#<- victim of my own literary talents.

[mqfx]

mfw I got so far deep into the lore and the plot that I completely forgot what it's all for. an elaborate excuse to watch mqfx be repressed little freaks barely able to navigate whatever it is they feel for each other

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

The Politics of Ian McEwan’s ‘Saturday’

[One of my fav reviews I read way back in the elder days of blogs…that is, February 5, 2005. I’ve realized that some of the formative pieces of reviews I read when a much more callow youth are disappearing or already disappeared from the internet, so I’ve decided to start saving them on here for my own memory. This critique of Ian McEwan’s Saturday by the experimental British writer Ellis Sharp, whose blogs Barbaric Document and The Sharp Side are long consigned to Wayback Machine passes, definitely started the process of eroding my interest in mainstream literary fiction. Barbaric Document was last updated July 5, 2011, though Sharp is still writing novels.]

This is a novel which is set entirely on 15 February 2003, the day of the great London anti-war march. Not a single character in this novel goes on the march. Although most of them live and work in central London, they are all doing something else that day. The march only exists filtered through the consciousness of Henry Perowne, the brain surgeon protagonist. He catches glimpses of it from a distance. He sees it on the TV news. From time to time he comments on the marchers. Perowne is off to play squash, and, as a result of the road closures that day, gets involved in a car crash with a sinister thug named Baxter. Henry is “ambivalent” about the war, as a result of knowing an Iraqi torture victim. And this torture victim would not approve of the anti-war march; from his perspective, “Across Europe,, and all around the world, people are gathering to express their preference for peace and torture.” (p. 126) Perowne thinks that “the humanitarian reasons for war” is “the only case worth making” (p. 69). He doesn’t like the anti-war marchers. He thinks they are frivolous. He complains that they are too cheerful:

“All this happiness on display is suspect. Everyone is thrilled to be together on the streets – people are hugging themselves, it seems, as well as each other. If they think – and they could be right – that continued torture and summary executions, ethnic cleansing and occasional genocide are preferable to an invasion, they should be sombre in their view.” (pp. 69-70)

Nowhere in Saturday is there the perception that the forces pressing for war are precisely the same forces which subsidised, protected and armed the regime which carried out those atrocities. As a novel about politics, history and medicine, it suffers from its own unspoken narrative malady: amnesia. McEwan dances away from troublesome specifics. We’re told that Perowne has a great relationship with his son and that “They’ve never talked so much before” (p. 34) Among the topics of discussion are “Israel and Palestine, dictators, democracy”. A bit vague, wouldn’t you say? Pleasantly vague. Evasively vague. Perowne’s squash partner is pro-war and has to abandon his car south of the river and jog to the squash court. Perowne’s wife is a high flying lawyer who is absent all day, tied up at the High Court fighting for press freedom. Alas, the judge (sympathetic to her press freedom argument) is delayed by the demonstration. Perowne’s father-in-law, a famous poet, is flying in from France for a Saturday night family get-together. Perowne has two fabulously talented kids – so talented you wouldn’t want to receive a Christmas round robin letter from the Perownes, and if you got one you’d want to forward it to Simon Hoggart. Perowne’s daughter, a stunningly talented young poet about to be published by Faber, is flying in from Paris, where she is currently living. Perowne’s son, Theo, a hugely talented 18 year old blues guitarist, is against invading Iraq, but he’s not on the march either:

“His attitude is as strong and pure as his bones and skin. So strong he doesn’t feel much need to go tramping through the streets to make his point.” (p. 151)

I’m still trying (and failing) to make sense of that fuzzy logic. And I don’t find it remotely plausible that a cool young dude who was passionately against the war and lived just a few hundred metres from the start of the march would think: Nah, I’m not going on it, it’s a complete waste of time. McEwan does permit an anti-war voice to enter his narrative, on p. 185, when Perowne’s daughter Daisy arrives from Paris and on the way home from the airport stops by at Hyde Park to hear some of the speeches. She and her father proceed to have an argument about the war, with Perowne (sometimes almost verbatim) expressing McEwan’s own published reservations. Daisy, aged 18, is a tremendous fan of Philip Larkin, who is her favourite poet. “Apparently, not many young women loved Philip Larkin the way she did.” (p. 56) True enough: 18 year old girls probably prefer Snow Patrol to Philip Larkin. But probably not many anti-war protesters were into Larkin either, one suspects, bearing in mind Larkins’ racism, sexism and miserabilist verse which yearns for a fantasy pre-First World War England, mocks and stereotypes the ghastly vulgar working classes and has a gloomy fixation on the inevitability of death (written in his younger days – ironically when he grew old his poetry dried up and he retreated into booze and singing jolly racist chants with his charmless alcoholic lover). As Tom Paulin somewhere remarks, underneath the Larkin monument runs a stinking sewer. But McEwan himself evidently likes Larkin, whose verse is the only copyright material cited in Saturday. The argument between father and daughter rages on, until Perowne stops it with a bet:

