#free pixel patter

[xstitchpattern]

#xstitch pattern #kreuzstich muster #xstitch #ricamo #cross stitch pattern kawaii #creative #crossstitch #puntocroce #cross stitch pattern #cross stitch #love cross stitch #colorful cross stitch #kreuzstich #kawaii pixel #kawaii cute cross stitch pattern #free pixel patter #free cross stitch

[drathanasius]

Plaguetober 2022 GIF roundup! Final GIF can be found here. (Have to link due to Tumblr image number restriction). Prompt list by the extremely excellent @plaguefairy. Captions below the readmore. (All credit to the original pixel art asset creators over at @habitica.)

Plaguetober Day 1: Garden -- Nothing could exceed the intentness with which this scientific gardener examined every shrub which grew in his path: it seemed as if he was looking into their inmost nature, making observations in regard to their creative essence, and discovering why one leaf grew in this shape and another in that, and wherefore such and such flowers differed among themselves in hue and perfume. Plaguetober Day 2: Key -- Dr Athanasius considered himself an unofficial steward of the old mechanism, though it involved a considerable climb, requiring much stealth, ever since he first obtained the key. Plaguetober Day 3: Familiar -- Whenever Dr Athanasius took up any of his instruments, Her Abdicated Former Majesty the Erstwhile Queen of Sweden (Erstwhile for short) was always sure to come running. Plaguetober Day 4: Clover -- This is number eight, and the doctor’s at the gate… Plaguetober Day 5: Rotten -- It might smell terrible to you, but it’s undeath-sustaining ambrosia to my hungry little friend here.

Plaguetober Day 6: Find -- After a bit of tricky fishing, he finally found it: The elusive Bone White Hippocamp! Her playful sea-horse woos her soft commands/Turns his quick ears, his webbed claws expands/His watery way with waving volutes wins/Or listening librates on unmoving fins. Plaguetober Day 7: Jester -- In prison cell and dungeon vile/Our thoughts to them are winging. When friends by shame are undefiled/How can I keep from singing? Plaguetober Day 8: Knot -- Now dash’d upon the billow/Our op'ning timbers creak/Each fears a wat'ry pillow/None stop the dreadful leak/To cling to slipp'ry shrouds/Each breathless seaman crowds/As she lay/Till the day/In the Bay of Biscay, O! Plaguetober Day 9: Conundrum -- When one finds oneself in a sticky situation, it can sometimes be advisable to transform one’s foe from an adversary to a steed. Plaguetober Day 10: Pie -- The venomous apples of the outer peninsula required some careful handling, but their flavor was truly beyond compare.

Plaguetober Day 11: Reveal -- I draw down/The open eye/That helped me see/Through the disguise. What’s concealed/Becomes revealed/And I am free.

Plaguetober Day 12: Circle -- Omnia nodis arcanis connexa quiescunt.

Plaguetober Day 13: Everlasting -- If the T. dohrnii jellyfish is exposed to environmental stress, physical assault, or is sick or old, it can revert to the polyp stage, forming a new polyp colony. It does this through the cell development process of transdifferentiation, which alters the differentiated state of the cells and transforms them into new types of cells. Theoretically, this process can go on indefinitely, effectively rendering the jellyfish biologically immortal.

Plaguetober Day 14: Impale -- In retrospect, perhaps Dr Athanasius should have ascertained that the range was clear before attempting to collect his arrows. Plaguetober Day 15: Play -- Govern these ventages with your fingers and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music. Plaguetober Day 16: Reminiscing -- Dr Athanasius in the Musaeum Kircherianum in Collegio Romano, the place of his creation, depicted next to the innermost segment of the speaking trumpet from which he had been lately disconnected. Plaguetober Day 17: Maize -- Dr Athanasius suddenly realized that he had gone all-in on precisely the wrong sort of corn for the Autumn Festival and strove quickly to obliterate the evidence of his faux pas. Plaguetober Day 18: Crime -- The cheaper the crook, the gaudier the patter. Plaguetober Day 19: Jovial -- Fly agaric didn’t tend to have quite the same effect on Dr Athanasius as it had on others of his acquaintance, but he enjoyed the occasional nibble just the same. Plaguetober Day 20: Awaken -- I was only wakened when I had reached the last light sleep which dissolves of itself, and it must have been very light, for it was an almost inaudible whistling noise that wakened me. Plaguetober Day 21: Chatter -- Ordinarily, Dr Athanasius thought of himself as a sort of elevated flaneur, creeping along the rooftops of the city, the chatter and hum of its citizens in his ears. But occasionally he walks the streets themselves, on those rare wet nights when the city is quite, quite empty and quite, quite still. Plaguetober Day 22: Lost -- Try as he might, Dr Athanasius could not reconstruct the plans for his Father’s sunflower clock. The secret to its mechanism seemed to have been forevermore lost. Plaguetober Day 23: Greet -- Dr Athanasius’s reanimated lion adored taking walkies in the Lichgate of the Belimbed, because there he always found a friendly hand to greet him, pat him, throw his bone, and offer him skeletal scritches. Plaguetober Day 24: Cobweb -- Once his friends the cobs were done with them, Dr Athanasius collected their webs for use in his armamentarium. They were particularly useful for staunching excessive bloodflow. Plaguetober Day 25: Melancholy -- Whenever Dr Athanasius felt a bit down, he pulled out his trusty copy of D'Urfey’s Pills to Purge Melancholy, and his heart was immediately lighter. Plaguetober Day 26: Rest -- You wouldn’t think a 17th Century automaton would dream, but you probably wouldn’t think a candle would stay lit in a giant clamshell either. Plaguetober Day 27: Sheet -- That old sheet that Dr Athanasius had stumbled across turned out to have some unexpected properties. Plaguetober Day 28: Cabinet -- Dr Athanasius inherited several things from his Father’s renowned Cabinet of Curiosities, among them the Ira Dei Dragon Balloon and the (slightly singed) Vesuvius Basket. Plaguetober Day 29: Embark -- Fortified by a draft of Cosmiel’s celestial liquor, Dr Athanasius prepares to essay the heavens. Plaguetober Day 30: Music -- Since his disconnection from his speaking trumpet, Dr Athanasius has lacked the power of speech, but from his perch atop the ramparts of the city, he strives always to embody the principles of the Musurgia Universalis. Plaguetober Day 31: Goodnight -- And so the Dr Athanasius who lives in dreams – perhaps only in dreams; perhaps not – bids farewell to him that has harbored him.

#plaguetober2022 #plaguetober #plaguefairy #habitica #8-bit paper dolls #dr athanasius #kircher's automaton #plague doctor #plaguecore #plaguesona #plague doctor mask #kircher's automaton dreams 8-bit dreams

[mainscollege]

Turnip boy commits tax evasion review

Turnip boy commits tax evasion review how to#

Some of the boss fights were more engaging, requiring you to learn attack patterns and utilize bomb flowers. You are limited to slashing and dodging in only four directions, and most free-roaming earthworms and snails out in the world are easily avoidable. In general, I found the combat to be cute but somewhat underwhelming. Utilizing bombs, blocks, and even portals grown from watered plants, you solve puzzles and make your way through the different areas. A strange plant gives you a soil sword, which is your main weapon until eventually acquiring a shovel. Using your stolen watering can, you grow plants that give you weapons, upgrades, and puzzle-solving tools. Given that the star of the show is the humor, the gameplay mechanics are unsurprisingly rudimentary. Well, at least you’re consistent? Slash, dash, and blow it to smithereens. In fact, it seems as though your only options when confronted with a choice are to rip it up or kill it. This dark humor overlayed with an impossibly cute art style seems to be the perfect recipe for unlocking audible laughs. A blushing blueberry reacts with horror after you slaughter his friend Jerry the Snail, presumably just for being a snail (vegetarians are a danger to turnips, after all). A smitten strawberry watches as you rip up her marriage proposal intended for the florist. This first interaction pretty much sets you up for the kind of humor you will be enjoying in this game. Which is too bad for him, since Turnip Boy doesn’t seem to have learned the concept of “borrowing”. Speaking with the overripe citrus reveals that the watering can is the only thing he has left to remember his deceased wife by. The first item you acquire is a watering can that used to belong to Old Man Lemon. The relationship between you and Mayor Onion drives the main storyline, but there are plenty of entertaining characters to meet along the way. when life gives you lemons, steal the things they hold most Dear He proceeds to essentially hold your greenhouse ransom while you patter off on retrieval quests, taking care to avoid the ominous “rotten”. This monocled mister Mayor Onion informs you of your fiscal crimes, appointing you as his new personal assistant (read: servant) until you pay off your debts. A plucky, upbeat bop starts jamming away in the background as your sentient Turnip Boy stares smiling at a very disgruntled-looking onion. You are presented with only one actionable option to handle this formidable news: rip it up. The game opens with you learning that you are delinquent on the property taxes for your greenhouse. I had a clear idea of what this game would be offering right off the bat, and it delivered on that assumption with flawless accuracy. A name that promises to permeate both of those things with some level of adult humor? Sign me up. An aesthetic that screams “lo-fi beats to game to”? Absolutely. A kawaii, sword-wielding little miscreant that looks like a pixelated hybrid of Link and an Oddish? I’m here for it. Showing up in my Switch e-shop right in the middle of irl tax season, “Turnip Boy Commits Tax Evasion” was the kind of name you don’t just pass over.

Turnip boy commits tax evasion review how to#

For a studio that self describes as making “really, really dumb video games”, Snoozy Kazoo certainly knows how to make a really, really good title.

#Turnip boy commits tax evasion review

[dioderent]

here's a jotaro pitter patter pop edit I did for a reaction image type thing

Free to use without credit, just don't take credit of it yourself

this took way too long to make

edit: just checked on PC and i messed up some of the pixels DANGIT

edit 2: 2nd try

+ the 2 source images

#jjba #jojo pitter patter pop #pitter patter pop #jojo kimyou na bouken #jojo's bizarre adventure #jotaro kujo #jjba edit #jojo edit #reaction image #reactions

[veterveter]

Please write "falling asleep while watching a movie together" while it is raining and stormy outside + berlermo! Thank you!!!!!

prompts for characters going to sleep together

“Don’t fall asleep.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Martín watched as Andrés nodded unconvincingly, straightened a little, lifted his head with a scoff that was clearly intended to imply sleep? I have never slept in my life, Martín, sleep is beyond me, what are you even saying, you know me better than this—

“I’m not.”

“You were. And we have—” Martín checked the timestamp on the bottom right corner of the screen, squinting as he tried to make sense of the numbers, his tiredness stubbornly working against him. “—only an hour and a half left.” He nudged Andrés’s shoulder, causing most of Andrés’s body to slump. “Come on, now.”

“We have seen everything we need to,” Andrés insisted, his eyes barely open, shielded by his hand. The blue light of the laptop screen was harsh, Martín could admit that. It was the point.

“We have not. We haven’t seen the director leave his office for a third time. I need to know if the security guard is always with him, or if he might leave alone.” Martín risked taking his eyes off the screen to rub them. They had to be bloodshot, and they felt dry and irritated. But Andrés couldn’t be trusted to stare at the security feed with any concentration, should Martín leave the room. “Also, the secretary hasn’t taken her lunch break. Do you think that’s normal?”

Andrés had been incredibly enthusiastic about watching the security tapes for the museum, for the first three hours. It had been six consecutive hours, now, and he had started dozing off on Martín’s shoulder, despite the espresso growing cold on the coffee table.

Andrés yawned, and it was irritating, because Martín mirrored him unwillingly.

“She’s his lover, is she not? Maybe she’s waiting for him to come see her. And that,” Andrés tapped at the screen demonstratively, “He will do without the security.”

Martín grinned to him. It was nice to have some help with this, again. “Great. So we just need to see that, to be sure.”

Andrés nodded, with some renewed commitment to their antagonistically tedious task. “What do you think his wife is thinking? Does she suspect a thing?” Andrés was always very invested in the personal drama of others. Where some people watched reality TV, he was always looking forward to seeing real relationships falling apart.

(And yet it was usually Martín watching, and Andrés with the failing relationships. But Andrés could also appreciate the irony, if Martín offered him a glass of wine while pointing it out, so it was fine.)

“Fuck if I know. You’re the one with a wife. Would she suspect something?”

“Tonya?” The fact that Andrés always checked to make sure that they were speaking of the same wife, Martín thought, spoke volumes about his character – and it was terrible. “No, of course not. She trusts me.”

“What a terrible mistake.”

Andrés shrugged. “I have no need to cheat on her, do I? If I want a divorce, I will have one. I have what I want and I am free of any obligations. It’s as simple as that.”

It’s as simple as that,Martín mused, stretching his arms. Andrés needed nothing from outside of his marriage; he could fuck his pretty little thing whenever he wanted to. She didn’t need to have two brain cells to rub together, which was good because she truly didn’t. Martín was there to be Andrés’s best friend, his engineer with a degree and scientific curiosity, and to watch security tapes throughout the night.

Andrés didn’t need anything else.

The rain was still pattering softly outside. The weather was instrumental to their plan; they had been waiting for this exact rain for weeks. And now that it was here, Martín couldn’t feel anything but wistful about it. Planning a theft was always better than the actual thing itself. Planning was building a cathedral; executing the plan meant leaving it behind, with the certain knowledge that he would never return…

…

“…I suppose you wanted to sleep. Hypocrite.”

Martín jolted awake and straightened himself in the same disjointed movement, mortified to learn he had apparently been not only leaning on Andrés, but sliding down to where he was almost lying on his lap.

“Sorry,” he muttered, trying to contain another yawn with the back of his hand. “Did I miss anything?” The picture on the screen had come to a halt, which indicated that he had certainly missed something, which meant that they had both missed something. They would have to rewind. How long had he been asleep?

Andrés chuckled. “No, but I finished the video. The director ended his day with a nice little fuck, without his security around. Bingo.”

“At what time?”

“18:56. He finished at 19:02.”

Martín grimaced. “Well, let’s start the next tape.”

“Another one? Really?”

Martín shrugged. “It’s the last one. We can use it to double-check everything we know.” Who was he to make any assumptions? He had never held a 9-to-5 job. Some of these employees might have a different routine on Thursdays. It could happen.

“This one was the double-check.”

“Triple-check, then.”

“Martín,” Andrés complained in a way that made Martín’s skin feel warmer, and he busied himself with opening the next file.

At least Andrés didn’t resist further. He rested his head on Martín’s shoulder, letting some of his weight be Martín’s problem instead. Andrés was completely unabashed, ever so comfortable with their physical closeness in a way Martín could never allow himself to be.

He sighed and settled back in to watch the lively but lifeless video feed, listening to Andrés’s even breathing, the rain and the occasional howling of the wind. There was a comfort to be found in the storm outside, even if he was unable to give a reason for that.

Twenty minutes later, Martín had leaned his head on Andrés’s, and both of them were fast asleep. The pixelated people kept flitting in and out of the museum, going about their days, their little Thursday routines. It was still raining outside.

#thank you kind mystery friend!! [this mystery friend was my boyfriend hahaha I asked him if he'd like to prompt me something] #I hope you liked this!! [it's incredibly on brand for you to insist on rainy weather can you get anymore British than that--] #I was immediately like 'the security camera feed counts as a movie!!!' and just rolled with that #it's highly likely that my theme for these prompts will be bending them to where they Please Me #anyway yes thank you again [for being supportive about things that mean a lot to me <3] #I hope you'll have a stellar week #!!!!!!!!! #mystery friend #anon #tumblr prompts #going to sleep together ficlets #ficlets #berlermo #lcdp #ignore the fact that I forgot the important tags hahaha

[freaoscanlin]

Flurry Rush of Feelings

A Streamer AU. Despite being an art streamer and—she cannot stress this enough—really bad at video games, Hope still hasn’t figured out how to tell the Saltzman twins no when it comes to silly challenges.

