#speaking of gouache I should really get back to it soon

[araiz-zaria]

On Choosing The Medium 一 Ink or Gouache

-----a personal reflection-----

TL;DR: It's probably just down to my own whims, really :P

It's been a long while (January 2019) since I first started drawing/painting with gouache. What initially started as an attempt to merely add a splash of color to my artwork developed into a venture into its own realm, a development I didn't see coming when first starting this journey.

If you have been around for a long time since I first started this sideblog you'd know that my main medium is pencil and ink. I usually add some colors in the digital medium, but as time goes on and I don't want to just play around in tones in my drawings and I can no longer be arsed to add colors digitally I finally decided to try adding a splash of color (in the traditional medium) with gouache.

Why gouache, you may ask? Why not, for example, watercolor? Or perhaps colored ink?

Well, partially because, since gouache is opaque (and I seldom render gradation, a thing that is usually done with watercolor and quite easily at that too), it seemed like gouache is going to suit my art style better needless to say that at this point I haven't recognized the full extent of the properties of gouache. (...and partially because when I started trying gouache, the visual art community on insta at large also started trying gouache as well, crucially trying to embrace its merit as a medium of its own so yeah I was bandwagoning)

Needless to say that I had difficulties when I first tried gouache still does actually, but I persevered (since I am committed to expand my ability as an artist, and trying (and mastering) a new medium is a part of that expansion) and I kept painting with gouache (at least once a month), aiming to get better at it...

...until I got to a point where gouache (almost) became my main medium (...yeah, almost replacing pen and ink(!!)) in September 2020.

As I kept painting with gouache, I eventually got slightly better at it, and the more I got better at gouache, the more often I painted with it. The more I painted with it, the more varied the kind of things I painted with gouache (I initially only drew my usual manga art in gouache, but I later dabbled in painting sceneries as well). The more I painted with gouache (and succeeded in netting lots of likes with it :P :v ) the more often I kept at it, and the more often I kept at it (to the point that I got more comfortable drawing more elaborate scenes (in my usual manga style) with gouache), the more I wondered...

...why do I even still use pen and ink as my medium?

(Yeah this applies mostly to my manga drawings, but also to my drawing in realistic(ish) style ...kinda??)

I guess that choice will be down only to a stylistic one? (I mean if you want to draw gritty things you can achieve that feel easier with ink you know what I mean) ...or a practical one? (This was how I initially decided on which medium I was going to use on a day 一 which one was perceivably easier to use for the drawing I wanted to make)

...or is it...down to my original reason to why I picked gouache to begin with? (...an aesthetic one??) (do I want more colors for my drawings?)

I often fall to the mistaken conception that since ink is the "simpler" medium compared to gouache, the drawings that I make with ink tend to be simpler as well (as in, I tend to not render them in a more elaborate way, compared to how I ostensibly render drawings with gouache), so in a way I (wrongly) think that now that I can make artworks with either ink/gouache equally well more or less the artworks that I make now with ink have less value. Wrong as it sounds, it could actually make the decision making easier (ink for "simpler" drawings, gouache for "elaborate" drawings ー interestingly enough it was initially the other way around ー I drew simple things with gouache while I reserved ink for more elaborate drawings).

But the fact that that mindset is wrong is what makes it hard for me to decide on which medium I want to use to make a drawing now.

So remember the line above where I write that gouache almost became my main medium in September 2020? Why did I bring up that month? It was because I suddenly lost my appetite for drawing things at the end of that month and it has been such a good run with gouache too -.- . No, it's not something caused by something intrinsic to either medium ー anyway I struggled to maintain my will to draw so I knitted things instead :P and this question of choice didn't surface for a while.

You might wonder why I write appetite instead of the commonly used term artist's block ー well, it's because during the time I drew less (from September 2020 until early February 2021) it was not like I didn't know what I wanted to draw ー it's just that despite knowing what I wanted to draw, I didn't feel any desire to actually put pencil on paper and start drawing it. Once I got back to drawing though, this question came back resurfacing.

So again, how do I pick my medium for the drawing I want to make now???

Am I just overcomplicating it?? does seem like it! :P :P :P

If my objective were just to keep drawing no matter what, then I guess the choice comes down to whichever medium was less emotionally taxing at that day (and it's not necessarily the "simpler" medium(!!!)), so if it feels easier to make things with ink, then ink it is! (...and vice versa). Other than the considerations I previously write above, it could also be down to just getting myself out of the rut ー after a while it does get boring to stick to just one thing, so if I got bored with ink I'd definitely switch over to gouache or maybe just switch to the barest of all bones ー pencil.

In the end it seems like there's nothing wrong with deciding on which art medium to choose solely on my own whims on a particular moment when I want to draw something.

...and I guess I'll stick with that for now...

#writings #thoughts #not art #not directly related to it :P #art medium #gouache #pen and ink #speaking of gouache I should really get back to it soon #random #wow what a convoluted train of thought #if you're an artist who are thinking of trying a new medium and you happen to stumble upon this post #sorry if I happen to only confuse you even more #but then again this isn't meant to be instructive #I just need to get this out of my system

[yeojaa]

TO THE MOON AND BACK - ft. ???

You feel winded and you're not sure why.  Like you'd been walking on cloud nine and were now falling through the atmosphere, plummeting toward the ground at incredible speeds.  When you speak, it doesn't really sound like you.  "Yes."  Because he was exactly right - you were a hopeless romantic.  Always had been.  It was hard not to be when your parents were childhood sweethearts and love was the thing you'd been chasing your whole life.

alt summary.  You use your one brain cell for love.  It doesn’t always end well.

pairing.  who knows, honestly.  the obvious ones are kim taehyung and jeon jungkook, though.  

tags.  blind date, strangers, strangers to friends, strangers to lovers, getting to know each other, alternate universe, alternate universe - modern setting, romantic comedy, fluff, slow burn, smut, pining, unrequited love.

rating.  ... 18+

word count.  ~4000

chapter 9.  

FLASHBACK September 1, 2018

"Just post it,"  you're chiding, indignant and exasperated and still, so incredibly soft.  You're prone against his shoulder, bone of your chin digging into the muscle that lines his back and undulates with every breath.  He moves forward, not to dislodge you from your position, but enough to shift the sharp turn of your jaw.  You say nothing further and settle into the warmth that radiates off him, nose lost to the hood of his sweatshirt.  

The mouse sits heavy in his palm, an anchor rather than 67 grams of nothingness.  There's too much power in the little black device.  It makes his jaw ache and his brow furrow.  You can feel the uncertainty radiating off him in waves, invading your senses in an unwelcome assault.

"Kook, come on."  Again, softer this time, laced with tenderness and belief.  It spills off your lips, buttery and sweet like carnival kettle corn.  Your arms find a home around the slant of his frame, fingers locking neatly over his chest, right where his heart lies beneath flesh and bone.  The steady thud of it is a reminder of his humanity.  "You've worked so hard for this."

This, being his portfolio.  His life's work made reality, brushed with the most utmost care and so much talent you're not sure where it all goes.  

Gouache portraits, vivid blues and greens splashed over cream;  wondrous proportions laid out bare, rendered to perfection with a keen eye and careful hand.  Production of stories you'd never be able to express, painted with the most glorious skill and cut to maximize impact.  Melodies woven in between and above; the sweetest sound you'd ever hear, awash with the light and shadow.  

His finger hovers over the button on his mouse as if it's a Doomsday device.  You want to scoff but bite it back, pressing your face into the freshly-washed powder puff that is his hair.  It smells of peaches and honey, mingling with the distinctly Jungkook scent that lingers on his skin.

