“um why would eliot spencer be so sensitive to abused kids if he hasn’t been abused” maybe bc he grew up around ppl who were or maybe just because hes a good guy damn

Grace Cummings

St. Matthias’ Church, 09.03.2022

High church, glowing revelations from a new priestess of folk

Victoria’s Grace Cummings used to drum on ACDC covers for high school bands and has said it was Bon Scott who taught her about singing, writing and “knowing when to spit”. Her own songs build in tension to guttural release, with a brand of gutsy folk in the tradition of flamenco’s cante jondo, rather than 60s hippiedom. She comes across as a no nonsense Aussie country girl and is wholesomely profane in front of St. Matthias’ chancel. “If I burst into flames there’s a fridge with booze in it at the back. Just chuck it on me.” She disdains the “over serious, navel gazing” folk milieu, recounting how she broke the hushed reverence in the crowd at a festival, and drew evil glances, for cracking open a Kilkenny. 

This is her first performance in London and she ‘s finding it “romantic” to be wearing a coat and scarf in the streets. Cummings’ hails from the title of 2019’s Flightless Records album, Refuge Cove. Her lyrics reveal a profound sense of place and feeling for nature. ‘Sweet Matilda’, a Mexican Summer series single,  was written during Victoria’s wildfires and laments the destruction of the old Oz. She describes launching a kite over the charred landscape and its odyssey being joined by an eagle, which made her as “excited as a Jack Russell” and  inspired the song ‘Fly a Kite’.  

Cummings is also a stage actress. Her witty and charismatic banter forms a large chunk of the set. She is skilful at building intimacy and connection with her audience. She talks of Melbourne’s seemingly interminable lockdown where she felt starved of attention, and so, penned herself a love song. ‘Freak’, like ‘Fly a Kite’,  appears on a second album, 2022’s Storm Queen. This was recorded and entirely self-produced during the extended period of social austerity. “It’s an important job being a freak,” she said to HollerCountry.com in January. The album is spare and simple, with bursts of ornamentation, and addresses themes of God, loss, alienation, hurt and healing. So it seems fitting she performs solo on acoustic guitar,  switching to piano just once, for ‘Dreams’; an exquisite melody that, sadly, perishes too early. 

Her voice has the deep, melodic richness of Tracey Chapman or Odette and a searing rasp at points of crescendo and intense feeling that invokes the ghost of Janis Joplin. Live there is an element of possession that takes hold of her, making her wild eyed and baring ursine teeth. St Matthias church was bomb damaged during the Second World War and might feel as though it’s been struck again. She talks of Van Gogh’s therapist in a painting in the Musee d’Orsay, whose expression implores Van Gogh to “stop”. “ My own ceiling screams back at me,” she confides.  She often gazes up, mid song, at the nave’s beautifully restored roof. Birds feature heavily in her imagery and, on Storm Queen’s ‘Up In Flames’,  she seems owl-like in her gaze, transmuting the transepts into a falconer’s mews.  

To summit a stirring evening,  Storm Queen’s ‘Heaven’ segues into Neil Young’s ‘Pocahontas’ and  final offering ‘Paisley’, about the bleak, Scottish town, cements her in the anglosphere, with its caledonian tones. “See you on the other side,” she says. A thunder of applause foreshadows a groundswell for her fearless clouds to buffer these shores once again.

Words: Adrian Cross

Photos: Richard Gray

Mildred Harnack was a writer from Wisconsin who moved to Berlin with her German husband. As the Nazi party rose to power, Mili formed the largest resistance group in Nazi Germany and was targeted for execution by the Fuhrer himself.

Mili was born Mildred Fish in Milwaukee in 1902. Her father William was a teacher, and her mother Georgina was an activist for women’s suffrage. She had a natural facility with languages, and was fluent in German by the time she reached adulthood. Throughout her life, Mili loved German literature and culture. She attended the University of Wisconsin in Madison, where she majored in English literature. Mili lived in a rooming house popular with writers, and worked as a film and drama critic for a local newspaper.

After receiving her BA, Mili went on to earn an MA in English in 1925. The next year she moved back to Milwaukee and worked as a lecturer at the Milwaukee State Normal School (now the University of Wisconsin – Milwaukee.) She met Arvid Harnack, a German economist and lawyer who was studying at the university on a Rockefeller fellowship. Arvid was from a prominent family of German intellectuals. After a whirlwind love affair, they were married in August 1926 at her brother’s farm. Arvid’s fellowship ended and he returned to Germany, followed by Mili the year later, after she completed a teaching session at Goucher College in Baltimore.

In Germany, Mili worked on her doctoral thesis and lectured at universities in German cities Jena and Giessen. The country was plunging deeper into political turmoil, and the Nazi party was rising to power amid the chaos. More than half of Mili’s students were outspoken Nazis. She moved to Berlin in 1930 to be with her husband, and began working as an assistant lecturer in English and American literature at the University of Berlin. Mili lectured about her favorite English and American writers including Ralph Waldo Emerson, Walt Whitman, Thomas Hardy and George Bernard Shaw. She was so popular with students that in just a year and a half, enrollment in the class tripled.

Mili connected with other American expatriates in Berlin and formed a literary salon where anti-Nazi academics and intellectuals could express themselves freely. By 1934, the Nazi secret police were everywhere and the salon was disbanded. Fellow ex-pat Martha Dodd, a close friend of Mili’s, later described her Berlin salon as “the last of the meager remnants of free thought.” Many of those who had participated in the salons continued to meet in the Harnacks’ living room but instead of discussing literature, they planned anti-Nazi political activism

Meanwhile, Mili achieved renown as a writer. She published essays in prominent German literary journals until the mid-30’s, when magazines started to print only “approved opinions” (in support of Hitler). She was able to continue working as a translator, and her German-language translation of Irving Stone’s biography of Vincent van Gogh, Lust for Life, was published in 1936.

Mili returned to the U.S. on a book tour in 1937, and her old friends were shocked at the drastic change in her personality. Earlier she had been friendly and easy-going, but four years living under Nazi rule made Mili anxious, stiff and guarded. She’d had to wear a metaphorical mask to survive in the totalitarian German state, and couldn’t shed the mask even when she left Europe. Mili’s family urged her to stay in the U.S. but she was determined to return to her husband and her political activism group, now called “The Circle.”

Mili’s unassuming manner combined with an extremely sharp intellect enabled her to penetrate the highest circles of German politics and diplomacy. She used these connections to get exit and travel visas for Jewish friends and colleagues, among them prominent publisher Max Tau. Mili also surreptitiously gleaned information from highly placed contacts, which she transmitted to fellow members of the resistance.

Mildred was fired from her teaching job at University of Berlin because of her political beliefs, and she began teaching at night school, where her students were mostly working class or unemployed. She recruited many of them to join The Circle. The group published anti-Nazi leaflets, written by Mildred, and secretly left stacks of them in public places throughout the city.

German intelligence called them “the Red Orchestra” and falsely smeared them as communists working for the Soviets. Undeterred, the group increased their activities and cooperated with other resistance units. Around this time Mili wrote, “I saw it clearly before my eyes. From then on our work not only implies the risk of losing our freedom, from now on death was a possibility.” Led by Mili, The Circle became the largest resistance group in Nazi Germany. They incited civil disobedience against the Nazi regime, documented Nazi atrocities, and transmitted military intelligence to the Allies.

In the summer of 1942, the Nazis intercepted radio transmissions that revealed the identity of prominent resistance fighters in including the Warnacks. On September 7, Mili and Arvid were arrested by the Gestapo and imprisoned. Arvid was tried by the Reich Military Tribunal and sentenced to death on December 19. He was hanged three days later at Plotzensee Prison.

Mili languished in a squalid prison cell for months, where she was tortured and contracted tuberculosis. She went on trial and was sentenced to six years in prison. However, Hitler heard about the American woman who fought so effectively against his regime, and he ordered a new trial for Mili. The kangaroo court delivered a pre-determined death sentence, and at Hitler’s explicit request Mili was beheaded by guillotine on February 16, 1943. Her last words were, “And I have loved Germany so much!” After her execution, Mili’s body was given to an anatomy professor at Humboldt University to dissect for research. After he finished, he gave the rest of her remains to a friend of Mili’s, who had her buried in Zehlendorf Cemetery in Berlin.

The only writing that survived from her time in prison were a few translated lines from Goethe: “In all the frequent troubles of our days/A God gave compensation – more his praise/In looking sky-and heavenward as duty/In sunshine and in virtue and in beauty.”

Mildred’s brave actions and tragic death have not been forgotten. In Berlin, a street and a school are named for her, and in her native Wisconsin schools observe Mildred Fish Harnack Day. The University of Wisconsin-Madison hosts an annual Mildred Fish-Harnack Human RIghts and Democracy Lecture, and a sculpture of Mili was unveiled in Madison in 2019.

For fighting Hitler at the cost of her own life, we honor Mildred Harnack as this week’s Thursday Hero.

Image: Gestapo mug shots of Mildred taken after her arrest in 1942.

Accidental Talmudist

Too Young Too Burn

Mobius x Female Reader

A/N: so my account was deleted lmao and this is a re-upload. this post was originally getting some likes so I decided to repost it, and hopefully this time my stuff doesn’t wack out. But for first time readers, this is my first ever fic lol! I was cracked out on nicotine and red bull when I wrote it, so it might be all over the place. alsooooo if any of u like this, I turned on my asks so feel free to request something! I’ll do any Marvel character, male/female/gender neutral, so feel free to ask lol turns out I enjoy writing

Word Count: 2.5k 

Triggers: bad language, kinda sort angst, a tragedy ending in suicide, death

It started off as a simple school boy crush.

She was a new member to the office, a new analyst that would train alongside Mobius, nothing was supposed to come of it but a friendly coworker relationship. (The only kind of relationship allowed in the office, the Time Lizards have sticks up their asses.) The first day he met her, she was in a standard TVA uniform, beige slacks and a button up shirt of another drab color. Though when she entered the room, an air of confidence came with her, sweeping him off his feet like something out of a Midgard fairytale. She was introduced to him as [y/n] [y/l], newest to the TVA’s section of analysts, preferring to study dangerous variants, much like himself. He was immediately taken by her attention to detail, he felt her eyes studying him the entire time his bosses boss introduced them to each other.

Her attention to detail, as mentioned before, was brought to his attention when she mentioned his hands fiddling with the hem of his blazer. She noted that he didn’t give off a nervous energy, but with the way his hands were going you would have thought that the boss had caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to. As they continued their conversation, more and more was pointed out that he didn’t even notice himself; she seemed to be a perfect fit for his team.

Their first day consisted of standard paperwork and the general office tour, Mobius introduced her to his boss, Ravonna Renslayer, as well as a strew of other office members they pasted in the hall that Mobius could remember a name for. Let’s be real, he just rambled on so that he could try to forget how kindly she smiled at him and how her eyes twinkled when talking about the job at hand. He thought if he could get past the first day and the excitement of gaining a new coworker, the odd feeling creeping into his heart would go away.

As the day went on and he got to know his new coworker better, he believed the relationship would grow into an unstoppable workforce bond. As the nice coworker he is and to start this unstoppable force off right, he offered to buy her dinner at a restaurant not far from the office (totally not to hang out with her for a little while longer). The time they spent both at the office and eating dinner, Mobius couldn’t quite help but find this new girl fascinating and for lack of a better term, lovely.

But it was just a school boy crush, right?

Time went on, sooner rather than later, Mobius and [y/n] found themselves working together quite often on cases. New cases left and right, most of them being Loki variants, surprise surprise. The more difficult they grew, the more time Mobius spent with the (not so) new girl. Between late nights in the office and many almost death situations, the two found themselves becoming close friends amongst the sea of the neverending bureaucracy. Though still as before, he felt that odd feeling in his heart growing stronger each time she brought him his coffee just the way he liked it or added fuel to his jetski fantasies.

What solidified that feeling in his chest was the night he and [y/n] went on a smaller mission by themselves, July 29th, 1890.

It was a clear night, though somber, both knowing what was supposed to happen. The air was warm and the moon was shining bright over the quiet fields of Auvers-sur-Oise. No, they weren’t looking for a variant of Vincent, he did indeed die tragically in this nexus event. No, no, they were looking for the person who burned all of his paintings in a rage, hence throwing off the timeline. Without the paintings, no memory of Van Gogh would be left for the future, and that’s not how the Time Lizards wanted it to be. So they were there, under the melancholy skies of France.

It was taking longer than planned, they ended up having to spend the night in an old cabin near the edge of the old town. A slow fire burned in the den of the cabin where [y/n] was reading, while Mobius was trying to find some sort of food to keep the two of them from going to bed with their stomachs rumbling. To no avail, there was nothing in the abandoned cabin so he gave in and entered the den of the cabin. There, he was met with the serene and abnormally domestic [y/n] in front of him. Usually the new girl was like a chicken with it’s head cut off; running around the office to put her wild theories to the test or just the general hectic vibe that went along with their job that made her hair stick out on all sides of her head from her running her hands through it in frustration. But this scene sitting quietly in front of him was something he didn’t know he wanted in his life. She was sitting on the ancient furniture with a book in her hands, hair down and surrounding her face in a way that made his heart palpitate. She was relaxed for once, not an ounce of stress weighing on her shoulders as she immersed herself in the world of whatever book she found on the old shelves. He could even see that her work shirt was untucked and her shoes were off, showing off her mix matched socks. He didn’t even know mix matched socks were a thing, but she pulled them off perfectly.

She looked up when he hadn’t said anything for a solid 4 and a half minutes, he was too busy taking in the scene in front of him to notice he was just open mouth staring at her. It didn’t bother her really, though silence with Mobius around was quite unheard of, so she filled it.

“Suis-je trop vieux pour alimenter cette passion et la laisser me consumer - ou suis-je encore trop jeune pour savoir quels dommages cela fera?”

“I’m sorry, w-what?”

“Am I too old to throw fuel onto this passion and let it consume me — or am I still too young to know what damage that will do?” She said again, in english this time. She knew he could understand her, everyone in the TVA could speak and understand a multitude of languages. She just wanted to see what his reaction would be when she said it to him. “It’s a quote from this diary. The person who wrote it was in their mid 20s when they did this entry, they’re writing of their partner. They were in love, but poor and couldn’t afford to be married. The writer got an offer to marry into a wealthy family, but they turned it down, hoping for everything to work out in the end.”

The explanation of the words she spoke before hit Mobius a little harder than they should have, the author of the diary was caught between a rock and hard place. Much like he found himself in right now, even if he refused to believe it before tonight. Seeing the domestic life he could have right in front of him made his head spin, his heart hurt, and his love for his job lessen a bit. He was grateful to the Time Lizards for creating him, for giving him the life he has in the TVA, but seeing what life could be like on Earth startled him. He didn’t know he wanted it until it was right in front of him, taunting him like a cat chasing a laser light. A life on Earth, with the girl sitting right in front of him; that was all he wanted. Jetski be damned (not really, he would love to have a jetski alongside this lifestyle). Even if he couldn’t live a normal life on the Sacred Timeline, he wanted to be with her. After all this time getting to know her and the little details of her soul between official meetings and paperwork piles, he finally realized what that feeling was in this moment.

But he knew it could never happen. Not here, not in the TVA. It simply wasn’t allowed. So he swallowed his feelings, but he never forgot that sweet, peaceful night. They talked, laughed, and even cried together that night, both of them tucking that memory in their hearts and reliving it in times when they most missed the feeling they didn’t know they could miss.