Fandom: Legacies

Word Count: 2546

Warnings: None, I think?

Tags: AU, YouTuber AU, Video Games, Breath of the Wild

Read on AO3

“Why did you give me this?” Hope wiggled the joycon over at Josie.

“You’ll see.”

“You know I’m really bad at video games.”

“There’s an understatement,” Lizzie said, not bothering to mutter it. She herself, Hope noted, held the other joycon, which was decorated with some kind of Legend of Zelda decal—Landon had the same one, which was the only reason Hope even had a chance of recognizing it—in her free hand while she triple-checked her camera. On the other side of the desk, Josie looked like she was doing the same. They had a list, Hope knew. Courtesy of Josie, meticulously checked off before pressing the live button.

The twins’ studio was entirely different than her own. Everything in the background was neatly sorted into boxes with prim handwriting—clearly Josie’s—denoting the contents. Not a single loose wire dared show its face in this pristine, well-lit space. She sat in Josie’s usual seat, bracketed by the glow panels behind her, next to Lizzie’s throne. Josie sat in a third seat, still on camera, that they’d jokingly called “the producer’s chair,” like their operation was much bigger than it was.

She could probably take a few pointers for her own studio setup, as she was forever digging around for the correct art supplies or having to mess with her mic or plug something in mid-stream. She knew better than to ask for said pointers, though. If the twins sensed any admiration on her part for their studio space, she’d likely wake up the next morning with both of them in her tiny apartment, ready to redo the whole space from the ground up.

So instead she swiveled in the fancy gaming chair, enjoying the way the pink and blue caught dark highlights in Josie’s hair and trying not to feel apprehensive about what the twins had planned for her.

“That’s the last item. Everybody ready?” Josie asked.

Hope confirmed that she was; Lizzie gave a vague nod.

“Going live in three...two...”

Lizzie perked up, immediately putting on the expression Hope called streamer face. “Hey, Saltz fam! Sorry about the delay, it was Josie’s fault this time—”

“It was not!”

“But we’re here with you finally, and even better, we have a guest! Say hi to our favorite TripleThreattt, the one, the only, Hope Mikaelson.”

“Wow,” Hope said, completely deadpan. “Anybody ever tell you that you have a future in emceeing?”

Lizzie’s streamer face cracked a tiny bit as the glare threatened to come through. “Say hi, Hope,” she said between her teeth.

Hope waved to the camera. “Hi, Hope.”

She was rewarded by a brief appearance of the vein in Lizzie’s forehead and a giggle from Josie. She couldn’t really see the chat feed from her current spot, as Lizzie had angled the monitor away from her and Josie had control of all of that, but from the sounds of things, the chat was going absolutely nuts.

Whenever any of the VampSquad guested on the others’ streams, viewership tended to skyrocket. She’d had Cleo over last week to do some sculpting, and it had been her highest watched video that month. But even this sounded excessive.

She folded her legs underneath her on the chair as the twins greeted various members of chat and did their little opening patter, occasionally chiming in to say hi to names she recognized by ear. It helped her nerves in these much larger streams to hear some familiar names.

Finally, after a couple minutes of introduction, Josie smirked. “Everyone keeps asking what we’re doing today, Lizzie.”

“That’s a good question. Hope, what do you think we’re doing?”

“All I know is you handed me this.” Hope waggled the joycon. “I know it makes the little pixel people on the screen do the pixel things, but beyond that, I can’t tell you. I’m playing a game against you?”

“Even better,” Josie said. “You’re playing with her.”

“Come again?” Hope asked.

“This—” and Josie did a flourish right as the screen in front of Hope lit up with the start screen of a game she didn’t recognize “—is Breath of the Wild, it’s super old and incredibly broken. But it’s great because you can cook in it or just take pictures of ducks.”

“And defeat Ganon, the most evil villain of all time,” Lizzie said, rolling her eyes at her sister’s priorities. “Which is actually what we’re going to do. Together. Today.”

“Which one of us has to be the sidekick?” Hope asked. She thought about it and propped her elbow on the table, playing to the audience. “Arm wrestle you for it?”

“No, no,” Josie said, laughing. “It’s not like that. See, we’re playing on a Switch, which means the joycons can be separated and controlled by two different players. Which is great, except that Breath of the Wild doesn’t have an official co-op mode.”

“It’s cute when you use made-up words,” Hope said. On the reflection behind Josie, she spotted the chat speeding up like they were going insane.

“But you can make an unofficial co-op mode,” Lizzie said. “You have one half of the controller, I have the other half, and we have to control Link together, get off the plateau, defeat the divine beasts, and then fight Ganon. Working together.”

“While hopefully not killing each other in the process,” Josie said.

Hope squinted at both of them. “Which one of you sadists came up with this?”

“People have been asking us to do a co-op run for so long, but we do have that twin telepathy going for us. Which is honestly like cheating,” Josie said, explaining half to Hope and half to the camera propped up in front of her. “So we thought it’d be funnier if you and Lizzie gave it a try, considering how alike you can be.”

“Hey,” both Hope and Lizzie said at the same time.

“It’ll be fun.”

“I see now why you didn’t tell me what we were going to do ahead of time,” Hope said dryly, swinging the joycon about to test its weight.

“To keep you from ghosting us, yes,” Josie agreed without shame.

“I would never ghost you.” Hope thought about it. “Though I’d manage to make myself unavailable for twenty-four to seventy-two hours, so you do have a point. What is this? I get the left arm and you get the right arm? What’s a Link, anyway?”

Lizzie drew up in outrage. “Link is only the most important character in Legend of Zelda.”

“Then how come his name’s not in the title?”

Big mistake, Hope realized, when lore about a fifty-year-old video game franchise she couldn’t care less about came spewing out of Lizzie’s mouth like a plague of locusts. She tried to pay attention for the first three sentences or so, but when words like Hylian and Triforce and destiny started popping up, she found her attention wandering.

Right to Josie, who looked traitorously close to laughter.

You owe me, Hope mouthed at her.

Josie gave her a sunny smile back. From the looks of the reflection behind her, the chat barreled on at an absolutely blistering pace, full of emojis and other various streaming things Hope barely understood when it was her own channel.

“Are you even listening to me?” Lizzie asked.

“Of course not.”

Lizzie tossed an exasperated look at Josie, who immediately straightened up and attempted to look sober. “Look, just do what I tell you when I tell you to do it and maybe we won’t die fifty times before we get off the plateau.”

“What a ringing endorsement that is,” Hope said, hunkering down as Lizzie started the game.

At least the story itself wasn’t hard to figure out. Androgynous elf-like dude waking up from a hundred year sleep, Hope could understand easily enough. Josie mostly remained quiet about what was happening on screen, while Lizzie prattled on happily, filling in details, informing Hope that the person talking in Link’s head was indeed the titular Zelda, that the Sheikah Slate had been invented by a proud race of people called the Sheikah (“Is Link a Sheikah?” “No, he’s a Hylian, pay attention.”), that the game really functioned around this fancy-ass tablet, etc.

The first issue came when Link had to move across the Shrine of Resurrection to collect said tablet. Easily done with one person. A nightmare with two.

“You’re in charge of moving us, just use the joystick there,” Lizzie said, pointing at the joycon in Hope’s hand.

So she did. The wrong way. Was it on purpose? She’d never tell.

Josie’s amused face told her that her secret wasn’t as well-kept as she thought.

“No, no, wrong direction. Go the other way! All you have to do is get us to the pedestal, that’s—ugh, this is going to be a nightmare.”

“You think?” Hope asked.

After much back-and-forthing, a couple cutscenes, and a surprisingly in-depth debate (Josie included) about whether or not Link really needed the pants found in the chest outside the door, they made it out of the Shrine of Resurrection and into the world of Hylia.

“This is probably the longest you’ll go without dying,” Josie observed as the game’s title sequence played, showing Link, in an old shirt and his boxers, standing on a cliff overlooking the entire kingdom. Hope acknowledged that the entire world looked kind of cool, though she’d only admit that if asked by Josie, not Lizzie. “But now the fun really begins. Good luck!”

“I will give you twenty American dollars to take my place,” Hope told her.

“You’re having so much fun, though.”

“Twenty-one American dollars. Final offer.”

“We’ll be fine,” Lizzie said with a confidence that usually could only come from hard liquor or illegal substances.

She was also incorrect. It took them all of three minutes, most of that time spent squabbling, to be clubbed to death by a weird red pig-man that Lizzie called a bokoblin.

“I told you to backflip us so we could get a flurry rush!”

Hope tossed her hands up. “You can’t just make up things and expect me to understand them!”

Josie set the death counter to 1, and didn’t say anything.

Seven deaths later, Hope had mostly gotten the hang of her half of the control. And a begrudging part of her could actively admit that the game itself was kind of neat. Lizzie’s encyclopedic knowledge of what to do and where things like mushrooms and wild boar and exploding barrels were was a little...obsessive. But it wasn’t nearly as bad as the time Landon had made her try playing something called Dark Souls as part of a girlfriend/boyfriend challenge.

God, she was glad that relationship was over.

Finally, they maneuvered Link into putting the Sheikah Slate against another pedestal and activating some kind of tower. Cutscenes of woodland creatures being startled by giant eruptions of similar towers all over the map began to play. Lizzie, Hope noted, focused on the scenes unfolding in rapt attention, while Josie caught up on chat, thanking various people for donations and subscriptions.

“She really likes this game, huh,” Hope said to Josie during a pause.

“I’m sitting right here, and yes, I do,” Lizzie said without looking away from the screen. “Admit it, Mikaelson, you like it, too.”

“I liked the bit where you can apparently nap for a hundred years,” Hope said. “That seemed nice. Can we go back there?”

“No, not until we get the korok seed that always spawns there after you leave the plateau for the first time. We’ll need to get more weapon slots from Hestu.”

“Are you having a stroke?”

Josie adjusted her headphones and sank into her chair, likely to hide a laugh.

An hour later, they’d more or less figured out the controls together, though they hadn’t even completed what Lizzie called the game’s training tutorial. The death counter sat at a very uneven 39, 38 of those deaths being Hope’s fault (Lizzie’s words, not hers). The most hilarious and most clipped death, however, Hope could take no credit for, as Lizzie snatched the joycon out of her hand in exasperation—and Link immediately plummeted into an ice lake, inspiring the blue GAME OVER to come wavering across the screen. Josie alternated between laughing at their pain and serving as referee, all the while taking point on handling the chat.

Not for the first time, Hope admired exactly how smoothly things ran for the twins. It wasn’t her first time guesting, not by long shot, but she inevitably walked away a little envious of how neat everything rolled along on their streams. They’d vetted a good mod team, though they still dealt with a fair number of trolls, and between Lizzie’s in-your-face everything and Josie’s empathetic goodness, they really kept their audience interested. Meanwhile, Hope, every time she went live, felt a little like she was flailing about. Which was why she’d decided at the very start to treat streaming like something she would only do until it truly and honestly felt like work.

Even now, controlling one half of a video game character the monsters probably thought was having some kind of weird twitchy breakdown, it definitely didn’t feel like work. Even though the stream ran for another full hour before Josie and Lizzie did their customary sign-off.

“Admit it,” Lizzie said immediately once the cameras had turned off and all three of them collapsed like puppets whose strings had been cut. “You like this game. You had a good time.”

“I like the art,” Hope said. “Does that count?”

“Yes,” Josie said before Lizzie could give her opinion of that statement. “That counts. Thanks for being such a good sport about the challenge. Even if it means you’re going to ghost us for twenty-four to seventy-two hours, probably.”

Hope heaved a purposefully melodramatic sigh. “I promise that if you text or call me within the next one to three days, I will indeed answer you.”

Josie beamed like it was some kind of ultimate declaration of forever friendship, and Hope decided she was still too new on the dating market to explore the funny skip her heart gave at that. She tucked that away to brood over later.

“We’ll have to do this again,” Lizzie said.

Hope and Josie stared at her. “Wasn’t once torture enough?” Hope asked.

“We have to defeat Ganon. It’s destiny.” Lizzie checked another tab in her browser. “And also our numbers were the highest for this stream that they’ve been all month. Your sub count went up during the stream, too, by the way.”

“Oh, so it’s not destiny, it’s viewership stats.”

“Same thing. Same time next week?”

“I hate this so much,” Hope said without feeling.

But a week later, she showed up dutifully and on time. She told herself it was good to stay in Lizzie’s good graces (and she did actually enjoy having Lizzie as a friend, which was not a development she’d ever have suspected after their disastrous first meeting), but really, she knew better the minute she pulled on her headphones and Josie looked up to give her a welcoming smile.

It might have been about viewership numbers, but some things felt a little like destiny indeed.

#legacies #hope mikaelson #josie saltzman #fanfiction #legacies fanfiction #lizzie saltzman #posting this over here because i put the rest of my fic on my tumblr and this belongs here too #but the beta poster is incredibly broken and thanks i hate it #hosie #right #forgot to tag that bit at first

[fardf150]

Greetings, salutations, any way you slice it, hello!

(Lmao gender be wildin)

Help us investigate the Komaedas

Platonically married with @//dqydreqms and @//makotonaegikinnie <3333

Hi; you can call me any of the names listed in the post about my gender (linked above), but just Lee is fine any day! I’m pretty shy, but it doesn’t take me long to warm up to people.

Feel free to talk to me; I don’t mind- in fact, I really like it! So feel free to ramble, ask me about my interests, tell me about your day- anything, really! And feel free to dm me if you want to be friends (I’ll never ever do it first though I’m way too shy-)

I mostly just say random things and reblog stuff I like but sometimes there’ll be little doodles, drabbles, or something

Original posts are tagged as ‘lee’s twaddles’ (no quotes)

My main interests would have to be (bolded is main, pink is big big big):

Danganronpa

Ace Attorney and The Great Ace Attorney/Dai Gyakuten Saiban

Vocaloid

Junji Ito

A Man & His Cat

Detroit: Become Human

Other interests ig? Idrk

You most likely do not want to follow me/go through my posts if any the following makes you uncomfortable:

Caps lock; I try to tag this as ‘caps cw’ (no quotes) now but I forget a lot and my older posts don’t have it tagged so I’d still be careful

Bold text/italics

Cats (the animal not the musical)

Talking about siblings; particularly older ones

Swearing/Cursing (seriously I swear a l o t; please please please don’t follow me if this makes you uncomfortable)

I’m saying this as I don’t tag any of these things and haven’t tagged them in the past unless I put it in general tags.

If I catch anyone I find gross following me or interacting with me, your ass is ✨blocked✨. That includes nsfw/kink/18+/“minors DNI” blogs.

Uhh I’ll just say this in case anyone’s unsure but yes it’s ok to respond to my vents

(Things tagged as ‘vent ish’ are used when nothing’s really wrong and it wasn’t supposed to be a vent but it kinda turned out and comes across that way)

I tag triggers with “[x] tw”, “[x]”, “[x] cw”, and/or “[x] mention”

What I tag:

Nsfw

P*dophilia and mentions

Inc*st and mentions

Guns, knifes- weapons in general

Blood/gore

Mothers/fathers/parents and mentions (all tagged separately)

Death/child death/animal death and mentions (all tagged separately)

Eyestrain

Unreality

Paranoia

I tag mentions of things like s*x and genitalia as well as suggestive things with ‘nsfw ish’, ‘nsfw mention’, and/or ‘nsfw implications’ so if you don’t like when those subjects are brought up, I’d advise you block both of those tags. Stay safe y’all <3

I used to often reblog things such as helplines and alternatives that mention s*lf h*rm and s*ic*de without properly tagging it, so if these subjects are at all triggering for you, PLEASE take caution before viewing my older posts, or just simply do not do so at all.

Feel free to ask me to tag anything else! If you notice that I don’t tag something that qualifies as one of these things, please tell me so I can correct it.

