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worldsover · 3 years

Text

Judgement to the Desiccated ft. Karina

length ✦ 5573

genres ✧ sm type future; asphyxiation; blackmail; virtual_servant!Karina;

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Air did a poor job of not being polluted so Lee Soo Man flooded the world instead. The man himself certainly must be long gone and could not have been in charge of that decision but the legacy of his company far exceeds the legacy of any other human collective in history. Once on this planet, gas was the fluid of choice for respiration and breathing was an unconscious reflex. Now there’s Aether by SM. How very on-brand of them to have the liquid air you breathe follow perfume naming conventions.

Open your eyes and exit the sleeping chamber. Aether has you work for each inhalation, it desaturates the color of the bedroom—maybe there’s a subtle but uncomfortable tinge of yellow—and it makes your nose itch. Your muscles wield much less force than they used to because of the lack of resistance the fluid provides. Moreover, it smells like hairspray as though the ozone layer is taking sardonic revenge.

Screens impersonating windows track your eyes to ensure realistic parallax, playing the scene of divine blue heavens that could not exist. An azure sky is a reward for those planets that have an atmosphere and a sun for light to scatter. Your walls are either chrome or drywall white and your whole bedroom is plainly decorated just like the day you moved in.

“Etymology of bedroom,” you think out loud, though it falls on no ears.

“Bedroom is a compound noun consisting of bed and room. Bed goes back to Old English bedd ‘sleeping place, plot of ground prepared for plants,’ which goes back to the Germanic-”

Plants and sleep are both strong words to use nowadays. The former doesn’t exist in nature and it seems you’re the only one who bothers with the latter. Faint buzzing distracts you from the AI’s response and signals you to the nano drones that swim throughout the liquid to process carbon dioxide from your lungs. This whole ordeal could’ve been much worse if you didn’t have brain interfaces doing the hard part of controlling your diaphragm. The most you need is a purposeful thought. Still, it gets tiring having to think the same thought every three seconds. In. Out.

Was the metaphorical Soo Man teaching a lesson in perseverance? You love K-pop and imagine it’s how trainees used to practice dancing, singing, being charismatic. Being an idol had to be as natural as breathing air. Inhale and exhale. Right now with any antiquated programming language you clung on to, you could write a single for loop that did the same job. For every three seconds: breathe in, breathe out.

“What’s for breakfast today?” Not loud enough. “What’s for breakfast?” you think it louder.

“Welcome, master. Ae-Karina is ready for service.” It’s quite a kindness for SM to blur the bland dystopia you live in by augmenting reality through your neural device. A bosomy woman in a gold-lined but otherwise modest maid outfit appears from the corner of your eye and she bows. Ae-Karina is bewitching and almost becoming of her basis as its graphics have gradually upgraded over the rotations but you wouldn’t misconstrue the avatar as human.

“I said, what’s for breakfast!” It feels impolite to scream in your head, there’s other residents there, but finally the fridge lights up.

“Of course master. May I remind you eating is unnecessary?”

In. Out. Every day, she does remind you, yes. How kind of the company to put all your nutritional requirements in the new air. Aether goes in then Aether goes out. You wish the thoughts of breathing could fade into the background but they’re just like your cravings for food. Always hungry but never starving, whole though not once satisfied. Your eyes pause at her gorgeous face and she tells you there’s bacon. Take it from your fridge. Bacon goes in. Well, the drones take care of the out.

Your assigned living space is the entire 207th floor of a tower. Two hundred and seven floors below the surface. The neighbor a few floors upstairs says that he thinks living deeper is a sign of status. What a luxury. That guy should check the status of his facial muscles, maybe improve his code that lets him tell lies while he’s at it. A couple hundred flights of stairs to swim up is a useless skeuomorphism of skyscrapers in the days of the sun. In fact they were more than useless, you would've preferred a single vertical hallway as it would have let you propel upwards unimpeded. Each floor is the exact same, a glass door that affords no privacy for its residence, a false tree on each side. At the upper levels, malls, convenience stores and other gaudy retail, but it’s the gyms that mock you that you mock in return. They’re always empty.

Finally reaching the top is no true break even if it is a change in scenery. Inhale. Aether tastes a little different up here. Exhale. Can’t say you like it.

Countless satellites form a parody of the star from which the planet flew away, the false image refracted by the upper boundary of Aether. They can’t take away your memories of this star. Looking up at the sky once blinded you with ultraviolet radiation, burning your cornea. It was beautiful. Now everyone’s decided that if they’re playing the part of corporate dystopia, they might as well fit the aesthetic. In a way, it’s self-fulfilling. They wouldn’t have chosen a neon pink sun to compliment the blue and metallic gloom of the cityscape if it weren’t so ingrained in popular media already.

Still, you would’ve expected Google or Walmart to become the megacorp responsible for the state of the world, not a Korean entertainment company. Must’ve been quite the red paperclip scenario. Instead of material design or utilitarian architecture, tacky artistic structures line the streets. The same advertisements for albums that they’ve been selling for the past however long. It's all so obvious, the city could've been designed from scratch to accommodate new forms of travel and goddamn liquid air but instead they went with futuristic Tokyo.

Dubstep permeates your inner ear implants. A notification informs your thoughts that it’s “Hip-hop EDM dance pop with a strong jungle house groove and urban influences.” It’s dubstep. Liquid carries barely any sound so SM affords the option for implants if you're nostalgic for one of the senses. Even though it’s a slower form of communication than direct neural transfer, the noise comforts you. Of course the company would choose dubstep as their background music, but maybe they make money off refunds somehow. It switches to Ice Cream Cake. Much better.

You walk the not so busy roads towards a short brick warehouse in the distance and heavy rain soaks your clothes. No such thing as weather without the sun and water but it’s all simulated anyway.

A warm Seulgi adlib and you know it’s Psycho that starts playing. No, none of your senses are real. The most you could trust is your vision but even that’s being lied to. You could be living in a vat and fed all these thoughts, but then why make it so mediocre? Not paradise, nor torture but a lukewarm in-between. Guess that's what happens when SM Entertainment manages the post-apocalypse. Good on them for trying. The alternative would be a frozen hellscape without solar radiation. Can’t deny their work with geothermal and nuclear energy to keep the Aether warm so that you didn’t have to live underground for the rest of human history. It’s quite great PR to save humanity.

“Hey now, we’ll be okay,” repeats a few more times than you remember.

The Idea Factory Alpha White Delta Green says the neon tubes lighting the front of the brick and mortar building. Your ID card bears a name but it’s not yours, not until they approve your name change. Those usually get processed faster with how often people liked changing their names.

Sit at a desk with a sterile white keyboard and slick new monitor. Type and empty words appear on the screen: “Think for the many, not for the one. We need to think ahead.” A thumbs up. The company appreciates the input. That’s probably enough work for one day. Some SNSD live stages help the time pass, SM certainly appreciated the streaming numbers and it would net you some social points.

It’s hard to say what comes to mind when they ask you to envision a world without the sun and air, especially since it’s what you’ve known for... Two hundred years? There’s no frame of reference, that much you can tell from when you counted seconds to see how often the satellites completed their orbit. SM really took time to have them propel at random speeds, they love withholding sensitive information like that from citizens. To be fair, time is sensitive. Guess the meaning of that phrase changes like all parts of language.

Look around. Dozens of employees at identical workspaces all try to answer the same questions. Naturally, there’s no need for manual labor anymore but there will never be a replacement for human ingenuity. Nice slogan but you know you’re only here for data. Can’t see a need for customer retention though—what’s the alternative, skip Earth? See you on another planet?

“Hey bro, you come up with anything new?” Dave says. Two desks away, you see the enthusiastic, surprisingly spry man play around with a Newton’s cradle. The balls at each end bounce back and forth, not slowing down their rhythm any time soon.

“I think I got something,” you say, “Earth is not the answer. It can’t be, long term.”

“Ooh, I like that. Actually, I really like that.”

“What are you gonna do, copy me?”

“Of course not. You know how much SM hates plagiarism.” Click. Clack.

“Ha. As if there’s a single original thought left in the world.” Click. Clack. The imaginary sounds of metal spheres bouncing play in your mind. They got the volume wrong, no way it’d sound that loud from that distance. “You’d think with all their resources, they’d have figured out space travel by now.”

“I don’t think they want to leave, bro. Wouldn’t be great for profits.”

Your mouth opens to laugh and causes laugh8942.mp3 to play in Dave’s head. “I love it. SM probably hates that sass too,” you say.

“Oh no, they’re gonna arrest me for thoughtcrimes. Nah, they love creativity, just when it suits them. Also, if they actually did bust you for wrongthink like rumors say, I wouldn’t have this on me.” Dave twirls a finger and points at you and you thank his absurd flair for the histrionic that keeps you amused with such drab work.

“NewDrug.mp6. Would you like to play it?” the dry system voice notifies you.

“Woah woah there tiger, hold on.” Dave must’ve noticed your intrigued eyes and holds his hands up. “You might wanna experience that at home. But if you’re interested in more, ask for chicken parm at the vegan place. You know the one.”

Dave leaves his desk. He doesn’t return. You finish your work. Inspire. Expire. You’d rather not.

In contrast to your commute to work, the roads fill with others on your way home. You have to know. Take solace in the comfort of a bench where a huge McDonald’s arch bathes the surroundings and its people with a yellow glow. Really shouldn’t watch it now, especially if Dave says it’s a home type of watch but you have to know. A family of five watches you pass out. They, along with every other passerby, ignore your still body draped over the chrome outdoor seating as you look like yet another junkie. The title is correct after a fashion, the simulation is some sort of new drug. The details of the exploits that happen in the immersive replay wash over you but you don’t need them to know that it’s the sort of lewd that SM would not allow—at least not publicly and not without the right exorbitant payment.

Suit pants and underwear go straight to the laundry. That must’ve been an embarrassing sight but no one bothered to stop you, so it doesn’t matter. Look up where this vegan place was that Dave so presumptuously assumed you knew about and you find that it’s about four Avengers’ stores down from work. He must’ve eaten there before.

“Yo Dave, just wanna make sure, what’s the name of the vegan place called?”

“What are you talking about, man? You telling me there’s some secret underground farms that SM wouldn’t know about?”

You can’t tell when you got to work, a lack of standardized timing would help as well the haze of living in a monotonous dark. “Nah, I mean, for the-”

“I have no idea,” Dave emphasizes each word, “what you’re talking about.”

“I see.”

Work flies by, unusually.

“Hey, can I get a chicken-”

“Uh, this is Maron’s Veggies Only, it clearly says on the sign.”

Clear your throat. “Parm.”

The shifty part-time worker looks around and rubs his fingers gesturing for money. “No digital.”

Over the counter, you pass him a gold coin stamped with a holographic 1 and he hands you a USB stick and a laptop in return. How old-fashioned.

“It’ll sync with whoever you have set as your avatar experience aspect,” the worker says.

“Thanks.”

Ever vigilant as the patrol is, the alleys are the last place you want to go to hide with the obvious criminal element within them all but you head to one anyway. Dump the anachronistic technology in your storage pocket dimensions. Looking at its contents, you’d have to clean that mess up later, but the more you look like an average slob the better. The biggest problem with the inventories is all the people squatting in them. Inspectors wouldn’t care about the archaic ruins you left in yours.

“Welcome, master. Ae-Karina is ready to service.”

“I’d like to go on a date. A special date.” You highlight the key word special and sit on your living room couch. No one’s going to look in your glass door and regardless, you wouldn’t be the pervert for glimpsing into someone’s home.

“Ah yes, master. Ae-Karina is ready to fully service,” she says with a provocative tint in her tone, her sclera disperses to black to match. A pole drops from the ceiling while parts of her maid outfit dissolve which reveals more of the silky skin of her thighs, her lissom arms and most importantly her overflowing breasts. Ae-Karina wraps her legs around the pole and spins around, teasing fingers trace curves on her body to harden you. Her dance is precise but sultry regardless. She pulls up her short skirt to flaunt more of her ass beneath white panties and then pulls down to flourish her cleavage, not trapped by a bra. “Are you enjoying your maid’s show?”

“Very much so, yes,” you say.

Half of a smile forms before a glitch occurs and she teleports next to you, fully nude. It doesn’t pull you out of the illusion however. You just stare and drink in the splendor of her created body.

“You’re not going to touch?” Ae-Karina says.

A feel of her tits and you find it softer than pillows you used to rest on. Soft isn’t much of a character that exists anymore when the whole world is engulfed in liquid. No one has beds, especially with the rarity of sleep. Therefore, her mounds are a consummate dedication to the texture as you squeeze and pinch at her cute nipples.

Her maid outfit rematerializes as she straddles you. It provides more friction to your pants as she begins her lap dance. The weight of her body dragging across your legs and clothed erection induces your carnal impulses further. If only you could fuck the virtual idol. You have to make do with the imprint of her pussy lips on your bulge sliding up and down. Breath in. Breath out.

Ae-Karina pulls down your boxers and spits on your erection. It's not real but her hands so slick on your cock and you let reality slip. Real is for the past, you have desires gratified in the present. There is no real person nibbling at your neck but your nerves activate in sexual desire without discernment for truth. No, she doesn't love you, but when the voracious mass of ones and zeroes says it loves its master, you say it back.

"I love you."

ILOVEYOU infected ten million computers in 2000. An explosion. Calibration engaging. It’s 1:21 PM, Sunday, July 18, 2286 and hypothetically the sun would be out in its full rage. At this latitude and longitude, you’re at what was once the epicenter of all—Seoul, where a fountain caused a chain reaction allowing the hopeful remnant of a world to exist. It lasted a surprisingly long time without the sun and without Aether but the dying planet would succumb inevitably to the ever-increasing contamination so SM of all corporations took charge. A different kind of chain reaction occurred when they acquired a restaurant chain that discovered the recipe for liquid air. The law is on its way and prepared to punish you to its full extent.

You reel while your ears ring. An even sexier version of the woman you already fantasized about appears from your peripheral vision in the crater of your floor. A skimpy cop outfit, striated with reflective material that seems to wane black at different angles, outlines Karina’s curves. She has a tool belt with absurd gadgets, such as a knife baton hybrid, a taser combined with a spray bottle and a Tamagotchi. None of this is necessary. They could just immediately arrest you, impose limitations on your devices. Sure, SM cloned people to deal with underpopulation, but why Karina would be the enforcer is a whole nother issue. Maybe the entertainment company loves their irony?

“Halt. You’re under arrest. Any resistance will be penalized according to the combined Terms of Service of all SM and SM associated products.”

Fucked anyway, you figure you might as well go for it. Escape into your inventory and only seconds later you’re forced out. You manage to get what you need regardless.

“Violation of access rights will be charged to your account.”

It’s so obvious but there’s a reason you kept so much gold in physical storage. As you swim away, the sides of your apartment start to bubble. Bubbles? Already, your limbs feel unsteady. Something’s wrong in the Aether.

“This is standard procedure for escaping suspects that are indoors. Again, this is all agreed to under the Terms of Service.”

“When the fuck did I ever click accept to that shit?”

“When you were born in this world and decided you want to stay in it,” Karina says out loud. You hear her say it. Your physical ears process the vibrations in the air that come from her mouth. Gravity thwarts your desperate escape as your limp body floats on the limit between liquid and air. The atrophy of your muscles becomes apparent within the gaseous atmosphere. She watches you sink down as the room drains of all the false air though her eyebrows crease when she inspects you closer. Your breaths are involuntary. Despite your muscles shorting out, the force of gravity and the pressure of the gas bearing down on you, you’re breathing and you don’t mean to. Her eyes wander farther down. On your pants, a concrete rod stamps the fabric.

“Oh, you like what you see?”

“Shut up, criminal. Anything you say can and will be used against you.”

“Your pussy,” you say and she scoffs.

“Original.” Karina bites her lip as your erection continues to grow behind its prison. You use all effort to put your hands up.

“Please, miss Karina. I’ve been bad.”

“I could punish you even more for sexual assault.”

“Then do it.”

Heat radiates the room in a way you haven’t felt in a while and droplets of sweat form on each of your bodies, especially on the thighs that her revealing outfit parades. Her facial features contort in deliberation and the wait kills you. You bat your eyes at her before Karina takes off her tight shorts and drops herself into your anticipatory face. This makes no sense but none of this life made any sense so you decide to go with the tides.

Centuries of training your respiration has led to this moment, but when you finally have real air to breathe, you spit at the opportunity and choose to suffocate. Then you spit at her pussy and lap it up. Karina’s nectar transfixes your olfactory glands, for once a smell that isn’t the sterile Aether. Your eyes are mesmerized in parallel because of the perfect design of her pussy, a single crease that leads into her hole that your tongue emphatically explores. Karina spreads her thighs wide to reveal a small nub that craves attention. So give it. Suck and swirl and flick your tongue, and the woman provides you the tight clench of her legs as a gift. And the sounds, rediscovered glorious noise. Loud, almost too loud, and clear is how they assault your ears, even surrounded by the flesh of her thighs. Muffled by the weight of her legs, you hear Karina moan in approval but she’s still clearly in charge with how she chokes you with her legs. This is not about your pleasure but hers, and any satisfaction that you derive is not only incidental but probably punishable by SM copyright law.

Karina squirms her hips subtly on your mouth. Her eyes are sharp and she’s just about to stop your hands from moving but she notices them clasp together.

“I’ll do anything to make you cum, please.” you say sloppily as her pussy juices fill your cheeks and drip down your chin.

“God. I can’t.” She takes deep, contemplative breaths. ”That’s more time added on for inappropriate behavior.” Her groaning and brief squeals make her words sound incogent.

You give her a concluding lick and a kiss on her slit. “So what have you been doing right now then?”

Point to a corner of the room and a subtle red light indicates a recording camera. At once, she pulls out a hose from a pocket that could not fit it and the vacuum submerges the room with noise. Her expression shifts quickly to serious.

“We don’t play games here in SMTOWN unless it’s SuperStar so don’t fuck with me.”

“Look who's trying to be a comedian. How about you fuck with me any further and the video gets released.”

“That’s funny, you think you have any sort of power-”

“Yoo Jimin, I suggest you don’t push me more.”

“Where do you know that name from? Right now.” She weighs herself down on your neck.

“You think I don’t have contingencies for if I die too? Karina, we can make this a win-win scenario. We both get to cum, we both get to walk away unscathed.”

“Fuck you.”

Your weak arms wander between her thighs. At any moment, a feeble punch towards your face or another ten seconds of asphyxiation and she could call your bluff. Even if you did have the ability to expose her perversions in any way, there would be no permanent recourse, not as long SM was in charge. So it surprises you when Karina takes off her shorts.

“Goddammit. Your cock just looks too good. And your mouth, how are you so good with it?” Put up five fingers when she motions to remove her top as well, and instead she opts to take off your clothes, seizing your pants and throwing them to join the rubble in the room.

A finger slips in, then two and a third dares. Her flawlessly architected pussy lips clings to your digits and Karina shudders in reply. You explore her wetness and find it’s smooth to the point of having no faults, but her juice inside is gloppy and causes your fingers to stick more than the liquids she spills from her slit.

“Who said you’re allowed to have more?”

You lap up the nectar on your fingers. “Then why’d they make you taste so good?”

Your thumb teases her sweet tight asshole and puts just the slightest amount of pressure on it while you finger her with more intensity. The mass of her butt burdens your torso the closer she gets to orgasm. Her eyelids squeeze close and you see her body ripple in anxious pleasure. Karina shows off her pearly whites, teetering on the cliff of hysteria.

“Yes, yes! I’m so close,” she screams.

"Not yet."

“Fuck." Karina sobs, "God. Damn, fuck I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Just fuck me.”

“My pleasure,” you say. There’s no need for you to grab her since she brings herself down to your groin, which you’re thankful for as your arms are as good as jelly now. Fortunately, your cock throbs as hard as ever while Karina’s slit rests on it.

“Say you’ll delete it all, all the evidence, promise me.”

“You’re gonna fuck me first or what?” Your breath hitches while she makes a strangled noise as her velvety walls swallow your cock whole to leave no room for comfort. Her tightness is stifling and you have to start counting just to breathe again.

“One two-”

“Be quiet.”

But there is no quiet when pleas for your cooperation intersperse her excessive profanities when she seats herself into your cock and ricochets up and down. Sweat emanates from her creamy skin while her legs widen to find a better angle for her supporting knees in her cowgirl position. Grapefruit and other citrus mingle with the scent of the sweat, fruits you haven’t seen except on billboards in music videos. As much as your mind crackles and your blood roars for every atmosphere of pressure Karina’s walls provide on each thrust in and out, you can’t help but reminisce on sweeter, more innocent times.

The white fluorescent lights in your apartment sputter. For all the advancements in technology, some among many things never change. Light refracts differently in air, less bright, but you can see the pure enjoyment on Karina’s face no matter the luminescence. Karina slows her ride to pull her hips down harder instead and she jolts when your cock finds the most tender spots inside her pussy and it interrupts her babbling.

Karina almost hyperventilates when she gets up to spit on your cock. She pulls out some kind of meter from her tool belt and sighs when there’s no beeping and you recognize it having to do with carbon dioxide. She gets back to dribbling saliva and the filament trailing down to your shaft mesmerizes you. This spit is real, not simulated, and it wettens your erection in a mix with her pussy juices to paralyze you further in your already listless state. Her bare thighs jiggle and you can’t exert much force with your hands but her buttcheeks are firm with just a bit of give.

“Thank you for this cock, thank you for being bad,” Karina says as you watch her ass sink deeper while her pussy holds your dick taut. She’s frenetic when bounces up and down to play an unadulterated orchestra of slick noises between your groins.

“You’re welcome,” you accomplish getting out the words between planned breaths. Your hands cup her buttcheeks but you fear they may break with how she strikes her ass into you.

Karina turns around once more to give you the spectacle of her facial expressions as she fucks herself into you. Knead her calves laying on your torso and they take no energy to spread them though she brings them back together, compressing your hard shaft within her pussy. A new game you play with her, a separate rhythm of loosening and tightening. Her feet press on your chest to help her bounce, but the way they bear down on your lungs against the timing of your breathing causes you to fumble. Your cock bends straight forward as she plunges herself into you and it sends prickles to your entire skin, making the new angle difficult but worth it. Karina takes your hand and starts sucking on your fingers.

“You want my promise that bad?” you say.

“Yes, as bad as I want your cum. I swear, I need it.”