Again, time passed from that night in France, they did eventually catch the variant and reset the timeline. After, they only grew closer as the late nighter grew later and newer, tougher missions appeared on their radar. Their biggest being the Loki variant killing more and more Minute Men, and the case was beginning to take a turn. They brought in a new Loki variant, one front 2012 just after the attack on New York. He was cunning and a very good liar, but he grew on both Mobius and [y/n]. It wasn’t long before they actually found the dangerous Loki variant with 2012 Loki on their side, but he betrayed them and followed the other Loki into the portal, losing both a friend and a lead.

This devastated Mobius, it was his last chance to prove to the Time Lizards that their Loki could be trusted, that he was changing and doing good for the TVA. But he’s a Loki, and they all should have guessed something was going to happen. But they guessed what would happen next.

They found the two variants, out of sheer luck in the Lamentis apocalypse. When both were brought in, it wasn't long before all hell let loose. Mobius found out the TVA was actually just made up of variants, they were all variants, and none of this was what it had been told to them. It was all lies. At first it gutted him, he didn’t believe Loki, but after some snooping, he found out they weren’t lying. Then, hope sparked in his chest. Life without the TVA meant, eventually, he could live out his domestic dream. With the girl of his dreams, [y/n].

With the (fragile) trust in Loki and hope in his heart for a new life with [y/n], he flew into action. He busted Loki out of the loop he had originally put him in, and swapping his Tempad with Renslayer, he now had the proof that Loki was telling the truth. With this renewed faith in his friend, he was going to expose the truth to everyone. They had a right to know, they had a right to their former memories. They had a right to free will.

Only, he didn’t get that far. Suddenly, he and Loki were being escorted to Renslayers office. If there’s one thing about Mobius, he had good intuition, and the feeling he had in his gut was telling him something was very wrong. Of course Renslayer knew he switched their Tempads, he knew he wouldn’t have much time, but it felt like only a matter of minutes before he was caught. He didn’t even have time to go find [y/n] and explain to her what was going on, he didn’t have time to tell her his feelings, and he knew he was going to get pruned if Renslayer found out before he could spread the truth.

But once he stepped into Renslayer’s office, the feeling in his gut froze, sending goosebumps all over his body.

Not only were he and Loki standing in the middle of her office, but so was [y/n]. She was thrashing against G-17, who had her in a chokehold. The scene made his blood boil, [y/n] had no idea what was going on, she was innocent. The thought of anything happening to her gutted him, he wasn’t going to let that happen.

“I uh, I think I grabbed yours by mistake,” he starts out, trying to get out of this smoothly, but he knew Renslayer was going to take that obvious lie, he was no god of mischief. She gave him a cold look that only the devil himself could forge, and ordered D-90 to take the Tempad from him, shaking her head at Mobius in disappointment.

“Mobius, what’s going on?” [y/n] asked, her voice wasn’t faltering, but her usually confident demeanor was gone. She was worried, she knew something bad was going to happen, she knew something was going on with the two variants, it just hadn’t been disclosed how fucked the situation was. All Mobius wanted to do was take her away from this place and tell her what she meant to him. Before anything could happen to him.

“Tell her, Mobius. Tell her how you’ve betrayed the TVA and joined forces with the two Loki Variants. Tell her how you betrayed her trust,” Renslayer says with a silver tongue, looking coldly at not only Loki (the usual) but also Mobius, a look he’s never received from her before on any other occasion than a joke. He could feel his time ticking away, he could only stall so much and there was nothing left to stall. All he had was the truth.

“Look, [y/n], they’re all lying to us. We’re all variants, all of us, they took us from the Timeline. This place- this place isn’t what we think it is.” He says, begging her with his voice to believe him. In all the time they’ve known each other, this is the first time he’s begged her. Though he didn’t need to, [y/n] trusted Mobius with her whole being. Time and time again, she’s saved his ass and he hers. They were bonded in a way she didn’t know was humanly possible, she knew he wouldn’t lie to her. She felt it in her soul he was telling the truth.

“I believe you.” Her voice was soft, even in this terrifying moment, she still found a way to calm him with a gentle smile even as she was being held by the throat.

But that was all taken away when he saw the pointed end of the pruning stick going through her. A guttural roar that escaped him was animalistic, loud enough that surely the entirety of the TVA heard it. Her body was thrown to the ground by D-90, and it took every Minute Men in the room to hold Mobius back from Renslayer. That was it, his whole future ripped away from him right before his eyes, and he didn’t even get to tell her every secret feeling he held for her. No promises of the future they could have together without the TVA. There was nothing left.

He didn’t even hear Renslayer telling one of the Minute Men to prune him through his weeping, and before he knew it, a searing pain took over him.

do i actually particularly value your opinion on media or do we just have the same birthday? i guess we'll never know! but you steered me well on soc so: i tried watching the first episode of leverage but i could not get into it because 1. gender and 2. it seemed like it was being silly when it should have been serious and serious when it should have been silly. do you have takes on this? is there a later episode i should have tried for my first go? whats the recipe for enjoying leverage

honestly unless you’re REALLY into the specific genre of ‘underproduced corporate thrillers from the early-mid aughts’ then you’re *not* gonna enjoy the leverage premier enough to be interested in the rest of the show, but you, zezander, are in luck because this ask has functioned as a sleeper phrase that triggers the release of the July’s Leverage Greatest Hits List, which i will herewith paste below. i’ve only listed episodes i think are really worth slowing down and enjoying, and i’ve included a few notes with each one as to why i think it’s worth the time; note that s1 was not released in the same order as it was aired so the order you watch it in literally does not matter at all except for the finale. without further ado:

SEASON ONE:

The Miracle Job (the first episode where things really have a rhythm; nate backstory that doesn’t suck eggs)

The Stork Job (strong parker/hardison ep.)

The Wedding Job (CHEESY - but extremely fun)

The Juror #6 Job (one of my personal favorites because i love a good trial bit)

The First David Job & The Second David Job (two-parter & v. good; maggie is here)

SEASON TWO:

The Order 23 Job (funny and fucking weird as hell)

The Fairy Godparents Job (another funny one & surprisingly touching)

The Three Days of the Hunter Job (god this one is weird. I love it)

The Two Live Crew Job (rival heist crew; sexy)

The Lost Heir Job (TARA! introduces one of my favorite characters)

The Bottle Job (the gold standard for bottle episodes and simple cons you can run at home)

The Future Job (STRONG parker ep. about fake psychics) 

and honestly at this point just finish out the season it’s plottier but still good + i love jeri ryan

SEASON THREE:

The Reunion Job (another sneaky parker/hardison ep.)

The Inside Job (clever escape episode; not really a heist)

The Scheherazade Job (the hardison’s unearthly violin solo episode)

The Studio Job (lots of people really like this episode and it’s good, I just don’t watch it often because i don't really like country music. Alona Tal is in it tho and i love her)

The Rashomon Job (told in flashbacks from each character’s perspective; very clever)

The King George Job (hardison hacks history; his arms look great in that tank top)

The Morning After Job (a very clever con)

The San Lorenzo Job (OH this fucking episode. It’s just very well put-together and Goran Visnjc is the big bad he’s all throughout the season really. sophie SHINES)

SEASON FOUR:

The Long Way Down Job (emotional parker/eliot ep; features extreme winter mountaineering)

The Van Gogh Job (fan favorite; hardison & parker play star-crossed lovers in wwii)

The Hot Potato Job (fun roleswap ep. for sophie)

The Grave Danger Job (emotional hardison/parker ep.)

The Queen’s Gambit Job (incredibly clever sterling episode, good parker/hardison content)

The Experimental Job (this one is good but it’s a Lot for me; i’m not sure why that is tho. premise: the team infiltrates a psychological experiment, requiring hardison to go undercover as a frat boy and eliot as one of the experiment ‘volunteers’)

The Office Job (fan favorite; heist shot like the office; just a fucking bucket of fun. The Sandwich(™) is here)

The Girl’s/Boy’s Nights Out Jobs (two-parter - the team splits up for extracurriculars; return of tara and harley)

The Gold Job (hardison runs the con roleswap ep.; some good parker/hardison/eliot)

The Last Dam Job (lots of old recurring characters in this one, incl. Tara and Mr Quinn)

SEASON FIVE:

The French Connection Job (eliot goes undercover as a chef; eliot ensues)

The Gimme A K Street Job (extremely clever episode about cheerleading)

The D.B. Cooper Job (another good flashback-starring-the-team ep. a la the van gogh episode)

The Broken Wing Job (bottle episode *man punching stage* TWO)

The Rundown Job (thee ot3 episode; lots of good parker/hardison/eliot stuff; biological warfare) 

The Frameup Job (the last sophie’s art theft adventures job & quite fun)

The White Rabbit Job (team confronts the ethics of pulling off the world’s toughest con)

The Long Goodbye Job (series finale, emotional and also quite good)

as you can see, i really like season four, and i’ll be the first to admit that the show has a slow start. but there are gems all throughout and i hope this helps break it down/give you a starting point! 

Prompt 15?

Thanks for the prompt, dude!

15. Drunkenly confessing feelings

That Floaty Feeling

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: T Word count: 3927

Summary:

How long has Michelle been the kind of girl who stays long after the party's over? About as long as Peter's been the kind of guy who passes out drunk on a pool float.

Michelle doesn’t go home because there’s nothing interesting to go home to. Griping parents, or maybe sleeping parents, and the inevitability of there being nothing good on TV, everything determinedly uncompelling enough to counter the secret pleasure she gets from sitting on the floor in the dark, too close to the screen with the volume on low. She’s fifteen. She’s ready for her simple pleasures to be a little less simple.

Anyway, it’s nice here now. She sits on the kitchen counter, both knees up and legs crossed at the ankles, to feel the air coming through the window screen. It’s not quite cool, but it’s a breeze and therefore better than the sticky stillness of the large house. Why does anyone like the weather in mid-August?

When Michelle slides reluctantly off the edge to stand on the tile floor, her movement rattles plastic bottles and tin cans, sloshes water from a forgotten ice tray―the tools of mixed drinks concocted by an amateur hand. Or dozens of them. Every teenage boy becomes a bartender at a house party, by his own estimation. That’s why she’s getting up. It may seem quiet enough from her perch in the kitchen, but drinks made too strong have their predictable effects and there are some people at this party that she cares about. So what if she’s never exactly mentioned it? Michelle figures the words will come in their own time, like the vomiting that will come to anyone who drank some of the combos she identifies based on which bottles are clustered together on the countertop and kitchen table.

She wanders.

Ned and Betty are on the couch in the living room, staring at each other shyly and sleepily like they forget that they were making out hard the last time Michelle passed through. Flash is sitting against a wall by his DJing stuff, rhythmically (and irritatingly) clunking the side of a plastic cup in and out. He attempts to draw her into an argument that she can barely decipher with his slurring and more changes in dynamic than he uses with music, so she ignores him. The person Michelle doesn’t find is Liz, who is presumably upstairs. She could be drunkenly reapplying and overexaggerating her makeup in the bathroom, going van Gogh-swirly on the eyes and Picasso-pointy on the lips; or weeping over an unrequited crush in her bedroom while her best friends hold her hands, petting her shoulders and the tops of her feet; or even banging some guy in the spare room just because they’re both young and alive and not immune to the rituals of summer’s-almost-over high school parties. Michelle has no problem with any of her decathlon captain’s theoretical choices. As long as the guy with Liz is not the same guy Michelle has not yet admitted she’s looking for. Even coming close to acknowledging her feelings makes her too warm, the back of her neck clammy, so she darts quietly through Liz’s parents’ house, re-entering and exiting the empty kitchen, pushing out the heavy back door.

Her sudden breathy snort is disbelief. She’s found him. Peter’s in the pool.

Specifically, he’s lying on an inflatable lounger, drifting on top of the water, which is great news because it looks like he’s asleep and if he wasn’t riding this lime-green floaty he probably would’ve drowned. He still could. The idiot might roll over and flop right into the deep end. The floaty could be defective and slowly deflate beneath him. Michelle doesn’t want to rescue Peter Parker, but she’s here and she could. Calling Ned to deal with his friend himself or just throwing empty cans at Peter until he wakes up don’t occur to her. Instead, Michelle glances around the backyard, dark but for the wavering shine from lights along the walls of the pool below the surface. Aha, pool shed. She approaches.

It’s really more of a pool gazebo, practically a pool guest house, as she swings the door open and tries to judge the size of the space in the dark. Luckily, she doesn’t need to venture far; the tool for the job at hand is cradled in a pair of hooks mounted to the wall just inside. Michelle emerges with the pole of a blue leaf skimmer gripped in her hand and returns to the pool’s edge. Where she hesitates.

Peter shifts in his sleep. She’s hardly seen him since school let out a month and a half ago. Is he taller? Unlikely. She doesn’t mean to be watching him, but when she realizes she is, she takes a swift look over her shoulder. Nobody staring out the back door, no curious faces in the windows. There’s honestly nothing to see. At most, someone might think she’s come out here to murder Peter with a leaf skimmer, which everyone would probably accept as so on-brand for the sarcastic asocial girl (who only really lights up when she overhears words like ‘unsolved,’ ‘conspiracy,’ and ‘cereal’―homophones are the source of many of her day-to-day disappointments) that her quietly simmering crush would remain unnoticed. When his chest rises and falls peacefully, Michelle starts to lean forward. PANIC. She plants the end of the skimmer in a gap between the large patio stones to prevent herself from toppling into the pool. This will not turn into a situation where she’s the one who needs to be saved. She sighs and accepts that she better reel this dork (crush? Who said crush?) in.

Balance regained and heart rate returning to normal, Michelle takes hold of the skimmer’s net and reaches across the water with the handle. It takes some adjusting, some extending and angling, but she gets the end of the pole in the floaty’s cupholder. She breathes deeply, always watching Peter’s face, as she tows him along the surface of the water, walking at the pool’s edge to the shallow end. A soft swish, the bright noises of bugs at night. Then, the inflatable chair is bumping the wide steps and Peter stirs. No, shhh, Michelle thinks, go back to sleep. But that’s ridiculous. He has to be awake for her to get him out of the pool. If he doesn’t get out of the pool, her rescue is incomplete. He has to get out, say an awkward thanks, and stroll into the house to find Ned. Or Liz. Oh, Michelle’s aware of the way Liz has been warming to Peter. She likes Liz a lot―at the same time, she wants to stand between the two of them like the Great Wall of China. That’s a normal thing to feel, right?

Peter seems groggy from sleep, but Michelle’s voice shoots up in alarm as he begins to stretch. She won’t have him ruin her rescue by dunking himself at the last minute. The grin he gives at her warning makes her realize it’s not sleep grogginess. This guy is drunk. Incredibly, a nap on a pool floaty has done nothing to speed his sobriety.

“Michelle,” he tells her, “get off the roof.”

“I’m not on the roof, you’re in the pool.”

He gives her a look like he doubts this very much and tilts to the side, trying to check out his surroundings. It sends a surge of worry through her, panic like when she almost fell in.

“Just… trust me. You’re in the pool.”

“Oh. You coming in? D’you wanna share this…”

Either he can’t recall the word ‘chair’ or he’s having trouble identifying the thing he’s lying on as a chair. She kinda can’t blame him. It’s a weird place to wake up.

“No, I’m trying to get you out before you drown like a moron.”