"I can't do it."  He whispers the words like they're shameful, yanking his hand away and stuffing his hand into the kangaroo pouch bundled around his waist.  You sigh.  It's quiet but with your close proximity, he hears it and it's an echo that repeats over and over in his ears.  Eyes squeeze shut, dent forming between his brows as he exhales a shallow breath.  "I heard that."

"You were meant to,"  you return easily.  Because while you'd always be in his corner, supporting him when he needed it most, you also weren't about to let him rest on his laurels.  

Before he can stop it, you've got the mouse in your hand.  Click - like it's the easiest motion in the world.

"Did you just—"  You're retreating as soon as he's speaking, skittering back five steps and out of reach when he whirls around in his stupid red and black gaming chair.  The fury is immediately apparent in the baring of his teeth, the tension in his jaw.  It propels him forward and he's so much taller, his strides so much longer, that he's upon you in a second.

"You needed a push!"  It's a meagre excuse, squeaked out in indignation as you anticipate death by asphyxiation.

Instead, he's crushing you against him so tightly you really do feel like you can't breathe, though it’s different.  Still, it's better than what you'd anticipated and you pat his back where you can reach, arms locked to your side by the intensity of his hug.  You think he might squeeze the life out of you but you don't move to untangle yourself from him, instead mumbling soft reassurances against his chest.  "There, there."

"Thank you."  It's so hushed you think he might've meant it only for his ears, but you feel the way the words ghost over the shell of your own.  It sends a shock straight to your toes, rousing an adoring smile along the way.

"You're welcome,"  you hum in a voice thick with satisfaction.  You loved being right.  It didn't happen often - at least, not with Jungkook - so you revelled in it at every opportunity, allowing your ego to triple in size and engulf everyone in the immediate vicinity. 

Not one to let his defeat go so easily, he huffs.  The way he rolls his eyes makes you worry he'll sever an optic nerve.  "Still a brat, though."  

"Yeah, well—"  You're returning his childish petulance tenfold, tongue sticking out from between lips that taste like too-sweet plum wine and Sprite.  "—takes one to know one."  And boy, did you know one.  Had, for the better part of three years.  Sometimes you loved it;  sometimes, you didn't quite hate it.  At least, that’s what you told yourself.

The boy snorts from above you, withdrawing just enough that you can breathe and wiggle your arms.  He really was a muscle pig - your shoulders thrum with a dull ache.  "Shut up."  

"Don't think I will,"  you answer, watching the way his eyes glint and his jaw ticks.  He tongues the inside of his cheek as he glares down at you, silent.  You know what that means.  You brace for the feeling, feet planting into the hardwood like you're an oak taking up root. It's futile.

In a second, you're upside down, suspended over his shoulder like a toddler.  Well, not a toddler, because that would be incredibly bad parenting.  It's something funnier - a six year old playing airplane.  Except you're in your twenties and you've got much longer limbs than a child and they flail wildly, elbow knocking into the back of his head with a painful sounding thud.

"Watch it!"  He exclaims, fingers digging into the meat of your thigh.  He doesn't sound too bothered, though, the words dropping off into a laugh that bounces around the room and pitches higher.  "I wouldn't want to drop my precious cargo."

It's a threat that has you stilling, if only for a minute.  The last thing you want is to have your face make friends with the floor.  That'd happened once - on concrete, even - and you'd felt awful for days after.  Of course, he'd felt terrible, too, leaving an enormous fruit tart from Maybell Bakery outside your dorm the next day.

"Go ahead.  I've been craving some fresh bread."

"That was one time."  

You can tell you've struck a nerve by the way he tenses beneath you, forearm flexing over the small of your back.  You can't help but snicker, swatting his sweatpant-covered ass just enough to jostle him.

"I was kidding, Mr. Sensitive."  

He doesn't dignify that with an answer, instead shifting into action.  His bare feet carry him in a tight circle before he deposits you onto his bed and not a minute too soon.  You'd started to feel a strain in your neck, blood rushing to your head the longer you were hung like a rag doll.

"You're a pain in my ass sometimes."  Though the words are unkind, his delivery is not.  There's far too much tenderness in his eyes, the way they crease and nearly disappear when he offers you one of his trademark bunny smiles.  

You return the expression with ease, wiggling your thin, piano-honed fingers at him.  "Literally."

"Yeah, literally."  With another exaggerated roll of his eyes, he flops face-down on the bed beside you, arms curling around a pillow and dragging it under his cheek.  His knees hang off the edge before he's dragging one up, locking it over your legs in some contortionist cuddle.  He peeks at you from beneath his fringe - it's just the right side of too long, curling prettily over his doe eyes and obscuring his eyebrows. Despite the eye contact you carefully maintain, he says nothing, merely peering up at you like he's trying to read his future or see the stars.

Finally, you speak, turning your gaze back to his popcorn ceiling as your hands find comfort in the weight of his leg, the tendons flexing in the joint of his knee.  Your neck was beginning to kink.  "What?"  

"Thank you, again."  Because once isn't enough.  Never will be, when it comes to the two of you.  You've always pushed him to do what he needed, even when he wasn't so sure himself.  He can't thank you enough for that - or for the fact that you're always there, right at the edge with him.

You smile then and meet his stare again.  "You're welcome, Kook.  Happy birthday."

"What is this?"  

You're half-asleep and groggy, struggling to push past the awful clutches of Sandman and his dreams.  They linger in every crevice, coating your lashes in dust and your tongue in cotton.  Luckily, there's no ache behind the fatigue, no lurking monkey about to crash its cymbals in defiance of you and God.

Through the frame of lethargy, you make out the familiar slope of shoulders, of a delicate pair of hands.  Past that comes his adorable smile, all squishable cheeks and barely there eyes, mouth contorted into that peculiar shape.  He's not where he should be - in bed beside you, fast asleep.  Instead, he's statuesque, barely dressed in a pair of soft cotton shorts and nothing else with your breakfast tray held aloft.  There's a pile of waffles - they look surprisingly good - and two mugs.  Somehow, there's also an assortment of flowers thrown into what looks like a water glass.  

Had you died and gone to heaven?  Surely not.  

"Happy birthday,"  your - yes, your, you remind yourself - golden Adonis sings in a voice so rich, so tender, you immediately feel a lump forming in your throat.  He's looking at you like a kid on Christmas morning,0 hopeful and filled with childish wonderment.  It stokes the warmth that spreads through your veins, lava in place of platelets.  It burns from the inside out but it's pleasant - sitting too close to a fireplace on a chilly winter evening rather than an open flame. 

Nails bite into the fleshy underside of your palm in a belated attempt to rouse yourself from the very pleasant daydream.  It stings but nothing comes further.  You're not imagining things.  

You have to applaud your past self for whatever she'd done to deserve this.  

"You really didn't have to."  A moment after it slips off your tongue, you wish it hadn't.  The last thing you want to seem is ungrateful.  Luckily, Taehyung is steadfast and unbothered, dropping forward onto a knee to slide the tray over your clean white linens.  He looks so good, all honey skin and tousled bedhead, that you can't focus when he catches your lips in a lingering kiss.

His laughter crowds your mouth, along with the taste of peppermint toothpaste and, just behind it, honey and what tastes like tea, floral and earthy.  "I wanted to."

A sound most similar to a sigh - maybe a bit needier, filled with adoration - meets the air when he withdraws, settling himself on the edge of the bed with that same heartbreaking grin.  He pushes your birthday breakfast toward you, earnest and lovely.  He even unceremoniously shoves your utensils between your fingers, forcing them into your grip like a toddler.  

"Eat,"  he commands, though his tone is too light to really elicit any movement from you.  It's only the way he looks that prompts you to dig in, cutting a generation portion of waffle loaded with what looks like whipped cream and strawberries.  You raise your fork aloft, gesturing for him to take the first taste.  He simply shakes his head and with gentle pressure, redirects the forkful back to you.  His loss.