She draws her knees up to her torso and hugs her legs to keep thighs as tight together as possible. Karina couldn’t keep her word, she was trying to kill your cock with constriction.

“Fuck, your pussy is so fucking tight. God, Karina, fuck. You’re so good.” Even if good isn’t the word you want to use to describe her.

“Do it, please, please. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, baby. Karina can be a good girl, a good maid, a good cop, whatever you want. Just don’t get me in trouble, please.”

Karina’s mouth stops saying words though her lips writhe, drunk in increasing lust. Her cheeks flush, before the rest of her skin joins in redness while she grapples your chest and whatever spare limb she can find. You still struggle wresting control of your body but nature seems to take over when you drive yourself into her and match her needy cadence. The air in the room is replaced by a new air but it isn’t Aether. Passion, sweat, heat and all fluids that you both exude join squelching sounds, slaps and moans in harmonic bliss when her body tenses and she screams. As her body tightens, her pussy especially holds your cock for dear life and endeavours to wring out all your semen as her wetness throbs and spills. Karina starts counting to three repeatedly and you laugh though your amusement quickly subsides when you feel her juices become more viscous and she continues her ride, even in the dying pulses of her climax.

“Was I good?” Karina asks.

Just a moment goes by before you mentally send her a screenshot of all the recordings being deleted. Karina hasn’t stopped fucking you yet so at least it wasn’t a ploy.

“Thank you, thank you, I love you.” The flexion of her pliant legs brings them all the way back to rest on top of your legs. Karina lays prone above you and finally give you a kiss. The citrusy flavor may be closer to lime than grapefruit but it’s been so long that you can’t remember which scent is which. Lips crash and her tongue lashes out at yours trying to establish dominance. Keep still to let her investigate your mouth while her pussy does the same to your shaft.

You savor the way Karina’s top emphasizes the bouncing of her tits synchronous with the rebounding of her waist on your cock, but your mouth waters when she frees them. Take the shortest moment to relish in the sight before Karina smothers you with her plump globes. You wriggle your face to try to breathe. Inhale, up and exhale, down, but all you inhale is the scent of her orbs’ sweat. Her hips undulate with a pace at least double yours breathing and the echoes of slapping flesh resonate throughout the air-filled chamber. The loudness is unlike any you’ve experienced in a long time. It’s almost a flashbang every time her ass slams into your lap, especially as you start to see white when orgasm threatens to overload you with preludial pulses.

The last words you hear infected ten million computers in 2000. Fade to black. Cut. You’re slammed out of existence back into existence as a sun rebirths both within you, heating your core to a dangerous high, and from your eyes, dazzling you in an unforgiving white light. In the throes of unconsciousness relapsing to consciousness back to tenebrosity, your streaks of semen suspend in the Aether like a dead tree resting from the wind. What flashes your mind in its orgasmic state are two things only you would remember, plants and weather. Your hyperventilation is unconscious but not unwelcome, as it’s the first time in a while your breaths were reflexive even in the liquid air. However, basking in your newfound power, you start to choke. Right. You breathe in and out again. In and out. In. Out. In. Out. Back in.

“Replaying KarinaArrestsYou.mp6.” A hint of vexatious glee in the system’s otherwise dry voice. You don’t stop for it.

✦✧✦✧✦✧

AFF, AO3

It’s pretty silly but the idea danced around in my head ever since I saw the absolute Black Mirror concept that SM had for aespa and I concur that Karina is insanely hot.

As I’m writing this, this Kurzgesagt video on the idea of a rogue Earth comes out and now I have to rewrite stuff to make it at least a little consistent. I’m obviously already going nuts with all these ridiculous sci-fi concepts but this video almost feels too targeted to me writing this for me to ignore it.

#kpop smut #aespa smut #male reader #reader insert #title tracks

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rekrappeter · 4 years

Text

care about me || r.c

pairing: rafe cameron x fem!bestfriend!reader

word count: 2.4k

summary: being in love with your best friend is tough, it being rafe cameron makes it even worse

warnings: cursing | angsty | car crash | death wish / suicidal ideation | mention of blood

a/n: i would just like to thank @butgilinsky for awakening this crazy undisclosed love I had for rafe within me. plus this is my first rafe fic so i hope it’s okay ♡ ♡ also, if anyone has requests, please send them my way ♡

One of the hardest things in life was watching your closest friend rapidly spiral into madness and not being able to do anything. Rafe Cameron wasn’t always the man that was unstable and drowning in debts, he was fifteen when he got into his first proper fight with a pogue; he always gave them lip because he was conditioned to do that but he never wanted to result to violence until he got his first taste of it, it was if his whole persona changed. Growing up with Rafe, you knew how ambitious and driven he was to do good in life - which made it even more difficult to watch him throw his life down the drain.

Rafe was always a different person when he was around you - he was sweet, kind and he laughed a lot. You liked hearing the sound of his bellowed laughter, whether it was to do with something you said or something he came across on his phone. It wasn’t a sound you heard often when he was with Topper or Kelce, definitely never with his family. He laughed but you could tell it was forced, he was always tense around other people.

“Hey you,” Your ears perked up at his voice and you removed the sunglasses that were resting on your face. You were out your back garden in your favorite swimwear, laying on a sun lounger trying to get an ounce of vitamin D. Rafe, who was dressed in a light blue polo and beige shorts, tried his best not to let his eyes wander down your exposed body and he swallowed back the lump forming in his throat.

“What are you doing here?” You asked, not expecting to see him until later tonight.

Rafe sat down on the sunbed beside your legs, he scratched the back of his neck nervously and his eyes scanned the large back garden that your family had. You knew Rafe too well to know that he needed something but you weren’t going to push him. “I just thought I’d come to see my favorite girl.”

Rolling his eyes at his words, you ignored the fluttering butterflies that swamped your stomach. It was hard not to fall for Rafe, he was charming and knew how to talk his way to the hearts of many ladies. The only thing that was different is that you never acted on the feelings that you developed, knowing that if you did, you could never go back to how it was before. “And?” You asked, raising your brow curiously.

Rafe laughed, twisting and resting the palm of his hand on your leg that was burning from the sun. “Can I borrow your car, please? M-my bike is in the garage.”

“Do you want me to just drive you somewhere?” You questioned, wanting to spend more time with him. Despite being best friends, you felt that you haven’t seen him in so long. He was always busy, either golfing with Topper or doing an errand for his father.

“No, no.” Rafe insisted, running his hand through his hair. That’s why he looked different, you thought, there was no gel plastering his hair back like usual. His brown locks looked soft and your eyes following his fingers going through them. “So, can I?” He asked, moving his head so that he could make eye contact with you.

You blinked rapidly, realizing that he definitely just caught you checking him out. “Yeah, of course.” If he did notice, he didn’t say anything. “The keys are where they usually are… You’re not going to get in trouble, are you?” Every time Rafe wasn’t with you, you constantly worried.

Rafe chuckled, shaking his head. “Not today, I have a date with a special lady tonight.” He winked, standing up from where he was sat. He reached to cup your face before bringing his lips to the side of your head. An uneasy feeling erupted inside you as you bid goodbye to him and you couldn’t relax for the rest day despite the beaming sun above you.

Seven p.m came and went, you were eagerly waiting for the return of your best friend in one piece. The two of you agreed that he would pick you up at seven and you’d go to the outdoor cinema like you used to, but so far, you haven’t heard from Rafe since he left with your car earlier that day. You tried calling him, each call going straight to voicemail. It was until eight-thirty when his name appeared on your screen and you answered it immediately, not in the mood to play any games.

“Rafe,” You exhaled, “Are you okay?” Despite the anger that was seeping through your veins, you were more worried for his wellbeing.

The first sound he made was a sob and it made your heart clench, “I-I’m sorry, y/n… can you come get me?”

“Rafe, you have my car.” You exclaimed, confused but you were already grabbing the keys to your parent’s BMW that they left behind when they went on their cruise at the beginning of the month.

Rafe cursed through the phone, “Fuck, shit…” He mumbled, “I’ll-I’ll call my father.”

“No, it’s fine, Ray. Just tell me where you are and I’ll be there.”

After getting his location, you were there in less than fifteen minutes, surpassing the speed limit every now and again but your heart was pounding at the thought of Rafe being hurt. You were surprised to find out he was on the outskirts of the cut, he rarely ever visited that side of the island unless he needed to. You spotted his figure sitting on a rock, his head in his hands, and your eyes scanned the scene as you hopped out of the black car.

Rafe stood up when he heard you, blood seeping from his multiple cuts on his arms and your car was turned upside down, smoke surrounding the silver vehicle. You couldn’t hide the obvious shock that encompassed your features and Rafe stumbled over to your nervously. “I’m so sorry, I-I don’t know what happened but I… y/n, I can’t get done for this.”

Looking up at your best friend, disappointment replaced the shock. You knew exactly what he was asking you to do, he wanted you to take the fall for this. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin paler than usual and his fingers were shaking. “You’re high…” You mumbled, and Rafe’s head fell in sorrow.

“I’m s-”

“Great, you’ve said that three times, Rafe. It doesn’t change the fact that you got into a car drugged up! Do you know how lucky you are? You could have been killed!” You yelled at him, watching the tears stream down his cheeks.

“I know…”

“I don’t think you do. What if you couldn’t call me to come and help your ass? You would be stuck in that car, and… and…” You couldn’t stop the tears that spilled from your own eyes, your chest heaving as you sobbed at the thought of this morning being the last time seeing Rafe. His blue eyes were trained on you, he didn’t want to hurt you and he especially didn’t want you to cry this much because of him. Despite his mind being cloudy, he reached out for you and brought you close to his chest.

“y/n, I thought I’d be okay.” He whispered, rubbing his fingers up and down your back. Being best friends with Rafe was unpredictable, especially during these times and today just proved how any day could change with a flick of a switch.

You pulled back from his embrace, reaching to rub your thumb over a bruise forming on his face. “I’ll call this in. Get into the car and we’ll go back to my house.”

After you dealt with the authorities, coming up with the best lie you could possibly manage, you finally settled back in your house. Your first-aid kit was opened on your kitchen isle and Rafe sat on the stool, slightly more sober than earlier. You were cleaning the cuts on his arm, luckily he wasn’t in need of any stitches but you recommended that he go and get checked up in the hospital. Rafe’s eyes watched every move you made, noting that you barely said anything to him since you returned from the station.

“Are you angry at me?” He asked, his voice soft. Your eyes looked up at him briefly before returning your attention to the cut on his hand, ignoring his question. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He mumbled, causing you to groan in annoyance.

You stood up straight, placing the bloody wipes in the bin beside you and looking at him intently. “I’m not angry at you, I’m happy you’re still alive.”

“But?” Rafe grimaced, wanting to reach out to you and bring you to him but he refrained, knowing that he’d probably receive a slap in return.

“But what? What do you want me to say, Rafe?” Snapping, you didn’t want to cry again. You had a shed enough tears today to last a lifetime; the thought of losing him made you crazy but the thought of sitting there and doing nothing for him made you insane. “I don’t know if I can do this anymore, Rafe.”

Rafe’s expression fell, his eyebrows furrowing together in confusion. “What’s that s’posed to mean?” He whispered, he didn’t want you to tell him that you had given up on him. But he’d understand if you felt that way.

You ran your fingers through your hair, unknotting the heads and you shook your head. “I don’t know, Rafe, but I can’t sit back and watch you throw your life down the drain as if you have nothing to live for.”

“But do I have anything to live for?” Rafe was the one to snap now, feeling the anger bubbling in his veins. The words he spoke hurt you, he noticed how your face distorted but he was only seeing red now. “I haven’t been home since this morning, I haven’t got one phone call from my family to where I am. I could have fucking died today and they wouldn’t have known unless someone came to their door, and at that, I don’t they’d even fucking care. I have no job, no college, no goals like you, Y/N. As you said, I’m just throwing my life down the drain.” He spat, standing up from the stool and stalking away from you.

“Don’t fucking run off like a child.” You screamed after him, you watched him open the door before slamming it shut. He never left though, he knew you were right.

“Why shouldn’t I? I should have just driven that car off a fucking cliff.”

You rushed up at him, slapping his chest in agony. “Don’t say that.” You whispered through clenched teeth.

Rafe started to sob, collapsing into your arms as they circled around him. His taller figure felt like a weighted blanket on you but you managed to steady yourself, comforting him. “They don’t care about me.” He cried, his fingers grasping your blouse as he tightened his grip.

“I do though.” You whispered into his ear, your heart hurting seeing him like this. Rafe was strong and thick-headed, he very rarely lost his mind like this.

“You shouldn’t though. I got you in trouble today, and who knows what will happen down the road.”

You pulled back from him, cupping his face in your hands but his arms remained around your waist. “I am never going to leave you, Ray. I care about you so much and I’m here to help you, always.” Rafe nodded his head, whimpering his gratitude. He sniffled his tears back, his eyes scanning your face. It happened so quickly; one minute, you were staring into his sea blue orbs, and then the next, your back was up against the wall and his lips crashed onto yours. The kiss was hungry and needy, it was nowhere near how you imagined your first kiss with Rafe to be. You had studied his lips for so long during your friendship, they looked so soft and sweet. You pushed Rafe’s chest gently, urging him to stop and when he pulled away, he was breathing heavily.

Realization washed over his features and he stepped away further but you reached out to grab his wrist to ensure he didn’t create too much space between you. “That-that was stupid, I’m sorry,” Rafe mumbled, pushing his hair out of his face.

“Rafe, I wanted that for so long.” You confessed, watching him perk up slightly.

“Really?”

“Really, but I want to know if you want it to and you’re not just doing it to ease the pain.” You whispered, and Rafe stepped closer to you, cupping your face gently and his lips met yours again. This time was the one you wished for. His lips were tender and your eyes fluttered shut, allowing him to push you back up against the wall. His thumb rubbed your jaw, his tongue swiping against your bottom lip and he deepened the kiss when you allowed him. Your hands found their way to his hair, running your fingers through his locks and tugging at them gently. The moan that erupted from his throat made your legs weak and his right hand left your face, wrapping his arm around your waist to keep you up. He lifted you with ease, your legs wrapping around his waist.

Rafe pulled away this time, his forehead resting against yours. Your eyes opened, his blue orbs meeting yours and he cracked a small smile. “I wanted this so bad, for years.” He said, breaking the tension that was created by both of yours heavy breathing. “I promise to be a better person.”

“I want you to be Rafe, you don’t need to change.”

“I want to, for you.” He whispered, connecting your lips again. In that moment, he felt wanted and needed. There was a lot more to life than just family, when you find someone that is willing to love you for who you were.

🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻

apologies for any typos

but pls gimme feedback, i beg, ty

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gyroshrike · 4 years

Photo

One of my favorite scenes from chapter 6 of Through a Glass, Darkly, a Static Shock fanfic by @alexbwritesstuff. | ao3 | ff.n | Poor Virgil can’t catch a break because everyone keeps drenching him in water. This fic is just so emotional and action-y and Virgil and Richie get to be so badass in it. And it’s Virgil/Richie!

Chapter snippet below:

Virgil paused on the disc in midair, about five feet away from the familiar girl. She, at least, looked much the same as she did in his world…although there wasn't much difference to be had when one's body was made entirely of water.

"Maria!" Adam called, hopping down from the disc and starting towards the female bang baby. For her part, Aqua Maria dropped the handset of the callbox and raised one arm.

"Static!" she shouted. Before Virgil could react, a wave of filthy water rose before him, in the shape of a giant fist.

"Aw, sh—" was all he had time to mutter before the fist crashed down on him, knocking him out of the air and down into the floor of the sewer tunnel. He felt the familiar almost-pain of his powers fizzling out under the water assault as he struggled not to breathe in any of the water. The surge flowed away and he was left on his knees in the tunnel, choking and sputtering. He really hoped Richie's antibiotics were up to snuff, 'cause they'd be working overtime tonight.

"Maria, wait—it's not what you think!" Virgil heard Adam shout as he struggled to his feet.

"Babe? What's going on? I heard shouting—holy shit! Static!" A new voice joined in the chorus, as yet another familiar figure rounded the bend in the tunnel from the opposite direction he and Adam had come from.

"Hotstreak?" Virgil asked in amazement. He watched in shock as someone he considered to be one of the closest things he had to a nemesis back home (behind Ebon, of course) threw himself in front of Aqua Maria and Adam, his hands bursting into flames. Hotstreak fired a bolt of flame at a pipe directly over Virgil's head, melting the metal instantly and causing the pipe to burst.

Still more dirty water rained down on Virgil from the busted pipe. Slowly, he stepped out from under the stream and wiped his eyes. "Why me?"

"Hotstreak? Maria? You down there?"

"Over here, Boss!" Aqua Maria called. "Callbox 12! We found Adam!"

There was a pounding of feet from still farther down the tunnel and seconds later, the scary version of Sharon appeared, with the shotgun drawn and ready. There were at least seven people behind her, all of them armed to the teeth and looking as though they were spoiling for a fight. They all pulled up short at the sight of Virgil, and he raised his hands tiredly.

"Wait. Let me," Virgil sighed. He cleared his throat and raised his voice an octave or two. "Aaaah! Static!" Then he threw himself backwards into the water again and laid there staring up at the ceiling of the tunnel. Virgil just knew he was going to have to burn this uniform when he got home. There was no way the smell was ever coming out.

"Uh, Baby? I've got something to tell you," Adam said sheepishly.

#static shock #virgil hawkins #richie foley #virichie #through a glass darkly #dc animated universe #dc universe #my art #I LOVE YOUR FIC DUDE

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thepencilnerd · 4 years

Text

– a budding romance | part 1 –

➵ After moving into a new apartment, Min Yoongi stumbles across a flower shop down the street who’s radiant bouquets and even brighter personality catches his eye. What happens when two completely different worlds collide?

➵ pairing: min yoongi x reader

➵ genre: fluff, angst, slow burn, strong friendship/family dynamic, strangers to lovers, barely a soulmate AU

➵ word count: 16.8k

➵ warnings: swearing, very heavy angst, alcohol consumption, discussions of mental health and past emotional trauma—if you are in need of help, please please seek out professional care. there is hope out there and people that are here to help you. you are not your illness and always remember that you are not alone.

➵ a/n: I finally decided to get back to writing since I was on spring break for a short period of time (and because staying home is cool :) this story was inspired by my newly developed passion for houseplants, of which I’ve amassed a collection of over 30 in the past few months and totally don’t have an addiction to... This chapter turned out to be a very filler-heavy introduction to the universe it takes place in; although there’s not much romance in this part, I’m very happy with how the friendship dynamic between our main/secondary characters and their backgrounds turned out, so I please forgive me ^^

I’ve missed you all so freaking much, and I cannot thank you enough for showering Melophile with so much love throughout the past year. Thank you for being patient with me during my hiatus, and I hope you and all of your loved ones are staying safe, healthy, and happy ❤️enjoy, and please stay tuned for part two ❤️

“Where do you want the shelf?” the mover asked while holding one end of the wooden bookcase.

The sleep looked up from his seat by the kitchen island and “Right by the window,” Yoongi directed, guiding him to the west-facing window that opened up to his balcony. “Thanks.”

Tipping each of the movers, he thanked them once and bid them goodbye, shutting the door. The whoosh of the door closing left him alone in his new apartment with nothing but hastily arranged furniture, the quiet murmur of traffic outside, and of course, his thoughts; he was finally moved in.

Yoongi had thought about moving out for years now, but never brought up the topic until Seokjin, Taehyung, and Jungkook were traveling out of the country more. By the time university had started, he and the guys had all agreed to move into a duplex a few minutes away from campus for time, money, and friendship’s sake. It was only a matter of time before the three boys were scouted off the street by the head of a modeling agency. Might he add that it was a late Friday night, post-finals season of senior year, and all the boys were more than inebriated, so how the man decided that giving contracts to three loud, wild, and utterly wasted uni students was astounding. Either way, the three stooges dropped out to pursue a career in modeling faster than you could say ‘show in Europe.’

After graduation, Namjoon brought up the idea of moving into a smaller building, to which Jimin and Hoseok disapproved of with arms crossed and pouty faces. Taehyung and Jungkook tried to come to an agreement and schedule what times of the year they’d be in town, but with their unpredictable schedules, it was a pointless compromise. Seokjin—the oldest of the seven—was expected to move out before any of them, so it wasn’t much of a surprise when he eventually offered to share a place with Taehyung and Jungkook. They were still employed under the same agency and manager, so understandably, they would all share similar shows, shooting schedules, flights, and time spent in and out of town. It was also pretty close from here, so the seven would still be able to spend time together when they had the chance to.

Yoongi was the first to offer moving out so the four of them wouldn’t have to be crammed into a small condo. He had booked a few producing jobs here and there while still at university, so he practically had a contact list of full-time connections. Plus, Jimin had decided to enroll in a master’s program for traditional dance while teaching at a nearby dance studio, Namjoon started his first semester towards a postgraduate degree in literary criticism (again, how the boy had even passed his G.E. chemistry class in sophomore year was beyond anyone’s wildest imagination), and Hoseok had landed a solid job teaching hip-hop classes at the same studio Jimin was at.

“You’re sure you’re okay with it?” Jimin asked Yoongi with worry laced in his voice. The four were lounging in the living room of the quiet apartment. Seokjin and the two younger ones had moved out earlier that morning, and they were probably still getting settled. It was only a ten minute drive from Namjoon, Hoseok and Jimin’s new place. Thankfully they’d all be living a relative distance to one another even after moving.

Patting him on the head, Yoongi’s lips formed a small grin. “Don’t worry about me. At least I won’t have to deal with Hoseok’s late night gas bombs...”

Hoseok’s face burned bright red and his eyes grew wide as a storm of curse words flew out of his mouth. “Hey! Don’t blame me, tell Namjoon to learn how to cook raw food all the way through!"

To this, Namjoon threw his comforter at Hoseok, nailing him square in the face. Jimin held back his giggles while Yoongi stared wistfully. He would miss them more than he thought.

“It’s only a few minutes from your place so I’ll come and check up on you guys every once in a while,” Yoongi sighed, leaning into the couch. With everything packed and sent off the day before, it was the only piece of furniture left in the apartment. A distant memory resurfaced as his eyes drifted to the dented armrest. He and Jungkook had bought it at the thrift store on 5th Street after weeks of Seokjin complaining that there was no place to sit and watch TV; a past time he required to “relieve him of his grievances.”