‘My fifty pounds says three months after the invasion there’ll be a free press in Iraq, and unmonitored Internet access too. The reformers in Iran will be encouraged, those Syrian and Saudi and Libyan potentates will be getting the jitters.’

Daisy says, ‘Fine. And my fifty says it’ll be a mess and even you will wish it never happened.’ (p. 192) McEwan finished writing Saturday in the second half of 2004. This allowed him the wisdom of hindsight. (At one point – p. 151 - there’s a careless reference to “the war in Iraq” – but of course the war hadn’t yet started. What McEwan should have written was “the war ON Iraq” or “war WITH Iraq”.) By fixing Perowne’s bet on the state of affairs in Iraq three months after the invasion, McEwan allows both sides to be at least partly right. Yes, there was a free press! Yes, there was unmonitored Internet access! But, yes, it was a bit of a mess too! If he’d fixed his bet one year after the invasion, Perowne would have lost and the absurdity of his liberal humanism been glaringly exposed. Just after the fall of Baghdad, polls suggested that Iraqis were evenly divided on whether or not they felt liberated or occupied. By the time the USA pretended to hand over power in the summer of 2004, only 2 per cent of Arab Iraqis supported the occupation. As for the free press – Al Jazeera was booted out by the Vichy regime, anxious to stifle an independent Arab media outlet loathed by the US government. It’s noticeable that McEwan’s position has shifted from that which he put forward in January 2003. “I was against it,” he now asserts, when asked about the war (interview with Boyd Tonkin, The Independent, 28 January 2005). But of course, “not as passionately as many friends and colleagues.” McEwan now claims that Daisy expresses his anti-war feelings just as much as Perowne embodies his own ambivalence, but Daisy’s assertion that “there’s nothing linking Iraq to nine eleven, or to Al-Qaeda generally, and no really scary evidence of WMD” (p. 191) is at odds with McEwan’s former belief that it did not seem “outlandish, the possibility of Saddam Hussein passing on weapons of mass destruction to the enemy of his enemies.” In January 2003 McEwan defended Blair from the charge that he was Bush’s poodle and saw him as a committed humanitarian. Disillusionment has evidently now set in. McEwan’s shift of position seems to me to parallel that of Greg Dyke, who confides, “I understand what Gordon Brown means when he says he finds it difficult to believe a word that Blair says, which is odd because I didn’t feel that a year ago when I was forced out. It was the publication last summer of the Butler report which changed everything for me.” (Independent, 28 January 2005, p. 9) In Saturday McEwan twice mocks Blair. There’s a reference to the science of the human smile: “In the smile of a self-conscious liar certain muscle groups in the face are not activated” but “the first and best unconscious move of a dedicated liar is to persuade himself he’s sincere. And once he’s sincere, all deception vanishes.” Reprising that episode when the protagonist of ‘The Child in Time’ has a surreal encounter with Margaret Thatcher, Perowne remembers a comic encounter with Blair at the opening party for the Tate Modern gallery. Blair, we learn, mistook him for a painter and, when told of his error, saved face by continuing to congratulate him on his artistry. McEwan, I think we can safely conclude, like Greg Dyke, feels very, very let down by Tony and no longer trusts him. That sense of disappointment is transmitted in the scene where Perowne sees Blair on TV:

“The Prime Minister is giving his Glasgow speech. Perowne touches the control in time to hear him say that the number of marchers today has been exceeded by the number of deaths caused by Saddam. A clever point, the only case to make, but it should have been made from the start. Too late now. After Blix it looks tactical.” (p. 178)