The strawberries are surprisingly sweet yet incredibly tart, their freshness breaking up the honey glaze.  The fact that you haven't even brushed your teeth isn't lost on you;  you can't bring yourself to care when you're melting into the flavours and humming delightedly.

"Is it good?"  

"If you'd just try some, you'd know."  You answer with hearts in your eyes and affection blooming like roses across your cheeks, sparkling shades of warmth springing across fields of baby's breath.  Another forkful is raised and this time you won't allow him to redirect, holding the mouthful aloft and meeting his stare with purpose.

A moment passes, then another.  The edge of his mouth ticks higher.  Your eyes burn from your refusal to blink.

When he accepts the bite, you allow an exaggerated breath, the sound expelling from pursed lips with triumph.  "Yum?"  You question, giddy and grateful.  You sneak another bite while he chews, tongue feathering across his bottom lip to catch some residual cream from the corner.

"I did good."  He sounds so proud, chest puffed like a baby bird that's learnt to fly.  You're torn between the intense desire to squish his cheeks or kiss him silly and you stare at him for a long moment as you swallow, the intoxicating flavour of honey and strawberries sitting like a spring picnic on your tongue.  It sinks into the spaces between your teeth - a shot of loved-up sugar right into the veins - and you set your fork down. 

Free hands find the slope of his jaw and act as a cradle, thumbs smoothing over the soft dry petal of his bottom lip.  He peers at you curiously, strands of silk brushing over his gaze as he works to meet your stare.  

"What?"

You want to pass all of your affection into the smile you offer and the kiss you press, chaste and light.  "Thank you."  The emotion in your voice rings true, echoes heavily in the breath you pair it with.  "You really, really didn't have to."  But I'm really glad you did, are the words you don't say, allowing them to hang between you like a gossamer thin thread - a spider's web interconnecting all the different ways you adore him.

"I know,"  he hums as he moves in for another kiss - one that lingers and pulls and draws you deeper into the abyss that is him.  Careful hands slide the breakfast tray to the farthest corner of the bed, far away from wandering limbs, and then he's dragging you closer, over the soft white duvet.  Fingers find a home in the small of your back as you find the same nearly in his lap, knees caught against the line of his side.  Like this, he envelopes you, all sharply angled shoulders and imposing, but you don't mind.  It feels nice being wrapped in his embrace. 

FLASHBACK April 24, 2019

You need to get this done.  You can't stop until you've finished because you've been losing steam the entire week and now you're running on fumes, halfway to the finish line and about to collapse.  The strain behind your eyes feels miserable, like hot coals have replaced your usual organs, and you've nearly chewed a hole through your bottom lip.  It feels like a punishment in and of itself to feel the constant throb and the metallic tang on your tongue.

Why did you always do this?  You'd had all semester to work on this and yet, here you were, stark raving mad and exhausted on a random Friday.  

No, Saturday now.  It was almost five in the morning.

Frustration colours your complexion, marks the tired skin in patchy shades of red, and you blow a sharp breath out under your breath.  You know you have no one to blame but yourself but you try to ignore the guilt that licks up the column of your spine and settles like a heavy collar around your neck.  You can't linger on it too much - you're too busy trying to hack this artist's block to dust.

Lids squeeze shut of their own accord and the heels of your palms dig into the sockets, as if that'll help drive the emptiness from your thoughts or, at the very least, alleviate some of the mind-numbing pressure that's been building since you started this futile task six hours ago.  The consistent press helps a little - draws blossoms of light against the back of your eyelids - and you exhale a beleaguered sigh, head dropping ever so slightly.  Between the headache that's settled in like an unwelcome house guest and the general tiredness of being up for nearly twenty-four hours straight, you're not sure which is worse. 

You also don't have much time to think about it when your phone starts going off, vibrating madly across the flat top of your desk.  It's face-down - you'd wanted as few distractions as possible - and you consider ignoring it for a moment.

Only when you consider the time do you decide to answer it.  After all, nobody just called at this hour.  It might be important.

You hardly hazard a glance at the screen before you're swiping across, dimly noting the familiar silly photo of your classmate and friend plastered across the pixels.  "What's up, Jeon?"  The words come out scratchy and for the first time, you realize how parched you are.  You're not quite sure when you'd last drank or stood up or anything.  God, you were a poor excuse for an adult.  

"Open the door."  

It's equal parts impressive and irritating how chipper he somehow sounds, as if he's just woken up from the best sleep in the world and powered his way through a strongman's breakfast.  Chapped lips twist, descending into a pout you know he can't see, and you force yourself to focus on what he's said and not how you'd give anything in the world to trade places with him and his sunny disposition.  

Wait— what?  Open the what?  

"What did you say?"  

You can practically imagine the lines at his nose and around his eyes, the dimples that you're sure are carved into those cheeks of his.  "I said open the door!"  

Before you can think anything of it, you're rising from your chair - nearly knocking over your neglected glass of water with the movement - and allowing your slipper-wearing feet to carry you out of your bedroom and to the front door.  You bump into the table in your hallway, earning a grunt and sharp inhale of breath as your fingers soothe what you know will be a bruise in the morning.  Maybe you should've turned on the light.  Maybe you should've stopped at the washroom to make sure didn't frighten him with your insane hair and sleepless pallor.  Maybe you should've done a lot of things.

Instead, you slide the lock, open the door, and nearly shriek when Jungkook’s upon you faster than you can react.

"Happy birthday!"  A single solid arm is crushing you to his chest, his breath warm against your temple, before he engulfs you fully.  You feel your feet leave the ground momentarily, fuzzy slippers clattering to the floor as he squeezes you with just enough force to steal your breath away.  It might be why you're not reciprocating - you physically cannot - or it’s the fact that your brain is playing catch-up and your limbs are already a little boneless from lack of sleep.

"What are you doing here?"  You manage to squeak against the smooth fabric of his jacket.  It's the same one he always wears - black with Yohji Yamamoto embossed across the left-side of his chest - and it smells intoxicating, a familiar blend of his cologne and laundry detergent.  You inhale the scent like it'll sooth your half-asleep, ragged nerves.  It does, a little, and you're grateful for that.  You don't even pull away when he finally releases you, stepping back just enough to let you slide back into your slippers and peer up into his face.  

He really had no business looking so good.  Despite the early hour, his dark hair is neatly styled or at the very least, freshly washed.  It's fully dry and surprisingly fluffy, falling over those big doe eyes in a way that makes you want to run your fingers through it.  It's a little longer than usual, too, and you reach a hand out to smooth strands behind a silver-adorned ear.

"It's your birthday,"  comes his response, as if it's the most obvious answer in the world.  

A brow quirks - tries to, at least - and you regard him with something not quite suspicious but definitely confused.  It plays across your features in shadows, peeking around the fan of your lashes and the frame of your mouth.  "It's also... four in the morning."

"Five, actually."  There's that stupid adorable smile of his, presented like a gift and topped with squeaky laughter.  "And I told you I was coming over."

"No, you didn't."  You'd have remembered that - right?

"I did."  As if to drive his point home, the glaringly bright screen of his phone is all but shoved into your line of sight, artificial light burning your retinas.  You shift away, swatting at his wrist as he watches in barely concealed amusement.  He thinks you're frustrated by his very 'I told you so' smile that fits snug over his mouth and wrinkles the delicate skin around his eyes;  he's surprised when you take the device back in your hands and peer at it like it's the strangest thing you've ever seen.