Yoongi cleared his throat, redirecting his attention back to the present moment. “You know, just to make sure you haven’t all starved or strangled each other.”

The four shared one last month together and even helped Yoongi find his new place eight blocks down. According to Yoongi, the day Hoseok ran into Yoongi’s room with the crumpled piece of paper was a match made by hell and granted by heaven.

Snapping back into the present moment, Yoongi’s watch read 12:45 p.m. He rubbed his eyes at how dreadfully early in the day it was and his body was already begging for sleep. By the magic laws of the universe, the familiar sound of his ringtone reverberated through the barren apartment—his new apartment. Walking to the kitchen counter, Hoseok’s name flashed across the screen and Yoongi swiped to answer the call.

“How’s our big boy doing?” Hoseok immediately shouted through the receiver.

Yoongi scrunched his face in displeasure at the volume but couldn’t hide the slight smirk that grazed his lips. “I’m doing great mom, thanks for checking in.”

“We wanted to know if you needed any help settling in!” Jimin’s soft voice, as usual, offered with nothing but joy. Judging by the distant sound of complaining and forced laughter, he had taken the opportunity to snatch the phone away from Hoseok, and Namjoon was now holding him hostage with the force of tickling.

“I second that!” Namjoon’s voice boomed in the background.

Yoongi allowed himself the barest hint of a laugh. “I already had help from the movers, so the furniture is decently positioned already.” Opening up his fridge, he saw that it was unsurprisingly empty other than a few bottles of water. “I might need to run to the grocery store though. Can I call you guys after I get back?”

“Jimin, I swear to god you’re going to regret sharing a room with me!” Hoseok’s voice echoed closer from the other end.

“Call us when you get back! It’d be nice to get to know the shops around the neighborhood,” Namjoon backed up with confidence but he suddenly yelped in pain. Yoongi pictured Hoseok jabbing him in the side like he always did whenever they fought.

Hoseok huffed as he brought up the phone and was in possession of the device once again. “We’ll swing by your place at 6 with food, so don’t worry and buy some basic groceries. Namjoon, I swear—”

“—and make some neighborhood friends!” Namjoon blurted out. “We’ll see you soon!”

“See you soon!” Jimin added cheerfully.

“Miss you bud!” Hoseok chirped.

“Bye guys,” Yoongi chuckled. "Don’t kill each other.” Clicking off, he sighed once more before admiring his new place. The one-bedroom penthouse came with a decent sized-kitchen, in-unit washer and dryer, and included utilities. Not to mention the extra room that he had already moved his studio equipment into and man, that balcony view. It wasn’t considered budget-friendly for it’s square footage, but for the amenities and the part of town it was centered in? A steal.

Even though a job in the music industry didn’t exactly pay well, Yoongi considered himself lucky to have gotten the exposure he did so early. He had been bound to music for as long as he could remember, and it was during his middle school years that he discovered the editing software that changed his life. By junior year of high school, Yoongi had accumulated hundreds of thousands of followers and millions of listens on his streaming account. After he declared his major in university, renowned musicians from all over the world were flooding his email with requests for new songs, collaborations, editing, and everything in between.

As fame and status quickly began consuming his every waking thought, a dark cloud loomed over him. There had been a period of time when sitting in his studio was no longer enjoyable and felt like pure hell. Slowly but surely, it was the same cycle over and over again: get a request from a record label, make a new song, send it back to the tone-deaf money hungry CEO’s of the music industry, and then get feedback on how it’s not catchy enough or "up with the times.” God, that pissed him off more than anything. Good music shouldn’t have to be labeled as such because it fits into the typical mold of some teenage trend; that’s what makes it good.

That’s all they cared about these days. No meaningful lyrics or real talk about everyday life and how the world goes around—only songs about meaningless sex, regretting one night stands, repetitive ear worm tunes, unrequited and dumb young love, or things that talentless, plastic Instagram models could lip-sync and stick choreography to. It’s hard to pursue your passion in a field that you love when it’s hellbent on destroying itself.

Don’t even start with the controversies Yoongi dealt with on a daily basis. Flashy yellow headlines that talked about who this mysterious producer Min Yoongi was, where he was brought up, who he’s dated/is dating, his sexuality, and even his family members and their backgrounds. All of these were topics that every single news and social media outlet had the audacity to stamp on hundreds of magazines covers and copy/paste on their blogs, yet if given the chance, none would have the real guts to ask him in-person, face to face.

Yoongi found himself falling into periods of constant downward spirals. What would he become if he gave in? Who would he be if just shut up and took the money? If he listened to what everyone had to say and gave them everything they wanted? Would they love him any less or hate him even more?

It was half past one when he realized that he still had to go to run errands. Another 30 minutes of the day spent lingering on things that can’t be changed and don’t matter, he noted to himself. Wonderful.

Despite the chilly weather, Yoongi opted to throw on a hoodie and call it a day. His decision to wear ripped jeans was poorly made, but he refused to admit that laziness was the culprit for not packing some spare clothes into a suitcase before moving day. Before stepping out, he quickly slipped on a beanie and a face mask for privacy’s sake. He was really not in the mood today.

Murmuring a quick thanks to the cashier, Yoongi walked out of the grocery store as fast as he could. Within minutes, people had gathered in a crowd around him asking for pictures, autographs, voice memos, and the works.

Every single time he had to turn down someone’s request for a picture because he could not miss the last bus; constantly hiding in fear of someone catching him and finding out where he lives, or worse: his family members; always trying to leave the house at the most awkward time of day so he could actually walk around and get basic shit done. No one knew it, but he hated himself for feeling like the biggest asshole that ever existed when in reality, he was just trying to live a normal life.

Yoongi loved music, but more than anything, he loved how there were people who truly empathized with his songs and the effort he put into making them. He missed the days before fanbase culture mobbed those who genuinely understood what he was trying to say. He missed going out with the guys and not having to worry about strangers following him home and leaking his address for publicity and likes. He missed having the decency of basic privacy and boundaries. Yoongi was grateful for everyone’s unnecessary unconditional love for his work and lifelong devotion to music, but after all, he was nothing but a human being who needed some space to breathe.

Today was no different. He got lucky and managed to snag enough fruits and vegetables to fit into a single paper bag before the overwhelming screeches and overlapping voices forced him out of the mart.

One of the security guards and a few cashiers were kind enough to hold back a few of the people who tried following him out. Giving them a quick bow before scurrying out, he felt like an even bigger nuisance.

What kind of a prick like me disrupts people’s day-to-day life just to get some food...

Should’ve worn a damn ski mask.

Yoongi was two blocks from his apartment complex when the smell of smog and car exhaust was replaced by a tidal wave of—roses? The fragrance of fresh flowers flooded his nostrils with a vibrancy and sweetness that he had never smelled before. Trying to find the source, he stumbled across what appeared to be hole-in-the-wall flower shop.

Treading carefully towards the vivid assortment of colors and warm light, he glanced over at the array of plants that graced the outside shelves. It wasn’t until he started feeling hot that he noticed a patio heater beside the entrance, which doubled as a lamp.

As he admired the wide variety of colors, leaf shapes, and aromas, Yoongi picked up a weathered terra cotta pot. The gritty surface of the pot was splotched with discolored patches of white, probably from water and rain. It housed a plant with small, plump, ovular, dimpled emerald green leaves, and it was vining up the bamboo stick that was staked in the center.

A delicate shuffle of shoes on hardwood accompanied a soft voice. “Need help finding something?”

Looking up, Yoongi’s eyes met the young woman’s gaze. Even through his mask, her friendly smile seemed to glow brighter than the embers from the patio heater. Underneath her apron, she was wearing a fluffy white sweater and a pair of comfortably loose jeans that were decorated with colorful paint-splatters.

Blinking hard after catching himself staring too long, Yoongi shook his head and put the plant back. “Just looking around. Nice place you got here.” If he spoke any quieter, he’d have a new job singing lullabies to babies.

Knitting her eyebrows with an inquisitive stare, he felt his pulse start to pick up. Did she recognize him? Was she going to freak out? Was there something on his face?

She brought her finger up to her quirked lip and widened her eyes. “Botanophobia is my area of specialty!” she exclaimed with joy. “You don’t have to worry about killing a single plant under my wing.” Picking up the plant he set down, she held it out towards him with a warm grin.

Yoongi won’t be the first to admit that of his absent green thumb. When he used to visit his grandmother, she’d always tug on his ear for picking at the hanging pots draped underneath her patio. He didn’t even have a plant near his vicinity until Taehyung brought home individual cactus for each of the guys. Something about keeping it on their desks for focus and oxygen or whatever.

Needless to say that Namjoon and Yoongi both learned very quickly that cacti don’t like water as much as you think.

“Oh,” Yoongi waved his hands in defense. “ I’m not really a plant collecting type of guy.”

The girl rolled her eyes teasingly and handed him a ball of twine from her pocket.

“Stay here until I get back,” she commanded with a stern look and playful confidence. “I’ll be but a moment.” Retreating back into the shop, Yoongi was frozen in place. Guilty if he leaves, not guilty if he stays—

Right as he was about to put the twine on the shelf, the girl came out of the shop with a paper-wrapped package. “Water it once a month and keep it by a window, preferably brightly lit but not necessarily,” she instructed with nothing less than an energetic smile. “They kind of thrive on neglect.”

He was taken aback. “But—”

She held her hand up to halt his rebuttal and took back the twine. “Think of this as a little welcome to the neighborhood gift. I know all of my locals by heart and I’ve never seen you around before.”

“I can’t just take a plant from you,” Yoongi huffed, slightly annoyed at her stubborn nature. She was determined, he’d give her that.

Shaking her head, her hands didn’t move. “You can pay me back the next time you visit, and if you still haven’t fallen in love with this guy—” her head motioned to the paper-wrapped plant in her hands. “—then I guess I’ll just have to work harder.”

Yoongi bowed his head in thanks and accepted the parcel with a tightly pressed smile. She was definitely not one to give in. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy that there were still people in the world who loved their jobs as much as this woman.

The dimming sky signaled that it was time for him to get back home. Waving goodbye, the sound of his steps grew louder as the echo of her voice faded farther away. “See you around!”

Sure, the pessimist in him spat.

You awoke to the gentle sound of rain pattering against your window. Drops bounced off of the glass as the sound grew harsher, the water droplets ricocheting off of the already-streaky pane and onto the surrounding leaves of the tree whose branches caressed your small windowsill. The freezing cold air whistled through the crack between your window pane and the latch, causing you to shiver reflexively.

Stretching out your limbs, a large and clearly gracious yawn left your mouth, which harmonized in tandem with your outstretched palms and scrunched face. The warmth of your rumpled and disheveled sheets made you groan, your body naturally refusing to leave the comfort of your own bed. Did you really have to go out today? Using the rusty spring of the mattress to swing your legs over the bed, your feet grazed the cold, damp fabric of your carpet—

“Crap.” Partially awake, your aching limbs dashed across your small studio apartment and rummaged through the pile of rubbish in the spare closet, fishing out an old bucket. You ran back to your room and placed on top of the wet patch of fabric just underneath the foot of your bed. The sound of water hitting the carpet soon turned into muffled pangs. The culprit? A leaky spot in the ceiling of your humble abode that you had so graciously discovered months after you’d moved in.

Your landlord/makeshift, of course, said he couldn’t do anything about it. Something told you it wasn’t that he couldn’t, but rather, he couldn’t be bothered to...

The pleasantly dull morning heaviness that weighed your body slowly retreated, and left you fully aware that your feet were still wet and freezing cold. Very, very cold. It was Monday, right? A sigh escaped you as your hand came up to rub your eyes. Definitely a Monday. Stretching once more, you sat silently and found a moment of peace in gazing at the pouring rain that battered your window.

There was something oddly relaxing about watching the water droplets slowly slide down the glass. Whether it was the transparency of the glass against the clarity of the rainwater, or the different textures of sound as the droplets bounced off of the window onto the tree leaves, one thing was certain: overcast skies and the fresh smell petrichor was one of nature’s many great gifts.

Since the day was still immersed in the early hours of the morning, you were compelled to stay inside and burn through a book or two while in the comfort of your own bed. However, your fairytale fantasy was shattered by the reality that was your day job. You washed up, got dressed, and didn’t bother adding any extra layers to combat the cold. It was, of course, the sensation of the icy biting air against your flushed cheeks that made you treasure this kind of weather all the more. The haphazard toss a mini-umbrella into your bag and the clink of a lock and key was quite complimentary.

Ever since you were young, you’d loved flowers. Red roses, to be exact. It was in your best interest as a 6-year old to tag alongside your dad on his trips to the hardware store. Each time you came home, you ended up bringing a 99-cent fern home that ended up dying a week later. No matter how much your little heart adored each tiny gem, it was only a matter of time before you drowned the plant with too much water. In your pre-pubescent mind, taking care of a plant meant watering it. Every day. Little did you know that tending to a garden meant leaving it alone and giving it time to grow by itself.

Hundreds of plant funerals were held from the tender ages of six to fourteen. Years of experience, tears, frustration, determination, and love ended up raising your brown thumb well. Who knew that you’d end up majoring in biology and horticultural studies? Not to mention starting up an independent business as a flower shop and nursery. Now that was something to be grateful for.

It might seem strange to many; working a job that doesn’t pay a ton or have a stable workload, sitting in a humid shop some days with nothing but the rustling of dried bouquets to keep you company, or learning to appreciate the quiet solitude of white noise against morning traffic. It may have seemed like torture for anyone with some ounce of sanity, but to you, it was home.

Nothing excited you more than when you received the bi-weekly shipment of new plants. You were lucky the rain had stopped by the time you made it halfway to the shop. Marco, your go-to greenhouse guy, was just in time. He was wearing a blue sweater and the navy scarf his wife, Lucia, knitted him for Christmas four years ago.

You’ll never forget the gifts they exchanged that year. It was two days before Christmas and Marco was so busy with deliveries, he didn’t have time to get Lucia a present. Of course, seeing him ramble his worries to you while bringing in the day’s shipment made a lightbulb go off in your head.

As he was unloading boxes, you ran inside and whipped up a somewhat-simple but ever-classic arrangement: red tulips, white honeysuckles, baby’s-breath stems, and a mix of myrtle and lemon leaves to balance out the flower to foliage ratio.

Before Marco could leave, you put the finishing touches on the lush bouquet and finished it off with a gold-dusted bow for added holiday spirit.

“All done!” Marco bellowed. Running out of the shop, you handed him the box that sheltered Lucia’s gift.

“Merry Christmas,” you whispered with a giddiness that couldn’t be held back.

“Oh, bella...” His reaction was priceless. With a mouth parted, sparkling eyes, and a wonder-struck smile to top it all off, this was why you loved your job.

“Red tulips for a perfect love, honeysuckles for devoted lovers, and baby’s breath for everlasting love.” The words rolled off of your tongue like a second language.

Marco was still speechless. “You shouldn’t have—”

“Marco, my business would not function without you and neither would I,” you hushed. “This is the absolute least I could do for you and Lucia.”

“Bella!” His deep voice brought you back to the present day. The nickname always made you feel fuzzy. “How are you?”

“I’m doing wonderful, Marco.” Your eyes beamed. “How are Lucia and the girls?”

He laughed, shaking his head with a grin. “As wild as always. Fia and Gianna just started 2nd grade a few days ago. They’re growing up too fast.”

Your heart melted. “It’s always like that, isn’t it? Time flies...” The wistful tone in your voice didn’t go unnoticed. “Anyway, what’s in today’s box of treasures?” Rubbing your hands together like an animated cartoon, your eyes lit up at the sight of all the new varieties that peeked from the boxes.

“Oh you’ll love these!” Pulling out one of the 4-inch grow pots from the boxes, he revealed to you a healthy Hoya bella. The delicately draped stems with spear-shaped leaves and grooved foliage was breathtaking. A few of them even had a few peduncles, which was where flowers bloomed from. Hoyas were known for their delicate, candy-like flowers, and Hoya bella was a prolific bloomer.

If you had to choose a favorite type of tropical genus, it’d most definitely be the wax plant family. There are hundreds of species within that range from your typical waxy, thick and succulent leaves to thin, hair-like sparse leaves that looked like grass. Expensive grass, might you add.

You couldn’t hold back the excitement. “You brought me hoyas!” Jumping up and down with an overzealous amount of energy, Marco bowed for dramatic effect. Today was already off to a great start.

He counted all the boxes one more time, summing up the numbers in his head. “There are also some krinkle 8′s, compactas, variegated and green carnosas, more bellas, australis, curtisii, pubicalyx, burtoniae, lacunosa, and only a couple linearis. You know how popular those are these days.” Each time he listed off another set of species had you spinning. “The bottom boxes have some pothos, rubber trees, ferns, tradescantias, and peperomias.”

“Thank you thank you thank you,” you exclaimed while giving him a big hug. “Don’t count me guilty if I run home with a few of these.”

A hearty laugh reverberated from his chest. “Always a pleasure, bella. I have to get going. Watch the rain! I’ll see you next week!”

Bidding him a goodbye, you reminded him to drive safe before he was off.

The first customer of the day was a regular; you could spot her bright red lipstick and pinup elegance from a mile away. If she hadn’t said anything, you could have sworn she was related to Marilyn Monroe.

“Good morning, Ms. Simmons!” you greeted as the chime on the door jingled. “How are you?”

Her bright red lips curled into a grin that revealed her immaculate smile. “I’m doing very well, thank you dearie.” Did you mention that she had an Irish accent?

Stepping out from behind the counter, you pulled out the freshly wrapped parcel and unfolded the top to show her. Cupping your hand to speak, the words came out in a whisper. “I got the new shipment of linearis.”

At this, her eyes grew bigger and mouth rounded into an O. She’d been waiting for these grass-leaved hoyas for months now and you had made a promise to her that she was the first on the waitlist.

“You are an absolute jewel my love, an unreal star!” Handing you her usual payment method of cash, you made sure to choose the fullest plant for her before she arrived. Also, you may have added in a begonia and African violet or two. All in the name of agape love, truly.

Even though she celebrated her 70th birthday over the winter, Ms. Simmons was a regular ever since you opened the shop. She always made the two mile walk from her home to your shop every Monday and you couldn’t understand for the life of you why. All you could do was be the best at your job and treat your customers as well, if anything, better than they treated you.

“I’ll see you next week, Ms. Simmons,” you smiled, holding the door open for her as she went on her merry way.

The rest of the day was business as usual. Mary, another regular, came in looking for a rubber tree and a peace lily; she’d just moved into a bigger house to accompany their newest family member, and needed some green so the place didn’t look so sterile.

Isaac, the pastor who worked at the local church, was in need of some rose arrangements for this weekend’s sermon. He always loved how full the ones you had out on display were.

Kat was an old university friend you had stayed in touch with and a fellow “hoya head.” She was the sweetest girl and always brought you coffee and a perfectly toasted bagel whenever she visited. The doorbell always chimed at exactly 12:25 p.m. and she never missed it once ever since you opened the shop’s doors.

“You got a perm?!” you gawked. She’d gotten another haircut. Her once long, pin-straight dark brown hair was now shoulder length and curled like Shirley Temple’s signature look. “You look a-freaking-mazing!”

Tussling the curls with one hand while pushing up the bridge of her cat-eye glasses with the other, she reminded you of a revamped 70’s Betty Boop. “Thank you darling, I’ve been meaning to chop it all off for a while now but the weather has had me down in the dumps,” she remarked in an over the top, received pronunciation accent.

Shaking your head and appreciating her choice of clothing, you couldn’t help but applaud at how she always chose fashion and style over basic comfort.

"We got some bellas and compactas so grab ‘em and go before you get a cold.” Her red dress and black cardigan ensemble was an eye-catcher but did not bode well considering the cloudy sky.

She rolled her eyes in an exaggerated manner. “Yes mom, I’ll take those two and a krinkle, if you please.” You will admit, her energy was something you never got tired of.

The wrapping of planters had become muscle-memory now. Wrap around, fold over, crease the edge, tuck in the sides, and tie with some twine. A snip here and brushing off the excess soil there and voila.

Before she left, you handed her the umbrella you brought from home. “Get home before it starts raining!” you nagged. “I only live a few minutes from here so just take it before you ruin your clothes.” Kat definitely needed it more than you.

She wrapped her arms around you in a familiar hug and promised she’d call you back at home. “Love you!” Perfect timing, too. Right as the door shut, the slow patter of rain had started sprinkling the rooftop, and cars started whooshing by with an added splash.

Cradling your warm cup of coffee was a routine on Kat’s visiting days. The rain was now trickling down the ridged shingles of the roof and down the gutter, droplets of water blurring into coiled trails. Absolutely mesmerizing. After making a dozen bouquets that were on today’s order list, Sara, Louie, Timmy, Kyle, and George visited one by one to pick them up. Soon after that, the day started slowing down and the rain showed no signs of stopping like you had anticipated. It was nearing closing time too, so maybe it was a good idea to head home a bit early.

You rushed to bring in the buckets of pre-cut flowers and ready-made arrangements from outside. You ended up wrapping everything up right on time. Even better, a few new faces showed up. All of your linearis and bellas had sold out today (no surprise), and you got to meet some new customers right before closing time. It was nothing but a joyous and success-filled day in your eyes.

Gripping the cold metal, goosebumps prickled your skin as soon as your fingertips rolled down the gate over the store windows. A smile of triumph grazed your lips. The quietest of goodbyes escaped your lips.

Until tomorrow.

The buzz of alcohol and smell of grease wafted in the air as they all got crazier by the minute.

Namjoon had already burned through three bottles of beer and was on the verge of losing his sense of direction. Hoseok was two sips in before his face flushed a bright red. Jimin was prancing around like a fairy after his third shot of tequila. Taehyung and Jungkook were singing and dancing to bad karaoke songs, nearly knocking over the TV a few times.

Seokjin was the only one who was mildly sober. Again, mildly is a word that should be used very lightly. "Since when did you have a green finger?”

The five paused their shenanigans to glance over at the single plant that decorated the otherwise empty bookshelf.

Yoongi chewed silently, unable to come up with any response.

Jimin hiccuped before talking. “Didn’t you kill a cactus a few years back?”

Again, Yoongi chose to stay silent and give an unbothered shrug. Hoseok’s face still looked like he was contemplating the meaning of life, but he managed to nod his head in confirmation.