“Aquaman can’t drown,” Peter protests.

Michelle groans.

“I didn’t say Aquaman, I said a moron.”

“S’not my favourite either, but I wouldn’ call him a moron,” he mumbles disgruntledly.

“Would you stop being so…!” She takes a breath. He’s smiling up at her again. “Come on, I’ll help you out.”

She tosses the skimmer away onto the lawn, steps onto the pool’s dry top step and crouches, extending her hands towards him.

“I’ll help you out,” Peter counters.

It’s weirdly suggestive, the way he says it. Like a drunken doofus who stranded himself on a pool floaty has any possible power of seduction. Like he’d want to use it on her if he did. Michelle’s pretty sure the Liz thing is mutual.

“Where’s my Ned? M’Ned. Ned. Ned?” he asks as they clasp hands (his are smooth and cool) and Peter eyes the wet stairs that he’s going to have to navigate since he seems to lack the necessary coordination to pull himself out onto the stones. If he picked one step higher, he wouldn’t dip the legs of his shorts in the water, but of course he does. Thankfully, he appears to find his footing (where are his shoes?), still sitting on the edge of the floaty as it squeals and tries to tip.

“Inside. Possibly defiling a couch with Betty.”

“S’not a bad idea,” Peter jokes with a sloppy grin as Michelle tugs him forward.

He slips on the wet step and she slips on too much momentum, but he’s somehow competent enough to steady her, their hands now squeezing each other. He’s close. His breath is warm and beery. What fifteen-year-old goes to a party and gets this drunk on beer? Gross. Michelle only holds his hands long enough to make sure he gets up the steps without falling back in. When she tries to let him go, Peter holds on.

“S’slippy,” he points out. He skates one foot out along the stones and leaves a slick trail of pool water.

“Fine. But only to the door.”

He beams to be allowed to hold her hand. She assumes he’s really afraid of slipping and cracking his head open. That’s… not unreasonable.

“Not with Betty,” he blurts right after making her pause. There’s a pine tree in the yard and Peter’s pulling a needle out of the soft arch of his foot.

“What?”

Michelle’s losing patience for this whole thing. It’s too much! He needs too much! She should’ve just gotten Ned. She can’t care for Peter like this, like a babysitter. Why didn’t she go home? She didn’t need this night of holding his hand and feeling his wet shorts touch her leg when he staggered too close.

“I don’ want Betty on the couch.”

“I hope you don’t want Betty at all. Because she’s into your best friend,” Michelle clarifies with a nervous swallow.

“Right.”

What the hell does he mean? Is she supposed to know?

“They looked pretty tame when I left,” she volunteers.

“Sometimes people do,” Peter replies with the cryptic wisdom reserved for the inebriated, and young children having a Wednesday Addams-type phase.

“Yeah, well.”

It doesn’t mean anything, it’s just a couple blunt words meant to shut him up, neutralize any thoughtful implications of what he says. Michelle finally shakes off his hand and gives his back a gentle shove towards the door. She isn’t anticipating Peter bracing his arms against the frame, making her collide with his back because she expected him to keep moving. It’s really bad that she doesn’t back up immediately. Really bad. So bad. She can feel his heart beating through his back and her front, his science t-shirt and her striped one. What if she raised her hands to touch his back again, softer? What if she lowered her head until her forehead found the nape of his neck? Michelle’s lips part. In a few seconds, Peter opens the door and moves on like nothing happened.

Not totally though, because while she’s preoccupied with closing the door after them, he grabs her hand again. Michelle jolts, then notices his fingers are more than the welcoming cool she felt outside. They’re chilled. That stupid inflatable wasn’t a lot to have between his body and the water of the pool as the temperature finally started to drop after midnight.

“Michelle,” he says seriously, fingers wriggling as he holds her hand like he’s trying to figure out a way for his not to slide off. “I really―”

“You’re cold,” she says. “You’re too wobbly for me to have any confidence in letting you warm up by moving around. Maybe you should borrow a shower. They have one in the ground floor bathroom, isn’t that weird? I saw it before.”

Yes, Michelle’s rambling. Shower. Peter.

“You’re really great. I think you’re so… the best. Smart pretty.”

“Oh,” she replies. He probably means ‘pretty smart.’

Suddenly, his sort of dreamy expression changes.

“Might throw up before I shower.”

“Good call,” Michelle says, racing ahead of Peter’s stumbling steps to fling open the bathroom door. She closes it much more carefully to offer privacy while he pukes.

With a heavy exhalation, she sinks to the floor, back sliding down the wood door, bevelled detailing abusing her spine. She hears a flush, a splash of water, and maybe the rustle of clothing. Thinking about Peter dropping his clothes to the tiles makes her antsy and wary of being caught here. Not that she’s actually doing anything more than sitting alone on the ground a couple hours past the party’s peak. Idly, Michelle hopes he did get totally naked. Just because, if he entered the shower with some item of clothing still on, what was the point of so carefully extracting him from the pool? She’s not worried, she just doesn’t want him to cancel out her considerable efforts. Her moderate efforts. It’s basically been no trouble. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have bothered. She thinks about Liz upstairs. Yep, why help Peter? There’s nothing in it for Michelle.

The water shuts off after a couple minutes. Peter makes a sound like he’s about to fall and Michelle bolts to her feet, hand hovering over the doorknob, before she hears him catch himself and sigh in relief. She lowers herself to the floor again, embarrassed by her reaction. He doesn’t need her here. He’ll probably be surprised if she’s hanging around when he comes out.

“Michelle?” Peter asks through the door. “You there?”

Her eyes widen and her body tenses. Should she jump up and run away? Hightail it to the living room and pretend she’s been there with Ned and Betty while he showered? If they’ve started making out again, they won’t even notice that she hasn’t been there the whole time. Peter taps feebly at the door. Or maybe he’s resting his head against it. She stays put.

“Yeah. What?”

“Thanks for helping me.”

He sounds about as pathetic as a Victorian orphan.

“I had nothing better to do,” Michelle assures him, tracing the grout between tiles with her fingertip.

“You coulda jus’ watched me. I know you do that. Watch me. Sometimes. I think you do.”

Shit. She should’ve run. Her mouth opens and a squeaky groan comes out as she tries to compose a response.

“I didn’t know you were such a narcissist. Trust me, I have more important things to do with my time,” she says, still outlining tiles like they’re tiny tracks and her fingers are trains she could board to escape this conversation. “You must’ve imagined it.”

He opens the door so quietly―Liz’s parents must take care of their hinges―that Michelle flops backwards as Peter goes to step out and tumbles against his shins.

“I really like you,” he says as she cranes to stare up at him. His wet hair drips on her cheek.

Michelle just shakes her head and starts to scramble to her feet. Peter attempts to help her up by grabbing beneath her arms, nearly groping her boob in the process, though it’s clearly not intentional because when she turns, standing, she can tell he’s still not his soberest self.

“Wanna forget I said that,” Peter says.

She scrutinizes his flushed face and the slightly dazed look in his eyes. Was that a question? Is he requesting that she forget, for the sake of his own self-consciousness? Or is it a statement? He regrets saying it so much that he’s expressing, to her face, that he wishes he hadn’t. Her gaze drops to his t-shirt. The neck’s getting wet as water continues to drain down from his hair. Has this boy ever heard of a towel? Michelle should not have to look at him with his pink cheeks and his normally gelled hair loosened into hanging, wet curls along his forehead.

“You helped me,” he says, and wraps her in a hug.

Which she quickly wriggles out of. This is not the relationship, not the friendship, they have. He’s drunk and he likes Liz―mature, responsible, gorgeous Liz―not her.

“You smell like beer,” Michelle informs him, so he won’t be offended by the way she rejected physical contact. Or maybe so he will be offended. She doesn’t trust this. He’d probably be all cozy and grateful with any idiot who happened to haul him out of that pool. At least he doesn’t smell like barf.

“I didn’ even like it.”

His expression is scrunched and adorable in, like, a toddler kind of way. Whatever, he’s dumb and she doesn’t have a crush on him.

“You just, what, drank every bottle you found to make sure?”

Peter sighs dramatically and tilts sideways, clearly intending to lean against the bathroom’s doorframe and clearly going to miss it because his spatial awareness is not the greatest right now. Michelle grabs his arms.

“Coffee,” she blurts. “Do you like coffee?”

“No,” Peter whines. “I jus’ like you.”

“You keep saying that,” Michelle mutters to herself, glancing away like Ned will appear and reclaim his best friend if she looks around for him enough times. She takes Peter’s hand again (he smiles like he’s happy to give it) and leads him to the kitchen.

“What are we doing?”

“Um,” she says, pulling open cupboards, “making you coffee.”

“Ok.”

“Ok? A minute ago you said you don’t like it. I was kinda expecting a tantrum.”

“S’gross,” he states as he rests against the counter next to her. “But I like being with you. I like you.”

Michelle laughs weakly.

“Sure you do,” she says.

“Yeah and this is gonna take forever.”

“Why would it take forever?” she asks, digging into a drawer.

“Liz’s parents don’ drink coffee.”

She straightens up and stares at Peter, who slides closer, grinning innocently.

“How do you know that?”

He frowns in hazy thought.

“She was drinking it one time and said her parents wouldnapprove. Wouldnapprove,” he repeats, struggling to separate his words. He gives up. “They wouldn’ like it.”

“Right. So. There’s no coffee in this house?”

“Don’ think so.”

“If you wanted to spend time with me, you wouldn’t have told me that,” Michelle points out. “Now I don’t have to search this kitchen.”

“Why were you?”

“For coffee, dumbass.”

“Why?”

“To… clear your head. Make you stop acting weird.” She blushes and turns away from him. What’s her next move? Drag him to Ned and finally leave this house and its lingering party guests?

“Because I was in the pool,” Peter says gravely.

Michelle turns back.

“No, not because you were in the pool. Because of… because you said… Other reasons.”

Annoyingly, he just smiles at her.

“I’m nice,” he tells her.

She snorts.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, I’m nice. Lemme be nice to you.”

“Well, it was already super nice listening to you vomit, so I think I’m good. I’ll go find Ned and he can take it from here.”

She’s two steps away when Peter speaks.

“I thought I liked Liz.” Michelle flinches. “She’s really great, but I feel different about you.”

She wants to flip him off or tell him to shut up―simple methods she’s used to push him away at school, but between the vulnerability in his voice and the fact that he’s still tipsy, she’s scared that being too harsh could make him burst into tears.

“You’re just… you think I saved you. You’ve got some kind of drunk hero-worship thing going on,” she diagnoses, not turning around.

“I thought I would be able to talk to you,” he says quietly. “I saw you over and over all night and I was never really, never ready,” he corrects, “to talk to you, so I kept getting another beer.”

“You’re an idiot,” she says gently.

“Don’ remember why I went in the pool.”

“You’re just dramatic like that.”

“Maybe,” Peter sighs. “Am I still drunk?”

“Yeah, dude.”

“I’ve been drunk forever.”

“That’s why I was getting you coffee,” Michelle reminds him, turning back.

“Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Coffee. I should… tell Ned.”

This plan is vague and it’s possible that he’ll abandon it, but she can’t abandon him because Peter pushes off the counter and grabs her hand as he barrels out of the kitchen. The plan holds long enough for them to find Ned (and Betty) asleep on the living room couch. Michelle assess them and decides they look minorly dishevelled―enough that they probably made out again, but not enough that anything more than that went down. Betty’s hairband is askew where she laid her head on Ned’s chest.

“He’s asleep,” Peter says, too loud. Michelle shushes him and pulls him away. “Now what?” he asks in a noisy whisper.

“Well, you should probably stay with―”

“You. I’ll be better after coffee,” he promises. “Way better.”

“Better at what? At remembering you don’t actually like me?”

“I like you.”

“You’re confused.”

“You’re confused.”

“Great comeback,” she says flatly.

“Let’s see. After coffee. I’ll still like you.”

“Don’t worry about it, Parker,” Michelle says because she’s scared of his insistence. He’s making it harder and harder to brush off as some stupid thing he said to her when he was drunk with every reiteration.

“If we don’ get coffee, you’ll never know if you were right. Don’ you wanna know if you were right?” he baits.

She glares at him. He beams.

“Look,” Peter continues, yanking something from his pocket, “I didn’ drop my wallet in the pool!”

“Congratulations.”

“I can pay for coffee!”

“You’re not paying,” she says with a firmness that startles them both. “Because, because you’re under the influence and shouldn’t be making financial decisions.”

“A coffee decision isn’ a financial decision,” he argues.

“Of course it is. So, I’ll pay.”

“We’re going? Yes!”

“Shhh!”

Michelle rolls her eyes and frees her hand from Peter’s to let him follow her to the front door on his own two feet. There are his shoes, at last, kicked off to the side. She waits while he stomps his feet into them, then blinks in the darkness as they step out into the early morning. It has to be coming up on four o’clock.

“There’s probably a twenty-four-hour place nearby,” she says, nervous as they set out.

“’K.”

“You’re too trusting. What if I was kidnapping you?”

“I could get away,” Peter brags. “You don’ even have that thing.”

“What thing?”

He mimes for her.

“The skimmer,” she interprets. “Right. Every would-be kidnapper’s weapon of choice.”

Peter’s holding her hand again by the time they reach the end of the street. Michelle doesn’t know how it happened.

“Why’d you help me?” he asks while she looks left and right, considering the likeliest direction for the cup of coffee that’ll assist Peter in his return to sobriety so they can clear this whole thing up. Back to the reality of her one-sided crush. “I forget.”

She makes her decision.

“Because,” she tells him. “There was nothing good on TV.”

more clichéd tropes and prompts

All Of Our Lifetimes — Five: Requiem

Pairing — Taehyung x Reader

Tags — boyfriend!Taehyung, husband!Taehyung reincarnation au, lovers to strangers and to lovers again, established relationship, implied soulmate au

Genre — fluff, angst, crime (ish)

Word Count — 2.5k

Summary — Does love ever truly end, or does it simply take another form in a new life? The cycle is like clockwork: your lives end and you’re reborn again. You’ve lived it over and over. Each cycle, one of you loses your memories and is tragically unaware until the other finds and awakens their lover. After all these eons, all these lifetimes, is it possible to find each other again—even when neither of you awakens with your memories?

Part — 5 / 15

Warnings — language

A/N — Taglist is open! Comment, message, or ask and I’ll add you to the roster :) (Also I’m a freakin’ moron and forgot to post on Wednesday night like usual, which was yesterday. So enjoy this late chapter lol!)

Previous — Next

The first person you text is Namjoon. To you, he was the obvious choice. Friendly, open, and the first of the members to accept you into their enclave. It wasn't anything in particular, just saying hi and reminding him of who you are and that you were looking forward to tomorrow.

Not two minutes later, he replies and invites you to join a group chat he'd just created for you and all seven members.

"This way, we can all keep in touch!" he says. "DMs are fine, of course, but if we all wanna get to know each other, group chats can be a lot of fun."

He wasn't wrong. The remainder of Sunday evening is spent texting the members. On the way home, while you cook a quick dinner, and when you're relaxing before bed. They're flooding your messages with all kinds of hilarity. Jungkook and Hoseok are a fan of memes, while Yoongi seems to prefer the straightforward communication that gifs provide. Jimin and Namjoon adore emojis, and Jin sticks to his usual bad dad jokes. Taehyung replies to a question every now and then, but for the most part, he's absent from the conversation.