If anything about me; my speech patters, my demeanor- anything rubs you the wrong way or makes you uncomfortable, feel free to block me. I mean this genuinely; you deserve to have a happy and safe experience online and everywhere else.

Please don’t vent to me without warning; I’m perfectly willing to help if I can, but please please ask first!! That’s all I ask.

I’m really sorry about this but please please please don’t tag me in anything related to activism or... really anything to do with human suffering. I just really can’t handle it. I know I could help but it’s just really draining and makes me feel sick. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.

Masterpost of cleaned up/edited pixel sprites

AO3

@flaming-cup-of-lgbteaplus is the blog I run for a friend and I’s podcast- all of the links where you can listen are in our pinned post

@sunshine-lemonade-stand is my edit blog

@lee-tries-to-write is where rb writing refs

@lee-cant-draw is my art blog (but I pretty much only do pixel and abstract)

Don’t be afraid to ask me to add tl;dr’s or image descriptions/transcripts to anything!

(Mutuals can dm me for my list of discomforts/squicks/triggers, as well as some ways to get in contact with me as long as they aren’t too personal; i.e. my phone number is a no-no. There’s no guarantee you’ll get it, at least at first, but if I get to know you better afterward I’ll probably ask if you still want it at some point)

Btw I have a tendency to use pet names when I get close to people, but I won’t do it unless I know you’re comfortable with it dw

Thanks for reading; safe travels!

#lee’s twaddles #please read this before you follow me; tw’s and all that #pinned post

[scribblesofanaricat]

Kaleidoscope Icarus

(big thank you to Toni for helping me with parts of this)

Alone in bed. Covers twitch. Clock hands rattle around their beaten path and I count it backwards. A meander towards oblivion.

I see my reflection blink. It must like watching me thrash in blue sleep.

Narrow staircase, no socks, tea bag fossils pinned to the wall, I count them up, all six, any colour I like as long as that colour is yellowish grey.

I inhale indifferent coffee broth with a side order of whichever death cult the screen hunched in the corner is serving up today. Bidding its junkies a good afternoon and then meting out a lethal dose of contradictions. It beats down on me as a sun would: simple, forcible, inevitable, ordained.

I’m not Icarus.

Even so, quick fears still tread on my heels after I kill the show and instead pay a call to the frosted-glass moon low in that blank page of a sky. Shoes dangling over a railway bridge, one a lovely Twitter-blue, lemon laces trailing like a severed leash, the other was once violet. Jaundiced glances from pedestrians and passengers cursing the back of my neck.

They plant themselves beside me because where else would they go? We don’t say much, never do, “our glass roots were love when lilac liquids flowed invisible” and “my powdered soul occurs from sun sight with figure flames and smoke” and “if we lose time by staring freely and counting sound, you’re told about it accidentally”, that sort of thing. And we do submerge our long short hours in staring freely and we do count sound since we’re not the type to move mountains, although young by our own reckoning. We know it - or we think we know.

Amongst foggy vows to meet again tomorrow, they clear off and I’m left with the grains of my own soul, the static in my skull, wearing it like a flannel shirt. House prices. Affairs. Break-ins, breakouts. Blares of ‘protect our free speech, protect our children!’ born from whatever illusory agenda they’re being warned against by the king agenda-pushers this time...another monologue from another plastic jack-in-office here to fuck us around...

Sometimes I could carve it all into my skin with a dirty needle and not flinch.

We end up huddled like penguins in the fug heaving around my room. We’d have thought the dawn of the end times would look different, something that’d be splattered over our calendars and marked in history. Instead we’re met with a whitewashed wall from the screens and newshounds even as we watch it happen in 3D. Nothing to do now but wait.

‘I don’t give a damn.’ They’re flung down on their stomach, right arm stowed under an Everest of pillows and left arm glancing off the carpet. ‘I don’t care, I couldn’t...we’re gonna flatline someday soon and we’ll nosedive into Hell and I’d still take that over this shit…I’ve got to see that ocean again, though...just one last time…’

‘Mhm.’ I’m stiff. Stiff yet floaty. The screen crouches there, rattling off a story from America about some toupeed sore loser being forcibly dragged out of the White House with the boot of millions tattooed on his arse. Let them have their pipe dream, let them have their ocean, their fickle friend with its brackish spray, rolling pulse, delusive serenity, useless but to go to your watery grave in… if I scorn it hard enough, I can almost smell it.

I outstretch my rusty arms, gathering the ceiling in a remote embrace, and begin to narrate. ‘After the downfall from the empty pages of a multitude, myths started to creep back through the gaps in the world we saw. They’d been driven feet-first out of society by the threat of extinction long ago and so they’d had to hide themselves away over the rooms of sighs they found.’ The haze seethes and swirls, fashioning hieroglyphs from my breath.

They shift beside me, breathe it in. Counting sound. I survey it all as they draw it down into their lungs and bloodstream - giants and Lilliputians, fae and demons, sister ships sleeping in spoken hiding places, uman babies feeding off a wolf who bares her teeth at us. And Icarus. Taking to the air, lured by the glare that swallowed all else and eagerly drinking it down, until he fell so far and so fast that nobody could save him.

Not like us. We won’t be led astray. We are not the imperfect sight, crimped, bought with ballads.

‘But their memories were long and their bloodlust ran deep as trembling nails. And whatever scraps of human society were left had their turn to hide, or to pose as something different - pretend to be one thing when they were really another, in case they were in line for the wrath of their former fantasies.’

I recline on my mountaintop carpet in the soupy silence after my short tale gives out, waiting. Waiting perhaps for a flashbulb of understanding or for guesses at regions of dry ideas. The clock shudders into its next aspect. Bonded pattern, distorted mosaic.

‘C’n we go to th’ocean?’ is what they exhale at length. I lie there. Head sagging into my chest. Dead rain of a crowd. And then I patter on about spume and pulse and deceit, and about rock shadows standing full at Phoenician attestations, and by God, it’s like reading a bedtime story (or maybe an aloof comedy) to a toddler and almost as easy.

So we sprout in the bleary armchair of the ocean. Coast and universe falling away like a house of cards beneath our shoeless steps. They ask pinch-eyed if I brought a laptop along with me (of course I didn’t; the world watches us out of the corner of its panoramic eye enough as it is) and seem satisfied with my answer. I droop backwards so the rocks can catch me, mendacious as the water - that slumbering giant - but in the opposite direction, downside up. I have to wonder if the sky could be the same way, or if it’s merely everything and nothing. The aridity of all.

A boat worms along the horizon, eats it up inch by inch. That old static begins to pulsate against the core of my head, guessing at who or what could be in there. The newest pet of the media, pockets padded with the benefits from yesterday’s public-spirited stunt, familiarising themself with the bits of fruit floating in the middle of an etched glass and awaiting the casting call for yet another lone hero who’s the only force insulating their precious homeland from the evils of truth and the nefarious threat of equality.

Maybe a consortium of sallow flesh and bloated eyes, red as tongues of flame yet seeing only in black and white, skin honeycombed with pinprick holes. They give and take manufactured fairy tales that accelerate their enslavement, fire their last magic bullet together in a binding act of mercy.

Or a smoke-bearded fisherman and his helpmate with salt water in their veins, in their stirring times; they haul up their meshwork and inspect its captives. Look at these beauties, they marvel every time, a record dashing against its broken needle like a baby bird against a window. Or something - I don’t fucking know what fishermen talk about. Are there fishermen anymore? I guess there must be.

As I study the vessel, purling with the wind, it metamorphoses fitfully into a whale. Its heaving back is encrusted with arthropods. Plunging its way into nowhere. Watch through unchartered eyes as its tail heaves up into the air, blotting out the sun, before it too plunges beneath the depths, beneath the waves, into the dark, dark blue-grey murmurs and untapped power of the abyss. I wonder what sort of watery graves still dwell there, trapped, locked in and locked out. The corpse of a ship. The corpse of a whale.

The sun dissolves into the horizon, spilling its aureate blood over the sea-shaped cemetery. I drink it in; it comes out in puffs of icy white. The smouldering glare lances across my eyes, burning, gnawing. I close them. I breathe cold.

My wax wings splinter. But will not melt.

Their pixelated face reappears above my own, sun’s gore cleaving to their hair with a shimmer, and jab me with a bone. And we trudge back over clumps of sand, the world brightening and darkening, brightening and darkening. The light parts liquefy like butter in a pan, overflowing, flowing, flowing until there’s no more left to flow. Until it evaporates and its burnished blush is briskly replaced by glitter and dazzle and tiny flickers of rainbow bouncing off little jewels.

I breathe warmth. The radio goes on at me, goes on, goes on, a webspinner sniping its threads.

Time hangs suspended for the lion’s share of the night. Screens paralysed in an eternal moment. The masked puppets on one side, me on the other. They dance, bow, spin on wire strings. They get tangled. They do not move any longer. Asides from the occasional twitch and twist, as weak as that of a dying deer caught in the scheming beauty of the headlights. They do not get free. Eventually they too are still.

I move onwards.

We separate then, me and them. Their fingers dance in the air as the light of the sky slips through the cracks of the earth. ‘We’re completely and irreversibly fucked.’ It’s somewhere between question and statement. I watch them droop away, hands tucked in pockets of woven clouds and leather, until the night embraces them and their shadow melts much like the light had. Tipped-over oil, trickling away.

I watch. I wait. I breathe.

I move onwards.

The wet earth slumps when I step upon it, its cold breathing into the soles of my worn shoes. I look towards the sky, up and up and up, so far that I cannot see. The sun has sunk, withered away. Gone. Gone and perhaps never to return. You never know. Never know.

The moon is rising now, the stars winking like oh so much spilled glitter. I see the sun's reflection here, its beaming glow bouncing off the pale white surface of the small planet as though it were an alien mirror. This is how you know it's there, even when it’s faded away. Gone but never quite so.

But its blazing heat is no longer here to thwart me, even if its glimmer is still present. I spread my wax wings. I breathe, I live, I rise, I die. That wet earth hums its lullaby of little critters, chirping crickets and twittering bats and the frozen old breath of ghosts long dead. Disdainful wind freezes my nose and lips and ears. I soar…

I am not Icarus.

The dark sky cradles me like black ocean water. The shimmers of light are fish, sparkling beneath the waves, the moon their only beacon. My only beacon. I breathe warmth in the cold night air. Prickles of goosebumps along the skin of my arms and legs. I am the warmth, but the cold consumes me slowly.

I float lazily, there and not there, alive and dead, warm and cold. An angel on wax wings, a ghost long dead and gone, a corpse at the bottom of the ocean. Fuck. I breathe a disclaimer of disaster, a rage against the remorseless. I breathe warmth, then cold, then nothing. Just to double check.

The golden-white glimmers of school fish trail past, streaks of astigmatic light. The moon smiles down at me, a comforting glow. A lantern hung by gods of old on invisible chains. The mirror of the sun. The dancing partner of the earth. The lighthouse of the sea.

My beacon in the sky.

It does not melt my wings. I am not Icarus.

I soar. On and on, the sparkling sky, the gentle sea. The land leaves me far behind, the twinkle of city lights fading into nothing but open waters, open skies. Nothing but starlights. Nothing but moonlight.

There is nothing waiting for me. Fuck. They have melted into the shadows, slipped like dry sand between fingers, like dry sand in an hourglass, like water in a hole-littered bucket. It is only me and the star speckled sky. Me and the moon.

I'm not sure how long I stay, floating between schools of sparkling starfish. Slowly, the moon rises…falls…and the sun creeps up behind me like a monster in a cave, turning the sky from black to blue…green…then spilling yellow, melted butter, sunstreaked blood across the horizon, its burning light warming my frozen cheeks…soothing my goosebumps…the black sea once more becomes its sparkling blue-ish green. Fuck. The stars fade like fleeing fish and vanishing ghosts. I breathe cold into the warmth.

My wax wings drip in the light. The sunlight burns my eyes, searing my retina, boiling my cornea. I squeeze them shut. I wobble and sway, a dance in the sunrise. I dance, bow, spin on wire strings and liquid wings. I become tangled. I tumble down a narrow staircase, no socks, teabag fossils pinned to the wall.

Wind sighs in my ears. I see my reflection blink in the waves far below. It must like watching me thrash in yellow dreams. The world beats down on me as the sun is now; simple, forcible, inevitable, ordained. The world crumbles around me, earth cracking, water roaring, sky tearing and tearing like shreds of paper in the hands of scissor-happy children. I am a puppet on broken strings and I am falling with nothing but the frigid embrace of the ocean to catch me, where the whale-ship corpse sleeps. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. I breathe and it is cold. The sun blazes like a beacon. It is life. It is the death cult and that fear tingles down my spine.

A shoe of lovely Twitter-blue falls free, lemon laces flapping wildly. I outstretch my rusty arms, as though to catch it like a ball during playtime in the schoolyard, swamped in the too-big uniform of bright purple, a blazer that fell well past my knees. But I cannot catch myself.

I’m falling.

Falling, falling, falling like Icarus.

#my scribbles #mine #tw language #tw drug mention #tw self harm mention #tw existential crisis #tw death mention #long scribble #original writing #writeblr #wow that's a lot of tags

[laughing-with-god]

Pen Pal I

Summary- As a lonely person, the idea of exchanging letters with someone apart from society was actually quite appealing to you.  In a random act of charity and desperation, you sign up for a pen pal and get paired up with an inmate named Jungkook.  The letters were meant to help him cope with prison life, but little did anyone know it was actually driving him more mad.  

Warning- Yandere/Prisoner Jungkook x Reader.  Mature themes.  Mention of mental disorder/

Words; 5.3k

‘Solitude, isolation are painful things and beyond human endurance’- Jules Verne 

“Don’t be nervous.” 

The older man kindly smiled at you, age making a brief appearance in the form of the wrinkles that graced his eyes when lifting his lips into an expression of sympathy.  

Pure fear clawed itself within your stomach, your eyes watering on their own accord and your limbs quivered with panic, the tremors shaking through your entire being.  You ducked your head, not wanting anyone to see your moment of weakness, but also knowing that you couldn’t bear having your unfiltered emotions put under these strangers’ microscopes for them to cruelly dissect for their sick entertainment.  

Your throat felt all too dry, the esophagus was almost trying to strangle you into silence with the way it began to feel parched and scratchy without reasonable cause.  Your chapped lips pursed themselves, another form of your body attempting to quiet you without consent of the owner of said body.

You took a deep breath, although your lungs seemed to have shrivelled up and stubbornly denied any new oxygen.  A choking noise escaped you as you briskly tried to obtain ownership of your missing voice.

“I-I...don’t know where to start.”  

Your voice was bleak and raspy sounding even to you. When the vibration of your own tone pierced your ear drums, you ducked your face even further away from peering gazes. It was the sound of an utterly defeated woman, a broken shell and a foolish imp who is just now suffering her consequences as life finally chose to let the weight of her naive actions crumble her weak frame.  You didn’t deserve any sympathy. Shame dusted your face ruby red, and a hot tear trailed down your pale and fear-stricken face.

“Well, the beginning is always a good place to start any story.”  The father-like man soothed, his voice sounding like thick honey, not too deep or domineering but also thick enough to fill the room with his message.  

You shuddered one last time and gulped down any last fantasies you had of completely running away from this gladiator-like platform into the safety of your humble nest, away from anyone who wouldn’t understand you.  You couldn’t let him win.

“I-I….I have a-always been afraid of the world.”

--

You weren’t sure why you weren’t like most people.  

You didn’t know which one of you guys got it wrong, you or them.  

A case could be made that you were the mentally fucked one that desperately needed treatment to solve this ‘condition’.  After all, what kind of weirdo is so afraid of society that they instantly get panic attacks when forced outside? Surely you had a mental issue, a couple screws loose or a very fucked up past.  