“Yeah, Namjoon drowned his, too,” the youngest spoke with a ditzy tone. Taehyung giggled like a child at Jungkook’s strangely accurate description and pointed at Namjoon. Some comment about his messy hair or turtle glasses, or a combination of both.

“I’m old enough to take care of myself so I should be able to take care of some stupid weed.” For some reason, Yoongi’s mouth burned saying those words.

Namjoon rolled his eyes at the comment and got up to grab some water. Of course, his drunk state amplified his clumsiness and caused him to bang his knee against the corner of the kitchen island. Hoseok and Jimin burst out into cackles and snorted as Yoongi rolled his eyes. The alcohol was beginning to pass like water. He should slow down.

“Apparently that one thrives on neglect.” Yoongi finally broke his vow of silence, changing the topic and directing his attention to Jimin and half-there Hoseok. “How’s teaching going?”

Leaning on each other as the alcohol sleeps finally kicked in, they could only raise their thumbs-up with half-lidded eyes.

Coming back with a tray of water cups that remained miraculously intact, Namjoon collapsed down into his seat. “They’ve been working every single day for the past month now. Jimin has his mid-semester show coming up and Hoseok got booked for some choreography with a local theater group.”

Yoongi downed one last mouthful of the bitter drink before calling it quits, enjoying how it burned his throat as it made its way down. “And you guys?”

Seokjin and Jungkook all murmured something about an upcoming shoot in May for the spring catalog.

“Jungkook and Seokjin got booked for a perfume ad and I got an acting gig,” Taehyung explained. The excitement was evident in his voice. Yoongi congratulated the three, cheering them on with another shot.

He turned to the boy rubbing his bruised knee. “And you, Joon?”

It was Namjoon’s turn to shrug. “School is school. Always studying, reading, writing, nothing new,” he droned in a monotonous voice. “How’ve you been handling everything?”

He was talking about all the new deals that Yoongi was offered in the last couple of weeks. Every post on social media was rampant with news of Min Yoongi’s latest tracks and upcoming collabs. Although the boys would never fully understand his stress, their sympathy for him was plenty enough.

“Same old same old. Money hungry bastards trying to get my advice on shitty tracks that have as much depth and complexity as a poptart just to get my signature stamped on it.” Yoongi spoke with painful honesty, causing everyone to sober up and focus on him. He took a final swig of his drink. “Whatever sells, I guess.”

Namjoon and the others shook their heads in agreement solemnly, showing his wordless support and understanding. “You’ll get out of it, Yoongi. Trust me.” He patted his friend’s shoulder in vain, but only Yoongi knew it.

Trying to swallow the words, Yoongi looked over at the snoring bundle that was Jimin, Hoseok, Jungkook, and Taehyung. Seokjin was probably passed out in the bathroom. His upper teeth raked across his lower lip, savoring the dull sensation that felt more real than the situation he had gotten himself into.

“Yeah. I’ll get out of it.”

Spring was always the best time of the year. All of the flowers were in bloom and sunlight was streaming through everyone’s window without being unbearably hot. To top it all off, it was also the busiest time for you and your business. The shop was always flooded with customers marveling at the colors that decorated the exterior. When the inside of the shop finally cleared out, you were able to take requests for individual bouquets, parties, and weddings.

“Need some help?” a familiar someone shouted through the crowd of people.

Your head snapped over to the upbeat and bubbly voice you knew by heart. “Kat!” Hugging her over the counter and bringing her behind the register, you quickly thanked her before running around frantically with a notepad in hand.

This became a routine about two springs after you opened up: people piling in by the masses for a chance at bringing home the freshest roses, tulips, and succulents you had to offer, Kat making her weekly visit and seeing you overwhelmed, weaving her way through the horde of people crammed inside the shop and lined up outside, and finally putting on an apron of her own and managing the register while you paced back and forth getting people’s orders.

“What would I do without you?” you mouthed to her as you formed your face into a meme-worthy cry face.

She stuck her tongue out and managed the register like a pro, fingers pressing buttons left and right at lighting speed. You giggled and went back to jotting down everyone’s orders.

1x assmt/ peace lilies; red and white in ceram. pot

2x 4-inch maiden hair ferns delivered

1 bqt/dozen red roses w/ filler foliage

1 bqt/dozen red roses w/o filler foliage

1x dozen individually wrapped W roses with gld. ribbons

R, W, PRP, PNK tulips w/ queen anne’s lace

Succ. terr. for bday, round jar, colorful

Over the course of one day, you used up three ballpoint pens and couldn’t feel your fingers or your cheeks. Writing and smiling at the same time should be an official sport for next year’s Olympics. Kat fared no better. Slung over the register like a floppy piece of bacon, the only indication of any remaining energy from either of you was the heavy sound of breathing.

Stretching out your hands, you set down the notepad and groaned. “Kat?” Checking to make sure she was alive, she groaned back in response. “Thank you.”

She looked up and rested her cheek against the gold glass of the counter. “Welcome,” she mumbled, flashing her signature smile. It was a quarter past seven but you usually closed the shop by five, so why were you and Kat still here? After the commotion of today, both of you were too exhausted to close up, so you just brought whatever flowers from outside remained and ordered some takeout to eat here.

Standing up, your body needed to step outside and get some fresh air. Kat was knocked out comfortably on the counter, so you decided to leave her alone to nap in peace. The first step you took outside made your body tingle. You were constantly running back and forth earlier, but being out of breath and in a mental flux with all the orders made you feel like you were floating.

You inhaled the cold air as deeply as you could and breathed out with an equal amount of force. The sky was tinted a coral pink color and the sun was barely kissing the horizon. Thank you spring for yet another marvelous attribute that only you can provide.

Right before you were about to step back inside, a familiar masked figure entered your field of vision. “Hey!” Calling out through cupped hands, you prayed he could hear you over the few cars that were driving by. His head perked up and even behind his covered face, you could see that he was surprised. Ducking his head in a makeshift greeting, you waved him hello and goodbye, happy to see his masked face again. No point in calling him over this late at night. He probably had things to do. Didn’t we all?

Jungkook and Taehyung were the first ones to point it out.

“Yoongi...” Hoseok uttered.

“How could you?” Seokjin continued, mouth agape in pure disbelief.

Namjoon shook his head. “I can’t believe you’ve done this. ‘Responsible adult’ my ass.”

“You’ve had it for two weeks and it’s already dying!” Jimin was the one who finally blurted it out.

Yoongi rubbed his sore eyes. It was 11 in the morning and he was exhausted from staying up all night. The deadline for his upcoming track was this Friday and contrary to popular belief, making a horribly repetitive and catchy song was a lot harder than you’d think. The guys managed to find some time in their schedules to come visit him. He never thought the day would come where he wanted them to stay home.

“It’s fine,” he grunted.

“When was the last time you watered it?” Hoseok asked, inspecting the sick looking plant. He was making that weird face. The one where his nose wrinkled at an invisible stench and eyes narrowed into slits.

“Don’t know,” Yoongi shrugged while chugging a few mouthfuls of water and relished the feeling of cool liquid coating his parched throat.

They all surveyed the state of the place. There were crumpled scraps of paper that littered the hardwood floor like confetti. Empty water bottles were spread across the bathroom, music studio, kitchen counter, and balcony shelf—and who could forget the pile of worn hoodies and shirts that were nestled in the sofa corner and had slowly been growing bigger, congregating to form a laundry mountain.

Namjoon was the one to point out that the fridge was still pretty much empty. “Did you even go grocery shopping, Yoongi?” He spoke with the tone of concern now. If anyone knew how persistent Yoongi was, it was Namjoon. This wouldn’t be the first time he’s skipped meals and sleep just to work on a song.

“Yoongi, we can go out for you if you need us to,” Jimin offered as usual. Hoseok and Namjoon voted in support of his idea, already mouthing a list to Taehyung and Jungkook.

“We’ll go to the supermar—” Jungkook was cut off by Yoongi’s sudden spike of anger.

“I’m fine,” Yoongi replied a bit too harshly. He could only hold in pent up frustration for so long before he burst. “I don’t need you to go grocery shopping for me. I don’t need your help. I appreciate it, I really do, but it’s not your job to bear my burden of being a nuisance.”

They stayed quiet. The ball was already rolling and he needed to get it all out.

“You think I don’t want to go out? To step outside for one day and have nobody recognize me?” Yoongi scoffed, voice dripping with venom and sarcasm. “I want—” he paused. “No, no. I crave that more than anything. The anonymity I had in high school when I was a nobody and only had you guys by my side.

“Back when I didn’t have to bury myself underneath hoodies and beanies, suffocate myself underneath scarves and face masks, or wear sunglasses when it wasn’t the slightest bit sunny out.” Yoongi held back a scream and ran his hands through his hair in anger, tugging at the strands so he could feel tense pain nip at his scalp; he needed to feel anything other than this—this thing inside of him. Realizing that he had directed his vexes toward the wrong people, he sighed. Yoongi buried his face into his hands, disappointed at himself for doing it again.

Sinking into the ground, he couldn’t find it in himself to shed a single tear. In a fit of blind rage, he had just yelled at his childhood friends for absolutely no reason. Guilt was starting to eat away at his conscience; he’d fucked up—bad. What the hell was wrong with him?

The six kneeled down beside Yoongi and enveloped him in a silent hug. The boys had formed their group of seven in middle school and were forever bound by their loyalty to one another. Pushing past the temper tantrums of adolescence and living through the toils of university was all accomplished by the means of what connected them as a whole: friendship. Friends were there for each other through thick and thin, and they knew that none of them were free from the confines of daily life; friends were family

Yoongi pressed the palms of his hands harder into his eye sockets and blinked back the ache that was diffusing across his muscles.

I’ll get out of it.

It was an unusually cloudy day for spring. The grey clouds that were spread out across the sky didn’t seem to bode well for the day ahead. Today went by slower than usual. Granted it was a Sunday, but still—it was an off day.

You were in the middle of pruning the plants that were set up outside the shop when a hand tapped your shoulder. Turning around, you were greeted by a doe-eyed young man and his equally handsome friend. You had never seen them around before and they were each carrying two insulated grocery bags by their sides.

“Good afternoon.” The latter greeted you with an immaculate smile, bowing slightly. His friend mirrored the greeting, also presenting himself with his own charming grin.

Starstruck for a moment, you blinked a few times before gulping nervously. “Pleasure.” You mentally face-palmed your brain. Great job.

The big-eyed one spoke with a certain shyness you couldn’t put your finger on. “We were looking for some advice on plants. For a friend.” Chuckling, he scratched the back of his ear. It was only after a few moments to process their appearances did you realize that they were both attractive enough to be models, or something of the sort. Maybe your eyes were tricking you, but you felt like you’d seen them on last month’s fashion catalogue...

“I’m Jungkook by the way.” Shaking his hand, you couldn’t help but be aware of the pink that crept up your face. You tried to hide it with a nervous smile.

Act professional, you mentally scolded. “______,” you introduced yourself.

The other apologized for his manners and shook your hand as well. Your small fingers paled in comparison to his. “Taehyung. Nice to meet you.” His blinding smile made you blush furiously and you were dying inside.

“So uh—our friend, he has a plant like this one,” Taehyung continued, stopping to point to the tray of green carnosas beside his knee. “—and it’s starting to turn brown?”

“Hmm...” you frowned. "Does your friend always have the air conditioner or heater running? Something that might cause the air to dry out?”

The two stared at each other at a loss for words. “Not really, he always complains that the weather is too hot to turn on the heater yet too cold for the AC,” Jungkook elaborated.

“Oh!” He gasped as if a mind-blowing thought had struck him. “There’s a humidifier by his couch. Remember? He always used to complain about nosebleeds when we lived by uni.” Jungkook shook his head up and down like a cartoon, probably recalling this as well.

You were stumped. “You’re sure they’re brown leaves, right? Not yellow?”

They nodded. Damn. Yellowing leaves almost always indicated over watering or under fertilizing. Browning edges and tips usually meant that the plant needed more humidity, but full blown brown leaves?

Sighing in defeat, you packaged a small packet of water-soluble fertilizer with instructions and handed it to doe-eyed . “Try this and see if it helps,” you instructed, praying it would. Hoyas were known as bullet-proof plants, so why a carnosa of all species was starting to decline was alarming.

They thanked you for your help and asked you a few more questions before leaving.

“By the way,” Taehyung asked. “Do you do arrangements for large-scale productions? Like photoshoots?”

You said yes with a gentle smile. “Occasionally I will, but being such a small shop, I try to limit it to only during the springtime. It’s harder to fill out orders for big events when there aren’t that many materials to work with.”

Jungkook’s eyes got bigger than you thought to be possible and beamed, still running his hands through his hair shyly. “Would you be interested in helping us out?”

Raising your eyebrow at their request, you were curious. “What exactly would I be helping with?”

Taehyung started stuttering, his turn to be shy. “We actually have a spring photoshoot coming up for our modeling gig, and we thought it’d be cool to have an actual set full of flowers. Not just a big, white room with oversaturated fluorescents.”

“So you are models?” You felt like Sherlock Holmes had cracked the case.

This time, they were the ones who turned tomato red and cleared their throats, scratching their heads nervously. Humble folks.

“Don’t fret, your secret is safe with me,” you comforted. “What kind of theme are you trying to go for?”

You conversed for the next half twenty minutes about their ideas for the shoot and a little bit about their backgrounds, and you managed to exchange numbers. It turns out they were quite the dynamic duo.

If you hadn’t reminded them that they had groceries that needed to be taken home, you could have easily talked to them for another couple of hours. They were the welcoming social butterflies, not the typical annoying ones that felt the compulsive need to blabber on about nothing.

After saving their contacts into your phone, Taehyung and Jungkook thanked you once more for your time and said they’d see you around.

What an interesting day it turned out to be indeed...

“We come bearing gifts!” Taehyung announced grandly in his signature deep voice. Setting down the bags, the six got to work organizing the food stash. Jungkook, Taehyung and Seokjin were fortunate enough to be in town for a while before their next shoot, and Jimin, Namjoon, and Hoseok were on spring break. Basically, all of them had been camping in Yoongi’s living room for the past few weeks, and he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Jungkook and Taehyung had bought enough food to last all of them for a month had they still lived under a single roof. Jimin got to work on washing and slicing up the vegetables, Seokjin was dividing up the cuts of beef, and Hoseok was boiling some water and sauce for the pasta. Meanwhile, Taehyung was busy figuring out how to set the temperature dial on the oven and Jungkook was scolding him every few seconds for not letting him do it.

Namjoon was keeping a keen eye on the water to make sure it was boiling.

“Do you think he’s still sleeping?” Sat on the bar counter of the kitchen, he propped up his chin while resting his elbow on the table.

“I hope so,” Hoseok sighed. “But you know he never sleeps even at the best of times.”

Jimin shook his head. “He was snoring a little earlier, but he might just be swaddled underneath the covers,” he added, the satisfying crunch of the vegetables timed perfectly with his words.

“He’ll be okay, right?” Jungkook asked with worry evident in his voice.

“He’ll talk about it when he’s ready to, but until then, it’s not our place to pry.” Seokjin was the class clown of the group, but every so often he let the wise part of his brain come out. “Let’s cook up a feast, pop open some bottles, and have a good time just like the old days.”

“The water is boiling!” Namjoon shouted, a bit too loud for Hoseok’s taste. He jumped at the sudden spike in pitch like a cat. Bursting into a fit of laughter, Hoseok whacked Joon on the forehead with the wooden spoon, making him howl. A spitting image of siblings fighting on Thanksgiving.

In the other room, Yoongi let out a deep sigh from beneath the jumbled mess of covers. The smell emanating from the kitchen made his mouth water and fooled him into thinking he was still dreaming.

Sitting up slowly so the blood wouldn’t rush too quickly to his head, he stared outside at the glimmering lights of the city that lit up the dark sky. Across the street, he could barely make out the flashing shadows of people’s TV screens behind their blinds and the monotonous, undecorated, cement balconies. For the most part, the sight was nothing extraordinary.

If he shut his eyes and listened closely, he could hear the faint hum of sirens; feel the quiet murmur of the heartbeat that lived and breathe in the city. If he silenced his mind entirely, he could smell the wet cement through the crack of his open window, still damp from the rain that poured hours earlier.

His footsteps were light as he made his way to the kitchen, but not before sneaking a glance at his friends from the hallway. Hiding behind the doorway, Yoongi listened to their voices; somehow even throughout puberty, he could still tell exactly who’s voice belonged to who just by the energy their words radiated.

“You told me to tell you when the water was boiling!” Namjoon defended with a whine, still rubbing his forehead from where Hoseok struck him with the spoon. He swore it was turning red.“I told you the water was boiling!”

Jungkook hung his head down to hide his wide-toothed grin. He was trying his hardest to hold back the snort that threatened to escape. “I think Hoseok meant to let him know with some bit of sanity, not intentionally scare him.”

“Either way, Hoseok definitely knew the water was boiling,” Taehyung chuckled with his mouth half-full. He always liked sneaking bits of food whenever they cooked something.

“Stop eating all the carrots, Taehyung!” Jimin yelled for what seemed like the hundredth time. “I hope your nose turns orange.”

His hand stopped midway, the carrot a mere centimeters away from his mouth which was still open. “Can—can that actually happen?” he sputtered.

Yoongi could picture Jimin’s smirk down to the last dimple. “I don’t know Taehyung, ever wonder why some babies turn orange?

“It only happens if you only eat carrots for a long time, like a carrot juice detox or something.” As usual, Seokjin was the voice of logic and mild reason in Yoongi’s absence.

Taehyung pinched Jimin’s cheek as revenge, popping the carrot into his mouth.

“I don’t know Taehyung,” Hoseok warned, sucking air in between his teeth for added effect. “Now that you mention it, your nose is starting to look a little bit—”

“What?!” A few chunks of carrot came flying out of his mouth, causing the boys to explode into snickers and simultaneous “ew’s.” Taehyung ran to the nearest bathroom and nearly ran face-first into the mirror trying to get a good look at his face.

“Hoseok!!!” he screeched like a demon. “You are so freaking lucky we don’t share a room anymore!”

Jungkook was starting to hyperventilate and clap like a seal, while Jimin, Seokjin and Hoseok sounded like they were on laughing gas from all of their snorting. “How do you fall for that sort of thing?” Seokjin forced out while clutching his stomach and nearly bursting into tears.

“God you guys are so stupid,” Namjoon facepalmed. In reality, he was hiding his ear-to-ear grin and his cheeks were sore. “I don’t know how we dealt with each other for twenty years.”

This made all of them laugh even harder.

Still hiding behind the doorway, Yoongi felt a bruising pain bloom from within his chest. It started deep down in his ribs and moved up his chest, crawling up his throat and contracting every muscle and scraping against every bone as it made its way farther up. The ache grew into a bubble, inflating itself bigger and bigger until it hurt for him to swallow or breathe. His knees buckled from beneath him as his back slid down the wall, his body curling into a crouched position. He looped his hands behind his neck and tugged his face into his knees, the familiar darkness comforting him. He wanted to scream until his throat refused to; punch something until his knuckles were pink, kick a box, bite down on a towel until his gums ached, throw a glass at a wall and watch it shatter into pieces, thrash around until his limbs went numb from the buzz of blood circulation.

He wanted to cry but he didn’t; he wanted to feel the tears as they trailed down his face. He wanted to feel the burning sensation of them trailing down his skin each time he wiped them away, cheek stinging even more after he did.

He needed to cry but he couldn’t.

“Do you wanna go wake him up, Taehyung?” Seokjin asked, his voice waking Yoongi up from his daze. It was more of a gentle command than a question, really. “He never gets mad at you for waking him up.”

On cue, Yoongi walked into the kitchen and pretended to rub his eyes as if he were still sleepy. Sitting at the table, he blinked a few times to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. “Wow, you actually managed to cook something and not burn my place down.” His chest was still sore and all he wanted to do was crawl back into bed, but there was also a part of him that was genuinely impressed by the setup.

“Hey, we’re not all like Namjoon.” Hoseok poked fun at him again and twirled his spatula as if it were a hypnotist wand.

“At least I made sure the water was boiling,” Joon mumbled under his breath.

Yoongi had no energy to smile, but he managed to lift the edges of his lips into the ghost of one. “I’m starving,” he spoke as his voice cracked a little.

The dinner table was already set and they just needed to bring some spare plates over. As everyone began gathering around the food, Yoongi felt the swelling in his chest begin to calm down. He was still having trouble breathing deep breaths, but it was better. Better than nothing.

“Want some water?” Jungkook offered, face still flushed red from laughing earlier.

“Thanks,” Yoongi accepted. He patted the youngest on the head and ruffled his hair like the high school days. Looking around, he studied every single face of his friends, admiring traits he hadn’t really taken the time to appreciate before.

Pouring him a glass, the boys soon joined Yoongi at the table, wine glass in hand. Hoseok handed the extra one he had brought to Yoongi, sneaking him a wink. A grin spread across his lips.

Jimin passed around the bottle of white wine as Taehyung cracked open a mini bottle of red for himself. All eyes darted towards the second youngest, causing him to raise his hands in defense. “Chardonnay gives me a hangover sometimes!”

“Mhm,” Jungkook hummed. “Totally the chardonnay.”

Another circle of laughter encompassed the table. Right as they were about to start eating, Hoseok remembered that he forgot to take the pasta out from the saucepan.

Namjoon stood up so fast, he didn’t have time to voice his pain when his toe struck against the table leg. “I’ll get it!” he volunteered before anyone could stop him. The dining table was right beside the kitchen so why was he in such a rush?

The others trusted him enough with a simple task like pouring something out of a pan into a dish. At least, that was until the boy decided the pasta was lacking a little bit of “zest,” so to speak.

“Jungkook, where’d you put the basil?” he asked while shuffling through the refrigerator.

"In the fridge, second drawer,” Jungkook answered, going back to take a bite of his steak. “Why?”

“The pasta needs some green!” he said with far too much energy in his voice.

Jimin, Taehyung, Seokjin, Hoseok, Jungkook, and Yoongi all looked at one another with the same puzzled expression before shrugging it off. That classical fiction analysis class was probably making him go kooky. The peace lasted for about half a second until Namjoon asked where Jimin had put the knife.

Their calm expressions immediately turned into ones of sheer terror as they looked at each other and scrambled out of their seats at the speed of light.

“Namjoon!” they screamed in unison.