Well, he certainly hadn't lied.  A handful of texts - maybe more than that - mock you, text bubbles indicating he had indeed sent you messages all throughout the night.  Little one-liners asking what you were doing, followed by a gentle head's up much later that he'd see you soon.  Of course, you'd ignored them all, far too engrossed in making near zero progress on your semester-end project.  It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth - equal parts tentative embarrassment and residual fatigue.  Lips purse, straighten into a firm line, and arms fold over your chest.  It's reminiscent of a spoiled child and frankly, beneath the burnout, you know it's not a good look.  Unfortunately, you can’t find it in yourself to rearrange your expression into something more socially acceptable.

Luckily, he's seen you like this enough times to not mind - you always fell into ruts like this when your procrastination met a hard deadline - the irritation seemingly unable to penetrate the sunny turn of his mouth and slope of his wide, open shoulders.  "So, are you ready?"  

"Ready for..."  You trail off, partially out of confusion and partially out of a lack of capacity to consider the question.  

"We're going on an adventure."  

Again, so simple and yet so cryptic.  It draws your eyebrows into a little knot, consternation setting into every thread.  "I have a project to do, you know."  Despite this, there's a pearl of longing that dangles from your syllables.

He zeroes in on it without hesitation, drawing you easily against him.  "I'll help you with it later,"  he says, as if that's a good enough excuse.  You suppose it is.  "In the meantime, go get ready?  You look like you have a rat living in your hair and I don't want you getting mistaken for a homeless vagrant on the train."  Despite the mockery, his expression is soft, smile sweet and playful as it always is.

It's impossible to deny him when he's like this, cherubic and enticing. 

With a sigh that blows past chapped lips and disappears into his chest, you relent.  "Fine."  You're careful to keep your tone just a little grating, as if you're somehow doing him the huge favour.  You know he can see right through it but neither of you mind;  it's all a part of your silly routine.  "Come in and wait for me and don't eat my cereal."

"No promises."

notes.  here, take my weird birthday-centric chapter.  i wanted to add more to this but my brain hasn’t been cooperating with me lately.  

i swear the next chapter will be better - with more exploration of the present! - but thanks for reading.  :)

#bts #bts fanfic #bts fic #bts fluff #bts smut #kim taehyung #kim taehyung fic #kim taehyung fluff #kim taehyung smut #taehyung #taehyung fic #taehyung fluff #taehyung smut #taehyung x you #taehyung x reader #taehyung x oc #jeon jungkook #jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fic #jungkook fluff #jungkook x you #jungkook x reader #jungkook x oc #work.zip #ttmab.doc #jungkook.doc #v.doc

[erintoknow]

be scared with me

retro-actively calling this for ockiss week even though this has been sitting as a WIP for months now @ratkingkisses​‘s Zia Basri x Ariadne Becker, Fallen Hero: Rebirth OCs ~4.2k words [AO3]

–

“Come on darling, no more dawdling!” Zia Basri pulls at your arm, her elbow locked with yours. You let her pull you along, past the doorman whose thoughts are none the wiser over your faked tickets. “Now this is a party.” Zia’s smile is broad and unguarded as her eyes sweep over the ostentatious gold and silver decorations of the wide ballroom floor.

Your own eyes fixate on the large chandelier hanging in the center of the room. In its shadow is a buffet table. Or more accurately, a series of buffet tables arranged into a rectangle. Hrm. Anyone gets any funny ideas about the lights, only the help managing the food will be crushed.

Disappointing.

No pressure pushes down on your awareness, no sensation of static drowns out the buzz of minds around the two of you. The Dampeners aren’t on then. Good. That bribe hadn’t been for nothing. That’ll make tonight much, much easier.

You glance back over to Zia, slightly above eye-height for once thanks to her high-heeled shoes. “S–stay focused.”

Zia doesn’t look at you, only the slightest quirk of her lips. “Of course.”

“I’m serious.” You hiss. “We only have the one shot at this.”

“Ari. Dear.” Zia laughs, shaking her head. “I’m a professional. Please.”

“Yeah. N–not – not helping.”

Robbing from, Henry Yasuda, one of the richest men in Los Diablos is not exactly the smartest thing you’ve ever done, but if it puts a dent in his prestige and political power it’ll be worth it. That was Zia’s pitch to you anyway. You’re pretty sure she doesn’t care about the political angle. Just getting a piece of the pie.

And, well, that money would help along several other projects you’ve had sitting on the back burner.

And it’s a very large pie.

You put your free hand to the frame of your sunglasses. Is it gouache to wear them indoors at a high society event? Probably, but fuck these guys. No one seems to be paying either of you much mind. Lost in their only little worlds, no doubt helped along by Zia’s telepathic talents. You can feel the edge of her awareness brush past yours, getting a feel for the room at large.

“Relax.”

You snap your head back to Zia, and she laughs at you.

“It’s a good plan.” She disentangles your arm from hers. “I’ll finish taking stock here. You take care of setting up plan B.” With a soft push to your back, Zia sends you stumbling out away from her.

Right.

The plan.

Stick to the plan.

You made the plan. So. Better stick to it. The plan, that is.

Yes.

Adjusting the strap of your purse you glance around, pick up the location of the restroom from a nearby mind and head off in that direction. In a fashion, the plan is the same as the original Plan. From the Gala debut. Only this time, the explosions are plan B. If the two of you can get out of this without any fighting, that would be ideal. No fighting, no hint that anything’s wrong.

And if you get caught… well, that’s where plan ‘B for bomb’ comes in. No time for thieves if super villains are attacking right? Slip out in the chaos. Ideally with the prize still.

In a locked bathroom stall, you remove the explosive charges from the false bottom of your purse and prime them for the radio signal. Back in at the top of your purse they go and you take a minute at the bathroom sink before for cover and to psych yourself up.

You’ve been over the schematics a million times. You know exactly where to place the charges to maximize noise and debris while minimizing the risk of casualties. And if something does get hurt… well, these people are all rich out of their minds anyway. A little psychological scarring builds character.

Exiting the bathroom again, you spare a thought towards Zia as you make your rounds around the ballroom. She seems to be doing okay. Thoughts calm except for – well, she’s always eager for excuse to really stretch her abilities. Show off. Showing off for you, you’re not sure. You’re the only one that knows Zia Basri as anything but a reclusive and retired industrialist. The Nemesis to your Adrestia.

You linger by a wide, double-paned window, one hand surreptitiously palming the last charge onto the rim of a potted plant. You’ve got a clear view of Zia across the bustle of the floor. Wrapped in a gown of black with pink accents, the metallic silver glint from her jewelry catching the lights. She’s chatting up another woman in a sharp black suit. Typical.

The two of you should have gone your separate ways after the escape. Your continued partnership like this is a risk. A weak point. One of you screws up, and you’ll both be damned. This is it. This is the last time you’re working with her. This time for real.

Getting close to people is a liability for… people, like yourselves. Depending on others is a liability. And Zia is arrogant about the extent of her telepathy and full of herself besides. Sure, she’s saved you a couple times at this point but it was a matter of practicality. You going down would only risk exposing her as well.

Look out for number one, that’s all that –

The woman Zia’s been talking to laughs, stepping into Zia’s personal space. Wrapping an arm around her back and – oh. They’re kissing. You grit your teeth. Zia enjoys flirting, of course she’s going to flirt here. Hardly a surprise for this to happen.

God they’re going at it. This is risky as hell. Even Zia has to know that. Look at her body language. Stiff, and – is that her hand shaking? You’re too far away to be sure. You shake your head. Try not to clench your fists as you walk over. Walk. Not storm. Relaxed, not tense. Why would you be tense? Absurd. Crazy.

“Basri. There you are.” You flash a terse smile at Zia and her new ‘friend.’

They break apart. Zia quickly stepping away and smoothing out her dress. Her companion raises an eyebrow, looking between the two of you.