But on the other hand, you were all too willing to side-eye the ‘them’ category with a few questions and judgements in hand.  

Why would anyone want to be so vulnerable in the outside world?  An outside world where people are robbed, beaten, raped and killed daily.  A world that’s so loud and cruel while being the epitome of unforgiving. A world where people only look out for themselves, ready to backstab anyone if it meant that they would get an advantage.  

What kind of sane person would choose that world over the comfort of your own home?  

Your home was your safe-place,  perfectly designed for your needs.  And you never saw any reason to leave it.  

It was heaven to you.  A cloud of maternal comfort that enveloped you like a hug just by being inside it.  Your favorite scented candles would smother your apartment in the pleasurable essence, all the books you were oh-so fond of were waiting for you to retrieve them from their loyal stations on your bookshelf, all of your cherished songs could be heard quitely playing from your record player and your go-to movies and shows were always just a click away.  You indulge yourself in this safe-haven you had created, never wanting to leave it.

Your therapist (who used to make home visits) would say that she was certain you had Agoraphobia; deathly fear of leaving one’s home.  

She went on to tell you that this phobia almost always had a triggering point, no one was just born with such mindset.  

And this is when your past came into play.  

But could anyone blame you?  

Watching one’s sister get ran over by a car when you two were supposed to meet up for lunch, was enough to traumatized anyone.   

But, you digressed.  

You didn’t like talking about your sister, or the hectic driver who couldn’t handle the complex city streets and thus ended up murdering an innocent bystander because he wasn’t paying attention.  

You’d like to think that you have always hated the outside world.  Even from the age of 7, you’d fake sickness to avoid having to go outside with the other kids to play at recess.  Your mother had always told you that you were her little homebody. While other kids wanted to go to parks or have water-gun fights, you begged your mom to just give you some hot-chocolate while you catch up on the lastest Junie B. Jones novel.  

It was your sister who was the free spirited social butterfly.  

She was only two years older, but looking at the two of you together, people always assumed that you were the wisest and mature one, incorrectly pinning you as the older.  

Your sister would make mud-pies and bike race with other kids from the neighborhood.  She would come back from an afternoon in the backyard, skin freshly sun-kissed from her adventures and shove a bug in your face, telling you to say hello to her new ‘pet’.  She would puff out her chest and order you to point out the kid who told you that you were ‘weird’ before marching up to them at the park and yelling at their face, warning them to never come close to her little sister ever again.  She would sneak into your mother’s makeup bag and half-hazardly paint your guys’ faces, telling you that she wouldn’t mind giving you tips on how to get the perfect blush.

Even as you two got older, she continued her fiery ways.  

She was the first girl to not mind boldly showing off her bra-strap during middle-school.  She was the first girl of her grade to makeout with someone, being the initiator. She was the first girl to throw a highschool party in your neighborhood when your mom left for one weekend.  

She was the one to always step out of into society and declare the world as hers.  

You admired her for that, always wondering how she found it within herself to never give a fuck what anyone thought of her.  How is it that she never crumbled even in the most unfortunate situations? Her willpower outweighed any self-doubt, meanwhile you were the direct opposite.  

You have always been a deep-thinker, drowning yourself in ‘what ifs’ and made up scenarios that would likely never happen.  You were very tender-hearted, but also very intelligent. You couldn’t solve the puzzle that was the human behavior, and this is why you sheltered yourself from the selfish and greedy enigma that was civilization, knowing it would only baffle your mind and hurt your heart.  

It wasn’t like you were always a crazy hermit, a sad recluse.  

You were just reserved and quiet, but you still managed to have a job and go out from time to time.

It wasn’t until you saw what the outside world could really do that you made the leap to go with what your gut has been telling you all along and fully disassociate with the public.

Being way out there could only get you like your sister; splattered on second avenue while cars just honk and speed by, too bothered with the afternoon rush to give the tragedy a second glance.  

Thus, you haven’t left your apartment in a grand total of six months.  

You got your groceries delivered, any new clothing or purchases were shipped directly to your door and you had someone take away any garbage for you.  

You had no reason to leave the cozy retreat of your apartment.  

Even the therapist that your mother had forced upon you had to come directly to your apartment in order to talk to you.  

Life was going perfectly fine, until one day you woke up...off.  

You laid face up on your cushiony mattress, eyes simply observing your plain white ceiling as the sound of pattering rain rang from outside.  

It was like a gaping hole was torn into your chest overnight.  

You felt yourself desperate for something...you weren’t quite sure what.  A craving that was clawing from the inside out. You scrunched up your face in confusion at the foreign and indescribable feeling.  Your attempted to find the words to decipher what your emotions were, hoping this would lead to an answer. After some investigation, you identified the feelings of emptiness, hollowness and somehow very forlorn.  

This puzzled you because when you live alone in your own home without any outside forces at play, very little could cause you discomfort.  

It wasn’t until you got up and began making a bowl of cereal while a show played in the background that a conclusion finally dawned upon your anemic and foggy brain.  

You were lonely.

Without any consent or knowledge on your part, you felt your eyes water up as they watched the pixelated screen in your living room, glassy orbs drinking in the playing scene with a look of yearning.  

It was a sitcom; two friends were simply bickering over a stupid debate, but the banter was witty and humorous, causing the outdated laugh track to ensue at the perfect times.  

You...wished you had that.  

You wished you had someone to communicate with.  

Someone to exchange thoughts, ideas or jokes with.  You weren’t the most social person, but you were still human.  And isolation only hurted you in the end.

It was tiring to have the walls as your only friends.  It was pathetic to feel the sheer excitement of reading or watching something so good and wanting to talk to someone about it, only to realize you couldn’t.  It was borderline soul crushing to conclude that you could drop dead in your own home and it would take weeks for someone to recognize your absence of life.

But….you still couldn’t bear leaving your home.  

The harshness of reality was still fresh in your mind’s eye, the corpse of your sister laying in the street while the buzz of city life continued all around you, the only witnesses being the in-sensitive assholes who held up their phones to capture the bat-shit crazy scene before bouncing.  

Part of you was very well aware of how absurd and self-pitying your lifestyle and reasoning was, but you couldn’t help but cling to the warm cocoon that was your home.  In your mind, this was a way of grieving. Many people mourn differently, and this just so happened to be your version of grasping with the death of a loved one. At least it wasn’t as self-destructing as other people’s ways, like drinking too much, spending yourself into debt or relying on drugs.  

You just wanted to be alone, safe and comfortable.

What was so wrong with that?  

However, an outlet for some form of communication was needed.  

This is when you pulled out your laptop, beyond grateful that you lived in the digital age where the internet was good ole’ reliable.  

‘Making friends Online’  you typed into the search bar and waited patiently for the results to load up.   

‘FriendMatch- an online service to help you make friends within your area!’ You cringed at this, not liking the idea of said person being very close to where you lived.  The possibility that they could push to meet you was too troublesome.

‘Why You Should Never Make Friends Online.- Scary true stories.’ Not what you were looking for.

‘Flirt.com- Make friends or possibly more ;)’ Again, not what you were looking for.  Looked like a hookup site disguised as ‘friendly meetups’ to hide the fact it was basically a one-night stand program.  

‘Omegle- Chat to strangers via webcam or chat’

With a sigh at the realization that this was probably the best you were going to get, you clicked on the omegle website.  You knew how it worked, given that in middle school many kids would use it to chat with strangers for fun at their lack-luster sleepovers.  

You waited to get set up with a random stranger, reminding yourself that this was just a temporary procedure to brush up on your rusty social skills.  

Your webcam was turned off, but the incoming stranger had his on.  

It was a middle aged man, sat in a dirty and eggshell tank top on a bed with his hand reaching down and out of camera.  You scoffed to think what this fucker was up to.

‘F or M?’ The man typed with his free hand.  You canceled out of that chat.

The next one was a girl, she was laid on her bed wearing a red lingerie set with her makeup and hair done to perfection.  

“Buy my premium snapchat.”  She purred into the camera, you scoffed and exited out of this chat as well.  

The next stranger also had their webcam off.  

You waited for them to type anything, but the chat was dead silent.  It was obvious that they were waiting for you to make the first move.  You inhaled a deep breath and prepared yourself for the first interaction you were going to have with someone who wasn’t your mom or therapist in half a year.  

‘Hi.’  You lamely began.  

You saw dots appear on the screen.  

Then disappear.  

Then the dreaded ‘the stranger has ended the chat, click here to start a new one!’

You wanted to throw your laptop against the wall.  

You almost forgot how sex-crazed and self-centered people were.  All you wanted was a nice conversation but common decency was not an etiquette for the internet.  

You felt embarrassed that you worked up all this nerve for nothing.  It wasn’t a big deal, and you knew that, but it still was a form of you putting yourself on the line to communicate with the very thing you feared- humans.  Only for your fear to be proved significant once again.

You sighed and exited out of the site, back to the search page.  

You scrolled past the results, pouting at the lack of websites that could fulfil your needs.  It wasn’t until you saw one thing that made you pause your scrolling.

‘Why Getting A Pen Pal Is The Best Thing I’ve Ever Done- Quora ’  

Hesitant but curious, you clicked on it,

‘To be honest after years of being a stay at home mom, I never got used to the emptiness of the house after my sons went to college.  I really wanted someone to talk to, just on friendly basis and a good once-a-week type of deal was good enough for me. I watched a true-crime documentary and that’s when the idea of being a pen-pal really hit me.  There are tons of lonely inmates sitting in a cell block of a prison and with no one from the outside world to talk to. I signed up for the program and it’s been a godsend. Me and my pal (George) really just connected and I try to get him through his week as he tries to help me through mine.  It’s a nice bonding experience and very eye-opening. 100% would recommend to anyone feeling a little lonely. It’s a kind thing to do and everyone could use an extra friend!”

A pen pal.

You first thought that anyone who would write letters to prison must’ve been family or friends with someone who actually was in prison.  Why else would they take time out of their day to send a letter in an age where everything is done electronically?

But the more you thought about it, the more appealing the concept became.  

An inmate was someone whom was completely removed from society, someone who most likely felt as isolated as you.  Someone who knew how harsh and cruel the real world was (hell they were evidence of such statement) and someone who you wouldn’t have to face or run into, unless you gone out of your way to see them.  

It was almost a perfect answer to your problems.  

You quickly looked up a pen-pal program to join.

--

‘Dear Mr. or Miss. Prisoner

How would you feel if I told you that someone knowingly locked themselves up in their own jail cell?  

Because I have.  

I haven’t left my apartment in six months, haven’t talked to anyone in about seven.  I never step foot outside my home, petrified by what the outside world holds for me. I don’t know why I’m so afraid of society, all I know is that when I muster the courage to step out; I break out into hives and a panic attack begins to brew.  Thus, I have locked myself up in my own home. A pathetic recluse terrified by a fear that’s completely made up in my own head. Please, tell me what you think of this.

I can imagine that an inmate forcefully locked up in a cell against their own will would read the above and scoff.  Why would someone who has freedom at their fingertips so readily deny it?

I don’t know….but there is a downfall in my strategy of locking myself away from the rest of the world; I’m so lonely.  So lonely, that I decided to sign up for a pen-pal in prison who is probably wondering why such a mentally unstable person had reached out to them.  I just need some interaction, I’m starved for comradery.

What’s your name?

What’s your favorite food?

Please….anything.  

-Regards, Y/n ‘

--

A week later, the familiar knock at your door signaled the incoming of mail.  

You made your way over to where the envelopes were hastily pushed through the slot on your door.  

Bills, coupons, flyers and…...a letter.

You suddenly got flashbacks to when you put your heart onto a college-ruled paper with sloppy handwriting and a self-pitying passage onto a faceless inmate who without a doubt had better shit to worry about.  

You honestly didn’t expect any response, knowing that it was more about you just writing down what you felt more than it was about getting a response.  You didn’t know what to expect when you would open the letter. Probably a ‘you ungrateful bitch, you have everything I want and you lock yourself up for no reason?!’

Or at least something along those lines.  

But, a buzz of excitement still ran faintly through your veins.  Someone was going to be conversing back with you.

With shaking hands, you carefully opened the envelope.  

‘Dear Y/n,

Well, I would feel rather….accepting.  

I think you must be a very wise person to keep yourself far from the wretched claws of society.  The world is fucked and you would have to be a fool not to know that. When I get out of prison, I’m going to keep myself as far away from the public as possible.  I don’t think you’re pathetic, I think you’re just someone who is too fragile for this crazy hell-hole.

I’m lonely too.  Perhaps we can help each other out in this arena.

To answer your questions;

My favorite food is lamb skewers.  

My favorite color is red.  

And my name is Jungkook.  

Please tell me more about yourself.  What triggered you to hide yourself away from the world?

Is it too much to ask for a picture?  I hope it doesn’t sound creepy but it would be very nice to put a face to my new friend.

~Love, JK’

Your heart leapt.

It was a very short letter, but the contents meant the world to you in that moment.  

He called you his ‘friend’.  

You hadn’t had one of those in years.  

He acknowledge your paranoia, giving it reason and not making you feel like a freak.  For the first time in your life, you felt understood at face value. You didn’t need to defend your lifestyle with him. Instead of trying to convince you that your fear was irrational and to try to get you to get out of your comfort zone, he embraced your reasoning and accepted it without a harsh line of questioning.  

Stunned, you took the letter over to your bed to analyze once more.  

His handwriting was very neat and careful, you wondered if that reflected back into his persona at all, or if he was just someone who naturally had very good penmanship.

He had asked for a picture, and an unfamiliar feeling of anxiety plummeted your stomach.  

What if he thought you were too ugly?  

Or what if he was just some freak who wanted some jerk-off material?

But….you couldn’t deny that you also wanted to see the face of the guy who you would exchange letters with.  You supposed it was natural to want to have a clear image of whom you were communicating with. Afterall, it was kind of intimate the things you shared.  

You smiled and got excited to write another letter.  

But first, you had to find out to make yourself presentable for a photo.  

--

Dear Jungkook,

Words cannot express how thankful I am that you answered my pathetic call for help.  Seriously, it’s been so long since I have talked to anyone so openly and some might say that a random inmate it a bad choice for such companionship but I disagree.  Call me crazy Jungkook, but I think we can understand each other very well. I nearly cried when you called me your friend. I’m afraid I’m not a very interesting person to get to know.  My favorite color is (color), my favorite food is (food), I am (age) and I’m (height) tall. Very bland, I know.

To answer your question on why I hide myself...well it’s a long story.

People tell me that I have a phobia, a disorder of the mind that I should see a shrink for.  To be honest, I think I’m the sanest person I know. I have always had a general fear of all things concerning the public.  It wasn’t until I saw my sister ran over in front of me and how the city just kept moving on as if nothing happened that I realized how little the outside setting cares for me, and how little I shall care for it.  My home is heaven on earth and I see no reason to leave it for the chaos that lies outside.

Here is that picture you asked for, I’m sorry I’m not much of a looker.  But hey, when you hole yourself up for months on end, why feel the need to be prettied up for someone?  I don’t know if this is allowed, but is there a way I can see what you look like? I think it’s only fair.  

Much love, Y/n’

--

‘Dear Y/n,

I thought you were a very smart person but obviously not.

‘Not much of a looker’ ….what a fucking joke.  

You’re by far one of the most breathtaking things I have laid eyes on in a long time (in or out of prison).  It’s a good thing you chose to stay indoors, men are pigs and they wouldn’t hesitate to eat you up the moment they got the chance.  

On a more somber note, I’m very sorry to hear about your sister, Y/n.  The world is a very sinister place and you shouldn’t have to witness such a tragedy in the midst of some city bastards who have their heads too far up their asses to notice anything else.  

Your home sounds lovely, I’m sure it’s a very homey and comfortable place.  I bet you’re the type of person to make any guest feel right at home. I also don’t see why you’d want to leave it.