Kat nearly dislocated her jaw. “He texted you again? What did he say? Did you text him back? What did you say? Was he being a dick again? How—”

You smacked your hand across her mouth in an effort to shut her up. Her overzealous energy was really a double-edged sword. On certain days, you absolutely thrived on it. On days like this, you hated it with a burning passion more than you hated maidenhair ferns. They were beautiful in theory but were a bitch to keep happy.

“Kat,” you stopped. “I love you and I would do anything for you, but I really need you to just shut up for right now, okay?” Nodding slowly at your request, you carefully peeled your hand off of her mouth.

“Are you okay?” she asked instead, much calmer than before. “You seem a little off.”

Sighing, you decided it would just be better if you showed her the texts.

Douchebag: hey ______, is this ur number? [ 2:22 p.m.]

Douchebag: i got a new phone that’s y [ 2:23 p.m.]

You: yea [ 2:29 p.m.]

Douchebag: how’ve you been [ 2:35 p.m.]

You: good, you? [ 2:42 p.m.]

Douchebag: {download image.jpeg} [ 2:44 p.m.]

Douchebag: I wanted to snap u this cuz I was wearing the sweater you got me but I guess u don’t have snap lol [ 2:45 p.m.]

You: I deleted all of my apps and never got back to reinstalling them, sorry [ 2:50 p.m.]

Scrolling through the rest of the messages, Kat scoffed in disbelief. “I knew he was scum, but catching up after three years of nothing and acting like everything is peachy keen is a new level of assholery,” she rambled on.

You rolled your eyes, resting your elbow on the counter and palm cradling your temple. “What can I say. I definitely know how to pick them well.”

“And the goddamn audacity of him to send a shirtless pic, masking it as a ‘thank-you for buying me that sweater’ schtick?” she growled, fist clenching around nothing while picturing his face.

“An absolute disgrace,” you tagged along.

“It’s not your fault, ______,” Kat soothed. “I would’ve fallen for his mind games too if he charmed me like that.” She took a sip of her iced coffee and shook her head vigorously. “God he makes me want to punch him in his stupid ugly face with that stupid dumb grin and those stupid poofy curls in his stupid misshaped head—”

“Kat,” you warned again, begging her to calm down. Her vernacular wasn’t the best, but damn was it amusing at times. “We just texted back and forth to kill some time. It didn’t mean anything and it’s not happening again.” It felt like you were trying to convince yourself more than her.

She studied your expression carefully before deciding what to say next. “If he ever crosses the line again, call me.” Placing her hand over your free hand, she gave it a good squeeze. The edges of your lips curved into the tiniest smile and you instantly felt at ease.

“Have I ever told you how lucky and grateful I am to have met you?” you chuckled, ignoring the throbbing in your temple that started early in the morning.

Tossing her hair behind her shoulders like an actress from the Golden Age of Hollywood, her teeth glimmered like diamonds against the bright red lipstick she had on. “As am I, my pumpkin patch sweet pea,” she beamed.

Covering your face to hide your painful grin, the door chimed, welcoming a customer. You fanned your face to calm down your rosy cheeks. “Welcome!” you greeted with your usual bright tone.

“Don’t touch anything,” someone criticized, the quiet sound of a hand smacking skin resounding through the small shop.

“I didn’t!” another voice, most likely the one who was scolded, replied in an irritated whisper.

Sitting up straight, you saw three young men standing right by where the glass terrarium displays were set up. You’d recognize that toothy smile and round face anywhere.

“Jungkook!” Finally getting out of your chair, you couldn’t help but be excited to see his face again. Kat’s eyes almost bulged out of their sockets as she stared back and forth between you and the guys with a blatant, “are you kidding me, you met a cute guy and didn’t bother mentioning it to me” face.

Poking the shoulder of his friend who was scolded, Jungkook greeted you with his signature smile and energetic wave. “______! Namjoon, Jimin, this is ______.”

The taller one shook your hand. “Nice to meet you,” he spoke gently with a close-lipped smile and sensed a child-like wisdom from him that you couldn’t exactly put your finger on. It didn’t help that his horn-rimmed glasses made him look like a teacher and a student.

“Jimin, wonderful to meet you.” The shorter-statured boy addressed you with a nearly angelic tone, voice softer than what you’d imagine clouds to feel like between your fingertips. His silver-dyed hair added to his overall ethereal aura.

Still sat at the counter, a starstruck Kat greeted the three with more confidence and gusto than you could ever muster. “Honored to meet you, I’m Kathryn but please call me Kat.” She strummed her fingers in the air as if she were plucking a harp. Jungkook, Jimin, and Namjoon grinned, already sensing the quirky nature of her personality. Yup, Kat’s so-called “Kat-Attack” was definitely contagious.

If you had a dollar for every time you blushed because of Jungkook and/or his friends, you’d have enough money to buy your own greenhouse—and live in said greenhouse. It wasn’t until Kat forcefully coughed up her left lung out that you registered how long you had been shaking Jimin’s hand. Pulling away abruptly, you let out an awkward chuckle. This was totally not weird at all—just three attractive, charming, attractive young men who waltzed into your shop on an ordinarily quiet day. Nothing weird. God, you were making it so weird—

“I’m gonna go get some coffee, do you guys want anything?” Kat asked out of the blue. If she was going to do what you think she was about to do...

“No, that’s alright,” Jimin turned down kindly. “We stopped by a café on the way here, but thank you for offering.”

“No problem at all!” Kat smirked just the slightest bit while saying this as if she’d gotten away with a bank heist. “I’ll see you after work, ______!” As she was walking outside, you saw her shoot you a mischievous wink through the glass before running off.

“So,” you started, trying your best to carry on the conversation as if you weren’t the most socially awkward human in the world. “What brings you and your friends in today?”

Jungkook, still as shy as ever, ruffled his hair lightly out of habit. “Well, you see, me Taehyung, and another friend of ours moved into an apartment a while back, and it still doesn’t feel...” he paused, trying to think of the right word. “—homey enough.”

While listening to Jungkook, Jimin and Namjoon were exploring the shop, taking in everything they could with their eyes, smelling what they could with their nose, and feeling every leaf and petal with their fingertips.

“We’re not the roommates,” Namjoon joked. “He dumped us ‘a while back.’” He acted out air quotes around the last three words. You held back a snort.

“He didn’t dump us, Joon,” Jimin corrected. “He found someone else who makes him happier.” Jimin pouted, raising the back of his hand to his forehead and sniffling like a kid.

Jungkook rolled his eyes and scoffed. “These two goofballs are with my other friend,” he clarified. “Taehyung, Seokjin and I have a pretty hectic schedule because of, you know...” Jungkook’s face was dusted with a shade of pink, clearly still too bashful to admit that he was a model.

“I understand,” you nodded, still biting the inside of your cheek to refrain from smiling too much. “So you, Taehyung, and Seokjin share an apartment while Jimin, Namjoon, and—?” Trailing the sentence off with a higher pitched voice, Jimin got the message.

“Hoseok,” he finished for you. “He’s an even bigger dolt than me and Joon combined, trust me.” The image he painted made you giggle.

Eventually, you arrived at the best conclusion you could form with the information given. “Right, so the six of you are best friends and live in two apartments.”

“In theory, yes,” Namjoon established. “But we also have Yoongi who lives by himself.”

“He’s the guy who Taehyung and I came in asking advice for?” Jungkook clarified, helping you recall back to the first time you met them.

You heard Jimin exhale deeply. “He’s sort of like the dad of our group, if you know what I mean. Quiet, kind of emotionally detached but in reality just doesn’t know how to express himself—that kind of thing.”

“Oh.” It slipped out by accident and sounded more melancholic than you thought. You tried coming up with something to neutralize your slip-up. “I’m really glad he has you guys as family.”

Jimin and Jungkook gave you a heartfelt smile—then there was a thud.

Turning around, Namjoon was hiding his face behind his hand while rubbing his temple. The grow light that was hanging still from the ceiling was now swinging back and forth like a pendulum.

You were wincing as if you felt his pain secondhand. “Are you okay?”

He nodded too quickly as if trying to convince you that he was really okay. “Fine. Good. Flower shop. Plants need light. Forgot about the dangling lights. A lot of them.” he sputtered like a morse code machine.

Turning back to Jungkook and Jimin, they too had their faces buried in their hands out of sheer embarrassment. Sometimes, people found it hard to believe that Namjoon was that clumsy in his actions, but even harder for Jungkook and Jimin to tell them that he was their senior.

“Anyway,” Jungkook coughed. “Our new place looks kind of uninviting and Jimin thought adding a couple of plants might make it more cozy.”

Jimin had made his way to the syngoniums and rhaphidophoras. “We have better luck with plants than Namjoon and Yoongi. They don’t exactly have the greenest thumbs.”

Chuckling, you directed their attention to the macrame the 6-inch pothos n’joy that cascaded from the ceiling. Coincidentally, Namjoon was inspecting that exact one. Perfect. “Actually, he’s a pretty forgiving little guy.” Stepping up the ladder and bringing him down, Jungkook’s eyes grew big and his hands flew out to hold the ladder steady. “Thanks,” you blushed again.

Holding the plant up close now, you let them admire the creamy white variegation, watercolor patches of green, lighter patches of green, and the lush leaves. You also showed them the golden pothos, which was a more of a typical chlorophyll green, but it had beautiful yellow and white specks of variegation throughout the foliage.

“I’m assuming you’re all still beginners,” you inferred, to which they all nodded in agreement. “These guys need lots of bright light, but don’t press them up against a window or they’ll get sunburn,” continuing to explain.

“Water them every few weeks and wait until they’re bone dry, then give them a good, thorough drench. Don’t overwater them or they’ll hate you for it, trust me. They rarely ever need fertilizer, but I’ll give you guys some packets to last you a couple of months.”

“Can we take them all home?” Jimin gawked, head tilted up towards the sky and staring at the ceiling that was ornate with vining, trailing, hanging, and branching foliage.

An amused laughter left your lips. “I wish you could, but the next time you come and visit I’ll let you take one of those home,” you promised. “If you want another eye-candy foliage one, you could also take home a brasil.” Holding up the heart-leafed philodendron, the neon yellow stripes down the median of each leaf and clusters of light and dark green looked like they were hand-painted.

“Oh me, me, me!” Jimin’s hand shot up in the air, flapping it back and forth vigorously.

“Could I take one of these too?” Namjoon inquired with a 6-inch pot in hand. “Rhaphid—off... fera—?” he tried to sound out, earning another giggle from you.

“Rhaphidophora tetrasperma but it’s more commonly known as a mini monstera,” you clarified. He formed his lips into an o shape, caressing the delicate split-leaved foliage. “I think you’d be more than able to take care of that one.” Jungkook coughed to hide his snort.

“We’ll make sure he doesn’t drown it,” Jimin assured, throwing you a sly wink. Add another dollar to your bank account, would you?

“Hello, last time I checked we came here to buy housewarming gifts for my house?” Jungkook reminded them in the form of a rhetorical question.

You patted him on the shoulder to wipe the pout off his face. “There’s more than enough plant love to go around.”

“We’re gonna be here all day...” Jimin sighed in content, gently feeling the fuzzy leaves of some African violets. “Say sorry to my bank account for me, will you?”

“I second that,” Namjoon added. “What on earth is this?” Holding up a 2-inch grow pot, you pursed your lips at his dumbfounded expression, eyebrows raised and wrinkled at the odd looking succulent.

“It’s a lithops.” His face contorted more at your reply “They’re also known as living stones. As they grow, they split in half and pop out little baby lithops.”

Blinking to process what he had just heard, Jimin groaned and shielded his eyes. “Don’t say it, Joon.” Looking closer at the plant Joon was holding, Jungkook parted his mouth—

“It looks like a lil’ol buttcrack,” Namjoon pointed out bluntly. The three of you let out a synchronous sigh and buried your faces into your hands, but couldn’t help and burst into laughter right after.

“We are going to be here all day, aren’t we,” Jungkook said muffled through his hands still covering his face.

After the last crappy 72 hours, you were more than grateful to have them keep you company for the day. "I’m more than happy to make some new friends while doing my job.” The words flowed freely from your mind, excited to get to know them better.

After sending each of the guys home with enough plants they could manage to carry, you closed up the shop for the day. Kat texted you right after the guys left in a panic. She completely blanked about the gala she had to attend for her design and commerce class and was running to catch the metro. You could tell she was still adamant on wearing her fashionable but not functional cube-heeled oxfords, as her texts were a mixture of all-caps lock and garbled, choppy sentences.

As you made your way back to your apartment, you couldn’t help but hear a jumble of voices arguing with each other in your head.

Text him back, he misses you.

Don’t. He’s just using you to get what he wants again. He’ll leave just like that last time. Remember last time? You don’t want that to happen again do you?

Scum. Dirtbag. Trash. User.

What if he means it this time?

Asshole. Player. Heartbreaker.

Maybe he’s changed.

Don’t do it. Put your phone down.

What if he actually misses me? What if it’s different this time? Just text him. Nothing bad will happen if you text him once.

Everything bad that can happen will happen, it’s only a matter of—

The slamming of your door seemed to silence the conflicting pieces of your collective conscience. Leaning against the door, you clicked your lock and pressed your hand against your chest, willing yourself to calm down.

You tossed your keys onto the counter and jumped into the shower as soon as you threw your clothes into the laundry basket. The steam engulfed your body with a pleasant heat, releasing the tension in your neck and shoulders that had built up from the sleepless nights in bed.

After spending a little less than an hour in your makeshift steam sauna, you remembered that you actually had utility bills to pay. You quickly got out of the shower and slipped on your usual attire of joggers and an old shirt. The place was chilly, so you slipped on a cardigan for good measure. With your hair wrapped in a towel, you searched through your fridge for something to eat.

“Damn.” The words left your lips before you could stop them.

Of course, it was pretty much empty. You were so caught up with spring orders for the past few weeks, you didn’t get a chance to stop by the grocery store on your way home. Settling on half of a turkey sandwich leftover from yesterday, you were grateful you still had a few cans of soda left to compliment tonight’s gourmet feast.

You made yourself comfortable on your couch that was arranged right across your balcony. There was no use in having a TV if you couldn’t afford to pay the electric bills, and you wanted to utilize the limited space of your studio to its fullest. The fizz of the soda nearly made you choke. It had been a hot minute since you had soda, relying purely on coffee for the past few years to give you that caffeine boost.

The sound of sirens wailing echoed throughout the city and pierced through the hum of traffic with ease. Leaning your head back into the dense cushion, you closed your eyes and listened; the relentless thumping of your upstairs neighbors, probably having another night of friends over; the faint shouts from the restaurant across the street that was overflowing with diners, typical of a Friday night; the gentle whisper of cold air that bled through the crack of your sliding balcony door. You needed to get that fixed ages ago.

The food wasn’t going down well. It was that damn soda. Putting down the last few bits of the sandwich, you stood up and stepped outside onto your balcony. The lights flickered on and you admired the plant shelves you’d set up a few days after moving in. It was a teeny tiny space, but the luscious array of green, pinks, reds, white, and every color in between made it all the more bearable.

You propped your elbow up against the rail that guarded the edge and breathed in for four seconds, held it for five, and exhaled for six. It was working, right? Your hands came up to the sockets of your eyes, applying the slightest bit of pressure to them. There were days where you really wanted to sleep for days on end; a hibernation, if you will. Today was most definitely one of those days. There was one problem—how were you supposed to fall asleep if you were too afraid to?

You were scared of seeing him in your dreams. Not even dreaming about him, no—the fear of encountering him as a random stranger while you were on your way to the floral market or a jogger passing by on your stroll in the park. His face resurfaced in flashes The glimpses of your favorite memories together were now inescapable bursts composed of your worst nightmares.

You hated him. You loathed him with all of your heart, despised him with every fiber of your being and with every single living cell in your body. You wanted to forget about him; you wanted to forget he ever existed and that he ever met you. Every single moment you shared with him and every second you wasted pining over whether he loved you back; you wanted those years of your life back.

But you knew better than anyone that time was never forgiving, and you would never get to relive those years ever again.

The funny thing—actually the hilarious thing—was that you hated yourself more than you hated him. You hated yourself for being the one who introduced yourself to him at that stupid party; you never should have gone to that stupid fucking party. You were such an idiot, what were you thinking?

All those days, months, and years you spent constantly hovering over your phone, begging and pleading for him to send you a text. Something, anything to acknowledge that he still knew your name and to give you the opportunity to manipulate it into meaningless signals, then use that to convince yourself that he actually did care about you.

You couldn’t remember for the life of you how or why you started falling for him. You both agreed to it no-strings-attached. No cuddles, no aftercare, no dates, and definitely no kissing in front of other people or hugging each other. He said his reputation would be ruined if his friends found out about you two.

In love with the idea of being in love, you agreed without a second thought. No feelings, no crossing the line. Simple.

Until he started breaking the rules.

He’d get jealous of you hanging out with other guys, blowing up your phone with questions and angry paragraphs along the lines of “You’re not going to parties anymore unless it’s with me” and “I can’t believe you hung out with Aaron of all people. You know he’s a complete fuck up, right?”

Then he started caring—at least, acting like he did. Pretending. Faking. Lying. Masquerading. Call it whatever you will. He held you close to his chest after spending time with you in his bed, wrapping you under the covers to keep you warm. You’ll never forget the warmth of his chest as his heartbeat thumped against your ear. His fingers traced the outline of your face when he thought you were asleep, never knowing that you did everything in your power to hold back your smile. Then there were times when he’d leave you right after, making an excuse about a night out with his friends or a project due tomorrow. It was always due tomorrow. Other times he would go to the bathroom and then come back to throw you a towel.

“My roommates will be here any minute. You should hurry up,” he’d warn.

Case and point, his games worked. After three years, you were head over heels for him. The memory of how it ended was blocked from your mind. Anytime you tried to remember that day, you always ran into a concrete wall. It was almost as if you built it to protect yourself from something, but what?

The only thing you could recall were the tears. Maybe they were his too, but you vividly remember yours. They flooded your vision with a cloudy film, overflowing in streams and trails down your face and even causing you to choke on them. And the screaming—god, the screaming... More memories flooded in as your hands cupped your ears.

“I’m sorry, okay?! I’m sorry that I want what’s best for you and that you can’t see how much I care. I’m sorry for being so blind and seeing you for who I wanted you to be, that I couldn’t see you for who you truly are! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

Shutting your eyes tightly, you felt a drop of wetness fall dribble down your cheek. You were crying again. A sniffle followed the scoff that came out of your mouth. What, three years have already passed since then? Three years and you were still crying over that asshole?

Wiping at your face with the rough fabric of your sleeve, you bit your lip to concentrate on something else. You stared at nothing to the point where everything looked blurry and your eyes stung. The temperature suddenly dropped, indicated by your shivering. You couldn’t afford to get sick and hurried back inside.

Before you knew it, the clock had struck 11:00 p.m. and you were not the slightest bit sleepy. Sheltered in the safety of your own home, you had an idea that would not only get your mind out of the rut you’d fallen into, but also . Digging through scraps of loose paper, dry pens, and trash in general, you found your old earbuds. They worked perfectly fine, okay? Why fix something when it’s not broken?

Plugging them into your phone because yes—you had a phone which was one of the dying species that still had a headphone jack—you turned on your favorite playlist (appropriately titled stre$$ed) and commenced dancing in your room like someone from the 70′s. The only thing missing was a pair of flare-cut jeans, a splotchy tie-dyed shirt, and a pair of Kat’s over-the-top disco boots.

Even though your neighbors were assholes about keeping it down after lights out, you chose to be the bigger person and take their residence into consideration. Mouthing the words silently and jumping as softly as you could, your damp hair stuck to the edges of your face and flung around, hitting your cheek a couple of times. Truth be told, you were far past the point of caring.

Each time your foot came thumped against the plush carpet was an invigorating strike; every head bob was a liberating release; each labored breath and winded puff felt like the exact opposite, a breath of fresh air.

An escape.

You flopped onto the bed with a heavy exhale, trying to catch your breath. Panting, your face felt hot and every part of your lungs burned like you were being roasted alive on a bonfire. The back of your hand felt cool against your forehead and your eyes began drooping at the soothing touch. Before you could pull the covers up, darkness engulfed your senses and you were out like a light.

Yoongi couldn’t sleep. He had counted backwards from one hundred, two hundred, five hundred, and maybe a thousand. He tried listening to a random playlist full of rain sounds, alpha waves, crickets, and a fireplace crackling. All that came from that was an unnecessary number of bathroom trips, ear scratching, skin itching, and throwing off the covers from the heat he was imagining.

Sitting up in annoyance, Yoongi sat on the edge of his bed with his forehead resting on his hand, elbow propped up on his elbow. He couldn’t stop thinking. Thinking about his job, the deadlines he had to meet, the songs he had to make, lyrics that still needed to be written, phone calls and emails he needed to send out—he was supposed to call his mom during lunch.

“Fuck,” he swore, rubbing his eyes again. Looking at his alarm clock, the time 12:12 a.m. was outlined in blue. He initially settled on the traditional red one while at the store, but Hoseok convinced him to opt for a more “peppy color.” Yoongi’s lips curved into a soft grin at the memory. Within seconds, his eyebrows knitted together into a frown and his eyes flickered, the subtle expression he bore moments ago now a stone cold gaze.

No matter how hard he tried and how badly he wished and prayed, he couldn’t compel himself to cry. Despite his adamant concentration and determination, he didn’t shed a tear. Not being able to force it out without knowing what it was, proved to be absolutely suffocating.

He tried focusing on something else. The lights, the city, the sounds—he needed to focus on something else. Gazing through the window he’d familiarized himself with, Yoongi took in the view. From his room, he was able to see a picturesque layout of where the biggest main streets of the city intersected. Through the fog, he could also make out the faint edges of the longest footbridge that ran across the skyline. Looking down, the warm glow of street lamps and building lights twinkled through the dark night like man-made stars.

Lifting his head up to the apartment complex directly across from his, there were still a couple of lights on here and there. Yoongi felt validated in the sense that he wasn’t the only one who had sleepless nights. One by one, they started to fade, each apartment light turning off as someone’s hand flicked a lever and went to sleep. It was strangely relaxing to watch. After about twenty minutes of staring intently at every person tune out for the night, he narrowed his eyes at one that remained.

Directly across from his apartment was the faint yellow glow of someone’s balcony light. He imagined the wonderful warmth radiating from it, closing his eyes to immerse himself in the imagination. Looking closer, Yoongi saw the shadow of a woman leaning on the railing. She was shivering.