“B–becker.” Zia nods at you, flashes a smile back, “Back so soon?”

“Mmhm.” You step towards her, a hand on her arm. “Can I talk with you?” You glance at the other woman. “Alone?”

“I – yes. Yes, of course.” She gives an awkward wave as you pull her away. “Loved chatting with you dear!”

You pull her along, into one of the side hallways stretching down into the wings of the building. You let go of her arm, glancing back towards the ballroom. “Are you okay?”

Zia frowns, rubbing where you touched her. “I was doing just fine until you so rudely pulled me away.”

“I–I–I can’t – Okay. Fine. We need to – to talk. Now.” You glance around, “Privately.”

“So eager to keep me for yourself, sweetheart?”

You ignore her jab, an open door to a study off the hallway catches your attention. That’ll work. Don’t pick up anyone else inside. You push Zia into the room, pulling the door shut behind you both. “What – what the fuck were you thinking!?”

The other woman smiles quietly to herself, easing out the crinkles in her dress. “I don’t understand what you mean, my dear.” She props herself up against a wardrobe, crossing her arms. “We’re here for a job. Doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun along the way.”

“Fun!?” You grit your teeth, strain to keep your voice down. “That–that–that woman was halfway down your throat!”

Zia’s smile broadens into a smirk. “Jealous?”

You step back, “N–no! Ugh! You always do this!” Throw your hands into the air as you storm over to the room’s one window. “Suppose Little Miss Handsy got too frisky? Huh? What’re you going to do then?”

Zia yawns, waving the thought away with a hand. “Oh, I suppose I’d have to wipe the poor dear’s mind. Make her think she got a little too drunk.” She shrugs. “Nothing would happen.”

“And the security cameras? Everyone else in the fucking ballroom?”

“Please, sweetheart, You of all people should know just how powerful I am these days.”

You turn away from the window to stare her down again. “That’s not – that’s not your risk to take, Zia! W–we’re in this together!”

She doesn’t look back at you, studying her fingernails. “For as long as it’s convenient at any rate, my dear handmaiden.”

“Oh fuck off.” You storm towards her, “You can’t keep treating everything like it’s some big game!”

“Isn’t it?” Her smile collapses into a frown as she finally looks over at you. “I’m sick of hiding all the time, and I’m sick of these…” She tugs at the collar of her dress, a look of disgust on her face. “turtlenecks. All the time! One day I want to wear something flashy and not fear for my life!”

Ah. “So y–you were scared back there.”

Zia snaps back to you, letting go of her dress. “I didn’t say that!”

You shake your head, rubbing at your temples. “You were tenser then a coiled spring. I saw your hand shaking.”

“They were not.” Zia snorts. “The only scared woman here is you, dearie. Scared, and jealous.”

“I wasn’t–” you swallow the words back, heart in your throat. “Okay. You know what. Fine. Fine! I–I–I am. Jealous. I admit it.” You put a hand to your chest, as if you could hold your heart in from exploding.

Zia blinks, taken aback. You’ve called her bluff.

“At least – at least I can. Admit it. You – you cocoon yourself in your little act and you think if no one sees the real you, nothing can hurt you!” You laugh, can’t believe you’re actually saying this out loud finally. “When we first met, I thought you were so – so ‘cool’ so ‘imposing.’ That you had it all together, but you know what?” You jab a finger at her. “I–I–I see right through you now. You’re just as scared as I am. No,” You shake your head. “More scared! You’re too scared to even let yourself be scared.”

Silence stretches out between the two of you. Ah fuck. You went too far this time. You’ve blown it.

“Are you done?” Zia stares at you, her expression unreadable. Shaken? Uncertain? Or are you just projecting?

Take a deep breath. Hold. Exhale. “N–no. There’s, um. There’s one more thing.”

“Wha–” Zia doesn’t get to finish speaking as you pull her into an embrace. Her body is rigid in your arms.

“It’s… it’s okay to be scared.”

There’s silence, and then, a weak laugh. “We should… finish the mission.”

You let go of her, heat flashing across your face. God. You idiot, what were you thinking? Zia steps away, and quickly averts her head. But not before you catch a flush across her face. You try not to stare. Thoughts like smoke, melting away before you can read anything coming off her.

You cough and take a step back yourself. “R–right. The… the mission.” You run a hand under your purse strap. “Plan B is ready.”

Zia looks back to you, her usual cool demeanor coming back. “Then let’s get started on Plan A.” She sweeps a hand back through her hair. Pulling back her hand, she twirls a pair of bobby pins between her fingers before they vanish up a sleeve. “Lead the way, my dear handmaiden.”

You roll your eyes and don’t say anything. You’ve given up on the whole name thing. You could just change yours, but it’s the principle of the issue. It’d be like admitting defeat. Putting a hand on the door handle, you pause a moment to get a sense if anyone’s looking out in the hallway. Satisfied you open the door, Zia following you back outside. “Alright, first stop the security station. You ready to fish?”

Zia nods in the affirmative as you glance back to her, a smirk playing across her face. “Cakewalk.”

“Just – just try to restrain yourself. And – wait for my signal. No more diversions. Stay focused.”

“Getting bossy aren’t we?” Zia laughs as you glare at her. “Worried?”

“You wanted me to plan this. So I – I did.”

“Relax. I have total confidence in you.”

You frown at that. “We meet up at the vault.” Turning away you hesitate, glance backwards. “Be careful. I – I’m fucking serious.”

–

Sneaking into security offices is starting to become old hat. Can’t deny that you and Zia make a good team. One takes care of the CCTV and other security, the other gets the target to practically hand over the goods. If anyone’s caught on yet, there hasn’t been any sign of it.

It only takes a few carefully planted suggestions to pull the sap stuck watching the security cams into a deep sleep. Stepping around him, you plug the USB stick with the virus ready to deploy. The monitor screens flicker for a moment and then nothing. You bite back a smile as you pull the stick back out. By the time they notice anything wrong, if they notice anything wrong, it’ll be too late.

From there, it’s a matter of a few careful keypresses to turn off the laser detectors and alarm system. You’ve got maybe half an hour before someone checks on the office and resets the alarms.

Plenty of time.

Hopefully.

Closing your eyes you stretch out your awareness, find the hazy void of thought that masks Zia’s presence and give it a sharp prod. A moment passes and you feel a hard shove in return.

Okay. Great. So far, so good.

Closing the door behind you you set off down the hallway. You’ll take the long way around. Hopefully Zia doesn’t need any help. She’s a better telepath than you are. Better at manipulating people even without that advantage. She’ll be fine. She has to be fine. It’ll work out you just have to –

You pull hard against the wall as a guard walks past. Nudge his attention away from spotting you alongside the hallway. He walks past without stopping, eyes straight ahead, whistling a bored tune.

You should spend less energy worrying about Zia and more on paying attention to yourself. Cursing under your breath, you wait a second to confirm and then head off again. You and Zia both have your skinsuits on under everything, if it comes down to it. It’d be such a waste of a dress though.

The vault is further back into the mansion, away from the bustle of the ballroom and the party showing off Yasuda’s influence. As you get closer, there’s no sign of Zia. Already inside? No – you can pick her coming up the other end of the hallway. Behind schedule, but still within allowance.

Zia catches your eye and the two of you exchange nods. Trailing on Zia’s arm is Henry Yasuda himself, babbling some braggart story that Zia clearly hasn’t been paying attention to. He looks at you, eyes sliding off you face, a dazed, glossy look to them. Dreaming? Well, as long as Zia can get him to open the door.

You hang back, taking flank. “Any trouble?”

“Of course not.” Zia pulls her arm away from Yasuda, giving him a soft push towards the door. “Now, what did you want to show me, sweetheart?”