"You're awfully quiet, Taehyung-ssi," Jimin teases half-way through a conversation on whether or not mint ice cream is edible.

"I'm working, but you guys are blowing up my phone so it's hard to concentrate."

A sigh slips out as you reply, "You can put your phone on vibrate, Taehyung. Really, we won't mind. Or at least I certainly won't."

His response is speedy. "Okay. I'll talk to you all tomorrow."

Namjoon sends you a private message. "Don't let him bother you. He can get like this when he's focused. He doesn't do well with things distracting him."

"Yeah...you're probably right."

"Oh, I definitely am!"

"Hey, thank you again for everything. Except for Kim Taehyung, I really feel at ease with everyone. I feel like we're going to get along great at the set tomorrow."

"My pleasure, [Y/n]. I really wanted to avoid you feeling like more of an outsider than you probably already do. Being in a new country, even if you speak the language, can be scary. I've been to enough of them to know that there's no place like home...but maybe we can make it a bit easier."

A smile spreads across your face at his genuine spirit and pure kindness. "You have, big time! Each of you is really fun to be around. Honestly? I can't wait for 'Run' tomorrow! Can I ask where we're going? I didn't see a production report yet, and Director Hyeon hasn't responded to my email."

"We'll probably knock out a few episodes in one night, and I think we're closing down the Seoul Museum of Art. They're going to close a bit early so we can have it to ourselves. The games we have planned will happen there!"

You turn your eyes away from your cell phone at the mention of the museum. Recalling what happened over the weekend, returning to that place doesn't seem like a terrific idea. But then again, if you are there with Taehyung, maybe the two of you can finally talk about what you see in your dreams.

Maybe, just maybe, you can get those answers.

Your resolve strengthens a little bit, and a new message comes through, one not from the group chat or Namjoon. You click out of your conversation with the leader and check the notification.

"Who are you?"

The question is blunt and straightforward, coming from the second-youngest member via a private chat. You open the message, and your fingers hover above the keyboard for a few moments.

"Hi Taehyung. What do you mean?"

"I know we've met before. I can't remember where."

You bite your lip at his statement. So you were right; he does have some sort of familiarity with you, too. Now, to figure out just how much.

"Have you been to a concert before? Or a fan-sign? Maybe you worked on the set of Hwarang?"

"None of those. I actually didn't listen to much of your music before recently, and I've never been to a concert or fan-sign. And I've never worked on any set before."

"You weren't a fan of BTS? Even though you applied to Big Hit?"

"Nope. Actually, my roommate Milo was the Bangtan superfan. I heard of you guys through her, and then of Big Hit. I applied because I wanted to live in Seoul. It's been my dream all my life. Big Hit just happened to have the job I wanted in the ideal location. Call it fate, I guess."

A half-truth, but it will have to do for now.

"I know. I remember. Your gut feeling."

You pause, your fingers halting mid-type. How did he already know about that? You hadn't mentioned it in either the group chat or in the earlier conversation. In fact, the only person you'd mentioned the gut feeling about Seoul to was—

"I have to go, sorry. I'll see you at the museum tomorrow. I think you know the way."

The museum looks almost spooky after the sun begins to set over the buildings that touch the sky. Downtown Seoul is as beautiful as ever as the bright oranges and pastel pinks bathe the exteriors of each in brilliant colors. If it weren't for the thirty or so Big Hit employees rushing about, you might've stood at the entrance for much longer than thirty seconds.

But the moment you're on-scene, you go to work. One of the producers flags you down, offers a brief introduction, and tells you where to hide the English words.

"Have you seen what we did a few episodes back, eighty-seven and eighty-eight?" he asks, shoving a stack of stickers into your hands. "When we put Hangul all over the Oil Tank Culture Park?"

You shake your head, offering a sheepish smile. "I haven't...exactly watched too much 'Run.'"

The producer waves it off. "Just run around the building and stick these wherever you think seven boys may or may not find them. Feel free to go crazy. We have fifteen minutes to get everything set before filming starts. The boys should be here soon. So, go! Once you're done, come back here. While they're running around, you can help me with the grading system."

"Grading system?"

"They're going to make sentences with the words they find. Since you know English the best, you can award points to each word based on difficulty in using."

A smile spreads across your face. "Got it! Sounds fun."

You speed off into the museum, weaving past the sound and lighting crew that are attempting to set up. Several of the museum staff have also stayed behind to give guidance, and you're relieved that the boys and company have the entire building to themselves. This wouldn't be possible during daytime hours when the public is here.

You begin sticking several dozen stickers along the walls, on the frames of pieces of art, on the marble floor. Basically, anywhere you can reach. You cover the Van Gogh exhibit with difficult words like "effervescence" and "halcyon," along with colorful words like "lilac" and "vermilion."

The further into the building you move, the fewer and fewer people you see. Once you've passed the room of modern art and approach the Winged Victory of Samothrace, there's no one in sight. Down to your last few words, you slip into the dimmed hallway and turn the corner.

Winged Victory is just as you remember. Tall and beautiful and haunting. The statue is still so familiar to you. Looking at the base, you can almost see the body of the woman from your dream. Right before you and Taehyung started running for your lives, this was where a murder occurred.

You flinch at the memory of the blood, but something else inside you is pulling you out of the room and towards the fountain. Last time you saw it, you ran from the room and left the friendly acquaintance behind. Part of you wonders what he must've thought. Surely, you looked like you'd seen a ghost.

But you might as well have.

Your feet tip-toe on the marble. The boys have most certainly arrived, and the filming has started from the sound of it. Their crazed and excited laughter fills the echo-y halls. Seeing as there aren't any stickers this far into the museum, you take your chances and continue moving deeper in. The producer could wait just a few more minutes, couldn't he?

The last of the sunlight ricochets across each panel of glass in the dome ceiling, greeting you with shards of light skewed in every direction. Like fireflies dancing together, they bring an almost magical aura to the open space, one very different from the horrors of your nightmares. The columns are made of ever-moving fire, and the fountain is made of glittery stars.

As you stand in the doorway, your throat drys and tightens. Seeing this place again, no matter how different, brings back the memories you can't explain. Are they even memories? Surely, that has to be what they are. But from when or from whom, you can't explain. They're a requiem for someone you hardly know.

Does Taehyung know the answers? Does he know more than you about this event you keep playing over and over in your mind? He's been in your dreams ever since you were a child, as a version much older than you were then and even older than you are now. Who has just one dream their whole lives, unless the explanation is that he has that dream, too?

You shake your head at the absurdity of it all. "What am I doing here?" you murmur, running your hand through your hair.

"Are you okay?"

The deep voice behind you causes you to jump and spin, eyes wide as you spot a familiar face at the entrance to the fountain. Taehyung stands with his hands in the pockets of his pants, his head tilted as he observes you.

"Holy shit, don't sneak up on people!"

The brunet smirks a little and shrugs. "Didn't mean to, sorry. You were staring off into space and didn't even hear me walk down the hallway. And it's hard to be quiet on marble floors."

"God, sorry, I didn't mean to snap." You run your hands over your face. "This museum has...some strange memories for me. I thought coming back here would help, but I think I've made it worse."

"How do you mean? I thought you hadn't been to Seoul before?"

"I haven't. It's complicated." Your eyes flicker to the corridor behind him. "Where's your cameraman?"

"I ditched him, told him I was running off to the restroom. But I didn't see you anywhere, so I figured you'd be back here."

Eyebrows pulling together, you reply, "How'd you figure that?"

"Well, you seemed really freaked out last weekend. You ran out of here like a ghost was chasing you. I was honestly worried until I saw you at Big Hit the next day, and you seemed fine, so..."

He trails off, and the realization of his words hits you. "Wait...shit, were you the one I was talking to both times I visited here this week? The one in the hoodie and mask?"

Taehyung nods, though there's a tiny line between his brows that shows he's as confused as you are. "Yes? I thought you knew that from day one, when you spoke to me at the Van Gogh exhibit."

Shaking your head fervently, you spout, "No! Not at all. I had no idea, honest to god. I just thought you were shy or introverted or maybe had a tough time talking to girls. I never, ever thought you were..." You gesture to all of him.

His brown eyes widen as he steps closer and out of the doorway. "Wait, really? You had no idea."

"None!"

He chuckles softly, turning to gaze at the fountain as the sunlight fades to soft blues of night. "I'd assumed you knew who I was. You were so open and friendly to a perfect stranger. I thought you'd recognized me."

"Not at all," you retort. "I was being nice and friendly because there was something about you that was so damn familiar. Kind of like this whole place, actually. I don't know. I can't explain it."

Taehyung nods and runs a hand through his curly locks. "I won't lie, there's something off about this place for me, too." He shifts his attention from the fountain to you. "You weren't lying about anything you said before, were you? About you being called to Seoul and not knowing why?"

You lock eyes with him as you reply, "I promise, everything I said was true."

"Then why did you run away?"

A heavy sigh slips out, and you sit down on the water fountain's edge. Looking into the water to your side, you run various ways to go about this disclosure. Blunt truth? A comforting lie? A bit of both?

"[Y/n]?"

"I've had this...nightmare, ever since I was a little girl. Ever since I could remember. It's always the same. I'm running for my life with someone I know that I care deeply about. We're trying to escape a murderer who's closing in behind us. He's just slaughtered one of our friends and he's coming for us."

You pause to take a breath, and Taehyung takes that pause to sit beside you. He doesn't say a word, only waist patiently for you to continue.

"We're eventually trapped. The man with me tells me to run while he distracts the murderer. Of course, I don't listen. There's a fight. We're both injured. And we both die."

There's a pregnant pause in the air before Taehyung hangs his head and murmurs, "That sounds horrible."

"I haven't told you everything," you reply. "I'm afraid I shouldn't...but what the hell." You gesture to the space around you. "In my dream, the entire thing is set here, in the Seoul Museum of Art. Our friend was killed at the base of Winged Victory. The fight happens among these columns. And the man and I, we die in this very fountain, bleeding out from gunshot wounds."

You turn to face the man beside you, seeing his eyes shift from his feet to yours as his head tilts slightly. "And every time, it's the same three people besides me. The same woman at the base of Winged Victory, the same murderer with a gun, the same man that this nightmare-version of me loves. I have no idea who the first two are..."

In your hesitation, Taehyung says, "But you know the last one."

Nodding, your knuckles turn white as you drip your knees. Here it goes. All or nothing. No turning back now.

"I do. He's—"

"—Me."

Taglist — @just-call-me-trash-can​, @jaienn​

[Intouchables] (2011)HD Film Complet Streaming VF en Français

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Intouchables 2011

8.3/10 de 13137 utilisateurs À la suite d’un accident de parapente, Philippe, riche aristocrate, engage comme aide à domicile Driss, un jeune de banlieue tout juste sorti de prison… Bref la personne la moins adaptée pour le job. Ensemble ils vont faire cohabiter Vivaldi et Earth Wind and Fire, le verbe et la vanne, les costumes et les bas de survêtement… Deux univers vont se téléscoper, s’apprivoiser, pour donner naissance à une amitié aussi dingue, drôle et forte qu’inattendue, une relation unique qui fera des étincelles et qui les rendra… Intouchables.

🎬 VISIT THIS LINK : https://t.co/k10juwiLYX?amp=1

Sortie: 2011-11-02 Durée: 112 minutes Genre: Drame, Comédie Etoiles: François Cluzet, Omar Sy, Audrey Fleurot, Anne Le Ny, Clotilde Mollet Directeur: Olivia Bloch-Lainé, François Emmanuelli, Jean Goudier, Jean-Paul Hurier, Mathieu Vadepied

Il y a de cela fort longtemps, au royaume imaginaire de Kumandra, humains et dragons vivaient en harmonie. Mais un jour, une force maléfique s’abattit sur le royaume et les dragons se sacrifièrent pour sauver l’humanité. Lorsque cette force réapparait cinq siècles plus tard, Raya, une guerrière solitaire, se met en quête du légendaire dernier dragon pour restaurer l’harmonie sur la terre de Kumandra, au sein d’un peuple désormais divisé. Commence pour elle un long voyage au cours duquel elle découvrira qu’il lui faudra bien plus qu’un dragon pour sauver le monde, et que la confiance et l’entraide seront essentiels pour conduire au succès cette périlleuse mission. 31 mars 2011 / Animation, Fantastique, Aventure De Don Hall, Carlos Lopez Estrada, Paul Briggs … Avec Kelly Marie Tran, Awkwafina Nationalité Américain Intouchables Intouchables vf Intouchables grand rex Intouchables sortie france Intouchables youtube Intouchables telecharger Intouchables age Intouchables durée Intouchables bande annonce Intouchables casting Intouchables sortie Intouchables au grand rex Intouchables affiche Intouchables à partir de quel age Intouchables avis Intouchables avant premiere Intouchables au cinema Intouchables age minimum Intouchables a telecharger Intouchables age conseillé Intouchables âge Intouchables bande annonce youtube