It is characteristic of the narrative that these cloudy sentences are never subjected to irony or sceptical enquiry. In what sense is it “A clever point” or “the only case to make”? Far from being “clever” isn’t it just meaningless? Isn’t it as fatuous as saying something like, “No matter how many people in Britain went to services of remembrance on Holocaust Memorial Day that will still be less than the number of people who died in the death camps!” No mention, either, of the fact that Blair brought forward his speech by several hours, in order to dodge thousands of Scottish demonstrators who were going to march on the venue where he was due to speak. * There is nothing in Saturday that seems likely seriously to damage McEwan’s popularity with his American readership. The novel is prefaced by a quote from Saul Bellow’s ‘Herzog'. Bellow is another liberal realist whose trajectory over the years has been from fiery young lefty to elderly reactionary. Ironically, the language of the Bellow epigraph is far more sparky, animated and stylistically daring than anything in the buttoned-up, over-wrought, mannered prose of Saturday. At times McEwan’s style is fussily Edwardian. Whereas the average realist novelist would write “at the end of the week he was unusually tired”, McEwan writes “he finished the week in a state of unusual depletion” (p. 5). The ravages of US foreign policy never feature in Perowne’s consciousness, other than in the vaguest of ways. There are harsh words for torture regimes, but Israel is not included in the list. The nearest thing to criticism is when Daisy says:

‘You hate Saddam, but he’s a creation of the Americans. They backed him, and armed him.’ ‘Yes, and the French, and Russians and British did too. A big mistake. The Iraqis were betrayed, especially in 1991 when they were encouraged to rise against the Ba’athists who cut them down. This could be a chance to put that right.’ ‘So you’re for the war?’ ‘I’m not for any war. But this one could be the lesser evil. In five years time we’ll know.’ (p. 187)

The only American in the novel is Jay Strauss, a big, tough, warm-hearted consultant anaesthetist. A patient, a stroppy black 14 year old girl from Brixton, vexes the hospital staff by her difficult behaviour. She’s a bully. When a nurse is reduced to tears only tough Jay Strauss can deal with the situation. In the face of his tough, firm no-nonsense attitude the girl’s hostility collapses and by the end of the novel, her operation a success, she wants to become a brain surgeon herself. (There’s a sub-text there, oh yes. But you can work it out for yourself.) Strauss is also a brilliant anaesthetist: “As far as Henry is concerned, Jay is the key to the success of his firm.” (p. 101) Perowne’s ‘firm’ is his team. And this is a novel in part about having a good team spirit. Perowne and Strauss play squash (for 16 pages – a tour de force of narrative description or a bloody tedious read - you decide). They both get ratty about losing, but at work they rise above such petty irritability, as good professionals should. (Team spirit, I’m afraid, always makes me think of that brilliant moment at the end of the movie I’ll Never Forget Whatshisname where surly Oliver Reed screams that it was team spirit that gave us the Nazi death camps.) Strauss is also pro-war: “Iraq is a rotten state, a natural ally of terrorists, bound to cause mischief at some point and may as well be taken out now while the US military is feeling perky after Afghanistan. And by taken out, he insists that he means liberated and democratised. The USA has to atone for its previous disastrous policies – at the very least it owes this to the Iraqi people.” (p. 100) War for the purest motives, you see – a position not really any different to Perowne’s, even though McEwan terminates this paragraph with the sentence: “Whenever he talks to Jay, Henry finds himself tending towards the anti-war camp.” “Tending towards” is a revealing way of putting it – this is a mind that seems to flutter towards one political position, then to flutter to its opposite, but in actuality stays firmly lodged in the centre right, aligning itself with the argument that the forthcoming war on Iraq has a sound humanitarian basis and will be good for the Iraqi people. And throughout this novel there is a fastidious disdain for those dimly glimpsed, marginalised 2 million marchers. A minor character, Rodney Browne, a neurosurgical registrar, is also against the war, but when Jay Strauss “has been holding forth on the necessity of the coming war” Browne is “reluctant to voice his pacifist views for fear of being taken apart”. (p. 248) But this suggestion of balance is all a sleight of hand. The argument that it might be a war for oil is mentioned only in passing. The thrust of the novel is to make the reader sympathise with Perowne, the decent, hard-working, agonized, ambivalent liberal. The climax of the novel subverts the pacifism of Daisy and her brother. When Baxter and an associate force their way into the house they force Daisy to strip naked before them. She is threatened with rape. In the face of violence the representatives of civilized decency are themselves forced to resort to violence, and Perowne and Theo end up fighting Baxter and throwing him down the stairs. It’s a parable of sorts. At the height of the terror Perowne hears the police helicopter as it monitors the dispersal of the protesters from Hyde Park. It’s a moment calculated to appeal to Daily Mail readers – police resources taken up by a left-wing demonstration while an affluent middle-class household is broken into by a pair of violent, terrifying working class thugs with knives. In a twist of fate (one of the many implausible aspects of a supposedly realistic narrative), Perowne is asked to operate on Baxter, who has suffered a serious head injury. Perowne does so, successfully, afterwards deciding that he will decide not to press charges, even though Baxter has broken Perowne’s father-in-law’s nose, slashed Perowne’s expensive Knoll sofa, held a knife to his wife’s throat, and forced his daughter to strip, then threatened her with rape. Perowne represents decency and liberal humanity; Baxter has a rare genetic condition and is biologically doomed – that is punishment enough, he decides. On his way to the hospital Perowne encounters the cleaning-up operation after the great march:

“the debris has a certain archaeological interest – a Not in My Name with a broken stalk lies among polystyrene cups and abandoned hamburgers and pristine fliers for the British Association of Muslims. On a pile he steps round are a slab of pizza with pineapple slices, beer cans in a tartan motif, a denim jacket, empty milk cartons and three unopened tins of sweetcorn.” (p. 243)

This is the final mention of the march in the novel (which continues for another 36 pages), and it takes us back to Perowne’s encounter with the marchers in Chapter Two:

‘“Not in My Name” goes past a dozen times. Its cloying self-regard suggests a bright new world of protest, with the fussy consumers of shampoos and soft drinks demanding to feel good, or nice… A placard of one of the organizing groups goes by — the British Association of Muslims. Henry remembers that outfit well. It explained recently in its newspaper that apostasy from Islam was an offence punishable by death.” (p. 72)

Perowne’s final encounter with the detritus of the march reinforces his earlier perception of these gullible, muddle-headed peaceniks as self-centred consumers, enjoying the good life of western capitalism while cheerily aligning themselves with the dark force of Islamic extremism. Perowne, in other words, is right all along. (And for Daily Mail readers there is, I suppose, the added bonus that these lefty anti-war marchers are a scruffy lot who drop tons of litter.) This is more sleight of hand, of course. Those who take the trouble to travel to central London and march against the war are self-centred consumers. Those who spend that Saturday doing other things like playing squash or shopping or playing their guitars are not self-centred but superior creatures possessed of a more complex inner life. The final 34 pages of the novel describe Perowne’s operation on Baxter and his return home, where he has sex with his wife for the second time that day and finally goes to sleep. The biggest protest march in British history is simply erased from existence – a non-event, really, remote from the central drama of Henry Perowne’s mind and life. * In reality Saturday is far less about 15 February 2003 than about 11 September 2001. From his published comments, it appears that McEwan experienced that event as something of a personal trauma. He subscribes to the US-centric ‘world was changed forever by 9/11’ thesis. After 9/11 McEwan abandoned writing fiction for six months. No public event in his writing career had touched him so deeply. The violent death of 3000 people, mostly Americans, was a horror much greater than all those millions upon millions who died from malnutrition, disease, torture, massacre or war in the 27 years of his career as a published writer. But then they died off-camera, and almost none of them were white middle class professionals and they were just statistics, not individuals with life stories that interested the media. What you don’t get in Saturday and what you’ll never get in McEwan’s fiction is the kind of perception of the main character in Iain Banks’s novel ‘Dead Air’ (2002), who comments:

“every twenty-four hours about thirty-four thousand children die in the world from the effects of poverty; from malnutrition and disease, basically. Thirty-four thousand, from a world, a world-society, that could feed and clothe and treat them all, with a workably different allocation of resources. Meanwhile, the latest estimate is that two-thousand eight hundred people died in the Twin Towers, so it’s like that image, that ghastly, grey-billowing, double-barrelled fall, repeated twelve times every single fucking day; twenty-four towers, one per hour, throughout each day and night. Full of children.”