The man mumbles something, an unintelligible mix of English, Spanish, and Japanese. Presses his hand against the door, frowns, then tries again. Twice more before he finds the keypad. 

Zia snickers, “Find the right strings and they fall over themselves to help you ruin them.”

“F–focus.”

“Oh, you’re no fun.” She waves you away, pouting. “Look at him, thinking he’s getting something out of this. Adorable.”

You hold your breath. On the third try, the keypad turns green under Yasuda’s fingers and the doors click open. The two of you let him enter first, following quickly behind before the doors can shut.

Zia claps her hands together, looking around the shelves lining the walls of the modest-sized office. “Very nice.” Instead of books, a collection of jewels, fossils, and historical artifacts fill the shelves. A collection of paintings are haphazardly arranged on easels in one corner. Temporary relocation during the party? Huh. They’re either worth a lot, or not enough.

Glancing over at Zia, you grab her arm, pulling her hand back from a display box of gems. “Don’t touch anything.” You hiss. “No fingerprints.”

“You’ve got space in that purse.”

“Limited space. Com’on.” You gesture to Yasuda. “Put him out and keep an eye open while I look.”

Grumbling, Zia waves at Yusada dismissively and the man crumbles into a heap in the corner, lights out. “What’s the point of breaking in if we don’t steal anything?”

“Priorities.” There’s a desk and computer at the far end. Dipping a hand into your purse you pull out a pair of plastic gloves, snapping them on. “This is worth more, and harder to track.”

“But where’s the romance?” Zia’s eyes dip down to your hands. “I don’t suppose you…?”

“No.”

“Ugh.”

“Could have packed your own.”

Zia doesn’t have anything to say to that.

You don’t risk sitting down on the chair, pulling it back and out of the way as you jam another USB stick into an open port. A few nerve-wracking seconds later the login screen on the monitor disappears, replaced by the desktop. Fist pump in the air, just the tiniest, most restrained motion, but it catches Zia’s attention.

“Going well?”

Nod as you sort through the files, pulling passwords, account numbers, anything that looks like it might be valuable. “Fucker thought he’d be safe keeping his computer off the network.” You snicker, shaking your head. “We should be able to do some real damage before they catch on.”

“Mmm.”

“Look at some of this stuff, this folder is literally labeled ‘Blackmail’ it’s beyond parody. It doesn’t even look to be encrypted. These people really think they can just do whatever they want–”

“Look, dear, I’ve been… thinking about what you said.”

The tentative tone in Zia’s voice gives you pause and you spare a glance over to her. Your fellow super villain is pacing the walls of the room, facing away from you.

“You’re just… well, so weak–”

You frown and shift your focus back to the computer. For a moment you thought this was going to be something heartfelt. But no. It’s just Zia being Zia. What did you really expect? She keeps talking but you’re only half paying attention, waiting for the jab or the fake-out you’ve come to expect from her.”

“–but your weakness hasn’t made you any less strong; And I… well…”

A sharp piercing ringing cuts through the area. You jump, cursing as you bang your knee on the edge of the desk.

“That wasn’t me!” Zia is tense, on alert as you look over to her, quickly backing away from a shelf.

“W–what did you – I told you not to–”

“Was hardly my doing, darling, I promise you.” Zia frowns, a challenge in her stare. “You ready to go?”

You tsk, wincing at the computer screen. “C–can you buy me a minute?”

Zia glances towards the far corner of the room, then up towards the ceiling. You can feel the edge of her telepathic presence skirting around you. “I just redirected to guards who were on their way here. As beautiful and talented as I am, my dear, I can’t keep that up forever before it becomes obvious.”

“Right.” You take a breath, chewing on the inside of your cheek until you taste blood. “Right. Okay. Okay.” Check the contents of the USB. Not everything you wanted, but can you really afford to waste any more time? But – but – but…

“Ariadne!” Zia’s voice is sharp and loud, cutting through the noise both in the air and in your head. You snap your head up, find her eyes.

You nod. Take a breath. You dip down to pull the USB out of it’s port and slip it back into your purse, then log off the computer. “Okay. Let’s go.” Power-walking back to Zia, already waiting by the doors. Peeling off the plastic gloves and tucking them away as you go. One hand in your purse, finds the remote detonator, thumbing the trigger.

Zia eyes your arm and cocks her head to the side, a smirk on her face. “Time for plan B?”

“Time for plan B.”

Her grin only widens.

You press the trigger as the two of you step into the hallway. Half a second later, a soft ‘boom’ rattles the paintings hanging from the walls followed by series of screams.

Your partner in crime cackles, clapping her hands together. “Well! I suppose we should be good girls and evacuate with the rest of the sheep now.”

You bite back a smile. “I sincerely doubt anyone has called you a ‘good girl.’”

In the chaos of people fleeing the smoke, Zia and yourself are able to slip back into the crowd. Just another pair of wannabe socialites having a terrible time of it. Nothing to see here. Once outside, you’re able to slip onto the street before the police arrive. Walk a few blocks before calling a taxi cab.

The come down from after an operation is always a little surreal. That slowly sinking realization that once again, you haven’t been caught. Zia directs the cab driver back to her penthouse suite, because of course you always have to debrief there. She has standards after all. Ones much higher than a dingy corner of a refurbished workshop.

As soon as the two of you are safely inside, you drop your purse on a table and collapse onto an open couch. You can change clothes later, when the shock finally wears off.

Zia snickers from the kitchen table, something alcoholic and fruity smelling in her hand. “Tired already, my dear handmaiden?”

“Aren’t you?”

“This is the part I hate. Where all the, the uh, the doubts come filtering in.” You groan into the couch mattress. “Why did the alarm go off early? Will Yasuda remember us at all? What if there was some sort of recording device or secondary CCTV we missed? What if someone places us there and realizes we weren’t on the guest list? What if all the files are dummy data or one of them is some kind of trap? What if–”

“Ariadne.” Zia laughs, cutting you off. “Relax darling. Everything went fine. Between my talents and your planning, everything went off without a hitch. It was flawless much like these…”

You hear a a solid ‘clunk, clunk, clunk’ of something heavy being laid out on the kitchen table. Eyes wide you shot up from the couch and stare over at Zia who sits back, watching you, a sly smirk on her face. A series of brilliant blue sapphires glitter under the kitchen light.

“Oh my god.” Your voice cracks. “I – I told you not to touch anything.”

She sighs, rolling her eyes. “If we didn’t steal something they’d know you’d broken into that computer for sure.” She picks up one of the gems, turning it over in her fingers. “A common jewel thief is much less concerning than a hacker wouldn’t you say?”

You blink.

Frown.

“I…” Chewing at your cheek again you get up from the couch and walk over to the table. “You’re right.”

“I’m right?” Zia blinks, taken aback, a hand to her chest. Her surprise is gone just as quickly, cool confidence radiating back out. “Of course I am.”

“Don’t let it get to your head.” You try to scowl, but can’t keep it up under the shear pleased expression on Zia’s face.

Zia preens, brushing her hair back with a smile. “No, no, do keep going. Tell me how I’m right again?”

“I take it back.”

“Too late.”

“Fuck you.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Miss Jealousy?”

“I–” You shut your mouth and purse your lips, glaring down at Zia in her seat. “What was that you were trying to say back there, anyway? Right before you set the alarm off?”

“I–? I did not set off the alarm!” Zia scoffs, hand to her chest again. “And anyway, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Hrm.” Something in the back of your head screams at you as you step in closer. This is a mistake. You can’t trust giving someone like Zia this much power over you. And yet –

“Ariadne?” Zia stares back at you, challenging.

You dip in, a kiss on the cheek and pull back before she can make a decision either way. Zia blinks, caught in a moment of unguarded shock as she puts a hand to where your lips touched her. The full weight of her telepathic presence presses against yours. Probing, questioning. “S–still… still scared, I see.”