I understand your pain, Y/n.  It’s almost as if we’re kindred spirits.  When my mom passed away, no one gave a shit.  They all just were just focused on throwing me in jail, labeling me a criminal without knowing my story.  

I do not think your first letter was a ‘pathetic cry for help’.  

I think we were meant to find each other.  

I think that we have a lot in common.  When two people find each other under unconventional circumstances and have such mindsets and tragedies in common...well, that’s has to mean something. Right?  I await your letters now with great anticipation. It’s the highlight of my days.

Here is a picture of me.  

Quite the ladies man, am I right? :)’

--

Dear Jungkook,

…..I guess you’re not the worst face I’ve seen.

Just kidding, you are very handsome.  Surprisingly young looking too. How old are you?  I was half expecting a 40 year old man to be on the receiving end of my letters haha.

Thank you for the compliments, although I’m afraid I’m average looking at best.  My sister was the better looking one between us two.

If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to your mother?  

I understand if you don’t wish to talk about it in greater detail.  When my sister first died I was very annoyed at the people who would pry.  Isn’t it funny how when someone dies everyone suddenly becomes interested? Humans are fucked I swear to god.  My mom had to hold me back at her funeral, some people really came in and had the audacity to make it about themselves.  

As for your stance on us being connected in some way, I have to say the evidence sure is stacked.  When I attempt to explain my fear to people, they all look at me like I’m crazy or try to convince me it’s all in my head.  I think my fear is very rational. I think you were the first person I’ve ever encountered to just accept it and even agree with it to a certain extent.  I’m very happy that you enjoy my letters. I enjoy yours too. You’re the only person I communicate with and you seem like marvelous company. How do you spend your days in prison?  Walk me through a day in our life.

Love, Y/n

P.s Jungkook, you never told me why you’re in prison’

--

My Dearest Y/n,

You can’t deny this face, Y/n.  Many women have tried and failed.  

I’m 21 years old, sorry if a middle aged man was what you wanted.  

And I doubt that your sister was better looking than you.  Darling, you’re kind of my dream girl if I’m being real with you.  Your face is so cute and round, your eyes are very wide and innocent, your nose is so tiny and cute, your hair looks very soft and forgive me but your lips are too pink and soft to be allowed.  I would hang your picture on my wall, but I don’t like thinking that m cell mate could get his rocks off on your image, so I keep it folded neatly under my pillow. I apologise if this is too forward but it’s your right to know just the effect you have on me.  I am a man in prison, afterall. I’m very lucky you stumbled upon the pen-pal program.

As for my mother, well she got very sick with terminal cancer.  She died about a year ago. Around the same time your sister died if my calculations are correct.  Odd how intertwined our tragedies are...

I don’t do much in this barren wasteland.  Get up, get breakfast, shower, outdoors time, then I usually draw or catch up on letters to you, lunch, recreational time, workout then dinner and lights out.  Very boring. How about you? Walk me through your day-to-day.

-love, Jk

P.s. You’re really adorable, you know that right?  It’s nothing too bad, don’t worry. Just robbed some places because I was desperate to get the treatment for my mom.

--

Dear JK,

My day to day is also lifeless, I’m afraid.  

I basically read books all day or watch old movies.  Throw in a couple meals, naps and showers in there and you got a day in the life of Y/n.  

Today, something scary happened though.  My mom showed up to my apartment all drunk and belligerent, hollering that I’m a fuck up that needs to live in the real world and get out.  She even said that she sometimes wished it was me instead of my sister who got ran over.

...I don’t think I’ve ever felt such shame than in the moment.  

I really wanted someone to protect me from her...from what she represented.  She was a symbol for the unstable and wild whirlwind that is what lies outside my door.  I felt violated, my cozy home no longer safe. But, I suppose she was right. I am a disappointed.  Drunk words are sober thoughts.

Jungkook, why am I like this?  

Perhaps you can show me your drawings sometime, I’m sure they’re excellent  I get the sense that you’re an artistic soul.

And I’m very angry on your behalf that the justice system failed you.  I’m sorry that you were just trying to save your mom.

With love, Y/n.

--

My Dearest Y/n,

Your mother is an idiotic drunk who wouldn’t know common sense if it slapped her in the face.  With all disrespect, what does that woman know? How dare she come to your residence and berate you for being the ‘fucked up’ one?  She’s the one who attempted to find a solution to her problems at the bottom of a bottle...how hypocritical.

What are your favorite books and movies?  

I didn’t read or watch much when I was free, I was too busy with my mom.  I still drew a lot though, even as a free man.

Here is a few pieces of my art.  I hope you don’t mind that I used you as the muse.  I think I got your face down pretty well though, didn’t I?  I practiced it so much, I may know it better than the back of my own hand.  

You know….we may want to upgrade our letters into actual phone calls.  Tell me what you think of this idea. Call it weird, but I can picture your voice so delicately in my head when I read your letters.  I bet it’s very sweet sounding, a gently sculpted face has to have an equally dulcet voice.

Love, Jk.

--

My Dearest Y/n,

I’m sure you must’ve gotten busy, why else haven’t you written in a week?  

Or maybe your doing your best to start calling instead of writing.  

Please send back a letter though, as soon as you can,  In this cell, the only thing I have to look forward to is your letters.  

Love, JK.

--

My Dearest Y/n,

Where have you gone?  You haven’t forgotten about me have you?  

I thought you said you were like me, afraid of the world and unwilling to be bare to it.  I thought we were the only ones who understood each other….

Please, stop this silence.  

Love, JK.

--

Y/n,

This isn’t funny anymore.  

I need to know that you’re okay.  

Please, even if it’s a letter cussing me out...I just need to know you’re fine.  I’m locked away and couldn’t do a wellness check if I wanted to.

What happened to my friend?

Love, JK.

--

Dear Jungkook (or should I say Easter Bunny?)

I know what you did.

I know that you lied to me.

I know you’re a murder.

Friends don’t lie to each other, Jungkook.  

I think it’s best if we find different Pen Pals.  

All my best wishes, Y/n.

--

My Dearest Y/n,

I see you found out about the nickname the hideous press gave me.

Well….I think this type of revelation is best talked over in person.  

I’ll see you soon.  

--

I honestly think this chapter is trash and I’m sorry it’s not better.  It’s such a new concept that I honestly have very little experience doing a framework like this.  I wanted it to be focused on the reader bc it’s vital character development for later chapters that will be way more intense.  I hate filler chapters but there will most likely be a 1.5 chapter to help you guys understand wtf just happened.  Please lemme know what you thought of this trash chapter.  

#yandere #yandere bts #jeon jungkook #BTS jungkook #jungkook #yandere jungkook #bts #bangtan boys #kpop #my writing #obsessive #love #prison #pen pal #chinkbihh

[dustedmagazine]

Albert Ayler Trio – 1964 Prophecy Revisited (Ezz-thetics)

Multiple tapes were rolling one June night in 1964 at the Cellar Café in New York City. The auspicious occasion was a concert by saxophonist Albert Ayler’s working trio with bassist Gary Peacock and drummer Sunny Murray. ESP-Disk producer Bernard Stollman got his hands on one set. Murray had possession of another. 1964 Prophecy Revisited seeks to rectify several wrongs resulting from what transpired after.

As an original engine and architect of the music, Murray was incensed. His tapes resulted in a subsequent release, Albert Smiles with Sunny with superior fidelity and a more complete aural picture of the evening's proceedings. The set fell out of print and became a highly prized collector’s item. Enter producer Werner Uehlinger who’s made it a mission of his Ezz-thetics label to reconsider and reissue important free jazz artifacts from the idiom’s heyday. Part and parcel with these projects come the explicit sanctioning of their offing and in this case, Ayler’s daughter did just that.

Cartons of ink and millions of pixels have gone towards describing and contextualizing the music on this disc. What’s sets its newest iteration apart is the sound. Engineer Peter Pfister, who’s been Uehingler’s audio ace for decades, breathes life into Murray-sourced recording heretofore unheard. Peacock gains clarity and presence in the mix, his arco strokes in the opening incantatory “Spirits” scribbling and sawing over the patter of the drummer’s cascading cymbals, snare, and vocalized moans.  

 Ayler, too, is exceptionally served by Pfister’s restorative efforts. The grain and weight of his tenor ululations as he glides divination-like across registers are both bracing and effacing of the sonic obstacles posed by the crucible that was the venue acoustics. The trio burns through the leader’s eucharistic themes, placing repeated emphasis on collective improvisation that’s sometimes uncanny in its communal catharsis. Murray’s gone now passed on in 2017, but it’s heartening to imagine him echoing the title of his earlier release with a broad grin from on high shared with his old friend at the music finally done right.

Derek Taylor

#albert ayler #trio #1964 prophecy revisited #ezz-thetics #free jazz #gary peacock #sunny murray #cellar cafe #dusted magazine #albumreview #derek taylor

[boilingdroid]

A Loud Canvas

Rating: G Pairing: Markus and Connor (vague pining) Summary: Markus invites Connor over to come try out painting. Things are going well, until Connor begins to lose himself in the art, and not in a good way.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18742600

Notes: hi i had this idea a few weeks ago and wouldn't stop thinking about it and if i wanna indulge in content like this i have to do it mySELF. RA9 is a bitch

Adjusting to a new way of life after the revolution isn’t easy for everyone, be they human or android. Everyone came from different walks of life, their choices shaping everything around them and the people who would love or loathe them. Some humans still had their prejudices, some androids had their own traumas to mull over. Either way, Markus had become a hero, a shining new beacon, a bastion of hope for the androids, and the future was bright and promising.

Connor was grateful for his freedom, the entire world looking so different with these new eyes. To be alive, to feel alive -- it was something he accredited fully to Markus for setting him free. The thought of it is still one Connor hasn’t been able to fully process and dissect; Markus, held at gunpoint, still made an effort to reach out to him. Markus, after witnessing the destruction of Jericho, a massacre brought on by Connor, still saw a hope in him, still trusted him, still welcomed him. Even after Amanda had nearly seized control of Connor’s program and killed Markus before hundreds of freed androids, Markus held no resentment, no fear, no worry.

Had the roles been reversed, Connor would not have hesitated to kill.

He shoves these thoughts down, focusing back on the present as he took a few breaths to cool his systems. It had been several months since all of it had happened, and he stood now beside Markus as he always has since then, returning a favor. Guarding him. Watching for him. Like a loyal guard dog. Markus seems to catch the look on his face, and he puts a comforting hand on Connor’s shoulder, smiling gently.

“You don’t have to be tense all the time, you know,” Markus says, his eyes glancing briefly at the LED at Connor’s temple. “It’s safe here.”

Connor looked around the home. Expensive, frivolous, full of so much art and books -- seeing Manfred’s home in person at last made him understand Markus so much more. But still, he remembered hearing that this was where Markus died, and he wondered how he could be so calm leading Connor to the studio when he himself could barely even look down a skyscraper after his own death. It keeps him on edge.

The doors slide open, and there are canvases filled everywhere, most unfinished, others full of so much color. Markus watches Connor carefully, smiling a little to himself as Connor’s LED shifts to a curious yellow, scanning each piece. Connor broke down each stroke, identifying which were Manfred’s art style, and the others with the flourish only Markus knew how to create. His HUD lights up, picking out every detail by the millisecond; the magazines left behind, the age of some of the canvases, dust left on some of the countertops, dried oils and acrylics. His stress rises, however, when he manages to catch just the faintest trace of thirium left in the pavement. He could tell someone made an effort to scrub it clean. A human eye wouldn’t be able to detect it, and he wagers, neither would Markus anyways; his model is far more advanced than Markus’, able to pick up the scene and deconstruct it with ease. A blessing, when on missions, but right now, only a curse.

Markus had turned his back just before seeing Connor pick up on the scene, oblivious to the detective work. He hums a song quietly as he reaches for a blank canvas, propping it on the easel and setting up a palette of paints. Connor eventually rejoins him, head tilting slightly as he watches Markus mix the colors.

“Ever since Carl taught me to paint, it’s been something I haven’t been able to stop,” Markus says as he approaches, already beginning to fill in the white spaces of the canvas. “Didn’t get to make much when I led Jericho, but now I paint whenever I get the chance. It’s… calming.”

He can’t help but be a little amused at how Connor paid so much attention to each stroke, his LED at a stable yellow as he processes it. Markus is able to create art much faster than a human -- the perks of being an android -- but the speed never took away from the artwork itself. It wasn’t long until the near surreal piece was done. A full moon overhead a sea, except it appeared to be bleeding thirium blood, and the sea appeared as though it were being held by a pair of android hands.

Markus steps back to look over the piece, turning to Connor expectantly. Connor seemed fully invested in the artwork, his gaze lingering on it for a while until the LED finally spun blue.

Markus smirks. “What do you think?”

Connor gave it another glance before meeting Markus’ eyes. “There’s a part of me tempted to comment on how the moon can’t bleed,” He says, humor in his voice. “But it’s intriguing. Very much so.”

Connor had silently stored the memory of this painting into his long-term storage. He would think on this later.

An amused huff is all Markus responds with, and he moves to replace the canvas, setting his painting to dry to the side. Then, with a bit of a flourish, he hands the palette of paint to Connor. The action was unexpected, and it stumps him for a moment, simply staring at the brush and paint as its offered to him.

“Hey, come on now,” Markus teases, holding it closer to Connor until he took it. “Aren’t you a bit curious what you can make? I know I am.”

Holding the palette and brush felt so… foreign to Connor. Seeing Markus work with it was far different than this, and he finds himself shaking his head, trying to give it back.

“This is more your thing, Markus,” Connor says, internally questioning why his thirium pump seemed to have kicked a notch. “I was designed with forensics and investigative work in mind, my software specifically intended for police and --”

“Right, and I’m a domestic android who led a revolution,” Markus teases, poking at Connor’s shoulder. “You’re not bound by your creators anymore, Connor.”

Connor nods slowly, holding up the brush the same way he had seen Markus do so. Markus steps aside so he could stand before the canvas, processing. He samples the data of the times he had watched Markus create art, trying to figure out where he would begin. None of Markus’ paintings made entire sense to him, let alone the thirium moon he had just witnessed, and Connor found it rather silly that he would stand here before this inanimate, blank canvas, and feel intimidated by it.

Markus’ gentle voice fills the silence. “I was daunted by the idea of painting too when I first started,” He reminisces, garnering Connor’s full attention. “Don’t think too hard about it. It’s about… your emotion, paint what you feel.” He stood close to Connor, and damn him, Connor’s thirium pump continues to betray him. Markus sweeps his hand out towards the canvas, as if painting with just his gesture. “Interpret the world, improve on it, show what you see.”

Connor nods at this, looking between his blue and green eyes. Markus only offers a reassuring smile, and he has to turn away else another biocomponent of his starts complaining at the sight of it. “Alright,” Connor says, dipping the brush in black paint with three taps, just as Markus usually did. “... Walk me through this?”

Markus recalls Carl’s words to him, taking an unneeded breath as he watches Connor mimic him. It was funny in a way; Connor taking up this role while Markus tries to repeat the words Carl had given. It was like singing a song off key.

“Close your eyes for me,” Markus says, watching Connor’s flutter shut. There’s a bit of excitement he finds, anticipating what he might witness, but he keeps it tampered down. “Imagine… something that doesn’t exist, or something you’ve never seen. Concentrate on how it makes you feel and just… let your hand drift across the canvas.”

Connor remains silent, standing stiff in that odd, prim way he always held himself. There’s a long moment of hesitation before Connor lets the brush make contact, sweeping strokes filling the canvas with black streaks. Several times he opens his eyes to see where he’s going, nose twitching ever so slightly when the paint gave out on him and he needed to refresh it. It takes him a while to get accustomed to this, but luckily, androids don’t get tired, and Markus is more than happy to stand there the entire duration as Connor figures it out.