🎬 VISIT THIS LINK : https://t.co/k10juwiLYX?amp=1

🔮 THE STORY 🔮 Sci-fi is like dream, aside from stories in this classification utilize logical arrangement to explain the universe that it requires place in. It for the most part incorporates or is focused on the assumed impacts or repercussions of PCs or machines; travel through space, time or imaginary worlds; outsider living things; hereditary designing; or other such things. The science or innovation utilized may or probably won’t be completely explained on; stories whose logical components are sensibly point by point, well-informed and viewed as generally conceivable given current information and innovation are regularly known as hard sci-fi. Writing that objectives posses, criminal associations that give a degree of association, and assets that help a lot bigger and more specialized criminal exchanges than an individual criminal could accomplish. Criminals will be the subject of a few motion pictures, especially from the period somewhere in the range of 1930 and 1960. A restoration of criminal sort films happened since the 1990s with the blast of hip-jump culture. Dissimilar to the sooner hoodlum films, the more current movies share comparative components to the more established movies yet is more in a hip-bounce metropolitan setting. An experience story is around a hero who excursions to epic or removed spots to perform something. It could have a considerable number of other classification factors included inside it, since it is an open type. The hero incorporates a mission and faces hindrances to get to their objective. Additionally, experience stories as a rule incorporate obscure settings and characters with valued properties or highlights. At first proposed as a classification by the makers of the pretending game Children of daylight, dieselpunk alludes to fiction propelled by mid-century mash stories, predicated on the style of the interbellum period through World War II (c. 1920–45). Like steampunk however especially observed as a the ascent of oil power and technocratic discernment, fusing neo-noir factors and sharing subjects more clearly with cyberpunk than steampunk. Despite the fact that the striking quality of dieselpunk as a classification isn’t totally uncontested, portions which range from the retro-advanced film Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow to the 2001 Activision computer game Return to Castle Wolfenstein have been recommended as quintessential dieselpunk works of fiction. A style when an entertainer acts before a live crowd, talking straightforwardly to them. The entertainer is generally alluded to as a comic, professional comedian, professional comic or simply a hold up. In stand-up parody the entertainer ordinarily discusses a relentless progression of amusing stories, short jokes called “pieces”, and jokes, which comprise what’s regularly called a discourse, routine or act. Some professional comics use props, music or sorcery stunts to improve their demonstrations. Stand-up satire is regularly acted in parody clubs, bars, neo-vaudevilles, schools, and theaters. Outside of live execution, stand-up is typically circulated monetarily by means of TV, DVD, and the web. like customary activity; instead of utilizing hand drawn pictures, stop movement films are made with little puppets or different articles which have their image taken regularly over a grouping of little developments to make liveliness outlines. Models are The Nightmare Before Christmas, Coraline, and Corpse Bride. 🔮 COPYRIGHT CONTENT 🔮 Copyright is a type of intellectual property that gives its owner the exclusive right to make copies of a creative work, usually for a limited time.[1][2][3][4][5] The creative work may be in a literary, artistic, educational, or musical form. Copyright is intended to protect the original expression of an idea in the form of a creative work, but not the idea itsDemon Slayer the Movie: Mugen Train.[6][7][8] A copyright is subject to limitations based on public interest considerations, such as the fair use doctrine in the United States. Some jurisdictions require “fixing” copyrighted works in a tangible form. It is often shared among multiple authors, each of whom holds a set of rights to use or license the work, and who are commonly referred to as rights holders.[citation needed][9][10][11][12] These rights frequently include reproduction, control over derivative works, distribution, public performance, and moral rights such as attribution.[13] Copyrights can be granted by public law and are in that case considered “territorial rights”. This means that copyrights granted by the law of a certain state, do not extend beyond the territory of that specific jurisdiction. Copyrights of this type vary by country; many countries, and sometimes a large group of countries, have made agreements with other countries on procedures applicable when works “cross” national borders or national rights are inconsistent.[14] Typically, the public law duration of a copyright expires 50 to 100 years after the creator dies, depending on the jurisdiction. Some countries require certain copyright formalities[5] to establishing copyright, others recognize copyright in any completed work, without a formal registration. It is widely believed that copyrights are a must to foster cultural diversity and creativity. However, Parc argues that contrary to prevailing beliefs, imitation and copying do not restrict cultural creativity or diversity but in fact support them further. This argument has been supported by many examples such as Millet and Van Gogh, Picasso, Manet, and Monet, etc.[15] 🔮 ADAPTATION 🔮 Sarah Paulson is my top choice, yet this film isn’t her best. I trusted that months for this will come out and I’m left asking why I was so energized. The trailer parted with everything. You knew the entire story before it even began. There was practically zero character improvement and everything just felt like it was 0–100 with no pacing at all. Likewise, the cosmetics office for Sarah’s last look-the hellfire would you say you were folks on when you thought of this? I really snickered when I saw her. It was an alright film. One that you’d be pissed on the off chance that you burned through cash on. Nothing new, normal, worn out acting. Additionally, no one realizes the proper behavior an asthma assault. This film had so many plot openings that it seemed like a parody. The mother can simply take an infant from the clinic? She harms her little girl for quite a long time and no specialist actually sees this during her regular visits? How did she manage the postal carrier’s vehicle? No one minded the postal carrier was absent? For what reason did the girl never get one of the numerous sharp or gruff articles around her and hit her mother? The mother leaves all her significant reports in a container sitting out and marked? For what reason would she tie up her girl’s wheel seat and not her girl? This is the means by which the entire film goes. The main redeemable nature of the film was Sarah Paulson’s very frightening acting. Likewise, this story has been done so often. I would not burn through my time watching this. Run is unsurprising and not extraordinary. The acting is phenomenal, while the story is fair. The story makes a magnificent showing of being exciting, yet it chiefly doesn’t go anyplace. I knew all that planned to happen despite the fact that I knew nothing. Nonetheless, There was one scene I appreciated where Clare says, “you need me.” The acting was only exceptional in that particular scene. In general, it’s a one time watch that you’ll most likely fail to remember. This is another film on Hulu by Aneesh Chaganty (and co-composed by Sev Ohanian), following up their realistic presentation Searching (2018) with a spine chiller including a mother and her 17-year-old little girl brought into the world with a few confusions (arrhythmia, hemochromatosis, asthma, diabetes, and most effectively loss of motion). I will say that it’s conceivable this film is superior to I preferred it, yet in the event that so it would be for its coordinating and acting, and less so about the composition. I felt like there were openings all over the place, and maybe an excess of is tossed at us too early for us to appropriately think about the characters and their circumstance. This sort of film has been done previously, absent a lot of new added to the table short the wheelchair perspective. There were a ton of components set up for what might have given a more grounded finishing conveyance and punch, yet the greater part of those beats were one-note and spent prior in the film as opposed to associating a solid inward weaving as Searching had the option to do. I went in visually impaired, and it’s possible better that I did given that the trailer is fairly uncovering. I don’t think it had a sufficiently high roof in any case to overshadow any wild absence of desires I previously had. My solitary desire was in the possession of the makers, and the most saving grace this film will probably have on crowds is I expectation they become mindful of Searching and see it sooner or later… which is the thing that I expectation the greater part of all of you can detract from this. That was my #1 film of 2018, and Run will tumble to the wayside as fairly convincing yet totally forgettable. The story and pre-assembled relationship just needed more squeeze once the credits rolled. This film was average, best case scenario. Try not to accept individuals giving it 8 or 9. The plot has been seen ordinarily, it was excessively unreasonable, and the closure failed. They attempted to showcase it as a loathsomeness/spine chiller however nothing about it is exciting. It’s a dramatization completely. I will say however, the entertainers did astounding with what they were given. Sarah Paulson was her standard sDemon Slayer the Movie: Mugen Train, great, not honor commendable. Be that as it may, Kiera Allen truly captured everyone’s attention. She made the film (which delayed for what seemed like 2 hours) watchable. In the event that you appreciated The Act or have nothing else to watch, give it a go. What’s the point of messing with this poop. It resembles a low lease endeavor at a spine chiller yet you definitely know the closure. The faltering endeavors at tension are more irritating than anything. It’s a terrible lifetime film to be straightforward. Furthermore, I like lifetime motion pictures! It’s additionally excessively coordinated, the music is exhausted and the acting isn’t incredible

Timeline: arc 6 - Aftermath, about a week after the Orator is defeated

Warnings: shippy, Davil, vague mentions of alcoholism and self-harm

Taglist: @immabethehero @bupine​ @tabbynerdicat @i-maybe-exist @its-ethan-bro @sandinthetardis @honestlyitsjustkenna @taikeero-lecoredier @idkwheresanti

if any of yall (18+ only for the love of god please) wanna see the ns*w version, it’s over here.

“And you still won’t tell me where we’re going, or what we’re even doing.”

“Nope! That’s the whole concept of a surprise, babe.”

Cecil pursed his lips, unamused. He closed the book he’d been finishing just a moment prior and set it aside, on the growing pile of useless volumes right next to the desk. It wasn’t as big or as comfortable as the one in his own apartment, but it made do. “You do know I still have three other idiots to take care of here, right?”

“They’ll be fine, trust me. Charlie can take care of himself, Mars barely does anything but sleep for now, and Ollie’s watching over him. You can leave for a few hours without the mansion burning to the ground, you know.”

Cecil raised a brow. “...Were you even here for the last month and a half?”

“Painfully present, yeah,” Dave chuckled. “Remember the smell of the oven melting? I still don’t understand how the kid pulled that one off.”

The older man groaned. “For someone who wanted to reassure me, you’re not doing a very good job of it.”

“Oh c’mon! It’s gonna be okay, I’m sure of it. Besides, you really need a break.”

“I do not!” Cecil protested, distractedly scratching at his appearing stubble. Dave peered up at him with a deadpan look, considering his wrinkled clothes, his emaciated face and the dark rings under his eyes. “...Really? You know what, it doesn’t matter,” he shook his head, his blue eyes hardening. “This is me putting my foot down, not a negotiation. I’m not gonna sit here and let you run yourself into the ground like this. You’re coming with me, and that’s final.”

 The doctor stared at the younger man, taken aback- he’d never heard him use this tone before. it was firm, confident, and evidently left no room for complaint. “...Fine.” he heard himself say before he even realized it. Verdammt. Maybe he was more tired than he thought, giving in that easily.

Or maybe Dave just had this natural sense of authority Cecil had never seen before, because he’d never actually needed it. It actually made sense, considering he was a father.

Thinking about it now, it was obvious. Cecil could’ve hit himself.

“Great!” David beamed, his previous sternness gone as fast as it had arrived. “Just lemme grab a few things first, and pack warm clothes. I’ll get my car.”

“I- your car?” the doctor repeated, his confusion growing- just how far was Dave planning to take them? The smaller male only winked in response, an impish grin on his tanned face. “You’ll see.”

 ***

 It was an abnormally warm night for mid-december.

Well, warm as in… not freezing. Enough above zero that you could stand outside comfortably with a thick enough sweater kinda warm. When-even-are-seasons-anymore-climate-change-is gonna-kill-us-all kinda warm.

“I don’t get it.” Cecil mumbled as they exited the car, making a valiant effort to tone down his annoyance. “Why have you brought us here?” There truly was nothing here, other than miles and miles of rolling hills, some train tracks a few yards away, and a forest somewhere East.

Dave didn’t respond- he just smiled up at him, a hand holding the strap of the backpack he’d brought along. A giddy smile that made Cecil’s stomach flutter a little. Then he silently pointed upward, looking at him expectantly.

Cecil frowned, nonplussed, reflexively following the other’s movement; what was he-

What… was…

 He was looking up. Up, up into the endless sky. And he kept on looking, jaw growing slack, arms falling to his sides.

Because there was just so many stars so many stars more than he’d ever seen in his entire life, it was like he was ten all over again looking up through the window and babbling about rocket ships and aliens and how he was going to see it all one day-

 “You okay in there, hot stuff?”

Cecil snapped out of his stupor, looking down to see David smirking smugly at him- he was holding a thermos in each of his hands, and there was a blanket laid on the grass, big enough for the two of them. So that’s what he’d packed in his bag. “How-” he cleared his throat, “How did you…”

Dave only winked, tapping a finger against his temple. “...Oh.” the doctor realized. Right. They’d all been in each other’s heads.

“It’s mostly faded by now,” Dave shrugged, setting the warm containers on a corner of the blanket, “Those are your memories, and nobody should snoop through them… but that one stuck with me. And I- I really wanted to surprise you, y’know?”

Cecil nodded, not the slightest trace of anger or annoyance on his features. He just looked up again, silent, pale moonlight lighting up his milky white skin.

Then he looked back at him and Dave was pretty sure he was going to die on the spot.

 Cecil was smiling. Not the cocky, arrogant smirk he sometimes wore. Nor the small, timid one he managed to draw out of him once in a blue moon.

An actual, genuinely happy smile that went up to his grey, dark-rimmed eyes, crinkled up and sparkling with joy. Oh, fuck me, he thought.

 Could one fall for the same person twice?

 “Thank you,” Cecil breathed out, his voice uncharacteristically unsteady. “I… You… I’m sorry. For- for getting annoyed, I know I shouldn’t, you don’t- you deserve better.”

Ah, shit. This tall motherfucker was actually going to make him cry at this rate. “Shit man,” Dave choked, stepping closer to Cecil. “Just- c’m’here.”

He wrapped his arms around the taller man’s middle and pulled him close, tilting his head up to welcome the German’s lips on his own, the older man’s slender hands settling on both sides of his face. The kiss was slow, tender, yet filled with latent intensity and passion. They somehow ended up on the blanket, sitting ever-so close and filling the chilly air with wanton sighs and hums, carried away by the cold breeze.

 They eventually pulled back, catching their breath- they were both flushed, eyes slightly glazed over, as they looked at each other with gentle devotion. “I must say…” the doctor murmured, still a bit lightheaded, “This is… quite the break.”

Dave chuckled fondly, before pecking playfully at his lover’s forehead. “Told you you needed it. You’re running yourself ragged Ceec, no wonder you’re on edge.”

“Still, I shouldn’t keep taking out my frustration on you. It’s not right.”

Dave hummed. “Yeah, I know. But you’ve gotten better at it, really. Just gotta keep going forward, yeah?” He tucked a strand of greying hair behind Cecil’s left ear. “ ‘sides, you know I won’t just stand there and take it if you really start to be an ass.”

Cecil snorted. “So I’ve seen. You’d probably snap me in two.”

“Damn right I could! Look at that scrawny ass, I could kick it into the sun.”

“Mmh, I don’t think so. You like it too much, as you keep telling me.”

“Aw shit, he figured it out,” Dave fake-whispered, before they both broke out into laughter. “Oh, also,” he gasped when the hilarity subsided, “this isn’t just a break. S’also a celebration!”

“A celebration?”

 Dave smiled, holding out a thermos to the older man. He looked proud of himself. “Happy one month clean, handsome.”

It took him a few seconds to understand, but when he did, he reflexively rubbed at his arm, feeling his face warm up significantly as he accepted the offering, taking a sip. Mmh, black coffee, no cream and no sugar. Just how he liked it. “Ah… yes, thank you.”

“And I’m almost three months sober!” the father cheered, wrapping an arm around his partner’s neck to pull him closer. “Man, look at us. We’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

Cecil chuckled, a little smile gracing his lips as he looked up at the inky skies above. “I… guess we are.”

 They laid down next to each other, their shoulders bumping together as they huddled under the extra blanket Dave had brought along. Alone, together on that grassy hill more than an hour away from the city, they tried to find as many constellations as they could while Cecil offered trivia and anecdotes on each of them, like the Earth’s sky map had been burned into his brain at a young age. 

But then again, with the doctor’s photographic memory, it might’ve just been.

 Ursa Major. Altair. Alpha Centauri. Supernovas. Nebulae. His eyes shone with almost feverish enthusiasm as he talked, making him look so much younger, so alive, as Dave listened with rapt attention.

Then, as the older man was going over the specifics of the supermassive black whole at the center of the Milky Way, Dave rolled them over, coming to a stop to stand on all fours above Cecil, smiling lovingly.

The German stopped rambling and blinked up at him- with his hair uncovered and framing his face in auburn curls, his deep blue eyes crinkled up in amusement, and the myriad of stars surrounding him, David looked like he belonged in a Van Gogh painting. Beautiful. Almost ethereal, yet so real, so… tangible. Oh how he wanted to frame the moment so he could keep it forever.

He gulped. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Before he could stop himself, his finger mindlessly started to trace invisible lines between Dave’s freckles, drawing a surprised giggle from the man. 

 His very own milky way. Full of constellations for him alone to name. All within his reach.

 “Shouldn’t you look up? The stars are up there.” he mumbled, thoughts not quite straight. Dave laughed, clear and deep. “Don’t need to. I can see them in your eyes. That’s more than enough for me.”

Silence. Cecil huffed. “That was the corniest thing you’ve said yet.”

“C’mon, you know you like it. You’re blushing.”

“Shut up and kiss me again, you dumm.”

 Dave happily complied.

***

It would be dawn soon. As they stared at the endless space above them- mostly void, partially stars- sipping hot tea and coffee from their respective thermoses, huddled together under a thick woolen blanket to shield themselves from the chilliness of that winter night… they felt like they’d brushed with eternity.

“Hey.” Dave whispered, breaking the comfortable silence.

A quiet hum of acknowledgement.

“Do you.. regret not going? Up there.”

“Mmh. F’course, a little still. T’was my dream.” the German mumbled, words slurring together. Right. Of course he did, dumb question. “But…”

The father blinked. “But…?”

“Wouldn’t have met… Mars. ‘liver.” A pause, an intake of breath. “Met you.”

 Dave bit his lip, his heart thumping loudly in his chest. Ba-dump. Ba-dump. He wiped at the wetness at the corner of his eyes, smiling so hard it almost hurt. “Y-Yeah. I guess so.” He squeezed his lover’s hand underneath the blanket. “Ceec…?”