McEwan’s trauma was, I suspect, partly the shock of seeing something that was personally important under attack. “From the vantage point of the Brooklyn Heights, we saw Lower Manhattan disappear into dust,” he wrote in The Guardian on 12 September 2001, from the viewpoint of someone familiar with New York. “Yesterday afternoon, for a dreamlike, immeasurable period, the appearance was of total war, and of the world's mightiest empire in ruins.” There was also, perhaps, the disturbing thought that it could so easily have been him on one of those planes, “crouching in the brushed-steel lavatory at the rear of the plane, whispering a final message”. McEwan complained that the hijackers lacked empathy for their victims:

“If the hijackers had been able to imagine themselves into the thoughts and feelings of the passengers, they would have been unable to proceed. It is hard to be cruel once you permit yourself to enter the mind of your victim. Imagining what it is like to be someone other than yourself is at the core of our humanity. It is the essence of compassion, and it is the beginning of morality.” (The Guardian, 15 September 2001)

This is perfectly true. But it is a point that could also be made against members of the US army or RAF bomber pilots.

McEwan asserted that, “The hijackers used fanatical certainty, misplaced religious faith, and dehumanising hatred to purge themselves of the human instinct for empathy. Among their crimes was a failure of the imagination.”

In one sense, he was extraordinarily wrong. The hijackers had the perceptions of literary critics. They did not lack imagination. They were interested in symbolism. The pentagon represented the US military war machine and the twin towers represented US commerce. There was an additional cultural spin-off. What the hijackers did by demolishing the twin towers was to mock American cultural hegemony in a curiously deadly way. Suddenly all those cinematic images of New York became an ironic comment on their own complacent self-regard. The twin towers are everywhere in that hegemonic imagery. The re-make of King Kong, the Hollywood Godzilla, old episodes of Friends, innumerable Hollywood movies, Spielberg’s AI, Schwarzenegger’s End of Days – the twin towers are always there, somewhere. And, seeing them after 9/11, you can’t help thinking of what is to come. History intrudes on fiction. 9/11 re-imagined the past. It mocked the staple convention of the disaster movie – a good American always, at the last moment, prevents disaster. 9/11 mocked America’s image of the future. Hollywood imagined the twin towers would be there forever. It was wrong. In that most visual of cultures, partly because of the accident of a fine, clear sunlit day, partly because of the presence of a French film crew, 9/11 supplied a visual feast.

Saturday is a parable of the ideas that McEwan put forward in his two Guardian pieces on 9/11. Perowne’s day begins with him looking out of the window of his central London home and seeing a plane on fire coming in to Heathrow. He wonders if it is another 9/11 style hijacking. That possibility evaporates. Instead a worse, more personal crisis follows later in the day. The knife wielding Baxter and his accomplice who burst in and threaten Perowne, his wife, his daughter, his son, and his father-in-law, represent a version of the 9/11 hijackers. Baxter is like a suicidal terrorist: Perowne identifies him as “a man who believes he has no future and is therefore free of consequences.” (p. 210)

Baxter is, metaphorically, an Arab extremist. His genetic defect is also, arguably, a displaced version of that popular reactionary concept, the criminal gene (which is paralleled by the poverty gene and the homelessness gene, and all those other bogus genes which offer a soothing pseudo-scientific explanation for the consequences of the inequalities of capitalist society).

But what stops a dangerous and dreadful situation – the impending rape of Daisy - is the benign force of the human imagination. Baxter engages in a conversation with his intended victim (a plot device straight out of James Bond – the villain unfolds his fiendish plans but the delay this involves provides a way out of an apparently hopeless situation). He orders her to read from her book of poems. In a state of shock Daisy is able only to recite an old favourite, Matthew Arnold’s ‘Dover Beach’. Baxter likes it so much he asks her to recite it again, then sobs, ‘It’s beautiful’, adding ‘It makes me think of where I grew up.’ (p. 222) So Baxter, unlike the 9/11 hijackers, does not lack imagination. He is redeemable. He loses all interest in raping Daisy. He isn’t an Arab after all!

The message of the poem ‘Dover Beach’ is also the message of Saturday. The world is a truly dreadful place full of nastiness and very, very confusing. God is dead. Nothing makes sense any more. Therefore retreat into the personal and ‘be true’ to your lover. Or as Lennon and McCartney put it: All you need is love.