The first paintings start off relatively abstract. Blacks, greys, blues and reds are streaked across with no general guidance or direction aside than to just be on the canvas. A few strokes that were intended to be straight come out horrendously wobbly, much to Connor’s dismay. He starts over several times, repainting the canvas back to black, each attempt beginning to take more form and shape as he paints. He was learning and improving right before Markus’ eyes, and it was fascinating to watch. Markus wonders if this was what it was like for Carl when he watched him paint for the first time.

One hour, and twelve minutes pass since Connor began, and Markus can finally see a solid picture beginning to form. He still stuck with the same four colors, but now, they were working for him, values becoming present as Connor tapped into something within him. Grey streaks -- buildings, skyscrapers, he realizes, frames the canvas, the eye drawn to the bright rooftop at the bottom center, as if watching the scene from a bird’s eye view. Markus’ brows furrow as he watches the art begin to take form and shape, what he assumes to be a pixelated helicopter coming to life at the top, shining a light down on a figure at the rooftop while flares and strokes of red and blue pitter and patter in muffled tones around the scene. Connor’s controlled brushstrokes slowly become harsher, more energized than before, detailing a figure on the rooftop. Markus moves closer to peer at it, painted pixels forming the RK800 standing at the edge of the roof, and suddenly, Markus is filled with a wave of unease.

Paint is flicked here and there as the brush strokes become more fervent, the art coming together quicker than he was managing before. Armed soldiers all stood facing the painted Connor as he too faced them, despair in his features, red LED glowing to a broken halo that leaked and bled to the ground. Lights shone down on him, guns pointed towards him -- he holds himself hostage, his own pistol aimed at his head. Horrifically beautiful, an art piece that he knows that, if it were to be displayed at a gallery, would have the rich humans cooing and speaking over it with their wines.

But it didn’t feel right. From where Markus stood, he could see the angular features of Connor’s face were pulled taut in stress, eyes were fully shut, and as Markus circles Connor so he stood to his right, and he catches sight of the LED at his temple glowing an alarming shade of red, pulsing with every stroke he made. Every stroke, angry, shaky, losing the control and restraint he had seen earlier.

“Connor?” He calls to him. Connor doesn’t seem to acknowledge him in the slightest, and he doesn’t react when Markus puts a hand to his shoulder. Markus didn’t need to interface with him to notice that his stress levels were rising by the second, and he gives a gentle shake. “Connor, hey, you don’t need to keep going.”

He still doesn’t stop. Whatever it was he was trying to say with this needed to be out. He was caught in a trance, still moving and swaying a beat that wasn’t his own. His teeth grit, the red paint he was adding to the color near the rendition of himself suddenly spikes out, a streak of the red cutting through the skyscrapers and smearing against the greys and blacks. His cheeks were slick with tears, and as if he were possessed, his strokes change entirely. He wasn’t painting anymore, no -- this was a font. He was writing, ruining the canvas, red text over the skyscrapers and the lights. ‘RA9’, on repeat, again, again, again--

“Connor!”

Markus took hold of Connor’s face in his hands, and his eyes fly open, taking gasping for air to cool down systems he hadn’t realized were overheating. The palette drops from his hand, and he grasps Markus instinctively, grounding himself without thinking. Strings of errors clog up his system, and he takes several slow breaths before everything returned back to normal, focusing again on what was in front of him.

And oh god, Markus was right in his face.

“There you are,” Markus says, relief clear in that gentle voice of his, hands still cupping Connor’s cheeks. “Are you alright? I… I didn’t mean for this to stress you.”

Connor is keenly aware of how Markus brushes away the tears that had run down his cheeks, and he can’t stop questioning why it happened. There was no outward trigger, no real danger, and yet his entire system was poised for combat, defensive maneuvers online and ready to act, and yet he felt so unstable in the midst of it. There was something grounding about Markus being there, however, though the closeness was not something he was accustomed to. At the very least, his stress levels were beginning to reel back enough for stability.

“I.. I don’t know why I did that…” Connor says, looking back to his canvas. RA9. He recalls his previous investigations on the deviants, and how they had all frantically wrote this script on the walls, or anywhere they could get a pen to. He can feel the scripts that ran in the background and the anomalies that became present upon deviancy repeat, a sensation that would come close to that of a headache. The code continues to echo in his head, and he’s very careful to set down the paintbrush he still held so that he didn’t end up writing it again. “I… wasted your paints. I’m sorry.”

“No no, it’s fine,” Markus reassures, backing away to give Connor some space. He stoops down to fetch the palette that fell, looking back to the painting with worry. He was relieved Connor responded at all -- he’d seen other androids in Jericho reach a state similar to what he just witnessed, and it never failed to frighten him. Connor still stared at his canvas, his LED still red and cheeks still wet.

It was so strange, he thought, to see Connor this way. Connor, who always kept himself so eerily calm, prim and proper, who never let anyone see or think they had the upper hand. Connor, who carried himself with power, who could track down and hunt enemies with ease, who knew how to preconstruct skirmishes and fights and predict an outcome that he would come victorious. Connor, who had proven he would take a bullet or twelve for anyone he cared for. Connor, who now stood in his home, looking uncharacteristically lost and confused, with an art piece that said so much yet so little about who he was. Markus didn’t know how to process it.

Connor seems to pick up on this, and he holds his head up, carrying himself as if nothing had happened at all. Only his LED betrays him. “One of my earliest memories,” He says, gesturing to the canvas. “Philips apartment, 70th story, August 15, 2038. A PL600 took a little girl hostage -- CyberLife deployed me to tackle the situation. As one of my first missions, I have a tendency to revisit the memory… deconstruct it and rerun the numbers and success probabilities.”

Connor blinks several times, a defect of his as a result of being a prototype. He gestures to the art vaguely, and though Markus still hadn’t quite figured out how to read Connor entirely, he could tell that there was something heavy weighing in on him. He listens intently as he continues.

“Ever since my deviancy, I’ve thought again about that android. Daniel. I wondered if I would have done the same. What would have become of me had I been in his stead.” Connor says aloud. He runs a thumb over the still wet paint, staring down at the red that smeared on his synthetic skin. The algorithm rings in his head again, and he backs away, resisting the urge to frantically write again. “Art… is…. interesting.”

Connor looks up at Markus, doe-eyes searching him curiously. His LED was now settling back to a yellow with glimpses of blue, and he had the need to fidget and rid himself of the excess energy he had produced. Markus reaches out, hesitating only for a moment as he ponders his actions, and simply rests a hand on his shoulder. The touch is welcomed, and for a moment they just look to the painting silently.

“I understand if you don’t want to do this again,” Markus says at last, breaking the silence. “If I had known it would upset you like this, I wouldn’t have --”

“Actually,” Connor interrupts, looking to Markus and realizing that there was paint left on him. He tries to wipe it off his shirt with a finger. “As… strange as this was, I don’t think I despised it. If anything, I feel like it… helped me.”

Markus blinks a few times, but cracks a small smile. “Humans do find art to be therapeutic in a sense.”

Connor shrugs a shoulder. “Maybe it could do without the red paint everywhere. Perhaps I should have made a bleeding sun to compliment yours.”

They both chuckle lightly at that, and Connor is quick to take hold of the canvas he ruined and sets it aside, hoping not to look at it any further. There was something to this art, he supposes, and he had a newfound respect for it. He gave the studio another scan, now looking to the artwork with a different appreciation. The abstract faces, the bleeding moon, the flowers and rivers, the portraits of neon colors -- he wouldn’t be opposed to learning more about it.

“Well, you know,” Markus says, facing him fully. “You’ll always have another chance.”

That damn smile.

#okay i wrote something #DBH Markus #DBH Connor #detroit: become human #detroit become human #rk1k #rk1000 #ish #connor dbh #markus dbh #dbh fanfic #d:bh #ra9 #Detroit: BH

[kurumayu]

Anime gif tutorial

Disclaimer: This is what I do, it might not be the best way to do it but this is just my way of doing gifs, so if you have any tips on how to make this process easier feel free to comment

This will probably be kind of long(?) because I’ll try my best to be as descriptive as possible. Also keep in mind English is not my first language so there’s definitely gonna be some grammar errors (also it was like 2am when I made this) but I’ll try my best to keep it as comprehensible as possible. 

Programs that I will be using:

Photoshop CC2017 

Handbrake

VLC Media Player 

Step 1: You’re obviously gonna need a video to gif. I recommend to use good quality videos for cleaner gifs (1080p, and if you can find BD versions even better). Open your video in any player that has a timer for you to see (VLC is a good option, MKV is fine too). Also open Handbrake on the side, with the video file in it.

Handbrake opens with those default settings so you’ll have to change them

From Chapters to Seconds

From FPS 30 to Same as source (it’s at the top)

From Quality 22 to Placebo

Step 2: Now that the basic stuff is done, you’ll need to choose a scene (me, stating the obvious lol) what I do is, after knowing when the scene i want to gif starts and ends I add 1 sec before and 1 sec after on Handbrake (i.e if the scene is from 3:05 to 3:12 I will put 3:04 and 3:13 on Handbrake) so i can have the whole scene and a little more just in case. 

Step 3: Then you just save it (clicking on Start Encode) 

If you have more than one scene you want to save click on “Add to Queue” and after you have all the scenes of the video you want to gif then click on “Start Encode”,

Try not to save a really big scene in just one file because PS has a 500 frame limit.

Now we go to Photoshop

Step 4: Open the video (scene) you just saved. For that you’ll need to go to:

File > Import > Video frames to layers

Once you click on that, this window should appear:

Step 5: After you click OK comes the good part, making the actual gif. PS should look like this: 

I  like to put all the layers in one group

I saved like 2 seconds extra first of all I need to delete the extra frames that aren’t part of the scene I want to gif (I know it’s tedious but I prefer that to lose part of the scene by accident).

To delete frames from the Timeline just click the trashcan on the bottom.

Since the gif is in 1080p, the canvas is gonna look BIG but don’t worry about it for now.

Now we delete the frames that are the same (most of the time with the placebo quality it’s every 2 frames or if it’s a fast scene every 1 frame, but there are some scenes where all frames are different, it depends on the animation)

The scene I choose here is a little complicated(?) because the speed of the hair is different than the speed of the clouds in the eye. I decided to go with the speed of the hair:

The selected ones are the ones that I’m gonna delete because they are repeated.

Step 6: You can see the number 0.04 under the frames, that’s the speed of the gif. 

If we leave it with all the frames and that speed it should look fine but the size of the file might be too much for tumblr (size limit is 3MB wich stresses a lot of us gifmakers lol) that’s why we delete frames, to reduce the size.

Now we change the speed, for that we select all the frames (select 1 frame + shift + left click last frame) then, with all the frames selected, left click on the bottom part of the frames (the one with the numbers and arrow)

This should appear, then click on “other...” :

This little window should appear, change the set delay to your desire and scene speed:

Set delay kept at:

0.04: lol this looks funny

0.07: 

0.1: 

Step 7: Our file should be BIG, to fix that there are different ways but what I do is go to: Image > Image Size

And set the Width to 540 pixels. It’s important to keep the little chain because it will maintain the aspect ratio ( otherwise it will look stretched and weird) 

Step 8: After we’ve done all this we click on the bottom left button of the timeline to change from frames to timeline (this is so we can sharpen and color our gif)

It should look like this now:

Step 9: This step is the sharpening step. For this we go to Filter > Convert for smart filters

After you clicked on that, the rest of the filters should be available again. Now we click on Blur > Surface blur

This little window should pop up, I usually go for Radius: 4 and Threshold: 3 or Radius 3 and Threshold: 2. This is so the image can look smoother and not grainy.

Then we apply our sharpen settings (there are a lot of ways to do this and a lot of other tutorials so I’m not gonna put my settings here because I usually just play with them until it looks okay). Here is a sharpening tutorial in case you want to know more.

Step 10: We apply our coloring/adjustments. This depends on the scene (if you want to know how I color my gifs let me know too)

Step 11: We are almost done! We just need to save. So for that you need to click on File > Export > Save for Web (or just click ctrl + alt + shift + S)

Something like this should appear:

There are a lot of combinations for you to save your gifs, you just need to play a little and see wich one looks better. It depends on the scene, sometimes adaptive + pattern looks good and other times selective + pattern or adaptive + diffusion, you’ll just have to try and see wich combination works best.

Personally I like to use pattern rather than diffusion, especially for gradients (like the ones in the eyes I’m using as an example)

I recommend not to use “No dither” because it will create segments(?) and it won’t look good especially if the scene you are giffing has some kind of gradient, like this:

With Pattern and Selective:

With Pattern and Adaptive: (there’s not much difference, but the eyes look “cleaner” with selective)

Depending on what dither algorithm or color reduction (aka patter or noise or diffusion and perceptual or selective or adaptive) the color table will change.

Here is a better explained tutorial about save for web

Important!

DON’T GO OVER 3MB or your gif won’t play

Never forget to loop your gif to “Forever”

Finished Gif:

Other gif tutorials that are very helpful:

gif tutorial: how to make a gif by @anue 

how to make a gif by @kaijohs

GIF Tutorial/Timeline Only/Mac /PC by @pururin

#itsphotoshop #yeahps #chaoticresources #photoshop tutorial #gif tutorial #tutorial #.tutorial #mine #this was kind of long #it's 2:30 am and i started at almost 12am so... #i think i should go to sleep #also the tutorials i put at the end are tutorials i learned from too #they are really well explained #hope this can be of help #and if there's any questions feel free to ask #this took me so long to post #thanks to the hoes for the proof reading #ily~

[thatasterisk]

Feel Free by Nick Laird

To deal with all the sensational loss I like to interface with Earth. I like to do this in a number of ways. I like to feel the work I am exerting being changed,

the weight of my person refigured, and I like to hang above the ground, thus; hammocks, snorkeling, alcohol. I also like the mind to feel a kind of neutral buoyancy

and to that end I set aside a day a week, Shabbat, to not act. Having ceded independence to the sunset I will not be shaving, illuminating rooms, or raising

the temperature of food. If occasionally I like to feel the leavening of being near a much larger unnatural tension, I walk off a Sunday through the high fields

of blanket bog, saxifrage, a few thin Belted Galloways, rounding Lough Mallon to stand by the form of beauty upheld in a scrubby acre at Creggandevsky, where I do

duck and enter under a capstone mapped by rival empires of yellow feather-moss and powdery white lichen. I like then to stop, crouched, and press my back on a housing

of actual rock, coldness which lives for a while on the skin. And I like when I give you the nightfeed, Harvey, how you’re really concentrating on it: fists clenched, eyes shut, like this is bliss.

II

I like a steady disruption. I like it when the solid mantle turns to shingle and water rushes up it over and over, in love. My white-noise machine from Argos is set to Crashing Wave

but I’m not averse to the presence of numerous and minute quanta moving very fast in unison; occasions when a light wind undulates the ears of wheat, or a hessian sack of pearl-

barley seed is sliced with a pocket knife and pours. I like the way it sounds pattering on stone. I like how the starlings over Monti cohere and separate their bodies into one cyclonic

symphony, and I like that the hawk of the mind catches at their purse, pulse, caul, arc. I like the excitation passing as a shadow-ripple back and how the bag is snatched, rolls

slack; straight, falciform; mouthing; bulbing; a pumping heart. I like to interface with millions of colored pixels depicting attractive people procreating on a screen itself

dependent on rare metals mined by mud-gray children who trudge up bamboo scaffolding above a grayish-red lake of belching mud. I like how the furnace burning earth instills

in me reflexive gestures of timidity and self-pity and deference as I walk along the kinder surfaces, grass, say, or sand, unable ever to meet with my eyes the gaze of the sun.