 A quiet, soft snore was his only reply. Dave chuckled quietly and turned his head- Cecil was out like a light, lips slightly parted, his usually sharp features smoothed over and relaxed.

The smaller man gently reached out to cup the other’s sleeping face, his thumb slowly stroking over his cheekbone- just watching. This wasn’t a sight he was graced with often; they might have been sharing a bed for a few weeks now, but the doctor always went to sleep later than he did, and always got up before him, by the pale light of dawn… that is, when he even bothered to sleep at all.

That was the main reason why he’d dragged his partner out on this little trip- Cecil had been working himself to the bone again, going over piles and piles of old books in search for an explanation, for any information on Mars’ abilities and his newfound… condition. To no avail so far, which was driving the older man even more frantic. Between this, trying to cater to everyone’s physical and mental wellness, and the logistical nightmare that was the latest addition to their little group- an honest-to-god time-traveler… well, he looked like the slightest breeze would knock him over.

In short, he’d been in need of a break. Badly. Preferably the kind that would knock some sense into that big brain of his. Since they both had gotten together, Dave had been trying to get Cecil to take better care of himself, to stop skipping meals, to finally sleep a decent amount each night… hell, he’d started to see some actual progress before Mars was kidnapped and everything had gone to shit. 

He couldn’t let his efforts go to waste, especially not now. Not in such a delicate time, when they were all still recovering. And now, looking at Cecil, sleeping deeply and peacefully for the first time since the kid had disappeared almost a month ago… Dave was glad he hadn’t given up.

 And that he’d filled that thermos with decaf, but Ceec didn’t need to know that.

 Dave sighed contentedly as he snuggled closer to the other, burying his face in his chest and drawing the blanket higher over them both, letting himself be lulled into a comfortable drowsiness. Their backs would probably be sore from sleeping on the hard ground... but that was a problem for future them.

17 QUESTIONS, 17 PEOPLE

Nicknames: Syd

Zodiac: Scorpio 

Height: 5′2

Hogwarts House: Slytherin (Note: Magz, I haven’t seen nor read the books either lol). 

Last Thing I Googled: 1952 United States Senate election in New York 

Song Stuck In My Head: It’s like switching between Dior (with Gunna) by Pop Smoke (that first part!!!!!!) and The Simple Joys of Maidenhood by Julie Andrews from Broadway’s Camelot. Or even, as I’m typing this, Holy Moses by Aretha Franklin popped into my head...

Number of Followers: 359

Amount of Sleep: Ummmm it’s either none or ten hours. 

Lucky Number: 2

Dream Job: Neuropsychologist.

Wearing: A oversized bright red Ohio State sweatshirt (never been, have no idea where this even came from tbh) with grey champion sweatpants I copped like two years ago from Goodwill. 

Favorite Song: GOD. This is an impossible question. I’ll list some candidates: Swag Song by Lana Del Rey, The Blackest Day by Lana Del Rey, 713 by The Carters, We by Mac Miller, Whoa by Snoh Aalegra, 4:44 by Jay Z, Pyramids by Frank Ocean, Gorgeous by Kanye West, Devil In A New Dress by Kanye West, Clout by Cardi B and Offset, Bound 2 by Kanye West, Newspaper by Fiona Apple, Since I’ve Been Loving You by Led Zeppelin, All the King’s Horses by Aretha Franklin, I Can’t Stand The Rain by Ann Peebles, literally any Travis Scott song... I’ll just link my personal favorites playlist on Spotify: here. 

Favorite Instrument: Violin. Piano. 

Aesthetic: Poetry, scores of books on the floor, mid-century furniture, the sixties, sticky notes every where with half-scribbled things, minimalism, abstract art, Vincent Van Gogh’s yellow period, coffee mugs, stacks of t-shirts, gold jewelry, palm plants, weird socks... 

Favorite Author: Oh! Wow. I have several (ones that I most frequently go back to): Donna Tartt, Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf, Alan Moore, and I feel like I’m forgetting someone?

Favorite Animal Noise: MAGZ. IF YOU’RE READING THIS, WE HAVE THE EXACT SAME ANSWER. LMFAO. Okay, for everyone else, it’s this like... I don’t even know how to explain it. Phoebe, my sister’s dog and like my favorite thing on this fucking planet, I love that dog more than ANYTHING, makes this like... groan, but it’s not a groan? Maybe it’s a whine. IDK. But it’s just the best thing in the whole fucking world. Also, my sister’s cat meow. He’s a good boy. 🥺

Random: Oh shit. What to put here... ummm, I found out this morning, by accident, that I completely remember the theme song to The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Like, I was sending a voice memo to my sister (we were acting “silly”) and I just... started singing it and surprisingly sung it completely. Lmfao. 

Tagged by my WONDERFUL friend and idol @rogrsnbarnes

tagging: @jalapenobarnes​, @softhairbarnes

fuck it, all the evens for the quarantine ask, there are no rules anymore

NO RULES NO RULES NO RULES!! putting this under a cut to spare yall lmao

2. Grilled cheese or PB&J?

GRILLCHEESE. i have recently developed an idealogical opposition to peanut butter but also have you ever been awake at like Too Late and ur jus vibing and u make a grilled cheese and have ur midnight grillcheese? fucking MAGICAL. avery and i all the time when it is Too Late will be like “i want something. what do i want what is it GRILLCHEESE” and then we grill a cheese.

4. Your go-to bar order, if you drink?

i dont drink ! but i do love to have fancy, nonalcoholic drinks....no go-to bar order tho rip 

6. Top three cuisines?

i like...italian food, ofc, as anyone who knows my last name would probably guess, but also my top fav is like mediterranean & middle eastern food ? like fuck man what i would not do in life for a good gyro 

8. What’s a job that you’ve had that people might be surprised to find out you’ve had?

i have not, uh, strictly had jobs, as such, but uh a fun fact abt me is that i did Literally Every Possible Volunteer Position at my church i think lkjhgfhfhs. 

10. Do you own any signed books/memorabilia in general?

answered!

12. What do you get on your bagels? What WOULD you get if you had access to anything you wanted?

OK SO. there is this place near my mom’s college that i think might just literally be called the bagel place and they have a kind of bagel named after their school mascot which is just. bagel, and then you toast it, adn put cream cheese on each half, and then you put some regular cheese on the top of it and put it in a broiler and melt the cheese and its SO GOOD and thats my ideal bagel. 

14. Favorite mug you own

THIS IS A GOOD QUESTION. sofia gave me a yellow mug and its little and v round and decorated w flowers and its SO GOOD and its my fav. i also have a black skull mug and a haunted mansion mug that i LOVe adn theyre all in MARYLAND STILL HELP. i miss them. 

16. Pick a song lyric to describe your current mood (and drop the name and artist!)

it took a concerted effort here not to choose something from next to normal which tells you how intensely GOING THRU IT i am. there’s a song called “better in the morning” by birdtalker that my spotify discover weekly hit me w during a late night breakdown that sort of encapsulates my “this fuckin SUCKS bro but we’re gonna keep goin tho” vibe.

18. What’s that one TV show that you’re a little bit embarrassed to watch but you still like nonetheless?

SHAME OVER INTERESTS IS BORING. ITS 2020. SOMETIMES I WATCH OLD EPISODES OF SHAKE IT UP WITH MY SISTERS. no but my real answer is....i really genuinely unironically love high school musical the musical the series. is it good? not, like, really! but i love it. its probably made me tear up. but im not embarrassed abt it lmao 20. Do you match your socks?

answered!22. What was your “phase” when you were younger? (i.e., Mythology Nerd, Horse Girl, Space Geek, etc)

JKHGSDAF my phase was “Undiagnosed ADHD” so it was , All The Phases really but no it was star wars for sure. but star wars wasnt a PHASE mom thats who i AMMMM 

24. What’s your opinion on Lazy Susan’s (the spinning tray in the middle of tables)?

i...no opinion? they’re..fine? 

26. You can only have one juice for the rest of your life, what is it?

ok theres a local like, dairy farm that makes a FUCKING MAGICAL watermelon lemonade in the summer and i would do anything to have that shit year round 28. What’s one thing you’re trying to learn/relearn in your downtime right now?

knitting! embroidery! uhhhh time management when ur trapped and have adhd! other assorted mental health strategies, like “how to explain to ur teachers that u need help bc ur brain is just Chaotic and also the WORLD IS ENDING, catriona, PLEASE no more essays.” 30. Where could someone find you in a museum?

depends on the museum! but ur best bet is “genuinely crying over van goghs” or otherwise having Very Big Emotions over someone like monet or agnes martin

32. Rainbows, stars, or sunset colored clouds?

ALL OF THESE. probably sunset clouds but also i cannot TELL you how much i miss stars when im out in MD being a Big City Boy.

34. Do you have more art on your walls or more photographs?

art! altho im thinking of disassembling the Art Wall™ and doing smth else bc its gotten a little chaotic in here lately 

36. Pick a superhero sidekick to hang out with

ok, like, define sidekick! which of the young avengers are “sidekicks” if its just a group of gay friends doing universe-saving together?? would you relegate billy kaplan to “sidekick” status? sidekick to WHOM? anyway the answer is teddy altman. 

38. Favorite mid-2000s song

answered!

40. Where do you sit in the living room (we all have a preferred spot, and you know it)?

the couch corner is MINE, babey!! (8 ppl in ur house does mean a big L shaped couch is relatively necessary.) altho recently ive developed a habit of whenever i see someone sitting in a spot i decide that is now My Spot. the person already there doesnt have to move! but i will also be sitting there now thank you. no, im not craving physical affection, why do you ask? 

42. A song you didn’t think you’d enjoy but ended up loving

i dont think i expected to Fall In Love with carly rae jepsen, i dont think ! but her power.....wow. 

44. Are you a “Quote that relates to the photos” caption-er, an “explanation of where I took the photos” caption-er, or a no caption kinda person when you post pictures online?

quote that relates to the photos, usually! with maybe a little explanation. most of the photos i post are arts so it’ll be like “this is carrion hes a bitch i love him” etc 

46. What’s the freezer food that you stock up on when you go to the grocery store?

i dont think...anything in the freezer in my apartment is mine? i think ive got some ben and jerry’s phish food in there tho which is DEFINITELY bad by now, FUCK, but also toaster waffles, conceptually, would be my answer. 

48. Do you like Jello?

yes ! it is . Fun To Eat. 

50. How are you at climbing trees?

pretty bad, bc coordination is a no and im afraid of heights, but i sure do love to try ! and then get too scared! 

DON OSTERTAG: OFF STAGE

Q&A WITH NIMOY – IN IOWA

We were in Cedar Rapids, Iowa to give a performance of ‘VINCENT’. Although I never had a problem with setting up and be ready for the evening performance, it was decided to do a partial setup in the evening before and finish up the next day. One reason was a request by the TV station. They wanted to send over a a journalist and camera crew to ask Leonard some questions while the set was being put up. Dennis, the tour manager, asked if we were up to the interview and the set up as background. Leonard and I both agreed that we were up to it.

The ‘journalist’ they sent over was a nice looking girl in her mid twenties or so. Naturally, she was fashionably late. I had a good start on getting the set up by the time she arrived.

She specifically said she wanted us to continue the work. Then she gave orders to the camera crew, who rolled their eyes at this would-be Barbara Walters. She then turned to Leonard and showed him where to stand downstage, explaining the camera would be on her when she asked a question and on him when he answered. She was marking her territory.

It might have been her first rodeo, but it sure wasn’t Leonard’s.

‘Now I have some ground rules,’ Leonard said. ‘You can ask anything you want as long as it concerns VINCENT , the play, the reason we have come to your town. I will also welcome any questions about Van Gogh and his paintings.’ She tried to jump in but Nimoy held up a finger and added, ‘As you know, I have finished work on STAR TREK THE MOVIE, and this is something I will not discuss with you. If you ask me any questions about STAR TREK, the movie or the TV series, the interview is over. Understand? VINCENT’ questions only!

She said she understood and  the first question was, ‘When will the STAR TREK movie be released.’

Leonard, being a gentleman, albeit, a gentleman on the verge of ending the interview, again reminded this ‘journalist’ of his ground rules.

She said she understood and asked a question about why he was in Cedar Rapids. Leonard answered. Then as she was asking the next question, she shouted out, ‘Silence! Silence! I’m trying to work here and I can’t have that noise in the background!’

Now, I was  trying to be as quiet as I could, but these hands needed me to give them instructions. I looked at Nimoy and shrugged my shoulders.

He asked her if she still wanted the work to be done in the background. She said she did. Leonard than pointed out that she couldn’t have it both ways. The work could not be done in silence. ‘Don has to tell these men what to do,’ he explained to her, ‘And to my knowledge, Don only knows one phrase in sign language; and if you don’t start acting like a professional, I am certain he will soon be flashing that phrase at you.’

She opted for silence and I told the crew to go have coffee.

She started in again, asking not about VINCENT, but STAR TREK THE MOVIE. ‘Is it true what we hear, that Spock dies in the movie?’ The straw that broke etc..

‘You want an exclusive? You want a real exclusive? I’ll give you one!’ He walked right up to the camera and asked the cameraman if he had a lot of film because he didn’t want him to have to reload in the middle of the ‘exclusive’. When he got the okay from the cameraman, he gave her her ‘exclusive’.

“The Enterprise has to land on Earth to get repairs. Spock has time on his hands and wanders around, sight seeing. He finally ends up in a museum. He walks around looking at the paintings. Then he sees a room with nothing but Van Goghs. He is mind- boggled. He had never been so taken by a painting before. He was mesmerized! Mesmerized! The Van Gogh’s had him mesmerized. Finally, he regained his composure and left the museum.

“He goes back to the starship. He gets a knife from the galley. AND HE CUTS OFF ONE OF HIS STUPID F#*@#* EARS!!!”

‘And now you have your exclusive, young lady. The interview is over. I hope to see it on the news tonight.’ Then he hollered to me, ‘Don, I think we did enough work for now. Let’s say we wrap it and go get a drink – or two.’

‘Leonard, you’ve been reading my mind.’

We went back to the hotel. When the news came on, we gathered around the TV to see if there would be any of her interview aired. And there was. They aired her ‘exclusive’ right after she gave the introductory remarks in front of the theater. It was every word that Leonard said in his ‘exclusive’, except they bleeped out that one adjective. Of course, you didn’t have to be an expert lip reader to know what he said that got bleeped out. She even bothered to mention why Leonard was in town and when the play would be performed.

Leonard voiced a concern that he might have cost her her job. She looked as if she believed what he said. The joke seemed to go over her head. We all agreed that he shouldn’t worry about him getting her fired. She would do that herself, if not over her ‘exclusive’, it would be over something else in the future.

Just like Leonard though, worry about her losing her job because of what he did. A good man. And a lot of fun to be around.

Source: https://donostertag.wordpress.com/2015/02/27/qa-with-nimoy-in-iowa/

Daniel Johnston

“Most of the worst things said about me, I’ve said myself”

Although exploding through the Austin Alternative scene, Daniel Johnston was originally born in Sacramento, California and grew up in West Virginia. Johnston began exploring his creativity through making art, drawing comics and recording home movies of his friends and family, often at their expense. In his late teens Johnston began experimenting with music, utilising the home piano and a chord organ the family owned.