Bringing her hand up, she wiped at her face and started laughing—crying? He couldn’t see in the dark all that well. Trying to get a closer look, he forgot about the glass that separated him from the outside world and face planted the pane. Wincing in pain, he wrinkled his nose and inhaled sharply through his two front teeth.

He shook it off and centered his vision back to the balcony opposite to his room, remembering to open the window this time. Cold air bit at his cheeks but he ignored it, determined to find what he had witnessed seconds ago. The girl was still leaning on the rail and was staring at seemingly nothing. Her shoulders hiccuped up every few seconds and hands came up to wipe her face again.

Definitely crying.

Yoongi was awestruck. How good did it feel to finally get it out? Was it worth it? Did it feel like you could breathe again? Yoongi soon realized that he was jealous—no, he envied her ability to weep; her ability to shed real, painful, cathartic tears.

He envied the one thing he couldn’t have and would never be able to get.

Following your movement back inside, he should’ve gone back to bed himself, but for some reason, he just couldn’t. His gut told him not to, but then again, that way of decision-making was a 50/50 bet.

Whether it happened in the blink of an eye or this was all some sleep-deprived dream, she ended up going from crying her eyes out to dancing her heart out? She reminded Yoongi of Seokjin’s drunk dancing; good but not good, sane but not entirely, and so rhythmic yet incredibly off beat. Her vibrancy was contagious and made Yoongi smile a real smile for the first time in a while. If you told him that she had bawled herself delirious two minutes ago, he would have snorted. It looked as if she didn’t have a single worry or care in the world....

He felt like a creep. He shouldn’t be up, period. He should be sleeping, not spying on his neighbors. Worse, they weren’t even neighbors, had never met before, nor did they even come a foot close and live in the same building.

Hell, that made it so much freaking worse.

He sighed at how pathetic he felt. Was he that desperate for something he didn’t even know? Yoongi decided to call it a night. Crawling into his covers, they never seemed to keep him warm, no matter how tightly he wrapped himself in them. It was either searing hot discomfort paired with cold sweat or ice cold feet and teeth chattering.

That night by whatever random laws of the universe he slept soundly. Not once did he shoot open his eyes from nightmares or stir in his sleep out of discomfort. Maybe it was from witnessing someone’s emotional outpours and experiencing them vicariously through his own means, or maybe it was the satisfaction of selecting all of his unread emails and archiving them until tomorrow, one thing was for sure—Yoongi had accomplished his goal of sleeping through an entire night; something he hadn’t done for years now...

I’ll get out of it.

“I never thought I’d ever say this,” you started, trying to close your agape mouth. “But I think you guys might have one too many plants.” Looking at their coffee table, it was overflowing with the eight boxes you’d delivered this morning. Yes, there were eight boxes full of plants delivered to a single apartment. Marco would have the time of his life restocking for next week. Jungkook, Taehyung, Hoseok, Namjoon, and Jimin helped you carry up the boxes and were all staring at the ground sheepishly, their hands clasped behind their backs like children who were caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar.

You offered to deliver the boxes to their places separately, seeing as they had different spaces and floor plans, but that cheeky bugger Taehyung convinced you to rendezvous at his place. Then you wouldn’t have to go through the trouble of walking back and forth between the shop and their corresponding buildings, and the guys would get a chance to meet you.

Guilt gnawed at you for making them interrupt their daily schedules just to bring home some houseplants, but Jungkook insisted that they were all free for the next two weeks; spring break for Jimin, Namjoon, and Hoseok, pre-season break and scheduling bookings for Seokjin, Taehyung, and Jungkook.

Meeting Seokjin for the first time and Taehyung for the second was a memorable experience, to put it lightly. You walked in on them running around half naked and throwing crumpled balls of clothes at each other. Turns out they had been arguing about who’s turn it was to do the laundry and neither of them were having it. Long story short, you lived life by the rule that first impressions were a good indicator of someone’s unfiltered, raw, underlying disposition, and in this case, it proved to be entirely true in the best way possible.

“We’ll share, we promise.” Jimin was the first to break the silence but still had trouble meeting your gaze.

Jungkook pointed an accusing finger at Seokjin and Taehyung, his turn to talk. “They didn’t believe us after they saw how many plants we came home with, so we figured we’d invite you over to meet them in person and see whether they convert or not.”

“Safe to say that we are officially convinced,” Taehyung raised his hands in surrender, elbowing Seokjin to do the same.

Hiding your smile by pressing your lips together, a tingling sensation spread across your face at his odd choice of words. When you reminded them about their hectic schedules and voiced your concern about them being able to keep up with care, Seokjin revealed his contract agreement with Hoseok. “He promised that he’d come by and water them whenever we’re out of town for longer than a week,” the eldest explained while biting back a smirk. “He kind of owes me a lifelong debt...”

Forcing out a tight-lipped sideways grin, Hoseok slung his arm over Jimin’s shoulder, bearing a smirk of his own. “Don’t worry, Jimin here owes me a debt of his own.”

A sly grin crept along Jimin’s face. "Considering that my lifelong debt doesn’t have to do with the fact that you bl—” Before he could finish, Seokjin and Hoseok’s hands flew up faster than lightning to cover the boy’s mouth. Taehyung nearly spit out his water and the others were near tears and clutching their abdomens, their mouths sealed tight and refusing to let out one of their pact’s biggest secrets. You admired how loyal and strong their bond was, a rare thing in this day and age.

Shaking your head to distract yourself from their incessant laughter, you pressed your hand over your forehead and widened your eyes in concentration. “Well, let’s get to organizing, shall we?”

Unpacking the boxes one by one, each contained an array of species from pothos, philodendrons, syngoniums, hoyas, pileas, peperomias, baby rubber trees, rhaphidophoras, sansevierias, ZZ plants, money trees, and finally, two mature, green monsteras for each of them to keep in their living rooms. Not knowing what kind of lighting situation they had going on, you tried to limit your recommendations to medium-light tolerant plants. After they alerted you about their east and south-exposure windows, you were relieved in your selection.

“I call the big guy,” Jungkook cooed, picking up the staked rhaphidophora and clutching it to his chest and smirking coyly. “For my room.”

Seokjin whined loudly. “We live in the same apartment!”

Taehyung let out a disappointed sigh and shook his head. “You see what I have to deal with every day?”

Namjoon reached for the philodendron micans. “It’s like velvet!” he commented in awe as he felt the leaves. It was nicknamed the velvet-leaved philodendron after all, but his reaction made you feel fuzzy with plant love.

“Woah this looks like an alien’s flying saucer,” Hoseok noted. Picking up the pilea, it never struck you that the round, green disks did, in fact, look like flying saucers. Once everyone was satisfied with what they were taking home (it ended up taking a lot less time than you predicted), you went to work arranging them around the living room, bedroom, and kitchen, all while explaining to them the water and light requirements, periodic maintenance, and looking out for pests.

You urged Jimin, Namjoon, and Hoseok to go back to their place first, assuring that you’d meet them there. They said it was no bother and wanted to witness your working process. You were just doing your job, but seeing them fascinated by your passion and vigor was much more endearing than you thought it would be.

Just as you were hanging the macrame pot by their balcony, you heard the front door click open. Taehyung, Jimin, and Namjoon were holding the step ladder steady for you.

Since you were concentrating on getting the nail at the right angle, you paid no attention to it, assuming it was Hoseok or Jungkook going to recycle the used wrapping paper and packing materials.

“Yoongi!” Jimin called out.

“Good to see you dude,” Taehyung beamed. “Sorry, our hands are kind of full.”

“Could’ve given me a heads up that you had a guest over,” he grumbled, but you couldn’t hear through the rustling of the leaves that smacked your face.

The sound of footsteps grew louder from afar, then paused when you felt a presence behind you. “Jungkook,” you called out, turning your shoulder and looking down to where he was standing. “Do you mind grabbing the pliers from—”

Here’s the thing you never understood about step ladders. Standing on them is considered a safety hazard, yet it’s method of use and reason for existence is to be stood on. You wished you remembered this when you decided to turn around and look down at Jungkook, except, it wasn’t Jungkook. It wasn’t Hoseok either. Despite not wearing a mask or beanie, you instantly recognized that cold gaze, piercing through yours like daggers.

He was equally shocked and mirrored your exact reaction, eyes growing wide and mouth parting as if you were staring through double-sided plexiglass.

“Yoongi, this is _____,” Jungkook introduced comfortably, conversation flowing freely from him. “______, this is Yoongi. The dad Jimin talked about.” While the boys broke into convulsions of laughter, you and Yoongi were still shellshocked. Of all the people that could be in this friend circle, it had to be the guy who crossed paths with you a few of times on the street?

You didn’t register that you’d lost your footing from the ladder until the familiar weight of gravity tipped you over. The last thing you saw were multiple pairs of hands reaching out to try and catch you, but it was too late—your body collided into his before crashing onto the floor as one whole, the clear thud of wood against flesh echoing throughout the apartment.

That’s definitely one way to make a first impression.

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paracosim · 3 years

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Way by the Wood?

lmao I completely forgot this was part of the ask game. WBTW is a novella I’m writing, about a middle-aged married couple in Finland who end up becoming inter-dimensional travelers after the main character Wanda’s husband Obrecht vanishes in the woods one day. When she finally finds him he’s delirious and talks about nothing but a door he found in the forest, through which he saw unspeakable things. The experience changes him and he’s no longer content to live their peaceful lives, so Wanda decides to pack up with him and go to find the door (mostly humoring him).

They do, of course, find the door and become universe hoppers, people who have inadvertently discovered portals into the unknown and found themselves wanting after their first taste. But as the years go by and they find themselves separated by forces out of their control, Wanda begins to wonder if they’ve perhaps gone too far—and if they’ll ever find their way back home or back to each other.

I’m using a more whimsical writing style with this one to give it a bit of a fairytale vibe. The timeline spans across thirty-seven years so they’re both quite old by the end. I’ve never written a story centering a married couple before and rarely write m/f couples at all so it’s pretty different as far as characters go. I’m enjoying it though and am going to make it as painful as possible. I want ugly sobbing at the end of it. Here’s some parts I like most:

It was on a bright winter’s morning in January that Obrecht Hämäläinen disappeared, and only his wife Wanda was there to miss him. (The first line)

They sold the chickens, because neither of them were sure how long they would be gone and Obrecht didn’t want to come home to find bones. The man who lived nearest came willingly after they dug up their old rotary and his number, trundling in with his pickup to haul the lot away for a handful of markka by evening that next day. Then they called their few family members, chatting idly with her Aunt Aada and his nephew Tomas, making vague talk about visiting at Christmas or exchanging holiday cards. Nothing concrete, no formal plans made, but it was enough of a goodbye that perhaps their leaving wouldn’t sting so badly if anyone came calling.

The laundry was done and clothes were packed. They tucked away sewing kits and a disposable camera, Wanda’s stock of cloth pads for her monthly bleed, and as many socks as they could fit into their rucksacks—because who could say how much walking their adventure would require? Obrecht gathered their most durable silverware, three bowls, and two small cups. When she caught him slipping their finest bottle of wine into the final pocket of his pack he offered no explanation beyond a wink and a grin.

“I think I see lodgings up ahead,” Obrecht said, stepping over a stream of run-off in the road.

Wanda noticed it too late to avoid it. Her shoes, so worn and faded by the months of travel, went sodden in an instant as she splashed into the puddle, her socks squelching against her toes. “Oh,” she grumbled, stepping to the side—

And then she woke up.

Her head was aching and she’d slept at a funny angle, so that her neck had turned oddly through the night and protested when she sat up. Only—had it…been night? When had she gone to sleep? And where…

There were trees all around her, tall and looming, and it was dark. The chill in the air left gooseflesh on her arms even though she remembered it being quite warm only moments ago. A fine layer of snow cushioned the ground beneath her, scraped about by her movements. And the leaves on the trees were shaped in a way she had never seen before. It was all so unfamiliar. It felt foreign. It smelled foreign. She could not, then, be in Finland, or the world she and Obrecht had…had…

She was alone. Obrecht was nowhere in sight.

“Obrecht?” she whispered, scrambling to her feet. Her socks were still wet but her discomfort seemed terribly unimportant all of a sudden. “Obrecht, dear, are you there? Obrecht?”

There was no one around, only her in this strange forest, in this strange world, and for a moment Wanda couldn’t allow herself to think it. Because surely they had not been—she hadn’t—surely—

“Obrecht!” she shouted, turning about again and again, like she could conjure him where she stood and all would be well again. But he didn’t appear. There was only her. “Please. Please, Obrecht.”

There must have been a door somewhere in that puddle. She had fallen through too quickly to realize. Where was her husband? Had he remained there in that other world, however many dimensions away? Or had he been lost to a hop of his own? Was he waking up just as she had, bewildered and disoriented, in a strange land, alone? Or was he finding she was gone, turning round to find her missing without a trace? Would he wait for her? Would he come find her?

“Take me back,” she begged to the empty air, and pounded her fists on a tree until her knuckles were raw and bloody. “Take me back!”

She was alone. Obrecht was gone, there was no portal, no door, and she was alone.

“Take me back,” she gasped, dropping to her knees in the snow. Her hands stung and there was a pressure building behind her eyes. “Please…take me back to him.”

The forest was silent. And at last Wanda could not hold back the sob fighting its way up her throat. What was she to do? Where was the door? If she could find the door, then…

But she was alone. Wanda had never been the one to find the doors; it had always been Obrecht. Obrecht, who was worlds away, who had all of the answers. Obrecht, who would know what to do when she never had.

“Take me back,” she sobbed, laying her head against the bark of the tree, and wept like a child until the blackness of sleep dragged her down.

“Have you seen him?” she breathed into the quiet, even though she already knew the answer.

Nadja didn’t respond, though Wanda could see the line of her shoulders go taut for an instant. She had not seen Obrecht. No one here had; not once in thirty-six years.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” she laughed, wiping tears from her cheeks. Her bones creaked as she stood. “There’s just so much…I have so many stories to tell you.”

“Come, sit,” Obrecht said, eyes shining as he pulled up a chair and poured her a glass of wine. “Have a drink. I want to hear everything.”

(The last lines) @solasnarealtai

#welp this got long sorry folks #mine

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erinelizabethh · 4 years

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Caught Your Eye | Leon x Reader (7/?)

Summary: Your little sister is the newest, most promised challenger to beat the region’s Champion. Leon is said Champion. You just have a Pikachu.

A series of drabbles following yours and Leon’s friends-to-lovers slow burn… years in the making.

1 2 3 4 5 6

Chapter Seven: Must Be Fate

Chapter Summary: Perhaps fate is something to believe in.

Fate is a concept, an idea to believe in rather than accept as fact. To believe in whatever was to come meant a sense of control in one’s life, and God forbid if this world wasn’t so unpredictable. Perhaps the word is meant to comfort you, to justify the shudder in your bones at the fast-approaching return to Postwick. In fact, Sonia can go on about how she dawdles in it all, only entertaining destiny when she sees fit which is… exactly the topic of conversation upon your first step in Wedgehurst territory. With your Rotom phone tucked in between your shoulder and your ear, heat traveling to a phone increasing in stupidity the more you couldn’t figure how to navigate it, you raise a shoulder to drag your duffle bag toward the column of your neck while kneeling to bring your able Pikachu into your arms. “She must be right excited to see Leon in the flesh again, huh?” Sonia inquires in fact, expecting proof of delight in return.

The girl famous for her peach strands of hair and her brilliant knowledge of the region remains your friend through passing texts and selfies with your now ex-best friend, and his now rival Raihan. Unlike everyone else, she’s that rock that is dauntless of abilities that near rival a ghost type, choosing to spend moments of her day checking in with a, “What’s goin’, love?” despite your schedule too full to respond to left messages. Sometimes if the nostalgia is too much to bear, she recalls of outings the four of you had however rare, taking quick detours on routes home because you finally caved and relished in the way the sun’s rays traveled in the waves of the lake beside her home. Sometimes she’ll sign off her messages with a plead for you to return through the excuse that Leon and Raihan are down to one bookworm to tease; she misses a friend, a fellow girl, someone whose contact means more to her and less to you as the years are counted and lives are left behind.

No one’s fault but yours, you suppose, it was difficult to detach from the village girl in you to make residence in the city. Contacts of old classmates nonetheless are found upon the habitual scrolling through lists of numbers foreign, all besides your mother, Lydia, and Sonia having to deal with a fleeting existence never picking up. If only any of those people fortunate enough to hold a spot in your memory even bothered to call, but again, no one’s fault but yours. With a few updates every day from Mum about the abundance of Butterfree’s among her plants as if you care and a few more from Lydia mentioning a girl she’s crushing on in University as if you have any right giving her advice, your phone is dry with your recent calls your mentor and boss as the only source.

At this point, you’re not exactly positive why you bought this device.

Your Pikachu nuzzles her rosy cheeks into your forearm, appreciative of that buzz she experiences when her owner gives her attention. “He texted me back a, ‘yep’ when I told ‘im, I mean Sonia… he’s definitely a bit cross with me— oh, but the hat—“

You step outside Wedgehurst Station to find a crowd of people in your vision, and the very man invading your thoughts as the object of their affection. They ogle over the cape that dresses him so proper, aware of how contagious his smile can be, salivating at the amount of patience required to fully tame his winning Charizard. There are sparkles in the eyes of each aspiring trainer and parent searching for a distraction, asking him of favors to amuse them just a little longer. You’re somebody that doesn’t deserve paying mind to, except Leon has to perk up at your voice and turn to meet your entrance home, successfully diverting the attention from him and his most trusted Pokémon to someone who wanted none of that. The inhabitants of Wedgehurst turn heads at Leon’s change of behavior and the source, and you lower your phone from your ear as your gaze shuffles at every direction but the one where he is in your direct line of vision.

… And there it is, in your periphery. Your gift to him.

No one walked the world without finding his name on a billboard, his face plastered in hyperbolic documentaries of how the boy from nothing rose to the top and became the Champion of Galar. The world knew he was loved, yes, that he packed up his wardrobe and set out at the age of sixteen, yes, but did they know how good he was at remembering birthdays? His mother would tease him in passing by posting a picture of him when he was a teenager and the population would go mad and exclaim about his braces but were they there during his woes of them being too tight, too fragile? Would anyone have cared if he wasn’t a winner, if he wasn’t always a winner? So many questions and yet, you would think being twenty-three, all the time in the world would be offered to you to answer them.

You followed Leon’s journey to twenty-four through the eyes and ears of others, lips flat as you witnessed him having the time of his life. Lydia, with the occasional snapshot of his rare visit to his home, would encourage a grin from the adult when he found no reason to frown. You would scroll down Hop’s feed, his stan feed if you will, claiming that one day he would be Champion just like his brother, analyzing the stream of Leon’s many battles and victories. Then, if you were courageous enough, the next tab would be reserved for his mother’s profile—still kicking, still tagging your mother in articles about gardening. The occasional upload of Leon’s pose would show up if you scrolled further, with Mum sparing time to comment about how his signature stance kind of looks like a Charizard which was kind of the point, followed by the demand for him and you to meet up in Motostoke. Of course, your name in bold was to be your limit, and you proceeded to exit the application to bang your forehead against your phone two, three times.

His appearance is just as in the pictures, except you’re now able to put a voice and a soul into them. The boy, now a man, can’t seem to avert his gaze from what he deems is the more pressing matter at hand, his cheeks losing its color the more he eyes the color that fuses within yours. His hair reaches yours in length, undoubtedly as soft as silk, and perhaps one day there would come a time where he would allow you to braid it in a design that accentuates more of his silent gratitude. You squint to find the regret in his eyes, maybe contempt, only finding dandelions that sway in the lovely, constant breeze. There is no difference to be found in him so far but the growth on his chin and the tufts of hair that far outmatch yours. Rather than spare his many glances at you, gaze aligning so perfectly with the other, he now follows you to a height stunted just because your body isn’t built to be tall. However, although the number of contrasts is small, they are too significant to ignore, and you can’t help but notice that there can be no return to a boy strife with the burden of crooked teeth and expectations. Leon, although no longer a best friend, remains but a spirit meant to haunt you because no one can seem to let him go. You, unfortunately, are no different.

You, however, appear to have been obscured from both families’ requests for selfies or photos of your new flat, only a comment of how you’re welcomed at your new position, partaking in research that no one cared to find out about, so it’s quite a shock to him to find you seven years later under a new light. Quite some time has passed since yet the years have been kind to you, he’s sure. You deserve it, of course, but maybe you don’t; some part of him has to remind him of what you did to him. Regardless, there exists weights beneath your eyes, no doubt an accumulation of years of studies, yet you compensate for it with lips soft and glossy. The second that transpires before you shield your face from the sun, your irises shimmer underneath it’s rays and he’s thrown back to when the two of you were teenagers and the sun set over the horizon at just the right time when you were just in the right spot, and he’s as mesmerized then as he is now.

Boy, does he hate it.

There is something you haven’t seen from him since you departed: a frown upon his lips that deters those who find solace in his abiding smile. Eyebrows narrowed if only for a moment, the relief of those that know a caricature of him returns when he puffs out his chest, permitting you from defacing his image by forcing out a, “Welcome home,” despite, you know, not coming back for seven years. The smile that reaches the surface is unsettling to you, as behind it there are cracks in which you are the cause, imprints of memories better off forgotten because you made them undesirable. You return the favor in contrast to Pikachu squirming in your grasp, settling with the familiarity of the boy before her. His Charizard simply huffs out his dismay, gaze observing the tremble that crawls up your skin and threatens to make an already horrid situation much worse. He flexes his growth from the cheeky yet promising Charmander to the inviolable Charizard the world knows, all because you can’t seem to stop breaking his owner’s heart. No difference found, as perhaps his form of discipline during your many study dates alone with him really was punishing you for the inevitable.

Lydia and Hop are in the back of this mess, balanced on top of their toes to witness the commotion over the shoulders of passersby, murmuring under their breaths of the lack of timing that warrants such a situation. The two grown, yet not grown enough, graduates jostle shoulders to get through to the both of you, and it is then that you notice of the increasing similarity in behavior and appearance between Leon and his sibling. Of course, there’s no time to worry about it lost, as Lydia grasps your free arm and grants you a favor after years of you slacking as her sister and her confidant. When she drags you from the fray, calling for Leon over his shoulder of her intended whereabouts, you’re not at all occupied with the intimidation of unwanted attention and off handed clicks of the tongue.