“Me? Scared?” Zia scoffs, pulling her hand back down, willing her expression back to something more neutral. “You’re mistaken.”

You bite your lip. Fuck. There’s too many ways this ends badly. What are you thinking? Have you completely lost your mind?

“Well then…” You offer a hand out to your partner-in-crime. “Be scared with me?”

#fallen hero: rebirth #ockiss20 #fanfiction #fhr/Ariadne #zia basri #wlw fanfic

[smeraldos]

blindside [pt. 2]

truth or lie: you can’t keep a secret. [college!au]

part 1 <       > part 3

pairing: jeongguk x reader

summary: you’re too good to be true.

a/n: sorry for the long wait - i’m a turtle and life keeps me busy, so please bear with me. no JK in this chap because you get the spotlight (but he will make an appearance soon). hope you enjoy🌸

to the people who supported my 1st chap: thank you x 3000 - i don’t think i can say it enough. please see the bottom!

…

What you liked most about Taehyung was that he still had some Geochang in him. Granted, it hadn’t been long since he’d traded an idyllic riverside for the lights and smog of Seoul, but the part of him that others chided as rustic and unrefined was what you saw as honest. 

Secretly, you wished you could be more like him. And maybe you would have, if this city hadn’t made it impossible to. Without a thick skin, you’d be a deer in the midst of wolves. 

“Haesoo,” he called out from the paint aisle, “did you see any Holbein lying around?”

“The gouache?” You yelled back. “They ran out yesterday, but I placed an order. They should be coming in next week.”

There was a distant clatter in response, then Taehyung exclaiming “leaping lizards.” Sounded like he’d knocked over an easel. “That picky ahjumma won’t let me hear the end of it.”

“Then don’t tell her,” you said.

“She’s going to ask about it, anyway,” he lamented, coming into view. His hair was freshly black then, starkly illustrating his handsome features. Any girl would save a country for someone like him, although you had never seen him take advantage of it. 

“Good luck.” You returned to your book. “I’ll be cheering you on silently.”

Only the light melody from the speakers responded. Manager Min had a talent for finding poignant music, and right then, it swept you up in a breeze, a wash of waves along the shore. A midnight trip to the beach when you were a child, determined and fearless, and your brother dared you to wade out as far as you could without looking back. 

And then Taehyung cut in, yanking you out of your memory.

“Hoping we won’t find–” he began, his voice startlingly loud. In fact, he was standing right behind you, peering over your shoulder. Snapping your book shut, you whipped around to glare at him. “What do you want?”

“Can you switch with me? That ahjumma seriously gets on my nerves.“

“You handled her just fine the last time. If you can’t, what makes you think I can?”

“You’re way better at keeping your cool, for one,” he started, but when it was obvious you weren’t going to budge, he switched gears. “I’ll buy you something. Just name the price and I’ll pay it.”

“A job for the marketing team at Samsung.”

“You can’t pay for that,” he retorted.

“But you can bribe someone,” you shot back. “That’s still a price to pay, isn’t it?”

“Are you kidding? I can’t go to jail.”

“Then sorry, I can’t help you.”

Pouting, Taehyung pulled at your arm. “Please? Just this once.”

“No.” You tugged it back. “Will you stop and get back to work?”

“Only if you aren’t contradicting yourself,” he pointed out.

“Okay, first, there’s no one–” Paying, you were about to say, but caught your mistake. Not only was no one in line for the register, but there was also no one in the entire shop besides the two of you. 

“Exactly,“ Taehyung affirmed, a playful tilt to his smile. “So since we’re not busy and I don’t have anything to read, can we switch?” He turned up the aegyo again. 

Gosh, Taehyung could be such a persistent child. You don’t even like reading, you wanted to say, but considered giving in to get him off your back. 

Just then, the bells on the door chimed.

It took Taehyung a second to resume the part of a proper employee, and in that second, you gave him a smug look. He stuck his tongue out. Then he strode over to greet the halmoni who’d stepped in, and you watched her glow as he’d talked, Gyeongsang satoori on display. She’d come from around Daegu, then, you thought with a smile. Taehyung always knew how to make a customer feel at home.

A minute later, Manager Min shuffled in with a huge, sturdy bag, dropping it off in front of you.

“What’s this?” You asked, turning the bag around to see the logo of an electronics company.

“Our new security camera. Someone’s going to help me install it later.“ He made his way around the counter, and instinctively, you felt your pulse pick up. That was the one thing you couldn’t control. “Did that new shipment of Jumi notebooks come in?”

“Half an hour ago,” you said, wondering why Min decided to get a camera now. It hadn’t been long since the old one had stopped working, yet long enough that it seemed he would go on without one. The surrounding area was relatively free of crime, anyway, and chances of a robbery were slim to none.

Had he somehow caught onto you stealing? You turned to meet his eyes. His expression was nothing out of the ordinary - no narrowed eyes or searching gaze suggestive of a question.

“Great,” he said, voicing out your thoughts. “And you restocked them?”

“As soon as they came in.”

Min nodded, satisfied. “I’ll take over the cashier, you go and help Taehyung-ssi.”

“Of course.”

“Oh, and Haesoo-ssi?” You looked back. “Jiwon-ssi’s farewell dinner is tomorrow. Don’t forget.”

“I won’t,” you assured with a smile, then greeted the next customer. She was slim, dressed in a dark pantsuit similar to the one your mother bought when you told her you’d accepted an offer to work at Hana Financial Group. In fact, it hung in your closet, the tags still attached. You couldn’t bring yourself to return it.

“Hello.“ The customer came up to you, smile sweet, eyes sharp. “Do you have the piano performance book for the Associated Board Exams?” She pushed a girl who could only be her daughter forward, prompting her gently. “What level was it, princess?”

The daughter, surprisingly, had tears in her eyes. Her mother bent to wipe them, murmuring what seemed to be words of comfort until you read her lips. “You don’t want the duster when we get home, do you?”

It was a mild threat compared to the items that had been doled out on you for discipline. This girl, however, was no more than seven. She wouldn’t know anything worse. Bravely, she gulped in a breath and met your eyes. “Four,” she said, voice clear.

You could barely say, “yes,” before a bell-like sound came from the woman’s pocket. She pulled her phone out and held it to her ear, telling her daughter to follow you while she left to speak outside.

Alone, the girl looked to you timidly. Her wide eyes glistened from the last of her tears, and if her mother hadn’t been within sight, you wouldn’t have hesitated to reach out and console her. As it was, you could only say, “Follow me.”

In the book aisle, you showed her where the Associated Board ones were kept and turned to look at her. “Do you like playing the piano?”

“Yes.” She met your gaze straight-on.

That would have convinced you, had you not seen the way her mother treated her or how her gaze lingered at the art section, curiosity burning bright.

“That’s good,” you said, handing her the Level 4 book. “Are you practicing for the exams?”

“Yes.”

“And did you make mistakes?”

She flinched, but maintained eye contact. “No.”

It was the face of denial. You knew that one too well.

Gently, you knelt down in front of her. “I didn’t say that was a bad thing. It’s how you learn and get better. If you keep practicing, you’ll do well.”

“But umma says if I make mistakes, I’m going to fail and make her mad.”

“Maybe at the exam,” you agreed, “but when you practice, it doesn’t count. When will you be tested?”

“Next, next…” She paused, thinking, then added, “next month.”

“You still have time,” you assured. “So mistakes don’t mean you failed, okay? They mean chances to improve.”

She nodded, slowly coming around to what you were saying. “Okay.”