Johnston joined an art program at Kent State University where he would fall in love with one of his fellow students, Laurie Allen. She would go on to be Johnston’s muse and the motivation for a great deal of his music. Although the relationship was doomed from the start, Laurie was already in a relationship with a soon to be Mortician, Johnston said of Laurie; “I was alone in my life with little to live for, trying my hand at art thinking that maybe I could save myself and in my desperation all my hope would fly away until there was nothing left of me, nothing left to say. And in this nightmare there was a dream of a girl so beautiful beyond compare, the girl of my dreams. So wonderful, so beautiful, so many songs; Laurie”. He would go on to make the albums Songs of Pain and More Songs of Pain off the back of his heartbreak and move to Austin, Texas to pursue his music career.

His arrival in Austin was as eventful as much of his time there, and in hindsight may have been slightly prophetic. Johnston had run away from his sisters house to join the circus, he toured with them for some time before landing in Austin. During a break in a portable toilet one of his less patient carnival colleagues banged on the door until Johnston open it, when he did he was punched in the face leaving him dazed and confused. Johnston wandered the streets of Austin until he found a church to seek refuge in, his parents were fundamental Christians and although Johnston had rebelled against some aspects of their faith he still held a deep belief in God. The Church got Johnston back on his feet, in more than one way, and he began his life in Austin. He landed a job at McDonalds and continued to work their through the first years of his career, often being interviewed for magazines and radio stations at his workplace. Johnston would continue to record and put out music through this period, including his two most well known projects; Yip/Jump Music and Hi, How Are You?

Although Austin and it’s music scene provided Johnston with respect, a certain level of fame and some money in his pocket it began becoming a detriment to his mental health. Johnston began becoming increasingly paranoid, he would see the number 6 every where which he called the devils number. Audio and visual hallucinations also began warping his view of the world and despite various medications and treatments Johnston would often cease them when it came time to record music or play live as he felt they clouded his creativity. His descent into mental breakdown culminated in his removing of his clothes and splashing himself in the river outside the University of Austin, his father owned his own airplane and flew to Austin to collect his son. On the flight back while reading a Casper comic about the ghost parachuting, Johnston decided mid-flight to take the keys to the plane and throw them out the window. Fortunately his father was able to level the plane before crash landing into treetops, both walking away mostly unharmed. Johnston was hospitalised in a mental institution as a result.

During his institutionalisation Johnston’s fame grew exponentially. His music was being shared throughout the growing alternative scene of the late 80’s/early 90’s. Musicians like Sonic Youth and Half Japanese began championing Johnston and reached out to his manager to work with the troubled artist. Kurt Cobain would famously wear Johnston’s Hi, How Are You? T-shirt in multiple interviews, with people wanting to know who the guy was from the shirt. Although Johnston would continue to make music and produce art, his mental health illness and his occasional refusal of treatment always came between Johnston truly breaking out. He would spend his later years living with his parents up until their death, his music and art still garnering world wide acclaim until his death in 2019 from a heart attack.

Daniel Johnston is reminiscent of tortured artists like Van Gogh and Dali, whose mental illness and creative output are so seemingly intertwined that you wonder if you took away the illness would the output still be as influential?

“The next year he turned 44, and had a creative awakening. Phillips wrote at least 31 poems in 1990. He wrote about the vibration of crickets, about skylarks racing through the night. He recalled a sycamore tree in Alabama, from the early days when he lived with a kind aunt and uncle and an older cousin who carried him on her hip. He imagined himself dying, leaving on a train in the dark, serenaded by an orchestra and a blues band all at once, receiving a standing ovation. He burned with desire, imagining one woman in a rose-colored dress, and another so luminous that she singed his hair with her flickering light. He saw tulips opening in the garden, flocks of birds coming in from the south. He saw his own hair turning white.

‘What I wouldn’t give — to be a young me — once again,’ he wrote. ‘The clock hand spins like the water wheel on the side of an old shack. Everything has been for a reason. Nothing can be turned back; especially not time.’

This was his most prolific year as a poet. It was also the year he stopped writing poetry, because he found something he liked even more.

He’d been drawing with pencil occasionally since the mid-80s, after he finished his GED and associate’s degree in business, and in 1990 he decided to add some color. He sent away for an acrylic paint set, or at least thought he did. What came back was an Academy Watercolor Artists’ Sketchbox Set, an accident that changed the course of his life.

He opened the set. He took out the paints. And he began to experiment. Phillips had taught himself to draw, and to live, and now he taught himself to paint. He got it wrong at first, and then began to get it right: mixing the water and paint, keeping the brushes clean, letting the colors spread across the page.

He read art books from the prison library for technique and inspiration. He admired the work of Picasso, Da Vinci, and especially Vincent Van Gogh, another man who suffered, locked away in an institution, struggling to keep his sanity. Van Gogh and Phillips kept on painting.

The artist needs raw material for his work: the sunset, the garden, the lilies on the pond. Phillips did not have these, so he used pictures from books, newspapers, and magazines, combining them with his vivid imagination. And so, from inside the Ryan Road prison in Detroit, he painted a scene of three horses kicking up dirt on a racetrack. The better he got, the more he enjoyed it. Painting became an addiction. He woke up and couldn’t wait to get breakfast, drink his watery orange juice, and come back to his art. By then his roommate would be gone for the day, in the yard or at work, and Phillips could turn on his music. Outside inmates yelled, guards barked, dominoes fell, ping-pong balls smashed, showers hissed, toilets flushed, televisions blared, but Phillips put in his headphones and drowned it all out. All he could hear was John Coltrane or Miles Davis, focusing his energy, guiding his next brushstroke.

He painted a jazz trumpeter, a glass of wine with a cherry in it, a vase of yellow flowers on a table next to a picture of a tall ship on the high seas. He lost himself in the work so thoroughly that once in a while he forgot about his case, his endless appeals, his 20-year search for a judge who might believe him.

...

Nineteen months later, in the car on the way to see his friends, Richard Phillips is singing again. The song has no name, no words, but it is his personal anthem: a long, joyful note, resilient, unquenchable. It’s a bright afternoon in October 2019, the maple trees blazing with color. He gets out of the car. A dog runs out to greet him. He has several adoptive families now, several homes in which he is always welcome, including this one, the home of Roz Gould Keith and Richard Keith. He texted them the other night to say he loved them. Now he walks inside, and Mr. Keith gets him a glass of orange juice, and he sits back in an easy chair with Primrose the dog snuggled up to him, and he and the Keiths tell the story of the Richard Phillips Art Gallery.

He struggled for a while on the outside, unable to find a job, crashing with a guy he met in jail, overwhelmed by a world he barely recognized. Then he thought of the paintings. He called Doreen Cromartie, his old pen pal in New York. Yes, she still had them. Over the years people had told her to give them away, drop them off at the Salvation Army, but she always knew he’d get free somehow and take them back. There were about 400 paintings. A little boy walking on a sand dune. A bare-chested warrior gazing at an orange sky. A blue river in autumn, stairs leading to the water’s edge. All the places he could not go.

All the places he could go.”

Human Canvas | Bang Chan

✧ Genre: Soulmate!au, fluff, wee angst

✧ Summary: You were six years old when you got an inkling of what kind of person your soulmate is; they would draw little doodles on their arms all day, and you would draw back. But as an adult, its as if you two are at war with each other, with them covering your right arm with tattoos and you occasionally painting on your left arm for the fun of it.

✧ Word Count: 2.9k

✧ Want to read other parts of this series? Check out my masterlist!

                                         ✧

 Growing up as a child in the era of booming technological advances and rising platforms of social media, it was hard not to become a member of at least one standing media presence. In your case, you were a well-known star on Instagram, showing off your strange yet classical renditions of paintings on the canvases covered with colors - or, on other occasions, your left arm.

 As a child you loved to experiment with colors and silly doodles, even if you didn't have the creative capacity to paint your own designs. Your mother would frequently have to force you to take baths so she could scrub the childish splashes of color off of your arm - however on one occasion, you had noticed a little sketch of what looked to be a sad excuse of a shark on your right arm. Here’s the thing, your right hand was the only one that could paint or draw, so you had zero clue as to how or why the shark got on there.

 When you’d asked your mother about it, her lips had suddenly parted as wide as the sea. “Honey, quick - write something on your arm!” She had told you, her shaking fingers handing you a blue-ink pen she had been writing with just moments ago. You didn't question her, since you were still just a kid that listened dutifully to everything your parents told you to do, and wrote out the word ‘hello.’ on your left arm.

 Within seconds you felt a strange sensation on your opposite arm; when you glanced over at it in confusion, you saw red ink being scribbled onto your bare skin to spell out ‘who are you?’

 That same day, your mother had the “the talk” with you - in which she explained that every single person on Earth had someone they were essentially destined to be with; no one knew why or how it came to be, but the evidence was there.

 Your mother recounted on how she found her soulmate, your father, in high school. Apparently her bond was one where she could write something down, anything, on any sort of material and it would appear on the closest object (albeit reasonable) within minutes by your father. It was somewhat similar to your bond with this other kid, except if you drew something on your skin, it would appear on the same part of his body in seconds.

 The boy you were bonded with, Chan, was apparently ambidextrous but preferred writing with his left hand, which was why he never doodled on the same arm as you. Within months you two had made interesting splashes of colors, silly sketches, and much more on each other’s skin.

 However, as you got older, this came to be a rather pressing issue; in one of your college classes, you had been in the midst of a serious presentation when the professor cleared his throat awkwardly to signal you to stop. You’d looked over to him in confusion, as well as your giggling classmates, only to glance down at your right arm now covered in some rather... inappropriate designs. Why did you have to wear short sleeves that day?

 In retaliation, you casually asked Chan what classes he took at school and when he had them; clearly he mistook your questions as just plain old curiosity, because the next day during his history class you had decided to paint a mural of bright yellows and pinks onto his skin. He was stuck with the neon colors all day, as none of his friends would lend him a jacket or coat in favor of laughing their asses off at him.

 From then on it was like an all out war - he would doodle obscurities on your arm and you would stain his some ugly combination of colors. Then, one day, you’d woken up to a fucking tattoo on your right arm.

 You were tempted to rant about it in a caption on a post, but decided you were better than that. Instead you took out all of your frustrations on painting your left arm with a plethora of delightful blues and yellows, creating a sort of rendition to the piece Starry Night by Van Gogh.

 You snapped a picture of your artwork, feeling quite proud of yourself, and posted it on your Instagram page, it being only one of the many other art pieces you had on your page. In minutes the comments had been flooded with mostly positive remarks and a few mindful critiques, not that you minded; feedback was feedback, and all of it would hopefully further your progress as an aspiring artist.

 Still, you knew that you needed to find Chan before he put even more tattoos on your body; you were a person who kind of needed to be presented as classy, and that meant no tattoos on your skin - sure you found it ridiculous, but you also didn't mind the pay you got from your job at the hospital.

 “Y/N - is that, is that a tattoo?”

 “For the love of - zip it, Minho!” You hiss at your amused yet stunned coworker, a fellow nurse by the name of Lee Minho. Both of you had gone through the basic stages of medical school together, and now you both happened to be some of the best nurses the hospital had seen in ages; so naturally, the two of you were rather close. “I didn't choose to have it, okay? That stupid soulmate of mine got it a few weeks ago.” You explain softly under your breath so passing doctors and nurses couldn't hear you.

 Minho lets out a small noise of understanding, though his lips are still pulled into an amused smirk. “I see, I see. But why don't you just let it be seen, it's actually really cool.”

 You sigh at his question, knowing he was just curious as to why you didn't want to show it off or anything. It wasn't like tattoos weren't allowed, per say, but you knew that it came off as more professional if the ink wasn't visible, no matter how cool it looked on your arm. “It’s just more professional this way, Minho. Don't get me wrong, I think the design is really interesting and beautiful, but now I have to wear long sleeves even though its hot as hell in here.”

 “Fair point. So, you don't know where this Chan guys lives, or what his full name is?” The nurse asks, waving to a senior doctor that passes by you with a clipboard in hand.

 “Nope.” You reply simply.

 “Then why not ask him? All you need to do is write it somewhere on your arm, right?” He presses on, the curiosity eating him alive as to why you hadn't just asked your soulmate who exactly he was and where he lived so you two could actually meet each other.

 You blink at him, once, twice, and then once more. “You... have a point,” you admit to the man, who is now smirking all too victoriously at you, “but - whenever I asked for his name all those years ago, he said that his nickname was Chan. I’m guessing he doesn’t like his real name or isn’t ready to find me yet.”

 Minho whines at your explanation, his fingers going to the that had ridden up to expose the ink, tugging it down for you. “It wouldn’t hurt to ask now, right? I mean, you’re both adults now. There’s no way that he doesn’t want to meet you yet.”

 You shrug softly to yourself, subconsciously tracing over the part of the sleeve that was covering the tattoo. While you had been ready to finally meet your soulmate, you had an odd hunch that Chan just wasn't ready, and you were afraid to accidently pressure him into it so soon.

 “I’ll think about it.”

 About a week later you finally decided that you really needed to find Chan, because he had gotten yet another tattoo on his arm - now along with the stunning rose covered in dark thorns just under your shoulder, there was a shorter cluster of thorny stems; it seemed like he was working towards getting a full sleeve.

 It's not like you disliked the tattoos - in fact, you were amazed that you didn’t have to go through the pain or process of spending the money on the beautiful designs. You just wanted to lay out a few ground rules - like, nothing on the face... what, tons of people got face tattoos these days, you had a right to be worried about what else the guy wanted on his - and your - skin.

 You’d been in the middle of scrolling through your feed, a french fry lazily resting between your lips as you nibbled on the salty snack, your eyes trained on the bright screen of your phone. Suddenly you stopped mid chew, eyes widening at what had caught your attention.

 It was the same exact tattoo inked onto your right arm, except the stems had been extended towards the wrist where they wrapped around the skin to look like roots, and there were falling, wilting rose petals drifting down the sketch. Within seconds you had clicked on the suggested account’s username, waiting anxiously as it redirected you to an account run by what appeared to be a tattoo parlor. If you were right about the sleeve being an original design, then that meant there was a big possibility Chan had gotten his ink done at this particular parlor.

 Furthering your investigation and completely abandoning the fries next to you, you click on the linked website in the parlor’s description, praying it wasn’t too far away.

 Oh my god, you thought to yourself in a mixture of pure shock and growing excitement, staring at the directions from the map that had popped up when you allowed it to use your location, its only three miles away!

 Not caring that you were still wearing loose sweatpants covered in cat hair along with a baggy, very wrinkled shirt, you literally jumped out of bed to run and slip a pair of shoes on, swinging your door open and shutting it quickly. You stared down at your phone as you hopped into your car, activating the GPS as you began your drive to the tattoo parlor.

 The entire drive you felt like you were either going to puke or cry - maybe both. After all this time, after all those years of communicating through scribbles of messily written words on your skin, along with the silly drawings, you might actually be able to meet Chan... your soulmate.

 When you arrived it was just another hour before it closed for the night, so you could only hope that someone working there would recognize the tattoo on your arm and be able to tell you who else got it recently. You quickly locked your car, nearly dropping your keys you were so jittery, and walked into the parlor. At the front desk there was a man with dyed blonde hair and darker brown roots, and the second you walked in he had glanced up at you with a warm, welcoming smile.

“H-hi,” you breathe out after a second of silence, still trying to catch your breath from rushing out of your house so fast, “um, weird question, but has anyone else gotten a tattoo like this recently?” You ask the receptionist, turning and lifting your sleeve so the entire piece was visible.

