 227: The lights going on and off at regular intervals. Nearly ten noughty years down the line, and shortly after a museum survey entitled Voids: a Retrospective presented visitors with nine perfectly empty rooms, we are still none the wiser about ‘how much less “nothing” can be’.

Year after year, decade after decade, however, one thing doesn’t seem to change: if we haven’t walked through, on, or past the artwork without noticing it, our reactions to this kind of barely perceptible, almost nothing, practice will predictably range from puzzlement and laughter to anger and indignation. Even before Malevich’s 1920 exhibition, a French cartoonist had imagined in 1912 that the empty canvas would be the next avant-garde prank visited on its baffled public. In the caption, the artist presenting his blank canvas explains in a pun on the then-current Futurist movement: ‘It’s the most futurist picture of all – so far it is only signed, and I’ll never paint it.’ As the emptiness and reduction of blank canvases, of white or black monochromes and of Duchampian readymades were extended to silent concerts and empty galleries in the second half of the twentieth century, the question remained: are all these forms of emptiness so many variations on the same provocative joke?

The first documented entirely empty exhibition, Yves Klein’s The Specialization of Sensibility in the Raw Material State Into Stabilized Pictorial Sensibility – better known as The Void – at the Galerie Iris Clert in Paris in 1958, certainly had all the trappings of an elaborate PR stunt. Not only did Klein empty the exhibition space and paint the remaining walls and cases white, he also posted two Republican Guards in full uniform at the entrance of the gallery, served blue cocktails especially ordered from the famous brasserie La Coupole and had even planned to light up the obelisk on the Place de la Concorde with his brand of International Klein Blue. While the last event was cancelled at the last minute, an estimated 3,000 visitors did show up on the night of the opening, filling the streets around the gallery as they waited to enter the exhibition space through blue curtains, one small group at a time. The crowd was finally dispersed by the police called in by disgruntled visitors who had felt swindled after paying their entrance fee to be shown an empty gallery. In some ways, the succès à scandale of The Void has obscured Klein’s very idiosyncratic brand of showmanship and mysticism. His interest in the immaterial was genuine, inspired by his exploration of monochrome painting and his belief, influenced by Rosicrucianism, that humans must strive to liberate themselves from flesh and matter.

If some artists since Klein have embraced such spiritual readings of the void, a more general preoccupation with the invisible seems to account for many empty exhibitions in the past 50 years or so. Maria Eichhorn, a German artist whose early work includes white texts written on white walls, speaks for many artists when she explains: “There is such a fixation in our Western culture on the visible, which explains why we think that… a room is empty… because there is nothing visible. But I’ve never thought that an empty room is empty.” In the late 1960s Robert Barry had already pointed to the imperceptible forces that literally surround us by introducing radio waves as well as magnetic currents into the gallery space. American artist Maria Nordman has tried to focus viewers’ attention on the light falling through an empty gallery’s windows at different moments of the day and of the year. More prosaically, other artists have invited visitors simply to contemplate the architecture of the gallery. Arriving in 1993 at the Museum Haus Esters in Krefeld, originally a house designed by Mies van der Rohe, British artist Bethan Huws felt she could not add anything to the beauty of the modernist building. Instead, she distributed a poem to visitors and let them admire the gallery for itself.

In the 1970s American artist Michael Asher pioneered strategies through which to reveal the architectural structure of the gallery. At the Clare Copley Gallery in 1975, for example, he simply removed the wall separating the empty exhibition space from the art dealer’s office. By opening up this space, the artist was not only inviting visitors to consider its architectural features: he also reminded them of the Business transactions taking place behind the walls of commercial galleries. After Asher, other artists have explored the invisible networks of art business and institutional presentations that frame the art we view. Maria Eichhorn used the budget allocated to her show at the Kunsthalle Bern to tackle the institution’s debts and fund much-needed refurbishments of the building (Money at the Kunsthalle Bern 2001), while in their 2005 Supershow – More than a Show, the collective Superflex used theirs to give each visitor two Swiss Francs instead of asking them to pay an entrance fee to see empty spaces adorned only by texts stating the physical properties of each room (surface, wall colour, maximum number of visitors, etc). Museum surveillance is alluded to in Roman Ondák’s 2006 More Silent than Ever, which warns visitors that hidden listening devices are installed in the room.

Presented with invisible elements such as Ondák’s listening devices or Barry’s magnetic fields, we are left wondering whether to believe the artists’ claims since, after all, there is no adequate way to confirm them. We come to realise that our relation to the work is predicated on knowledge, presuppositions and some form of trust in the authority of artists and art institutions. British artist Ceal Floyer traces her interest in minimal displays back to her experience as a gallery invigilator while she was an art student. ‘I watched a lot of art being seen. And a lot of art being not seen,’ she remembers. ‘That was a training in itself. I discovered that presumption is a medium in its own right.’ As with Creed’s The lights going on and off , Floyer’s plastic buckets and black rubbish bags casually sitting in the gallery certainly reveal to us our prejudices and expectations as to what art is or should be. Gabriel Orozco says he actively seeks to disappoint his viewers. Is my irritation at being presented with an empty shoe box or lights going and off ultimately good for me?