III

I can imagine that my first and fifth marriages will be to the same human, a woman, the first marriage working well enough that we decide to try again as soon as it’s,

you know, mutually convenient. I can see that. I like the fact that we’re “supercooled star matter,” even if I can’t envisage you as anything other than warm and bleating. The thing is

I can be persuaded fairly easily to initiate immune responses by the fake safety signals of national anthems, cleavage, family photographs, country lanes, large-eyed mammals, fireworks,

the King James Bible, Nina Simone singing “The Twelfth of Never,” cave paintings, coffins, dolphins, dolmens. But I like it also when the fat impasto of the canvas gets slashed by a tourist

with a claw hammer, and a glimpse is caught of what you couldn’t say. Entanglement I like, spooky action at a distance analogizing some little thing including this long glance across the escalators

or how you know the song before you switch the station on. When a photon of light meets a half-silvered mirror and splits one meets the superposition of two, being twinned: and this repeats.

Tickling your back, Katherine, to get you to sleep, I like to lie here with my eyes closed and think of my schoolfriends’ houses, before choosing one to walk through slowly, room by sunlit room.

#literature #lit #poetry #nick laird #feel free

[dioderent]

I posted 1,531 times in 2021

99 posts created (6%)

1432 posts reblogged (94%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 14.5 posts.

I added 352 tags in 2021

#saving for later to download on my phone - 87 posts

#reblog - 85 posts

#saving for later - 48 posts

#other's art - 44 posts

#ace attorney - 17 posts

#please donate - 16 posts

#o.o - 15 posts

#please boost - 14 posts

#picrew shoutout - 13 posts

#picrew - 13 posts

Longest Tag: 124 characters

#ik ive reblogged this before (or at least i think i have) but its going to the same bpm as the music im listening to rn lol)

My Top Posts in 2021

#5

Mike Meekins looks like a Lupin III character.

21 notes • Posted 2021-05-24 18:29:51 GMT

#4

here's a jotaro pitter patter pop edit I did for a reaction image type thing

Free to use without credit, just don't take credit of it yourself

this took way too long to make

edit: just checked on PC and i messed up some of the pixels DANGIT

edit 2: 2nd try

+ the 2 source images

24 notes • Posted 2021-07-23 01:23:44 GMT

#3

hey guys I got some questions cuz I'm confused

I've heard stuff about things like plurality, something that has to do with DID? Idk really, I just wanted to ask the meaning of some terms. /gen /pos

1. what are systems in general? do they always have something to do with DID?

2. what are endo systems? or any type of system for that matter

3. what are tulpas? I've heard about them but don't know what they are

sorry if any of these questions sounded offensive, I'm just curious /gen

31 notes • Posted 2021-07-12 00:22:59 GMT

#2

fun trivia I saw while browsing the jojo wiki for pitter patter pop info

^ the letter itself

^ english translation I found on the page

(NOTE: this is not on the fandom wiki version, you gotta go to jojowiki.com to find this in the trivia section of Straizo's page

edit: click for better quality, I didn't realize how small it is before zooming in

33 notes • Posted 2021-08-12 13:48:28 GMT

#1

(just got a photo editing app yahoo)

This frozen yogurt I got from Sweet Frog is going to superhell for gay crimes!!!

@yourfaveisgoingtosuperhell

86 notes • Posted 2021-06-27 23:31:58 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

#my 2021 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #cool stuff

[ilovjeon]

push your buttons | chapter one.

pairing: taehyung & jeongguk

genre: fluff, enemies to lovers n professional gaming (◕‿◕✿) (and smut!)

word count: 4.6k

summary: kim taehyung's life had become a routine:

1. get home from a long-winded day of something that he did not care about 2. make the journey to his bedroom - where he will stay for the rest of the night. 3. reach into his stack of ramen cups and collapse onto his stained apeach beanbag. 4. play video games.

and that was about it, until he met jeon jeongguk and a rivalry had begun.

Rain becomes beads on Taehyung’s window, the panes being painted by the light of his monitor and the cling of droplets. It was the pitter patter that almost seemed like an alternative soundtrack to a scene in a rom-com; the best girl laid out on her sheets, rain falling against her rooftop and some sad Joy Division playing on some old-timey record player to appease the mature audience. But all ambience was lost to the sound of gunfire and Taehyung’s jeers as he beat at his controller, screaming obscenities into his earpiece.

“Headshot, motherfuckers!”

A groan from the other end, “I have spawned in the same place eight times at this point and you are always there! I swear the game developers are your fans.”

Taehyung switched to an LMG, unloading bullets upon the pixelated characters that ran at him. “You’d think they would sponsor me if they were.” Taehyung’s legs twitched with every movement upon the screen, Seokjin beating his own fast fingers, shooting him down, “Oh, come on!”

“I really don’t mean to offend you, Tae,” Seokjin laughed as if he knew Taehyung was aware of what he was about to say - hint: he was. “I don’t think people would be influenced by a man that goes by xX_Dark-angel-Tae.tae_Xx, you know?”

Taehyung found himself on top of the ferris wheel, switching over to his - fully upgraded, may he add! - favourite sniper. Eyeing Seokjin through the scope, he replied blandly, “Ha. Never heard that one before.”

“I’m just saying, if you want to be taken seriously, think about changing that one.”

Aim, Taehyung squinted as if he were the one holding his weapon. Lining it up and fire! Seokjin whined as a bold, red title became a banner across his screen: dead. “It’s my branding now. No going back.” Taehyung jolted as an enemy had stealthily snuck behind him, his leg knocking the ramen cartons against his stained carpet. “I’m a verified dark angel now.”

“Beam me up then, please.”

“Jin,” Taehyung said, matter-of-factly, absentmindedly pushing the brim of his glasses up his nose, “That’s aliens, not angels.” Continuing, “And technically dark angels are from below so the correct term would be ‘drag me down’.”

Seokjin broke into song and then followed up with a cry as he was, unsurprisingly, shot by Taehyung. “Don’t let this get to your head, this is a once and a lifetime compliment by yours truly, but you’re pretty good.”

Taehyung let it get to his head, “And you’re pretty bad.”

“How about you go fuck yourself, Taehyung? Does that sound good?” Seokjin’s breath was fluctuating as if he had just ran a marathon and wasn’t sitting down playing a video game.

“Whoa, Seokjin. The aggression is up here,” Although Seokjin couldn’t see, Taehyung gestured high above him. “And we will need to bring it down here.”

“Sorry, Mr. Kim.”

Taehyung smiled, “That’s okay, Mr. Kim.”

“Don’t you have school tomorrow?” Seokjin mumbled through the crunch of Cheetos. “Looks to be just about your bedtime.”

Taehyung’s eyes turned to his alarm clock, flashing red numbers were yelling at him, saying it was 4:32 in the morning. “I can go another 30 minutes.”

“Do I have to daddy up here, Kim Taehyung?” Seokjin’s voice loudened, taking on that of an uncle. “Get your ass to bed, you stud.”

“On it, chief,” A lilt of his voice in question. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, we will film for my stream next.”

Taehyung grunted in response, checking in at his save point and shutting down his console. A smile into the camera, and then a click of a button and he was now in his own reality. No alternates. No animated characters. No hero ending.

He was Kim Taehyung instead of xX_Dark-angel-Tae.tae_Xx; and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.

Sometimes it was hard disassociating one from the other.

And with that thought, Taehyung fell asleep dreaming of some place far away from Daegu.

If it weren’t for the fact that Taehyung’s mother had picked up the mass of ramen cartons from the night before, Taehyung would have been able to eat the remains for breakfast that morning from the warm confines of his bed.

10 minutes until school, he could make his cereal in 2. He could wash his face with the soap he had bought for a dollar that smelt of musk and wood - Taehyung had the lavender in his hand but couldn’t brave the cashier, damn gender normalities! - in 1. He could slip into his shirt that was plagued with wrinkles and fumble into his pants in 3 minutes - and, oh God, is that another stain? 6 minutes in total and he hadn’t even calculated the bus trip.

But Kim Taehyung’s teachers would have already marked him as present and wouldn’t even read his name aloud because Kim Taehyung was predictable and a millennial in the digital world.

It was expected of him to be late at this point in the semester.

Pounding feet down stairs and a backpack loose on his shoulder, “I’m leaving now, see you tonight.”

“Do you need money for the bus?” His mother called.

Taehyung fiddled with the glasses at the brim of his nose, rubbing at the glass with a balled fist of fabric. “No, but could you please answer some of my emails while I’m gone? I read one this morning from T.I Corp and couldn’t understand a word.”

“Of course, love you.”

“Love you, too.”

And Taehyung was gone and, holy shit, the bus stop is 2 blocks away and the hum of an engine behind him signalled that if he didn’t run, it would be leaving without him.

Skipping third period had become a tradition and to go to class instead of the computer hall would be sacrilege. They were nerds but do you still constitute as a nerd if you skip class? Ironic.

Taehyung’s group of friends had first bonded over the fact that almost all of them came from independent junior schools, coming to their now high school as friendless and severely uncool in their bright coloured socks and graphic tees that would have been cool in 2009. They needed someone to sit with at lunchtime and so they came together as 5 kids that didn’t do much in their leisure time.

“I swear to God, if I get paired with Seungkwan again for physics I will lose my mind. He can see I have headphones in and he still tries to start a conversation.” Yoongi was a prodigy; he seemed to teach instruments how to play music in a weird reverse roleplay and, even though he never seemed to show up to class, he maintained his A’s.

Jimin beat against the mouse, the blocks becoming puzzle pieces, fitting into each other. “He’s nice. I’m with him in calculus, he said he would tutor me for free.” The neutraliser of the group; he had always been kind. People seemed to flock to him, drawn.

“That’s because he wants to fuck you underneath the bleachers,” Namjoon said knowingly. He was the last to join, Taehyung bringing him beneath his wing when Namjoon had begun to slip him his homework to copy. Taehyung hadn’t gotten below an A since.

Hoseok slapped at Namjoon’s shoulder and jeered from his relaxed state in his chair, an energy drink in his other hand. “Sounds like somebody in this room, no?”

“She needed help on her assignment, I couldn’t say no.”

Hoseok, “Was the assignment about finding her clit in the dark?”

A giggle from Namjoon, “Yeah, it was an easy A.”

Taehyung’s eyes have begun to fade, his reading glasses aiding him to no effect. The screen had become too bright and too crass on his fading vision and maybe he shouldn’t have played until 4 in the morning the night before his fourth period geography test. “Summer break soon, right?”

“Next week, thank you God!” Hoseok punched the air.

“God didn’t invent summer break,” Yoongi added.

“I don’t care who invented summer break, I just know that the parentals will be out of town which, you guessed it folks,” A dramatic wave of his hand, “A renowned Jung house party.”

A rosy blush had cast itself across Jimin’s cheeks and Namjoon pinched at them, “Did that trigger a memory, Park?”

Stuttering, “N-No, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Taehyung, with eyes still focused on Tetris and and the electronic backing track, “We know you had sex with Chanwoo on the 8th, we saw you.”

“Saw me?” Jimin began spluttering, “How could you have seen me?”

Yoongi, his voice a little too loud, competing with the music being carried through his headphones, “You were on the balcony, you voyeurist.”

Jimin’s hand became numb and he had already lost his game against the CP he was battling. “Fuck you guys.” And in urgent need of a subject change, Jimin beckoned Taehyung for help. “So, Tae, your competition is on Sunday, right?”

Taehyung could see Jimin in the screen’s reflection and his wide eyes demanded an answer before his friend’s began to continue their anecdote about his sex life. “Yeah. It’s not really a competition - it’s a convention. Moongold Studio’s asked me to be a player in a match against another influencer.”

“Do you know who yet?” Hoseok says after he takes a swig of his energy drink, as if he needed any more.

“Nope,” Taehyung said, defeated after his blocks ominously began to pile, the music fastening as they began to reach the top. “I told them that Seokjin is a good live entertainer, but they thought he wasn’t eliteenough.”

Namjoon, “You fucking nerd. You’re classed as an elite gamer.”

“I’m also elite in fucking your mom.”

“You know what,” Yoongi said, taking one headphone out of his ear. “I’d rather sit with Seungkwan in physics than listen to your shit banter.”

And, just like Cady Heron has insightfully recited in Mean Girls , Taehyung would never know what happened in third period Film Studies on a Thursday. He would only know that these 5 boys were the only friends he ever needed.

The convention was the nerd-fest that onlookers would have expected; the streets were stormed by men and women alike dressed as their favourite characters from any of a variety of Moongold Studio’s games and Taehyung felt excluded in his average every-man wear.

It had been set up by the founder and co-founder of the company and it seemed as though they made an effort with their location, the hall being surrounded by worker bees sitting in their cold office penthouse in the inner city and cafes and other consumerist establishments that look out their window in question. Taehyung imagined that young suited men sipped on their black coffee while eyeing him from across the street.

So, Taehyung pushed his glasses further up his nose and walked with purpose.

A hand pushed Taehyung’s chest, “You’re here for the convention?” The word ‘SECURITY’ had been written in neon yellow upon the man’s black vest, as if the badge wasn’t enough. His hairline had already receded into his scalp and the hairs that remained were coloured blonde – midlife crisis?

Taehyung raised his lanyard, “Special guest.”

The guard laughed because he could. “Special guest – I see.”

Taehyung felt his cheeks become the shade of the woman’s hair that was behind him in line. It was a vivid red and it matched the rouge that was swiped on her cheek. “I’m glad you can see, sir. We should all count our blessings; take care of your health!”

And he pushed past him and let the lobbyist open the door for him because he was an influencer, a special guest. People open doors for you when you have status. Taehyung thought about the men and women he had opened doors for just a few hours ago and the concept of power play in our society – but to keep from having an existential crisis among masses of thousands of people, he decided to let the latter become a repressed memory.

It would be easy to get lost among the crowd; each stall was set up fashionably on the perimeter of the hall, which caused a frenzy of perspired arms and clammy flesh to cluster together like sardines. It was a labyrinth of screens and booming sound effects but it fell upon Taehyung’s half deaf ears as he made his way through the masses, attempting to find his place backstage.

It wasn’t hard to find the stage, not as difficult as Taehyung would have thought. There was a large setup that overlooked the rest of the convention – like a summit. The dais was more extravagant than expected, the neon lights becoming prisms of teal and pink upon the tables that were topped with three screens. There were two, directly across from each other. Adrenaline coursed through Taehyung.

This wasn’t his first time playing Multiply in front of a crowd; it was as if Taehyung was a seasoned veteran at this gig. Every summer the studio would send the same automated email and his mother wouldn’t tell Taehyung before writing a simple, sure!

But, he was a lone wolf in the gaming scene. He wasn’t apart of a league, nor did he collaborate with any other gamer besides Seokjin in a live stream. Taehyung was known as Dark Angel and his fans had multiplied tenfold in the past year after he had cut his hair that reached past his shoulders. Shallow, huh?

Taehyung pulled his hood over his head and kept his eyes down, careful not to showcase his face to the masses. He didn’t need to be mobbed today, nor did he ever.

The only time Taehyung had looked up from his measly excuse of a disguise was to watch the short video that appeared on the screen above the stage. His head was brandished across the screen along with his online handle and he had noticed it was from his first photo-shoot in 2015. Maybe leafy green dye wasn’t the way to go.

“And, a special guest!”

But there was a blank silhouette and Taehyung felt like a downgrade – why didn’t he deserve the dramatics?

He approached the entrance backstage, the stairs blocked by another built body adorned in the same neon yellow font to assert his power. “Name?”

“Kim Taehyung,” And when he was met with silence, “ Dark Angel .” Again, Taehyung wished that his fourteen-year-old self had thought out his handle just a little further.

Guard, “xX_Dark-angel-Tae.tae_Xx ?”

A sigh, “I- Yes.”