“Please remember that,” you said, then stretched out a hand to her, opening your palm. In it was the origami ballerina you’d seen her staring at, the one of Odette from Swan Lake. You were sure Jiwon wouldn’t mind if it went missing. “And if there’s something you really want to do, don’t give up on it.”

Joy shone on her face as she took it from you. “Thank you.”

You returned her smile. “Don’t tell your umma any of this. It’s a secret, promise?”

She hooked her pinky through yours. “Promise,” she echoed, then tucked the ballerina in her pocket. 

You were glad she agreed. Not because you were afraid of her mother chewing you out; if anything, you could care less. You just didn’t want to make things harder on the girl, and you knew better than to get in the way between a mother and a daughter. You were a stranger, after all, not anyone close. All you could do was give her hope.

When the girl’s mother re-entered, you watched her run back, light catching on her hair. 

(In hindsight, that was probably one of the few things you did that was worth it.)

…

saved the best for last!  you guys mean a lot; i just didn’t want this section to bombard any new readers.

special shout-out to @jiminsarea for the ‘lil encouragement to continue; @scastro95 for commenting (actually, JK didn’t catch her - he just happened to look at her hands! it was a close call); @jkstrash1997, @baegukkiew​, @dammit-jjk​, @jjungkookvnv​ for reblogging; @ko0kle, @ctrl-alt-jeon, @chellllls, @deadleaves278, @wingsprainedhmelou, @jeon-shi for following; and everyone who liked the post (too many to tag!). i’m grateful for each and every one of you. thank you for gracing this humble work with your support 💜

hope you all keep reading, and if there’s a way i can support you as a creator, let me know!

#jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook scenarios #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook au #bts au #bts fluff #bts angst #bts fic #jungkook fic #kim taehyung #min yoongi #my fic

[bengreenresearch]

Reflective Journal

Reflective Journal

Looking back on my project I have mixed emotions, I feel like in some aspects I have let myself down, however as a whole I really enjoyed the researching and various productions I have made. I am going to discuss various aspects of my work and my methods of working, I will critically look at what has been successful and what has areas for improvement, explaining why as I write. This allows me to reflect on what I have produce, and then learn from mistakes or take my ideas further in my work.

I think that one of the strongest aspect to my project is my interest in my subject, I think that this fuels my project to progress. My interest in classic tattoo history and american history is a result of my job, as a tattooer I can look at the tattoos differently. I look at how the tattoo has been executed, how consistent the lines are, are the colours even in the skin. I look at things in the tattoos that only tattooers would look at, this allows me to critically comment on the vintage tattoo photographs and designs that I showed in my research and my dissertation.

Another strong aspect of my project was my ability to find imagery or names of artists that were tattooing between 1900-1990, I was already interested in this subject before I started to write about it with my dissertation so I knew a few places that I could use to start my research with, this was essential for getting my project off to a good start, without this I think I would have struggled to find appropriate imagery. I could use my resources to watch interviews, read articles that would include images, names and interesting topics that I could later quote. Once I had built up a good list of artist names it meant I could start to research them and proceed to find any religious or patriotic symbolism within their tattoos that I could talk about. Common themes in religious and patriotic tattoos allowed me to consider what was popular at the time, eagles, flags, ships and anchors were very popular among the american forces.

Research was something that I found much easier than in other years, I think by trying to gain as much visual imagery as I could I allowed myself to really think about what I wanted to be creating. Finding all of this imagery also heavily inspired me, it opened my eyes to combining colours, which I have really struggled with before.

I really did enjoy the collaborative exhibition we did. My group and I produced what I think was a very interesting workshop. I think that we compromised for everyone, we managed to link everyones interests into the design. We produced shelves that we could place our publications on which I think links to Agne, Liz and I interest in tattoos, as it was similar to a tattoo shop where you pick out a design, it also links to Zoe, Tracy and Sam's interest in fashion as it resembles a shop space, and finally it links to Phil's interest in music and records by being sort of similar to how records are laid out in a record shop. We were all interested in identity also, with all of our projects somewhat representing or speaking for someones identity. We also managed to capture this with our workshop, we asked people to choose a select few objects that would represent them the most and then stick them on a board, in a composition of their choosing, we did this so that people would be able to fully customize what they were creating. The objects they created would then be printed onto a tote bag, the objects would be represented by a simplified object. Printing onto tote bags was not only more interesting than printing on paper but it also allowed us to give the people that got involved with our workshop something to take away from it, something that they created. I think that our workshop had a really good atmosphere and I think that we did a great job of orchestrating it. I find it interesting with our workshop, I produced a variety of artworks that would relate to both my practice and my report. I find it interesting that some of my scientology objects were chosen, I don't hesitate to think that they were only picked because of the initial impression the design made and not because of the scientology meaning. It's also worth mentioning that my artworks that are directed at Christianity was rarely picked at all, I think out of roughly thirty prints that we made it only got picked twice.

One aspect of my project that I feel like I let myself down with is when I was trying to research a modern focus for my work. After my tutorial with Peter I felt lost, I was very confused and didn't know which direction to head in, so I blindly headed on. This wasn't great, I should have sat down and really dedicated some time into exploring the options that I could use. I was periodically thinking about it, putting more focus into my dissertation and allowing my practice to lapse somewhat. I was trying to find avenues to work with, looking into cults and religions, some of note are the Charles Manson Family, Church of the Latter-day Saints and Church of Scientology, out of these I needed something that I could work with, something that I could grasp onto and represent through art. Once I did some more research and chatted with tutor Robert, I realized that the Church of Scientology was most appropriate for me. They were modern, american, somewhat mysterious and there is a wealth of information on the internet about then. Once I had my muse I feel like I really found my groove, and I produced some designs that represent Scientology, similarly to my dissertation, I am trying to represent Scientology through my work.

Time management as always is something I strive to improve, I found that during my group work I left the creation of my paintings quite late, this was somewhat related to me not knowing what I wanted to work with but it also was because I hadn't prepared myself properly. I should have started planning my pieces early, and started to execute them as soon as I had a solid plan, this will have allowed me time to critically examine my work for faults and also allow me to refine my work, picking the best ten pieces for my publication.

Speaking about my artwork, I feel that my use of materials lacked in variation, I worked mostly with paper, however I explored working with different scales, using larger scales to what I am used to, I combined this with unusually sized paper and compositions so that I could test my ability to create work at speed. I plan to experiment and make use of different materials with my future and current work, by painting on wood scraps, similar to historic religious art. I would also like to try and paint on more textiles, I haven't done it before and I would like to see what sort of impact the texture on the fabric would make when paint is applied. Following on from these suggestions about material I would really like to explore more with paint. I would like to explore using thicker paints such as oil as well as trying to use gouache, something that I haven't used before.

Organization is something that I have really lapsed with this term, just as my projects were both taking off and going in new directions I started to get lost with them, I neglected one and focused more on the other when I should have tried to divide my time equally between them both, the timetable set up we have helps aid that function, it helps keep the projects moving along giving us smaller deadlines to keep to, I should try and set myself some smaller deadlines for having work produced. I have been spreading myself between working in quite a few locations, so I had different pieces of equipment and work in different locations, this wasn't a good idea as it meant I had to rely on my memory to remember what I had been making, my memory isn't great so this let me down. The solution is to limit where I choose to work, or photograph at different stages, this will also help me keep my blog up to date.

Overall I think that this has been one of my most successful terms for research, I was very interested with my project, I was consistently engaged with what I was learning about for my dissertation, and once I had found my subject I really think I started to create some interesting artwork around the Church of Scientology. I need to work on my organization and time management, I let myself down by leaving things till last minute then stressing myself out over them. I should plan thoroughly and try and stick to the plans. I think that where I thrived was with our group, we all did a great job and the work we produced worked well with each others.

#work