Saturday, then, a novel about anxiety. It is in the great tradition of the nineteenth century bourgeois liberal novel, when affluent, talented writers were terrified of the idea that their whole way of life was under threat by dark, destructive forces. Back then the threat was from working-class radicalism. The image of workers gathered together for political purposes sent a shiver down the spine of novelists like George Eliot, whose vision of the proletariat was that of a terrifying mob, a “mass of wild chaotic desires and impulses”. Dickens in Hard Times suggested that those who suffered under capitalism should respond with dignified restraint, in heroic isolation. Nothing as vulgar as politics should intrude. Henry James in The Princess Casamassima proposed that the major motive of political radicals was envy and suggested that the only decent destiny of a thinking militant was to see through the sham of revolutionary politics and commit suicide. (Thanks, Henry.) The actions of Al-Qaeda have, alas, soured the agreeable quality of suicide as an apt political destiny, and even when liberals with a capital ‘L’ do something so liberal as to empathise with the state of mind of Palestinians who detonate themselves beside Israelis, they quickly find, as Jenny Tonge did, that the liberal – or Liberal - imagination is suddenly a very narrow and slyly calculating one.

Perowne is an anxious man. “He bought Fred Halliday’s book”, we’re told (p. 32) and having read it frets that “the New York attacks precipitated a global crisis that would, if we were lucky, take a hundred years to resolve.” Frightening stuff, eh? Later Perowne convinces himself that the crisis will fade, like all the ones before it. But that still leaves him with lots of other anxieties. But these are the anxieties of an affluent professional enjoying a very agreeable lifestyle. He lives in a large house in central London. He drives a Mercedes which he houses in a nearby mews. He enjoys fine food and wine. What haunts him is the threat of Islamic extremism. He fears another 9/11 style hijacking. He worries about the shoe bomber. He worries that there will be a major terrorist attack on his city. And the problem is ideology, which makes fanatics do terrible things. Perowne concludes (much in the manner of George Eliot): “No more big ideas. The world must improve, if at all, by tiny steps.” (p. 74) Perowne even has an example. The design of kettles has much improved over the years: “The world should take note: not everything is getting worse.” (p. 69)

Perowne is not entirely McEwan. His views on literature are different, and there are various jokes for the literati. Perowne doesn’t like McEwan’s The Child in Time or Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses. His poet father-in-law is envious of McEwan’s great friend Craig Raine. He is not well up on his Matthew Arnold. If Perowne has one shortcoming it is that his grasp of literature is weak and he does not read novels with a proper sense of appreciation – an irony which flatters the ego of the reader of Saturday.

The BBC has treated the publication of Saturday as a newsworthy event. A feature on the ‘Today’ programme (February 1st) called it “Ulysses-like”. Well, yes, it’s set on a single day but apart from that it is entirely unlike Joyce’s novel, which is massively radical and ambitious in its language and form. ‘Ulysses’ is a difficult, stubborn, challenging read. 

Saturday is the kind of novel Joyce set out to annihilate. It has solid characters, a suspenseful plot and uses the conventions of realism to portray an affluent middle class social world. As a product it is easy reading, shiny, highly processed. It presents itself (as realism always does) as a transparent window through which to observe a real world. Its artifice and partiality goes as unacknowledged as the shared values of a BBC news team. It emanates the stale authority of omniscience, treating its readers to little nuggets of wisdom. Here’s a good example of the style: “Sex is a different medium, refracting time and sense, a biological hyperspace as remote from conscious existence as dreams, or as water is from air.” (p. 51) The reader is required to nod wisely in agreement at this profundity.

Apparently McEwan wants us to think that Perowne’s fence-sitting on the war is akin to “Hamlet-like indecision” – a cultural analogy which strikes me as preposterous. Hamlet had to decide if the ghost was a demon or a truth-teller, if his father had really been murdered, and whether or not to kill the king – rather substantial personal anxieties, with potentially lethal consequences. Perowne’s banal equivocations about the rights and wrongs of war on Iraq have no personal consequences at all.

Equivocation – havng your cake and eating it – is a noticeable narrative strategy in Saturday. Perowne owns a Mercedes (as does, or did, McEwan – I have a hazy memory of reading some years ago a profile of the novelist which referred to his Mercedes parked in the drive of his Oxford home). Perowne has a memory of seeing his parked car “a hundred yards away, parked at an angle on a rise of the track, picked out in soft light against a backdrop of birch, flowering heather and thunderous black sky” – then adds: “the realisation of an ad man’s vision”. But though the description is lightly mocked, it is not seriously challenged. Seeing his car like this, Perowne experiences “a gentle, swooning joy of possession” (p. 76).