Out of all the caps to wear…

Out of all the trinkets and parting gifts that would remind you of home…

You wear mine.

#pokemon #pokemon swsh #pokemon sword and shield #leon x reader #champion leon #pokemon imagine #pokemon fanfiction #YEEEEEEEESS HAPPY VALENTINES DAY #GOOOOOOOOOOOD NIGHT #LEON AND READER GETTING BACK TOGETHER :') WE LOVE TO SEE IT #AS ALWAYS PLS SHOOT ME A MESSAGE IF YOU WANNA GET TAGGED :)

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dailyexo · 4 years

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[INTERVIEW] Baekhyun, Kai - 191217 Vice: “SuperM are the Avengers of K-pop”

"It’s a November evening at New York’s Madison Square Garden. Even though the house lights are still on, the excitement is palpable in the voices of twenty thousand fans singing along to every background track as though it were the main attraction. The reason for that enthusiasm is currently underneath the stage: in a few moments, K-pop supergroup SuperM will rise, veiled in smoke and clad in black and silver, to finish the first leg of their sold out We Are The Future Live tour.

Formed by SM Entertainment (one of the ‘Big 3’ record labels in K-pop) in partnership with Capitol Records, the group -- quickly dubbed ‘the Avengers of K-pop’ -- is made up of seven members from four other already wildly successful groups SHINee, EXO, NCT 127 and WayV. SuperM’s eponymous debut EP, with its lead single “Jopping”, dropped on October 4th, followed by a Los Angeles showcase that shut down Hollywood streets and was live streamed worldwide. Just a week later, they celebrated a historical no.1 on the Billboard 200 -- making them the first ever K-pop artists to hit the top spot with a debut release.

It’s worth noting that SM has experimented with supergroups and ‘special units’ before, but these are typically temporary and Korea-centric -- a live performance here, a special single there. SuperM, as you’ll likely have noticed, has been aimed directly at the international market since the very beginning. In harnessing their individual strengths and fandoms -- all members maintain their roles in their original groups as well as their solo careers -- SM have formed a group with effectively 14 million collective albums sales and almost four billion music video views to its name before it even started. United in this way, the artists bring a new kind of energy that fans are lapping up. Just two months on from release, the video for "Jopping" already has over 47 million views.

So who are these seven members?

Taemin, the 26-year-old industry veteran among them, debuted in 2008 with SHINee. Fans watched on as he grew from a shy teenager to a fearless artist who is now famously looked up to by his peers. Baekhyun, the eldest and designated leader of the team at 27, is one of EXO's lead vocalists, known for his cheekiness. Then there’s Kai, also from EXO, who happens to be spellbinding, ballet-trained performer. Taeyong, one of NCT's main rappers and lyricists, is something of an enigma. His full-time bandmate Mark, the youngest of the supergroup at 20 years old, also helps out on the rap front. Completing the line-up are two NCT members who are also part of their Chinese subunit, WayV: Ten, a multitalented Thai artist, and Lucas, a Hong-Kong born heartthrob.

We caught up with the group to discuss how they deal with nerves, feeling like rookies again, and the new releases they've got planned for 2020.

Hi SuperM! During your debut showcase back in October you mentioned being nervous. Has the US tour been less nerve-wracking?

Taeyong: First off, it’s been so great to be back as SuperM to perform in front of all our US fans! We’re having so much fun. It was less nerve-wracking because now we’re a lot more comfortable with each other and had much more time to practice and perform together than we did for the debut showcase.

How was the process of connecting with each other, since you come from different groups but have known each other for years?

Kai: I think all of us were very open to each other, wanting to get closer. Despite already having a senior-junior relationship, we were all open to teaching each other and we had a lot of great conversations. I personally tried to connect to the rest of the guys like an older brother from the neighbourhood. We joke around a lot and have fun together.

What's one thing you learned from each other so far?

Ten: We’ve been learning so much from each other in many different aspects, but if I had to choose one thing, it’s probably music. We all come from distinct music styles, so it’s cool to learn from each other when we’re together. It makes me look forward to every day.

Can you tell us how you prepared for this tour?

Mark: Our preparation time was more limited than we would have liked, so we were very committed those sparse days we got together. We rehearsed in various ways: for example, we built a replica of the stage at a gym to rehearse, and of course we rehearsed at the actual venue as well. The energy was always really good.

What was your first impression of "Jopping", both as a track and as a word?

Mark: The strong SMP [SM's signature genre, a blend of pop, rock, R&B and hip-hop with bold choreography] vibe struck me the most. I could feel how vast the track was just by listening to it, including the depth it held. I honestly believed that it was the right song for SuperM's debut. As for the word, I thought it was a good idea. It fits the energy we wanted to deliver as a message and it felt cool to be introducing the world to a new word of our own.

You all perform solo stages at the concert. Which is your favourite and why?

Ten: Everyone is obviously so amazing, so it’s hard to choose one. But if I really just had to choose, I’d choose Taemin’s solo stage. In just five minutes, he showcases his vocal abilities through “Danger”, then kills it for the choreography and overall performance aspect during “Goodbye”. As I watch him perform, I can’t help but to think that he is one of the most impressive all-around artists out there. I hope to be an artist like that someday.

You guys have clearly launched with a unique strategy. What other innovations do you want to make in the industry?

Taeyong: It’s been really cool to be given the opportunity to be part of something new and innovative like this. As a team and as individuals, we all want to showcase new and innovative stages and performances to our fans. It’s been a fun journey working together and figuring out how to showcase our styles within our performances on this tour, both as a group and individuals. We hope to continue to bring fresh new ideas as artists who perform on stage.

You all have years of experience behind you, but with SuperM you are technically rookies again. What advice would you give to your younger selves?

Baekhyun: I do think of us as rookies again as SuperM. And the synergy we’re able to create with this specific combination of members makes for a whole new set of charms. If I were able to give advice to my younger self, I’d definitely tell him to continue to work hard, because people will notice you as long as you try your best.

Can fans expect another official release from SuperM soon?

Mark: I don't want to give out any spoilers, but we did perform two new songs during the tour already. Fans may already be expecting another comeback and I want to assure them that we are currently working on new things to show our fans. We are trying our best to create something that will meet or maybe even exceed our fans' expectations. Hope they like it.

What are your expectations for 2020?

Taemin: Because we’ll be back in the U.S. promoting for the tour, I’m excited about experiencing all the different cultures and famous spots at the different regions we’re headed. And of course I’m so excited to see all our fans there!

Mark, in NCT 127's recent interview you jokingly said that you came from the future. Now SuperM's tour name is We Are the Future. What does this mean to you?

Mark: I believe that "future" is and has always been the motto and the mindset of everyone at our label. Whatever it may be, we all try to focus on the next step and make plans for what's ahead of us. Our aspiration is to lead the generation through our music and art.

SuperM have just announced their European 2020 tour, stopping off in Paris on 26 February and London on 28 February."

Credit: Vice.

#EXO #EXO K #Baekhyun #Kai #191217 #t:news #fs:vice #comeback:Obsession

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kyberphilosopher · 4 years

Text

Chapter Twelve

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

I’ll admit, the first thing I felt after my encounter with the Haxion Brood, was relief. Relief, with what I hate to admit was mixed with hope. I was too exhausted to be angry or vengeful, but I was overjoyed to find that Sorc Tormo was true to his word. Things are changing, I thought, right before I slipped into sleep. I can start again.

But not as much changed as I’d hoped. My location changed. The nightmares stayed. The paranoia stayed. The guilt stayed. I keep telling myself that those nonmaterial things don’t matter, but I’ll never really believe that. It’s hard to believe that something doesn’t matter when you wake up in a cold sweat because of it.

At least the new place is nice. The system is filled with trees that I swear could touch the sky. There’s always a babbling body of water nearby, no matter where you walk. The sky is the shade of a blue birds wing. It’s rare to see clouds. The weather is always warm with a soft, refreshing breeze. No, it’s not my cup of tea. It’s not the mountains, or the cold, or rainy and foggy. But it’s worked out well enough.

For the first few days, I expected the Haxion Brood to come back for me. I stayed awake with my lightsaber in hand, ready to strike. I waited until the days slipped into weeks, which quickly turned into a month. Honestly, I doubt they even remember I exist now. They’re not coming back.

Endor, it’s called. The system with a moon that’s constantly crescent shaped and unmoving.

I live in a small cave in the middle of the woods, covered in a wall of hanging ivy. I tend to go out during the day and scout around. I don’t really have any plans for leaving, but I don’t know if I could see myself staying forever. I just exist here, with no thoughts of the future. But that’s what I asked for. Not that I’m complaining in the first place.

My toes curl against the floor of the stream. Instinctively, I bend my knees until all but my collarbones up are covered in the cool water. I don’t know why I act like that will protect me, because the water is so crystal clear you can still see my body. But it reminds me of a blanket and that helps somewhat.

Both my hands reach up to smooth back my hair. It’s grown longer in the last month. Letting it out of my braid felt wrong, but my scalp had moaned in approval. Now it reaches to my collarbones, below my shoulders. It looks almost black when it’s wet. Black and greasy, which isn’t a surprise given that washing it is a rarity for people like me.

I watch some golden colored fish swish past my legs peacefully. They don’t bother to nip at my skin. I always reward this by laying a net and cooking them over a fire for dinner.

As I push my palms back into the cold liquid, I can see the scars embedded in the skin. My left palm is covered in mauve streaks from the incident with the rock. For the first week on Endor, I was so scared of getting an infection. If it weren’t for the cleanliness of this water, I probably would’ve gotten one. I was lucky.

I can see the divot in my index finger from when Talik nicked me. There’s only a few chips of the black nail polish she put on me left. I don’t have the heart to even try and scrape it off. I am weak. Talik made me feel weak.

Fingers drag across my neck, all the way to my shoulders. They ghost over my collar bones as they slip over my chest. One covers up a side while the other trails down my ribs, running over the bumps of the bones. The moment the fingers tickle at my hip, I jerk up from my bent position.

They’re gone as quickly as they appeared, almost as if they were never there in the first place. That statement is both true, and untrue. It makes me want to disassociate.

Instead, I put my fingers into the river bed and push myself up. The water drips from my form, onto the warm blades of emerald grass. My slim fingers run through my hair, smoothing it back as I dip my toes back in the river. I braid my locks. As it dries, it’ll become more fluffy and wispy and messy.

Once my hair is braided right, I stand up. I grab my clothes from beside me and slip my feet in one at a time. My trousers slide on easily. My black tunic follows, along with the gray wrapping that I attached. Finally, my toes wiggle into my black boots, and I look just the same as I did a month ago. All that’s left is to pull my double bladed lightsaber towards me, and the look is complete.

The hike back to my cave is short. The river is less than half a mile away, but it’s easy to get lost because all the trees look the same to me. But living on my own in the wild most all my life has made me adapt for this. I know that I have to memorize something about my way so I know it’s right. So I assigned each tree a noticeable feature. They’re all a landmark, guiding me. I’m about to pass one with one single yellow leaf instead of all green. In twelve paces, I’ll go by a tree with seven branches above me. From there it’s only a little over seventy paces to my sanctuary.

Sometimes I think that it’s better this way for me. Being alone, I mean. I have time to reflect and think, with no consequences. I get lonely at times, but being lonely is better than being suffocated by people right? And it’s not like I really mix well with people anyways. Last time I was with people, I lost control.

I feel bad for thinking that. I shouldn’t want to feel ‘in control’ when communicating with other people. No one should. Because you shouldn’t want to control others or force them into doing something that’s convenient to you, or something that goes against their nature. If I don’t like it when people do it to me, I should not attempt to do it myself. Not unless I have to, that is.

Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, I’m almost to the cave. Clouds roll across the sky, dimming the earth in front of me. Everything darkens, and I have a split second of silence where all I can think is ‘this is what I’ve been waiting for’.

Rain is rare here. When it happens though, it tends to mess up my direction. Mist fills the air as the sheets of water come down, somewhat obstructing my vision and impairing my ability to see the details I need to. Because of this, I let my left thumb roll over the lightsaber switch, and the red side of the blade ignites. It flickers in the rain, but I know it won’t go out. Then it’s just me and my saber, alone on Endor.

We pass through the open area together, where there are no trees. It’s about forty steps through there, with the newly made mud seeping into the soles of my boots, which have become more dirty and scuffed over time. I think about how quiet my life is as I make my way forward through the area. My lightsaber looks like a dazzling ruby in comparison to the gray cast around me.

After forty steps, I reenter the forested area. I turn to the right eight paces, until I come to a familiar wall of ivy. I switch my lightsaber off, and push the wet greens away with my right hand. Then I’m home.

First thing to do is make some light. In the back is my small pile of sticks I use as a campfire, with cackling with an orange tinge from the early morning. A little, dry blow on the embers reignites the area immediately. It’s best I don’t go out again during the storm, at least for a while. Luckily I had the foresight to gather some extra berries and fish from by the river before this.

I put the golden tinged fish on a stick and hang it over the fire to cook. I pop some maroon berries into my mouth. They aren’t bad, but they taste overly dry and sweet to me. I’ve had better, but I can’t remember from where. Then all that’s left to do is sit by the fire and watch it.

I wish I didn’t have to use fire. I don’t like the heat, for it is a constant reminder of what it’s taken from me. But cruelly, I need that heat to survive. Some people, like Jarvers and Mur, can’t say the same.

I wonder where Kip and Talik are often. I wonder if the Empire let them go, or if they let them suffocate in space. Maybe there’s not even really a difference. I think Talik would be okay. She’s smart, and she probably seduced some officials to get herself out of it. Kip… I don’t know about Kip. I suppose he could’ve used his father’s political standing to garner some leverage, but he would never have allowed himself to do that. He hates his father far too much to let his pride down. But maybe Talik struck a deal for both of them.

Or maybe she didn’t. Because they both died before anything could’ve happened.

I didn’t even try to save them. I just watched them leave and hopped into space with Garreth, who I also killed. Killed. I’m sixteen years old, nearing seventeen, soon, and I have killed someone. No, not just someone- multiple people. Garreth, Jarvers, Mur, K-19, four Jedi, Omisha, a Haxion Brood guard who I didn’t even know. That makes nine. I am sixteen years old, and I am responsible for the deaths of nine people.

I’m no better than that Clone on Ilum. The one with the yellow stripe, who I see in my dreams. I can see his color in the fire, laughing at me. I can say it, gazing at me with all the malice in the galaxy. It wants to shoot me down and let me bleed out slowly. It wants to watch the light drain from my eyes as it spits on me. It hates me without knowing me, and it’s convincing enough to make me think that maybe I did deserve to be shot and killed.

No, Keres. Don’t do this. You’re safe here. You’re safe here. You’re not on Ilum, or Jakku, or Coruscant. You’re on Endor. The Empire isn’t on Endor, and neither are the Clones. You’re okay.

It’s all lies. My body snaps into a standing position, and I quickly wisp myself over the entrance. I push the vines back again, poking my head out to look around and make sure there’s nobody there. Of course, I see nothing. But I can’t help the hairs on my arms standing up, waiting for someone to snipe me dead center of my forehead. It doesn’t come.

My name is Keres Vagor. I am sixteen. I am on Endor. I am safe.

Now repeat it.

My name is Keres Vagor. I am sixteen. I am on Endor. I am safe.

Again.

My name is Keres Vagor. I am sixteen. I am on Endor. I am not safe.

“Kriff,” I hiss to myself as I march outside. “Kriff. Kriff.”

I want to curse at myself for being so stupid. But I’m already outside, weaving my way down a familiar hiking path as a low sound of thunder booms overhead. The mud sloshes under my feet, brown puddles splashing with every new movement. I’m too preoccupied to count my steps, so I stop abruptly.

Raindrops patter against my skin. They drip down my eyebrows, my nose, and off my eyelashes. They make the old makeup under my eyes mix with my dark circles even further, and my olive skin tone somewhat cleaner in comparison.

“You’re so stupid,” I say to myself. Then I look up to the silver clouds above me and whisper, “I’m so stupid.”

You’re a murderer, Keres.

Something snaps behind me. A twig. I whip around on instinct, hand closing around my lightsaber tightly. For a second, I worry I’ve wandered into Ewok territory, but then I get a grip on myself. The trees aren’t that of Ewoks, and I know the area well enough to understand that they don’t pass this way.

From between the trees, I can see a blur of stark white. My heart gives a great surge as I slip behind one of the larger trees, pressing my back flat against it. There is silence for a few seconds, other than the rain. Then there is more sounds of wood crunching and leaves crinkling. My heart sinks in fear when I hear the all too familiar ‘ksh’, almost as if from a communication device.

“Weird. I could’ve sworn I saw something here.”

No. Please, please no.

“Ah, must’ve been your schizophrenia acting up again.”

“I do not have schizophrenia, and I think you know that.”

“Really?” the second voice questions. “Because you just led us off of our assigned trail to chase nothing.”

“Okay well it’s not my fault for being vigilant.”

“It is if there’s nothing to be vigilant for.”

I recognize to tone of voice. It’s the unique, distorted tone that is only achieved through one kind of helmet.

"Let’s just get back to our trail,” the first voice sighs.

Stormtroopers.

“Whatever,” the second voice says. “Let’s just hope Aegus doesn’t find out about this.”

I listen to the sound of their clunky boots march further and further away. Even after the sound disappears entirely, I stay completely still, holding my breath just in case.

Then I let all my hair out of my lungs, nearly collapsing as I lean over. And I’m forced to realize that I was right. The Clone with the yellow stripe really never did leave me all along. He stayed when the Stormtroopers did, and those are one of the only things in life I may not ever been able to outrun.

I have to make sure they haven’t found my cave. Since I left the fire going, they’ll know someone was there recently. It’d only be a matter of time before they start their search.

I am more than hyper vigilant in my pacing back. I’m constantly looking over my shoulder. Looking to my sides, spinning around and then snapping back forward, trying to identity even a sliver of white to hide from. My toes are poised so carefully, I’m ready to sprint at the softest of sounds.

When I make it back to my secluded wall of ivy, my heart pounds softer than before. It looks completely untouched. Still, I wait a moment to still myself completely before I enter. Once it becomes apparent that that will never happen, I enter anyway.

And everything is the same as I left it. The fish over the fire is now burnt and smelling rotten, but the fire is the same. Lower, but the same. The only thing that is not the same, is the addition to the cave.

All the way in the back, on the other side of the flames and the burning fish, is a figure. Clad in black robes and wielding a cylindrical weapon, he croaks something to me from behind his mask.

“I was beginning to wonder what was taking you so long.”

#star wars #star wars fanfiction #star wars fandom #star wars story #endor #lightsaber #gray jedi #greenlightsaber #red lightsaber #sith #jedi #jedi fallen order

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spacebrick3 · 4 years

Text

WHG Day 1: Snow

Welcome to the first day of the Hunger Games, featuring a doctor who’s starting to doubt her life choices...

Featuring Radan from @rhikasa and Begonia Rex from @ratracechronicler, who I hope I’ve done justice!

The podium rises from the ground, carrying Snow to the grounds of the Arena. A bleak place, both in terms of environment and hope. She shivers in the damp fog, an icy name doing little to protect her against the cold, surveying the thirty-five other tributes thrown into the same precarious situation.

Some look uncertain, others outright fearful; determination and anxiety mix in equal measures in the eyes of many. As the timer ticks away the last certain seconds of her life (for in the Games, every moment is laced with a possible finality), she presses a hand to her chest, feeling for the small shape of her oath. Such a fragile thing. One twist of her fingers and the thin glass walls would shatter, tearing the paper apart. No, she tells herself with a shake of her head. Not yet.

The Cornucopia is tantalizingly close, and she resolves to run for it. All her certainty of the past few days, concocting a strategy and trying to play psychologist, now seems as nebulous as the fog. The tributes with whom she worked and watched will try to kill her, and she is expected to do the same of them-

The bell tolls.

Snow runs. Her shoes slide on the damp grass, muffled shouts and screams filling the air above her. Too many others seem to have had the same idea, blurred shapes all racing for the Cornucopia—she passes scattered backpacks and supplies lying on the ground, tempted to grab one and run, but the fighting has moved to that same outside ring. She leaves them behind, internally wincing, racing for the golden walls in front of her because they at least promise shelter.

Behind her, an explosion rocks the earth, silencing the Arena for a split second. The shockwave pushes her those final few feet into the Cornucopia, tripping over her own legs and nearly slamming headfirst into the arches of the horn—its supplies and resources strewn across the ground she just left. She presses herself against the wall, trying to appear as small as possible and hoping they notice, quicker than her, that the Cornucopia is empty and avoid it.

Her breath comes heavy and fast, echoing in the small space. Should have grabbed supplies. Should have picked up a weapon, for what if another tribute finds her—what if, what if, what if-

She peeks around the corner, cursing silently, the mist outside now mixed with bloody, ashy smoke. It’s been minutes. Goddamn minutes since they were sharing their last goodbyes—only hours since they were working and training with one another. All that crushed underfoot by the Games in just a few seconds.

How long will it take? she wonders, before the same happens to me? Before I’m killing with the rest of them?

Perhaps the most frightening thing is that she can’t answer.

***

When she does leave the Cornucopia, it’s in the steps of one of the District 6 tributes—Radan, she remembers his name being, who seems to know what he’s doing. She makes sure to keep a safe distance behind him, as well, placing her feet carefully as to not step on anything that will give away her presence.

It would be easier to announce her presence, to propose an alliance for the duration of the day. But that means trusting him, trusting that he would buck the expectations of the Games and decide not to kill her. And from what she saw at the Reaping, she can’t wholly think that of anybody, no matter what she might have seen of them during the training or the interviews.

As it turns out, that choice is made for her. Radan turns around, obviously spotting her even through the trees. “Hey!” he calls. “I know you’re following me! Show yourself!”

She freezes, raising her hands to show she carries no weapons. “I don’t…want to hurt you,” she says quickly. “Don’t think I could if I tried.”

“Why are you following me, then?” he asks, backtracking so that the two of them stand nearly face-to-face. He’s significantly taller than her, carrying himself with the appearance of royalty and regarding her with deep suspicion. “This is the Hunger Games. No one just follows one another.”