The veiled hostility directed by the artist at the viewer situates such attitudes in the context of more radical declarations against art and its institutions. When presenting her empty exhibition at the Lorence-Monk Gallery in New York in 1990, American artist Laurie Parsons went so far as to refuse to include her name on the invitation to the opening and to remove all reference to the show from her CV. Four years later, she ceased to produce works altogether, thus following a line of artists before her who deliberately decided, as part of their practice, to give up, or take a break from, the profession. From this perspective, the empty gallery is less an artwork than a gesture – of provocation, dissent and critique. As Brian O’Doherty has shown in his well-known study of the modern “white cube” gallery, such a gesture ‘depends for its effect on the context of ideas it changes and joins’. For the gesture to succeed, its timing, place and audience have to be just right. Sometimes it can be understood only retrospectively, as it becomes historicised.

It would be unfair, however, to reduce all explorations of emptiness, nothingness and the invisible to the rhetoric of the gesture. To return to Orozco’s Empty Shoe Box: when it was first shown in 1993, it certainly poked fun at the Venice Biennale’s frenzy of publicity and consumption, but it also served as a memorable image of the container or vessel that is a leitmotif in the artist’s work. ‘I am interested in the idea of making myself – as an artist and an individual – above all a receptacle,’ stated Orozco. Playing with contrasts between empty and full, his work as a whole exemplifies a sensitivity to reciprocal spatial relations. In a notebook, he compares discarded pieces of chewing gum on a pavement with the stones placed on a board in the Asian strategy game of Go. Like Empty Shoe Box, the Go stones and the spat-out blobs of gum occupy and cut out space, demarcating a territory according to very specific patterns of chance and intention.

Many artists have similarly been interested in the space between objects. Both the Belgian Joëlle Tuerlinckx and the Brazilian Fernanda Gomes often present arrangements of small, discrete everyday objects scattered around otherwise vacant gallery spaces. Tuerlinckx describes the exhibition space as ‘a kind of parcel, a packet of air’ that she is invited to open and explore through her work; Gomes says she never comes to the gallery with a pre-defined plan. In these installations, the empty gallery becomes a blank page to be inscribed (as in Tuerlinckx’s spatial drawings), or the pregnant void that surrounds objects in paintings such as Giorgio Morandi’s (in Gomes’s three-dimensional still-lifes).

Painting is also a surprising reference for the performances staged by Marie Cool/Fabio Balducci, during which Cool stands in an empty room as she enacts a series of repetitive, extremely precise gestures using flimsy everyday materials such as paper, tape, or thread. The French- Italian duo has claimed that the image of a figure hovering in an undefined yet meaningful space was inspired by early Renaissance religious painting such as Simone Martini’s Annunciations. The empty gallery as a stage for action has also been effectively used by Martin Creed, when he asked runners to sprint down the Duveen Galleries at Tate Britain, one by one at regular intervals, in 2008, or by British-German artist Tino Sehgal, who in 2010 choreographed two continuous scenarios, involving three actors, in the spiral rotunda at the New York Guggenheim Museum.

Placed in vast expanses of void, both bodies and objects appear more vulnerable. On the one hand, such installations provide an alternative to the spectacular displays encouraged by increasingly large-scale museum and gallery spaces. By celebrating the commonplace, the barely noticed, as well as frailty and precariousness, artists thus seem to be actively resisting the pressure to create ever-bigger, glossier, more awe-inspiring works. On the other hand, however, such minimal mises en scène can create new forms of spectacle – as when Maurizio Cattelan places his miniature self-portrait, a resin figurine hanging from a clothing rack, in a corner of the empty gallery in order to emphasise his apparent failure to take on the revolutionary role of 1970s artists such as Joseph Beuys (to make the point, the Cattelan mini-me is clad in Beuys’s signature felt suit).

While such formal devices are often little more than simple gimmicks, works that effectively stage their own weakness and vulnerability can raise questions about the institutional and social conditions that guarantee their existence as art. In Hans Christian Andersen’s tale of The Emperor’s New Clothes, a naked emperor is persuaded by his tailors that his fine clothes are visible only to intelligent people; his subjects, afraid like him to admit that they cannot see them, applaud his outfit until a small child in the crowd finally blurts out the truth – ‘But he’s got nothing on!’ Though above all a cautionary tale against the deceptive powers of flattery, vanity and sycophantism, the story also provides an image of the willing suspension of disbelief required by most forms of art. After all, the artist’s deception, like the cheating tailors’, could never work without our participation. In his 2002 work Lament of the Images, Chilean artist Alfredo Jaar mobilises this kind of community of believers by presenting us with two dark, apparently empty rooms. In the first, we come across three small backlit text panels relating real stories about invisible or impossible images, such as the fact that the United States Defence Department purchased the rights to all available satellite images of Afghanistan during the 2001 air strikes so that the global media could not publish them. The second room houses a single, brightly lit, empty screen. Blinded by its light, we are reminded of our own blind spots – our complicity in the invisibility of certain images and in the existence of many an emperor’s new clothes.