 The man lets out a small hum, looking up at you from the desk curiously. “Our main tattoo artist designed that himself a while ago, he’s been working up to a full sleeve since about... four weeks ago, maybe?”

 “Is - is his name Chan, by chance?”

 “That’s his sort of nickname around here, yeah. His actual name is Chris. Are you... a friend of his?” He asks you, chuckling softly at your disheveled head of hair and red cheeks. Clearly you had been in a rush.

 You shake your head at first, but remember that you are the guy’s soulmate, and technically you have known each other since you were kids - in a sense. “Is he here, right now?”

 The receptionist nods again, jerking his head to a door behind the desk. “Yeah, he’s alone cleaning up right now. Go ahead.”

 You send him a thankful smile, nearly stumbling into the corner of his desk as you walk slowly towards the door that is acting as the only barrier between yourself and your soulmate. Your mind is screaming at you to walk away out of sheer fear, but your heart is pounding so hard in your chest that you ignore any other thoughts racking your brain - and you walk inside.

 Holy shit he’s gorgeous. Is the first thing that pops inside your head when your eyes land on the man, his right arm dotting the same tattoo on yours, his hair a pretty sort of silver color. The man raised an eyebrow at you, then glanced down at your arm as you quite literally held it out towards him.

 “Um... what am I looking at?” Chan hesitates on his words, glancing back up at you in confusion. Your eyebrows furrow in wonder; was he seriously choosing now of all times to play around?

 “We have the same tattoo, Chan - it’s me, Y/N!” You insist after an awkward pause, only to recoil in shock as his eyes narrow into a glare.

 “Alright sweetheart, you’ve gotta be high as shit right now because I don’t see one dot of ink on that damn arm.” The artist retorts lowly, as if he was offended by your rash outburst. “I don’t believe you - Y/N would have to have my design on her arm, and you don’t.”

 Your lips part in hurt, and a bit of... pride? Here Chan was, standing right before you with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring down at you because he thought you were some random chick claiming to be his soulmate.

 Then it hit you.

 “Um - you know what - never mind, I guess I got confused.” You apologize to the man. “Actually I came in to get a - a tattoo. I completely forgot to make an appointment, so I can come back tomorrow or-”

 “Just lay down and tell me what you want, I could care less about an appointment right now. No one else is scheduled to come in.” Chan instructs and you listen, going to lie down on the leather chair. You were nuts - here you were, getting your first real tattoo just to try and prove that you were his soulmate. Were there easier ways to do so? Obviously, but the adrenaline pumping through your veins mixed with the loss of any rational thought had skewed any other possible plans to convince Chan of your identity.

 “Can I get... three birds on the back of my shoulder?” You blurt out suddenly, knowing that it was a simple tattoo. Chan hums at your choice, telling you to lift your shirt off so he can prep your skin. He tells you that he has a design like that and shows it to you for approval, and you of course nod in agreement and wait for him to get everything ready.

 The next thirty minutes go by as a blur, with Chan inking your left shoulder with tiny black birds and tiny details of wind and feathers. Once he’s done patching it up, you tap his arm to catch his attention.

 “Can you um... look at your shoulder?” You ask him, your cheeks heating up when he snorts at you in disbelief. You’re not sure if he’s just trying to flatter you, since to him you were some weirdo who’d popped into his tattoo parlor out of nowhere for no real rhyme or reason; but he does as you suggest, walking over to a mirror hung onto the wall. He dips the hem of his shirt downward and tilts his head to see - nothing.

 There wasn’t a trio of black birds on his skin.

 “Holy shit - you really are Y/N, aren't you?”

 You glance up at the baffled man in bewilderment, wondering how he had figured it own even though your tattoo hadn’t showed up on his shoulder.

 “Didn't you... didn't you see the birds?” He questions you quickly, only to furrow his eyebrows when you shake your head slowly. “Wait - maybe, maybe we can’t see what we’ve done to the other person’s body - I’ve heard of it before, in cases like this-” The silver haired man starts to speak a mile a minute, taking short steps towards you with each rushed word that escaped his lips.

 “Sometimes, when soulmates are close to each other in terms of distance, the bond acts on its own and can make a sort of - barrier, I guess? Here, look at your wrist.” He says after he’s grabbed a stray pen from his cluttered counter, doing a quick doodle on his own wrist. You flatter him, looking down to see a cute little smiley face staring back up at you - then you glance to his wrist, seeing the same exact doodle in black ink.

 “You can see it, right?” You nod, too shocked to speak. You had finally found him, your actual soulmate.

 Chan lets the pen drop to the floor and wraps his arms around your body tightly, pulling you into his chest.

 “You found me, Y/N.”

                                           ✧

A/N - thanks, I hate it! :)

All Of Our Lifetimes — Three: Samothrace

Pairing — Taehyung x Reader

Tags — boyfriend!Taehyung, husband!Taehyung reincarnation au, lovers to strangers and to lovers again, established relationship, implied soulmate au

Genre — fluff, angst, crime (ish)

Word Count — 2.5k

Summary — Does love ever truly end, or does it simply take another form in a new life? The cycle is like clockwork: your lives end and you’re reborn again. You’ve lived it over and over. Each cycle, one of you loses your memories and is tragically unaware until the other finds and awakens their lover. After all these eons, all these lifetimes, is it possible to find each other again—even when neither of you awakens with your memories? 

Part — 3 / 15

Warnings — language, mentions of murder (no description)

Previous — Next

On your way to breakfast the next morning, you get the call from Director Hyeon. What she tells you in the next few seconds nearly causes you to drop your phone and shout for joy, right in the middle of the sidewalk.

"We're offering you the job, [Y/n]. You're the most qualified and capable, by far. Everyone in the leadership has agreed that we can trust our boys to you. If you're interested...the position is yours."

Without giving your lungs a second to catch up with your erratic, excited breathing, you're exclaiming a vibrant, "Yes! Yes, I am very interested."

The details are finalized over the following week, which gives you just enough time to fly back home and pack up your belongings to ship overseas. Milo is a huge help, despite the fact that she's so jealous. While she has several interviews scheduled via telephone or Skype over the next few weeks, it will be a month or possibly more before she will join you in Seoul.

"I'm so jealous!" she tells you over and over. "So happy for you...but damn! I'm the one in the BTS army over here!"

"I'll see if I can snag you an autograph or something," you reply, half-joking.

Milo looks at you like you hold the world in your hands. "I would fucking marry you if you did."

"You'd marry me anyway."

At that, Milo merely flashes a wink and giggles to herself.

After your clothes and transportable belongings are packed and shipped overseas to your new apartment, the two of you drive to the airport in unusual silence, only a few items in your overhead luggage. It's not uncomfortable, but along the way, you both realize that this will be the last time you'll see each other for at least a month. 

Milo has been your best friend since middle school, and you've lived together since college. To be without her for that long, after all you've been through together, it's hitting you hard as the airport draws near. You reach for her hand over the armrest, lacing your fingers through hers.

"You're not gonna go run off and find some boy that keeps you in America, right?" you ask in a semi-joking tone.

Milo tilts her head as she stares at you from the passenger's side. "Only if you don't find a cute K-pop boy to fall in love with and forget all about me."

You make a faux gagging sound, drawing a smirk from your best friend. "Not a chance."

"Then don't test me, [Y/n]. I'll get a job and be with you in Seoul before we know it. A month isn't too long, and then we can be roomies again!"

Your hand tightens as you flash a genuine smile. "Wouldn't change it for the world."

You remain attached to each other until you get to the security check-in. Turning to Milo, you pull her into a tight embrace, one that she whole-heartedly returns. 

"Don't make me wait too long, okay?"

"'Course not," she chimes back, trying to keep her voice it's usual happy-go-lucky. "We're Siamese twins, you and me. Not gonna separate us!"

You say your temporary goodbyes—the only reason you don't break down being that you constantly remind yourself that it is only temporary—and depart for the security line. Passport in one hand, the other waving back to Milo, you hold tight to the shred of the past while running headfirst into your future.

One thing is for certain: things are going to change.

The first few days as a permanent resident of Seoul are spent settling into your new job and new apartment. And, as per usual in a major life change, there are things that go wrong that you couldn't have anticipated. You get lost on your way to work on your first day and end up being a few minutes late, one of your packages of clothing has not shown up yet despite everything else has arrived, and the office space at Big Hit evidently used to be occupied by someone who never cleared out their shitstorm of a file cabinet.

Needless to say, by the time the weekend arrives, you want to do nothing more than relax and recuperate and do something other than stare between two monitors. If you have to translate another word from Hangul into the English alphabet, you're going to chuck something out the window.

But, understandably, your apartment isn't in the best shape. Boxes are half-way unpacked, and plenty of furniture still needs to be bought. What has been unpacked is haphazardly tosses on any clean surface you can find. It's not exactly a den of peace and serenity, and probably not the ideal place to relax.

So, after doing some online shopping for said furniture and organizing as best you can, you decide to take the rest of the Saturday afternoon and do something you genuinely want to do. An idea pops into your head, and you grab your coat from the counter as you head for the door.

You never finished your tour of the Seoul Museum of Art, knowing for a fact that you haven't gotten to the architecture wing or portrait gallery. You feel your heart longing to go back and explore the remaining spots of the building, knowing in your soul that you need to be there.

What better time than the present?

You find your way easily, enjoying the brisk air that catches your skin and under your coat. The seasons are changing, shades of winter like white and grey settling into post-New Year's hues of mocha and beige. The city smells like green tea and feels like an ever-changing living organism.

Something tells you that more than just the seasons will be changing this year. 

Enter the museum, you find your way back towards the gallery where you left off. After the conversation with the stranger from yesterday, you were a bit too weirded out to really enjoy any of the other exhibits. Wandering for another hour, you hardly remember any of it. The story he told, the bloody fingerprint at the corner of "Vase with Honesty," it was all a bit too eerie for your liking.

But something in the back of your mind keeps prodding at you, and you desperately wish who that man was so that you could ask him more questions. How did he know about the murder? Why was he as drawn to the painting as you were? Why did he leave so abruptly?

All these questions circulate your mind as you round the corner, passing by the Van Gogh exhibit to your right. Just as you pass out of the entrance, you stop mid-step and turn on your heel, peaking back into the open space. 

Standing in front of "Vase with Honesty," the stranger from yesterday wears the beige hoodie and a white facemask. You might've missed him if it weren't for the way his eyes followed you from the entrance to the exit of the temporary exhibit, dark eyes dusted by curly hair. You think it unusual to recognize a stranger just from a few minutes of interaction, but your life has been anything but usual the past two weeks.

Instead, you offer a tiny smile and wave, stepping out of the arched entrance and towards the man. "Hi...again."

His eyes avert yours, shifting to the wall behind you, the paintings, the ceiling. Anywhere but at you. "Hi."

"Seems like we keep running into each other, hm?" you offer in a friendly tone. "Come back to see 'Vase with Honesty'?"

The stranger nods. "I'm a...big fan. Van Gogh's art is comforting. I've never known why."

His confession causes a genuine smile to spread across your face. "That's what art's for, silly. Van Gogh was a tortured soul, but I think he'd be happy to know that his life's work gives comfort to people, even..." You glance at the description card in front of the piece, searching for the date. "Even 136 years later."

His brown eyes flicker to yours again for a brief moment, and it's long enough for you to nod your head towards the expansive hallway. "Wanna walk with me? I got a few rooms in the museum yesterday, but not much more than that. Always nice to explore with others, don't you think?"

The shy man nods once and joins your side as you turn towards the interior, keeping a couple of feet between you. 

As you make your way to other wings, you and the stranger make small talk to pass the time. Well, you do most of the talking. You're not sure if this person doesn't trust you or if he's just catatonically shy, but he's refused to lower his hood or raise his head enough for you to get a good look at his face. His features are still obscured by his clothing and hair, but his voice is soothing the few times he does reply. His presence is calming. Something about the man puts you instantly at ease, and you find yourself being more friendly than you might be to any other stranger.

"Is Korean your first language?" he inquires, as you step into the empty room full of 20th-century modern art.

You shake your head, a slightly embarrassed heat rising in your cheeks. "That obvious, huh? I mean, I know I don't look Korean, but I was hoping I was passing all right."

He stops in front of a work by Georgia O'Keefe. "Not that obvious. I just heard a bit of an American lilt in a few of your words just now. You're very good."

"Oh...then, thanks."

"Why are you in Seoul, then? Visiting?"

"Working," you respond, moving to the other side of the room to view the other works of modern art. "I got a job in Yongsan. I just started this week."

The stranger's head perks up at your response, turning his face slightly towards yours. "How's that going?"

You shrug, making a non-committal noise. "I mean, it's a great job, don't get me wrong. It's just a lot. I moved away from America, from my long-time best friend and roommate, from everything I'd ever known for this job. And it's been a long first week full of things I didn't realize I was going to have to handle."

You shove your hands into your jacket pockets as the two of you turn to leave the room, enter back into the stark white hallway, and turn towards the next expansive opening.

"I shouldn't be complaining," you laugh. "The job is so much more than I could ask for, and I haven't even met a few of the people I'm supposed to work with. One of which I know I have a ton of questions for..." You shake your head. "I've have had this...let's call it a gut feeling, for a long time now. Go to Seoul. Go to South Korea. I knew my fate would bring me here one day, just didn't realize life would be so..."

"Hard?"

You turn towards your companion with an understanding sigh. "Yeah, hard."

A few moments of silence pass, and just as you're about to ask him about the bloody fingerprint and how he knew about the artist being murdered, you feel a chill run down your spine at the sight of the object in the room to your left. Not a chill from the cold or from nerves, this is a chill of familiarity. You turn your head slowly towards the object of your subconscious horror. 

"Winged Victory of Samothrace," or a copy of the one in the Louve, stands high and mighty, the lone object in the fluorescent-lit room.

"What is it?" the stranger asks, voice low and muffled by his mask.

You stare at the statue, unmoving for a full thirty seconds. "I—Does that statue look familiar to you at all?"

There's hesitation in his response, though you can't see his face. "I—I've seen it in Paris. That must be it."

You shake your head, clenching your trembling fists at your sides. "I've never been to Paris. I've never seen it before, not in person."

The stranger reaches out towards you, asking, "Are you okay? You're trembling."

In an attempt to clear your head, you drag your gaze away from Winged Victory and turn back towards the hallway. Visions from your nightmare force their way into your mind, but you shove them out, trying your hardest to keep them at bay as you walk ahead of your confused companion.

"Just a coincidence," you whisper to yourself. "Just a coin—"

Your sentence falls flat as you raise your gaze from the marble floors to the open space ahead. The chill returns, and your knees feel even weaker than before.

Pillars stretch up, cradling a spectacular glass ceiling, surrounding a spherical water fountain.

Your heartbeat races, and your throat closes up. The door you'd tried to lock in your brain crashes open, releasing all the terrible things your brain keeps replaying over and over and over. Doesn't matter if it's day or night, these visions never end.

An artist murdered. Two lovers on the run. A mad-man with a thirst for blood. 

And the death of you both in that very water fountain.

You stumble back, bumping into the stranger as you do. His eyes are wide and locked on the fountain, but you're too panicked to stop and investigate further. Every fiber of your being is telling you to run. To run as fast and as far as you can. 

Without explanation and without fail, you let your fear take you the mile's distance from that spherical fountain to the nearest metro station.

If you could physically go any faster or longer, you're sure in your heart that you would still be running.