“I understand that,” she says with a sigh. “I wanted to get away from the Cornucopia, and I didn’t know where to go. You seemed as though you did.” Five dead there, she’d confirmed. Five who she hadn’t been able to help—one another tribute from her own district, Aurum, with a knife in her chest, the others thrown about by the explosion. “This is the Games, but we can still help each other-“

“Prove it,” he says.

She blinks. “What?”

“Only one person is left standing at the end. Prove that I can trust you, that you won’t backstab me as soon as you have the chance.” He crosses his arms with a sigh.

If this were university, there would have been a lecture—with numerous citations to Karl Popper—about the difficulty of proving anything, much less means and intentions, probably set up in the form of a Socratic debate for half the class to ignore. But it’s not, and she has little to give him besides an oath even she doesn’t know if she can keep. “I—I can’t.”

“Then I don’t think an alliance is on the table,” he says. “I’m sorry.” A brief, awkward pause, the kind that tends to fall across conversations where both parties have admitted to not fully trusting the other. “You’re Snow, right?”

“Yes. And you’re Radan.”

He nods, glancing away to the direction he was originally taking. “Well. I do wish we were meeting under different circumstances, Snow, but as it stands I hope we don’t run into each other again. Can’t end well.” He shakes his head. “Good luck with the Games. May the best of us win.”

“May the best win,” she echoes, though with much less conviction.

***

Somewhere around midnight, her makeshift camp is rudely invaded by a familiar face, identifiable even in the shadowy moonlight by the streak of red in his hair and the simple fact that he’s nearly hopping up and down with excitement. “Snow!” he whispers with all the subtlety of a stage actor. “Is that you?”

After briefly entertaining the possibility that this is a fever dream of some sort, she pushes herself up to one elbow and regards the quasi-botanist with a flat look. “Begonia. What the hell. Are you doing here.”

His smile doesn’t falter for a second. “Back on the train, you were talking about an alliance! So I’ve been looking around—and I may have gotten just a little bit distracted here and there,” he admits, “especially in the fog and the rain—but I did find you in the end! Just that way, actually, there are some impressive rain lilies that seem to be particularly happy in the fog and the rain, and—oh! I found a little bit of Piscidia piscipula by a stream…”

She lets him talk for a couple minutes, amazed that he can find any wonder in the Arena, of all places. “I’m glad you’re still alive, Begonia,” she says, voice cracking unexpectedly at the word ‘alive’. “I—I mean, I don’t…”

“I’m glad I’m still alive, too!” he says, clearing a small space to sit on the ground beside her. “Are you quite sure you’re all right, though? I know most people don’t like being woken up so late—or is it early now? I just thought it might be a bit surprising if you woke up in the morning and I was right here, so I decided to let you know now.”

“No, no,” she says, burying her face in her hands. “It’s—look, I don’t know the right way to say this.”

His smile fades to a look of concern, though with the same cheerful energy beneath it. “Oh, of course! I never know the right way to say anything, so I just say it! It’s worked out so far.”

Snow laughs quietly. “It’s been a day. A day, Begonia. Look what the Games have done to us already. We were all working together, training together, listening to the others talk about their families and their homes and their dreams. And now seven of thirty-six are dead, and five times that will be by the end. I’m scared that the Games will do that to us all. That everyone I thought I knew in the center will become a killer because they don’t have a choice otherwise—hell, I can’t be certain that I wouldn’t do the same, that I could stick to my morals and my oath if my life was on the line. And I’ve no fucking clue what to do about it.”

A midnight confession, made to the one person she unconsciously exempted from that fear. “Well. I’m not entirely-“

“I shouldn’t be—you shouldn’t have to worry about this,” she says quickly. “These are my fears, not yours. Who knows whether they’ll even come true or not. Plenty of time in the Games.”

He shrugs. “I mean…people are difficult. Even plants don’t do what I want them to all the time, and they have to make far fewer decisions than people do, so there’s really no point in worrying what they’re going to do or not…and if you think about it like plants, then the only thing you can really control is what you’re doing. So as long as you’re sure you won’t….uh, start killing people, then you should be fine!”

Only he could say that she’ll be fine in the Hunger Games of all places. In some sense, there’s no point in worrying about whether the Games will turn them all into killers, because chances are high she’ll die long before then. But if that’s true, then what’s the point in keeping the oath that hangs heavy around her neck—what’s stopping her from fighting tooth and nail to hang onto life if probability says she’ll be dead anyway?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And that’s what terrifies her.

But it’s hard to stay anxious around Begonia, with his seeming insistence that so long as he believes the best of the world then it will surely come to pass. After a few empty words about the tributes and the Games, the conversation turns inevitably back to plants, where he shows her some of the carefully-cut flowers he’d found in the Arena and their bright colors visible even in the night. Tiny pieces of beauty he’d managed to scrounge up somewhere, half of which he gives to her before falling asleep.

She tucks the flowers into her own pocket, feeling slightly more hopeful about the days to come.

#writeblr hunger games #snow is really not cut out for the Games and she gets to realize that now #good times #also i like that the generator paired begonia with snow again #character: snow

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detroitswindle-blog · 4 years

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Detroit Swindle: Move Out The Way. I need Coffee In The Morning

Lars Dales and Maarten Smeets are Detroit Swindle and have had quite a run the last decade. From making music for the hell of it, to making tens of thousands of fans all over the world happy with their releases, mixes and performances, they have seen their star rise in a seemingly unstoppable manner. With a string of releases on renowned labels like Dirt Crew, Freerange, Tsuba and their own Heist Recordings, they've cemented their place in the House Music scene by keeping true to their roots and keeping diversity and authenticity at the centre of their story.

Notorious for their energetic DJ sets at clubs like Panorama bar, Fabric or Social Club and praised for their productions with that signature shuffle and those carefully designed drops, they put as much energy into their music as they have always done and they are treasured for it. They have their own label Heist Recordings and one thing is clear, they refuse to be tied to any given genre, celebrating the broad fabric of House Music in all its forms.

Despite being in isolation (this interview took place in the last week of May 2020), the duo is still really busy. They are releasing two tracks on the 5th June; ‘Coffee in The Morning and ‘Move Out The Way’ with vocalist Jitwam which speaks to the soul of their creativity and they should be roundly applauded for releasing material in what are very challenging times.

We are therefore extremely grateful that Maarten Smeets talked to us on the phone for over an hour to tell us the Swindle story.

So Maarten welcome to the Switched On family. How have you been handling the pandemic and has it given you a different perspective on life?

Well, the entertainment industry was the first one to suffer. We saw our events getting cancelled very early on. I think the gig that got cancelled first was actually our tour in the US. We woke up, I think it was like a Friday morning, two weeks before the tour in March, with an email from our agent saying, ‘Hey you guys, Trump has closed down the country. So it’s going to be hard for you guys to tour here if all the borders are closed’. That was the first thing that we noticed and we soon realised it was really happening. I think within a week, we saw that pretty much everything was getting cancelled. All the countries were tightening the rules on social distancing.

That was a bit of a heavy changeover for us because we went from touring full on every week to not touring at all. It's weird because your whole life was touring. It means getting up Friday morning, taking a plane, playing and arriving back home on Sunday night and trying to do as much as you can during the week and spend some time with the family. Now suddenly all that travel was done with, which was a relief, but gigging was gone as well. It’s a shame as we really like DJing. We like playing music and we like visiting different countries; seeing what kind of music works in different cultures. So that was a big change. The upside of not having to travel anymore, because it can be tedious and tiring and heavy on the mind and body, was outweighed by the fact that what we lost three quarters of what we do.

But there is a plus. We work as a duo. We're not actually allowed to be in one room together because we're not family and don’t live in the same household. We therefore decided to split the work up a bit. I get to work in the studio because I have three kids at home.

We've taken on a few more remix projects than we would usually do, which is great because we've managed to secure a couple of really fun projects. So that was actually a great change for us because we both really enjoy the production side of our work.

It hasn't been like that since we started touring in 2012. We have never taken as much time off of touring as we have done now. Even though it's not our choice, it feels really nice and it feels like it gives us room for new creativity and allows us to look at things from a different perspective; like how we run our label and how we've run our business so far.

We've had the opportunity to vary our activities a bit which is also nice. Obviously, we have to deal with less income. So that's always a bit of shame but there's loads of people out there that have it way harder than us. So I'm not gonna cry about it. For me personally, it's been a bit more complex because my wife works in one of the big hospitals in Amsterdam with people that have leukaemia. So the security measures that they have in place are intense. What that meant for us is that we had to be super strict with our lockdown as well. So that was a bit heavy for me and the kids. It's a new world right now.

So I think the next six months will see some incredible music come out?

I'm super interested to see what happens. Obviously, there's a bit of a delay between production and music actually. People are either starting new projects or maybe dusting off old projects that they always wanted to finish. So that's going to be exciting. That's going to be interesting.

I really hope that the market will stay intact. For our label, we still see sales going well and obviously streaming is important. From a creative perspective, I think a lot of nice projects will come out. The challenge of course for everyone, is how to make music together if you're not allowed to be in a room together. For bands doing session recordings, it's going to be a bit more working with Zoom session recordings. Might not be as fun as a personal session but it saves a lot of flying.

So you grew up in Amsterdam?

We both lived in Amsterdam for a long time; Lars is still there. I actually live 20 minutes outside of the city in a lakeside area. Me and my wife both felt it was time to get a little bit more space. Spend time with nature a bit more. Amsterdam is where our studio is and where we meet and where most of our life has taken place.

Born in the early part of the 80s. House Music was an already established genre by then; what appealed to you as you headed into your teenage years about House Music?

Actually, to be honest, House Music was not a thing where I grew up. People were into bands and rock music and I played drums with some high school friends and we did punk. We liked surf punk and that was our big thing. So House Music was, I think, more of a big city thing. It only really reached me when I moved to Amsterdam in the late 90s, early 2000s. I know for Lars on the other hand that he was a club kid and he had a fake ID and went to all the raves.

The feeling I get is that for a lot of DJs there needs to be an accumulation of musical genres to be able to develop a sound as they go into music production.

Yeah, I think I think that you could be very right with that. For me, I'm very easily bored with repetition which is a weird contrast because House Music is all about repetition; I need to find different new genres and different types of music to cater for different types of mixing and applying different types of effects to really get inspired. That can come from anything.

I still like the raw feel of that punk. I really liked that a lot and how they had dub influences as well as being able to deliver a harder sound. I think musical diversity is a blessing and it's something to embrace. Lars loves hip hop as well and is a huge De La Soul fan. We go through everything.

I was just compiling a Spotify all night long playlist to go along with our new release. It was doing my head in over how to approach that because obviously you can't compile a list of 1000 songs. Because I like so many genres, it's hard. Where do you begin? Where do you end? All these different types of inspirations that have shaped my view on music. They have also shaped the sound that we put out with our own productions and our DJ sets. It's super varied.

I've noticed that you've also started getting into that Afro sound lately. What is it about that genre that some appealing to you?

There are so many things. I think as DJs we've been playing Afro related or Afro inspired music for a while now. If you look at our productions, it's been there. I think one of our releases on Freerange, five or six years ago, was an afro house record. And then on our latest album, in 2018, we did an Afro song with a Dutch brass band. So it's been there but the recent remixes we did for Pat Thomas and The Mauskovic Dance Band, they are full-on Afro.

The nice thing about Afro is that everything is lively. There's so much energy in it even with percussion that's over six or seven minutes long and that's just slightly offbeat or changing. It's so vivid and everything is connected. Even sometimes when the drummer is kind of losing the rhythm, when they get back into the groove you have that uplifting energy. Bubblegum music is also inspiring because of the fact that its music made with very limited means. You hear and feel the energy of the singers and the artists playing it. It's a really honest and true genre. That's what I really like about it; the unpolished raw feel gives it so much authenticity.

The fact that we get to work with all these original artists and work on the stems of some great recordings is very rewarding. It's great to put your own personal touch on it. Obviously, we have a more electronic approach so it'll sound different. But for us, the chance to work on these tracks and give it our own perspective, the club perspective, is amazing.

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So Detroit Swindle was really an homage to Detroit and the Motown experience. Motown has those big sweeping arrangements of musicality with your music of being more of that deep house stripping much of that production away. How do you align those different concepts?

The reason we chose the name; it's the common ground we have. We both grew up with Motown and we really like Marvin Gaye and artists like that; acts that we've heard over and over again during our childhood. That’s why the name is really appropriate for us. In terms of musicality; House has a different approach. I already mentioned the fact that it's mostly based on repetition. So the many changeovers that there are in most soul songs are just too much. You need to strip it back to the essentials and find a tight groove that gets people in; like a little bit of a hypnotic seal. We use the catchiest part of a song or the catchiest part of a certain chord progression and we build around that. They all have these thermal changeovers or different chord progressions and we can build so many elements around that little piece of groove we find. That could be a two-bar sample. There are so many things you can build around that.

Simplicity is our main challenge. To go back and take older records to their simplest form and to strip them of all the excess waste and all the stuff that is actually unnecessary to portray the message of the song. It's not about getting 10 or 15 different elements or extra elements in; it's about the opposite.

And is that the driving element behind why you have resisted the temptation to go for commercial?

No, I think the driving element behind that is actually most of what we really like is just not commercial. We've had many opportunities to do really commercial remixes and work with artists that really want to make it in the mainstream area. It's just not what makes us tick. I can listen to some music, pop music or jazz, that's super popular and really appreciate that. But the stuff I like most is very uncommercial. It's very low key. I mentioned Spotify playlists earlier. I was going through my Discogs page of all the records that I've been buying the last few years just to see where to start. Most of the stuff I buy, I can’t even find on streaming sites. So, my take and I think our combined take on it is, that luckily, what we produce is popular enough for us to be popular.

I was gonna say it all stems back to when you originally met where Lars had to sack you for playing too much underground. So you have stayed true to yourself, right?

Well we both were making money with something else. When we started, we said, ‘all right, this just has to be for the love of it’, because of the type of music we really love to play and produce. Our endgame wasn't to make a living out of this. That kind of just happened. So when it did happen, we decided to embrace it and honour it by staying true to what we started. So everything we remix, or every track we make, needs to be something that we make out of love and belief in the music. Being commercially viable is not part of the decision-making process because we feel that when you start to do that, it's a very slippery slope towards making music for money.

When you start making music purely for money it becomes less and less from the heart. Suddenly, you end up not getting booked for the kind of parties where you get to play the music you love. People will only remember you for the commercial stuff you've done and then you've wasted all that energy on building a profile. Suddenly that's lost. So, for us as producers and as DJs, I think there's no other way. I'd rather make less money and have more fun than the other way around.

That brings us to the fun that you have in the live performance space. Because you tend to put on shows with the inclusion of a keyboardist like Lorenz Rhode it becomes an event rather than a DJ experience. How important is that to you?

We both feel that the experience of dancing should build up towards something. When we are in full control of a line-up we can build something exactly the way we want. When you don’t have that control its way harder to connect. With full control, you can take the audience on a path that you've decided on; whether it's three, six or 12 hours. It all adds up to something. The more you're in control, the more you get to introduce people to the music that you that you really want to play. You can kind of ease people into listening to something that they weren't planning on listening to or that they’ve never listened to before.

When you only have an hour to play there's loads of stuff happening around you. There's not much of a story to tell. So, with an added keyboard player at a live show, we get more flexibility and we get more of the live energy that we really like in our music. We also get to take people along with old genres that we like. If we do an all-nighter, we start at 90 BPM with downtempo Disco or hip hop even and slowly move towards some faster tracks. We build up the tempo and we change from genre to genre; like 110 BPM, Bubblegum or South African dubs. Then towards House and then Electro and Techno and up-tempo disco.

The awesome Highlife came out in 2018. Looking back on it now what does that album means you?

Wow. It was a really special process because for the first time we really took time off touring to write music whereas normally we just wrote music in-between gigs. This was recorded in a unique way for us. If I look back at it, I don't think we could write it again. It could have only been written then. Lorenz was a big part helping with it; writing the key parts for pretty much half of the album. We rearranged our whole studio and put some synths in. We also had this chance meeting with Tom Misch who came to Amsterdam afterwards for recording sessions.

The whole album was unplanned, sound wise, and unplanned in terms of what we wanted to achieve. We just wanted to explore our sound. I think when I listen to it now it gives a really good perspective of all of our interests. So yeah, I'm still super happy that we got to write that.

So, we know you started out in a completely digital environment, but you gradually incorporated more analogue processes into your production techniques. Is that because you like to challenge yourself because it's infinitely harder in the analogue space?

Yeah, definitely harder and more time consuming. Machines don't necessarily respond the way they should. Especially old machines which sometimes do completely different things (from what you intended). Then you need to find out if something's broken or shut down. You need to turn them off and on and some synths don’t have midi so there's no sequencing. You have to do everything live and edit it. But it's just the feeling of sitting behind the keyboards or the drum computer, making use of that device rather than using your mouse and clicking on some stuff or automating everything. The likelihood of doing something that you didn't really plan but actually found really interesting is high. Purely because the filter resonance was a bit too high or something or just because the reverb in the patches you've made is different from what you thought it would be. It gives you a few more surprises and it feels more real.

Even though VSTs can sound great, just the feel of playing a synth and touching the knobs with your hands, making your own patches while you're playing, rather than having a sequence running from a MIDI clip; that for me feels infinitely more interesting. That's just personal. I really enjoyed the way we worked before as well. But to be honest, producing with two people behind the one laptop is not that exciting.

I'm gonna ask you a DJ question now because you've been on this journey. What weapons does a good DJ need?

I think the most important weapon is originality and timing. You need to find your own sound. If you don't have your own sound, you can be anyone and anyone could be you. You need to find something that fits with you and that hopefully will connect to a big enough crowd to get enough people moving in the club. But to be a really good DJ, you need to know when to take risks, when to go safe or when to build up a bit longer and then go for your delivery.

If you go to a festival and a DJ just plays hit after hit after hit after hit for an hour and people go there because they just want to be able to say I've seen this DJ at this festival; well yay for them. But for me, that's not that's not the art of DJing... Anyone can plan a show and if you have enough hits behind your name, you can play live off those hits.

But the interesting part for me as a DJ is when you actually get the crowd moving to music that they never expected to hear and never expected to dance to. You unleash all these new emotions. And for me that's also why the combination of Lars and me works so well together because Lars is really good at finding the moment of delivery and when you need to throw in a bomb; I'm really good at extending the track and throwing in the odd-balls.

People know what kind of vibe they'll get when they come to see us play but they never know what they're going to hear. We have a certain energy in our sound and our music but whether we play one Detroit song or zero Detroit songs, our DJ sets are always different and full of surprises. So I think a combination of those factors makes for a good DJ.

Even when you're touring as much as we do, there's nights where you can really feel the connection with the crowd but sometimes it's just not there. But the most memorable nights are the ones where you feel like you're part of the crowd. You're not standing on a stage far away but you're connected and get the opportunity to play anything you like. You just know that whatever you play, people will be into it. And those occasions are amazing. And that's why I love being a DJ.

Let’s talk some Amsterdam industry stuff. The ADE festival used to be a very community-based affair. Now it's grown to this really big occasion. Do you think that's detracting from what it was originally set out to achieve?

That's a hard one because I understand their path. I mean, I've been going for such a long time and I've been organizing events so I know the struggle in general. For ADE, the popularity grew and the organization also needed to find a way to actually make it economically viable. So obviously they connected with bigger artists or bigger labels to get the mainstream people to actually buy tickets. I get that.

What I don't like about ADE is that it's very, very hard to have a normal party. People arrive at your party and they help build your vibe but there is this mentality of party hopping. They visit maybe four or five events on the night so you lose half of your crowd every hour and a half. That's really hard to build a connection with an audience because the story is always changing. The new arrivals don't have a clue about the idea of the night. That's a bit of a shame; they can still have fun and they can still listen to my records, but they won't get the full package.

On the other hand, we've done three or four hostings at the same venue and we've always had a super steady following with our label and for Detroit Swindle. We've always really enjoyed our nights and we don't have that many industry people networking on the nights themselves. We tend to meet everyone during the week, during the day or outside of the clubs and make sure that the events are still about that love of music

I know some people from Amsterdam leave the city because it becomes touristy x 10. Normally Amsterdam is already full of tourists but at ADE time its super hectic. On the other hand, an event like that in our city is an amazing opportunity for us to catch up with people that we haven't seen in a while and who we only get to see when we're in South America or Australia or wherever. Suddenly everyone's in Amsterdam and you can show them your favourite coffee spot and catch up on releases, hand out records rather than posting them. So there's so many advantages.

Okay so that leads me to who's your favourite DJ behind the decks.

I really enjoy guys like Hunee and Antal and a guy from London called John Gomez. He has an amazing taste in music and a large collection of Brazilian and South American music. We play together with him and every time he surprises me with something that I'd never heard before but which feels like I should have it in my collection. So, yeah, I'm a big fan of his music

Who do you need to thank for where you are in your life right now?

I need to thank Lars because without him we wouldn't be where we are and I think he would thank me because it's really obvious.

My wife, for sure. She made so many sacrifices for me to be able to do this. The moment we started touring full time was the moment when our first kid was born (my daughter). She decided to cut back on work for me to be able to do more and then at some point we decided together that she would take time off full time to be able to run the family. Without her this would never have been possible.

Quickfire Round

DAW? Ableton

Favourite keyboard? The Korg Monopoly.

Preferred Decks? SL 1200s

Favourite Mixer? Carmen Rotary. We take it on tour.

Favourite Sound? Waves crashing on the beach.

Love is…? Compassion.

Favourite club? In Australia … Revolvers

So besides playing back to back with Lars, who would be the one person that you'd love to play back to back with? Soundstream

What are you most proud of? I am at this point really proud of how, me and my family are dealing with the challenges in life. We're very open minded and I'm proud of being open minded.

So finally, this is a fun question is not meant to be anything sinister in this. So your family gets a phone call to say you're in a bit of trouble. What friend are you with?

My friend Pete.

He's always up to no good. Whenever we're on a night out you just know it's gonna be trouble lol

Stream Detroit Swindle

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Jay B is a published author, music journalist and international DJ who has deep roots in the global House Music community having played the music he loves for over 30 years. From London, New York, Paris, Tokyo and Sydney, he has travelled the globe and interviewed some of the biggest names in the business as head honcho of Switched On Music!

#Detroit Swindle #Exclusive Interview #Switched On Music!#DJ #DJ Producer #House Music #Disco House #Afro House #Jackin House

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