He laughed heartily, it rumbled from deep within his chest – he reminded Taehyung of Santa Claus. “I’m just messing with you. My kid likes you, talks about you all the time at the dinner table; I knew who you were.”

“Oh, really?” Taehyung asked.

The guard introduced himself as Kyung-won, telling him shortly that his son played often – and that, surprisingly, Taehyung was his favourite streamer. “He hasn’t eaten a meal with us in months; he leaves his dinner in the oven so he eats with you at 7 pm.”

That would have been heart-warming if Taehyung liked kids. “I feel like the Pied Piper, I’m sorry,” He laughed. “I love kids.”

Kyung-won's chin wobbled as he droned on, he had a sweet looking face. It was fatherly. But, Taehyung couldn’t help but stare at the countdown on the main stage and the numbers couldn’t help but stare back. Only half an hour and people were beginning to flock to seats closest to the dais, excited chatter ensuing.  

“I’m really sorry, but I think I need to get fitted right now.”

Kyung-won's eyes become wide as he realises that Taehyung had approached backstage for a reason, his chins totter as he apologises and Taehyung thinks about how lonely this guard must be. He imagines his future and wonders whether he will take up a job as a security guard at a low budget gaming convention with a son who he hasn’t spoken to in months.  

Taehyung is pushed through the door and backstage wasn’t the Coke and Bacardi fest that anyone would have envisioned. There was a couch, suspicious stains lining the cushions and Taehyung would rather not think about what they could be. The table was stocked with various juices and sodas; were they supplying for 10-year-olds? Maybe his opponent was.

Taehyung was handed a jumpsuit, black and red with Moongold’s emblem emblazoned on the breast. Dragon’s were painted across each nipple and Taehyung wished that the designers had thought out the design more thoroughly. “Thank you, I wasn’t expecting such high budget design.”

“Only the best for the star of the show,” His assistant smiled; she was pretty in a normal way.

He shouldn’t be shy, she was the only person in the room but he still told her, “Would you please turn around?”

She did as he said and began to talk, ranting about Moongold’s latest game series that they wanted Taehyung to promote. “It will be the best in our franchise. We have built realistic characters, ones that a player would relate to. Cosplays, fan interactions, even adaptations could ensue after it is released.”

Taehyung’s shirt was off and he felt exposed, it was only when he was beginning to unbutton his jeans that he saw the cameras and blushed. “Creators think about cosplays and tweets?”

“Of course we do. Do you think we make games for fun,” She laughed – her laugh was menacing and Taehyung wondered if she was the antagonist of his story. “It’s all about the money in this industry, and promotions bring it in.”

The door opened and Taehyung felt his body jump, hands covering his body as he fumbled to grab a piece of fabric to cover up.  

“Hello?”

Taehyung was hidden behind the couch when his eyes finally turned to find a man’s silhouette beside the door; how had he not noticed the screams coming from beyond backstage? The man’s hair was mussed and there was a slight sheen on his brow, but he smiled. So Taehyung, with his half-naked body still concealed, muttered back a, “Hello."

“I’m sorry, I should’ve knocked.”

“It’s okay."

His eyebrows quirked at the sight of the couch, “Why does that look like a cum stain?”

Taehyung was wide-eyed and he felt his finger twitch, “I promise it wasn’t me.”

He laughed and Taehyung liked the sound, it was genuine.  “That’s what a guilty person would say.”

“I guess I’m exposed,” Taehyung lifted his arms above his head and the man giggled – giggled, to reiterate.

He grinned, “By the way, I’m Jeongguk. I don’t think we’ve met?” Taehyung knew who he was. He couldn’t not know Jeon Jeongguk. Jeon69, quite the iconic handle. The most viewed game streams on MotionBox. Taehyung was in a humble seventh place on the leaderboard and he couldn’t help but be competitive when faced with Jeongguk and his army of fans.

A salute, “Kim Taehyung. I don’t think we have.”

The woman had a flush when she handed Jeongguk his custom jumpsuit, eyes averted as she muttered, “For you.”

He simply smiled boyishly back at her and began undressing. As if he were alone in his room, like Taehyung and his assistant weren’t gawking at the definition of his biceps, the lines of muscles on his torso. What gamer is this jacked?

Taehyung thought about his Apeach bean bag and the abundance of empty ramen cups that surrounded it.

It was yellow, black stripes lining the pant leg and fire circling its hem. If Taehyung had worn that outfit, he would look like a cheap Beatrix Kiddo impersonator - the kind you see in swarms on Hollywood Boulevard. But Jeongguk looked cool, and he resented the fact that this fiasco that looked reminiscent of Gru’s minions could possibly look akin to the word ‘cool'.

But, it was when Taehyung finally slipped into his own outfit from his place behind the couch, peaking over the perimeter to see Jeongguk looking at him with those honeyed eyes that he felt a thunder in his heart.

“You hear that?” Jeongguk smiled, gesturing to outside the doors. A countdown. 54, 53, 52. “It’s time.”

From behind tasselled curtains, Taehyung could hear the host begin his introduction, greeting the audience. “If you think about it, the MC’s job is to prep and lube an audience.”

Lube an audience? Did Taehyung think that they were being prepared for a fucking and not a live gaming tournament? Taehyung felt his cheeks bloom in red, why had he said that? But Jeongguk giggled, “Sexy.”

If it were possible for a heartbeat to bruise your ribs, Taehyung was sure his own would be flowering blue and purples by the end of tonight. He only felt this way when playing Minecraft - a dirty pleasure, one that will be sealed for all of eternity if Taehyung could help it.

Taehyung was too alienated in his own thoughts that he barely heard Jeongguk say, “Hey, Taehyung, we need to get out there.” But he felt the tug on his hand and felt the warmth that had blanketed him for that split second and then it was gone, lost to the air.

Jeongguk strode across the stage with ease, hands in the air as if he were embracing the loud cheers that emerged from the audience. Taehyung quickly rushed to his seat, waving quickly to the viewers and hiding the grin as he saw his friends in his peripheral vision.

“Kim Taehyung!” Jimin screamed, lifting his poster high in the air - Hoseok, Namjoon and Jin gesturing wildly to the words emblazoned across the pink piece of paper; ‘You suck, Taehyung.’ Yoongi was sat in his chair, scrolling through his phone, but with his eyes still on the screen, pumped his hand in the air.

“Multiply offers a multi-player feature that has recently been upgraded with new settings, allowing real-time multiplayer gaming sessions. No lag, just stress-free gaming.”

Taehyung adorned his red headset and fidgeted with his fingers, the static leaving his hand feeling detached from his limb. Now is not the time, body. He could hear Jeongguk crack his knuckles, his fingers relaxed against the mouse as if he were in a PC Cafe and not about to participate in a live match. Did he really have no faith in Taehyung’s ability?

“Today we are joined with Kim Taehyung, ranked seventh on our worldwide chart and ranked second in fan interactions!” Of course, cheers from the crowd. “And to his right, we have none other but Jeon Jeongguk, our number one in all categories!” Of course, louder cheers from the crowd. “Oh, look at that smile.”

And Taehyung did look, and he wished he hadn’t because now he was caught off guard. His eyes crinkled at the sides, nose scrunched; bunny-like.

“10, 9-” Wait, what? People from the crowd begun to yell, different phrases that sounded akin to ‘Taehyung! Load your character!’ and a variety of different curses, coloured in anguish.

“6, 5, 4-” Taehyung’s hand moved heavily against the mouse, cursor flying over his character that shared his own clothing design. The numbness in his hand did not cease and it felt as if it were nothing but a limp blood vessel. Taehyung wished that he had been ambidextrous.

And the bell rang and Taehyung’s character hadn’t loaded onto his screen yet; no lag, my ass! A nervous tap against the right key, breath halting as the bar began to fill. There was an assault on Taehyung’s ears as Jeongguk’s rifle unloaded bullets loudly, his victims scream bloody and harrowing. Taking his eyes off of his own screen for a split second allowed him to see Jeongguk’s jumbo screen on the wall - already 459 points and 9 kills in the 10 seconds that Taehyung’s game began to load.

“You going to join me yet, Angel ?” Jeongguk chuckled, mockingly.

Taehyung frowned, a retort ready, but his monitor had loaded and he had spawned into the thick of the fight. A hoard of pixelated characters had drawn their guns but Taehyung was already upon them, his favourite gun; compact with a sleek silver exterior, his magazine would be big enough to dispatch everyone in the area without having to reload.

Jeongguk was there too, though, an FP6 in hand. Taehyung would have called this an amateur’s mistake if he hadn’t known it was the top streamer he had been talking about. Why would he bring a shotgun to a mass shootout?

But maybe Taehyung had underestimated Jeongguk because his gun had more impact than his own LMG, his points racking up more than Taehyung. And just like that, Jeongguk had taken the lead by a longshot and he wasn’t sure if he would be able to catch up.

Firing in rapid succession, Taehyung attempted to gain traction, mounting a water tank, aiming steadily down at the sea of people.

“You might as well sit back and enjoy the crowd.” Jeongguk arched at an eyebrow at Taehyung and jerked his head to the screaming audience. “You aren’t going to redeem yourself at this point.”

Taehyung’s eyebrows knit together as he focused, “Got quite a mouth on you, don’t you?”

“Yeah, and I know how to use it,” Jeongguk’s tongue poked at his cheek and Taehyung could feel his cheeks heat up. The jumbo screen zoomed in on Taehyung’s face and he wished he could recede into his skin.

Taehyung had gained on Jeongguk while he had been speaking, but not by much. The only thing he could possibly do, which may be impossible looking at the distance between each of their characters, was to kill him.

Taehyung tried to use his stealth to hop off the water tank and into an area more secure; an area closer to Jeongguk. While his charismatic monologue continued, the crowd giggling at his crude insults aimed at Taehyung, he hid behind a stack of hay.

And Jeongguk had finished gunning down his enemies, but he still remained standing in the centre of the shelter. Taehyung, his lips pressed into a harsh line, looked over to Jeongguk to see him drinking an energy drink, looking at Taehyung with a raised brow. “Give it a whirl, angel. I thought I might need to help you out, you know, it’s good to help those in need.”

Taehyung’s heart pounded, but not in the way that it did before. Who did he think he was? “Oh, aren’t you charitable?”

“Only the best for you, darling,” Jeongguk winked.

So, Taehyung aimed his gun, taking his sweet time in focusing on the back of Jeongguk’s head. Ready, Aim. But, someone else had fired and now the word ‘dead’ had appeared on his screen in red cursive and Jeongguk leaned back in his chair, cocky.

His fans erupted in the crowd and the MC had made his way back to the stage in his glasses that were too big for his face, excitedly asking whether the crowd had enjoyed the match. Taehyung eyed his friends that sat in the first row; Hoseok shrugged and gestured back to the words on his poster. This was the first time Taehyung had lost against a competitor at a convention.

Jeongguk got up, and so did Taehyung. Walking toward each other, Jeongguk wore the same rabbit smile he had before the match had started - when Taehyung had thought he were nothing more than a kid. He extended his hand and Taehyung had taken it, the warmth was back but it didn't feel as it had behind the curtains. Jeongguk drew him over with a pull of his hand until his lips were next to his ear, hot breath against the shell of his ear making his hair stand up. "Sorry."

Fuck you, Jeon Jeongguk.

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#bts #bts fanfic #taekook #taekook fic #taehyung x jungkook

[idolapps]

currently limitless by nct 127 tbh!

OOC INFO

NAME/ALIAS, PRONOUNS, TIMEZONE: cherry, she/her, gmt - 6

RESERVATION: pixels 

MEMBER PROFILE

FACECLAIM: kang seulgi

NAME/STAGENAME: kim eunmi, nancy

BIRTHDATE/AGE:  february 10, 1994, 22

COMPANY/POSITION:

galaxy entertainment - soloist ( baek yerin model )

HEIGHT/WEIGHT: 162 cm, 44kg

TRAINING PERIOD/JOINING YEAR: 4 years, joined 2010.

INTERESTING FACTS: 

always says if she wasn’t an idol she’d be a gymnast.

was actually scouted by crystal media, but ended up auditioning for galaxy instead.

can play the guitar, piano, cello, and violin.

has a corgi named peaches and a birman named hazel.

can speak english because her mother is a australian native, and conversational spanish she studied as a trainee in her free time for no other reason then her own desire to do so.

STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES:

strengths: nancy is very much confident in her vocal abilities, as she trained for years to perfect them. she’s able to hold notes for quite a while, and has been dubbed with a very soft and comforting voice. she’s usually very into her projects, so whatever it may be, albums, fansigns, exc, she tends to lose herself in whatever she’s focused on, causing her to become withdrawn and closed off from others. a concerning habit, but one she has done little to change. because of her knowledge of many instruments, she’s able to compose and write her own music, an outlet which she enjoys immensely.

weaknesses: while she is strong in her vocal prowess, nancy’s dancing abilities are mediocre at best. she’s even known for being quite clumsy, so dancing has never been her strong suit. however she is flexible and because of her time as a gymnast as child, can do some pretty incredible things with her body in that regard. ( a human pretzel! ) something she struggles with in the idol life, is keeping up appearances. she’s not someone who can constantly assume the role of being happy, or full of sunshine twenty for seven, but she knows that she has to at least to attempt to for her fans and her appearance in the idol society.

BIO/PERSONALITY:

what is your muse’s story? how did they end up in their respective company? what as their home life like? how was/is their training period? tell us about what made them, them! please list any triggers here as well if needed.

she’s a happy girl most of her life, and reasonably so. she’s the youngest of four ( yes count ‘em four ) brothers, and the daughter to a pediatric nurse and a composer. while her father spent hours at the nearby hospital in sydney, australia, nancy was lulled to sleep by the sound of her mother strumming her guitar a room over. 

her mother is where her interest in music sparks, tiny feet pattering their way to peek through the slit in the door so she could watch. ( her mother always found out of course, and instead of sending her back to bed, would let her crawl on her lap and carefully teach her the chords. 

for the first six years of her life, nancy dabbles in gymnastics as a child, that is, until her father packs up his family and moves them to seoul for a job opportunity and a chance to be closer to his parents. 

their mother however, having business in australia maintains a constant of schedule of flying back and forth between the two destinations, sometimes bringing nancy with her where she would teach her about various instruments. 

her primary school years are nothing to be bragged about, as she is an average student, but incredibly talented musically and vocally. the first time she’s steps into a choir class, nancy knows that she’d found her true passion. 

she knows not of where she’s going to start, but she was sure that writing and singing were the only things she could see herself doing in the future. her parents were always supportive of her dreams, and her mother of course endorsed her daughter every step of the way. 

when she’s fourteen, nancy is scouted by an representative of crystal media, but instead of pursuing the company, she decides to audition for galaxy entertainment after doing some searching into both. she’s surprised even still when she’s taken on as a trainee, giddy for what was sure to come. 

during her trainee days, the first year and a half is as per usual, and nancy trains extremely hard to perfect her developing vocals. unfortunately her course for stardom is thrown off track by tragic news.

her mother, who’d just begun to gain recognition for her compositions, had been diagnosed with lung cancer. her first thought was to drop her training completely to take care of her, but her mother insisted that despite her illness, that nancy coudn’t give up on the dream she’d been working so hard for. instead, the two made a deal- while her mother went back to sydney for treatment and to be closer to her own family, nancy could visit as often as possible. 

unable to say no to her mother, nancy agrees and goes back to training, working even harder than before. the next three years is a roller coaster of plane rides, late night writing sessions, guitar strumming, and energy shots. though, not once does she let the idea of failure linger in her head. if her mother was to get better, then she had to try. 

and eventually it pays off. she’s able to debut, and perform in front of her mother, now happily in remission. her family is reunited back in seoul, and nancy can only shed tears of joy at the prospect of her life turning back around. 

she only could hope it would stay that way.   

#female #idol #galaxy #submission