Boyd Tonkin complains that books as a cultural form don’t get enough attention from TV (Independent, 4 February 2005), but he adds:

“On the credit side, an item about Ian McEwan’s Saturday made the principal BBC evening news this Monday. This was not because it grabbed a gong or stirred a quarrel or triggered a fatwa, but simply because a world-ranking novelist had brought out a landmark work.”

But I can’t think of anything more characteristic of the news values of the BBC than that it should choose to privilege the publication of ‘Saturday’ as deserving of respectful attention as ‘news’. Saturday is ideologically kin to those values. It’s a novel which adopts a reverent attitude to affluence. A Mercedes is a lovely car. Squash is a splendid game. It’s nice to have a big house in central London. A war on Iraq will get rid of a disgusting torture regime.

Saturday is a novel for liberals who didn’t go on the march (and I have yet to read a review of the novel or hear or watch a discussion of it that engages with the question of whether or not the critic participated in that march. My guess is that probably not a single one of them did.) It’s a bourgeois novel in the sense that it celebrates a bourgeois life style and worries about the threats to that way of life. At the end of the novel Perowne stands at the window, back where his day began:

“A hundred years ago, a middle-aged doctor standing at this window in his silk dressing gown, less than two hours before a winter’s dawn, might have pondered the new century’s future. February 1903. You might envy this Edwardian gent all he didn’t yet know. If he had young boys, he could lose them within a dozen years, at the Somme. And what was their body count, Hitler, Stalin, Mao? Fifty million, a hundred? If you described the hell that lay ahead, if you warned him, the good doctor – an affable product of prosperity and decades of peace – would not believe you. Beware the utopianists, zealous men certain of the path to an ideal social order. Here they are again, totalitarians in different form, still scattered and weak, but growing, and angry, and thirsty for another mass killing. A hundred years to resolve. But this may be an indulgence, an idle, overblown fantasy, a night-thought about a passing disturbance that time and good sense will settle and rearrange.” (pp. 276-7)

As usual, McEwan has his cake and eats it. He equivocates. But these parallel nightmare visions are questionable on other grounds than that the second, twenty-first century one might not come to pass. If the twentieth century was hell, what was the nineteenth century? Paradise? What was the body count of the British Empire? And if Hitler, Stalin and Mao racked up 100 million dead, what about the 17 million who die every year on our planet from disease, malnutrition, filthy water and suchlike? What’s the body count resulting from US foreign policy? If it was hell in the Gulags or the death camps, was it more agreeable being a Kikuyu in Kenya in the 1950s? As for those "zealous men" of the twenty-first century, what is it exactly that makes them "angry"? Perowne is supposed to represent civilised values but one of the many absences from his sensitive conscience is global warming and the link with personal consumption, car driving, air travel and all those other ingredients of an agreeable middle class lifestyle.

But that’s quite enough from me. I finish this week in a state of unusual depletion. I’m off for another listen to that timeless classic, Phil Ochs singing ‘Love Me, I’m a Liberal.’

[alexsfictionaddiction]

Review: Max Magic by Stephen Mulhern

I’m aware that many celebrities are now publishing books and that there is a lot of skepticism within the book world about this. It’s understandable because the sheer volume of books in this vein has exploded in recent years. However, I’m always curious about them. Maybe I’m naive but I believe that the celebrity must have played some kind of central role to the creation of the book that their name is on, right? Perhaps they didn’t write every word (and in the case of this one, it clearly has Tom Easton on the cover) but they probably came up with the idea or the characters themselves? Anyway, this one piqued my interest because I had no idea that Stephen Mulhern was at all literary.

Max Mullers loves entertaining his classmates with the magic tricks that his gran taught him but his talent has never been able to keep Bottley the bully away. A scuffle with Bottley at the market lands Max in huge trouble with local villains, the Crayfish twins. But Max has magic to help him out of any scrape, so what can it do for him this time?

The illustrations are bold and charming and Max does bear a resemblance to a young Stephen Mulhern. I have since learned that this book is a fictional account of Stephen’s own story to becoming a magician and TV star and this knowledge does make me look at Max’s illustrated self in that light. He has a great authenticity to him and now I know why!

Max Magic is ultimately a story about bullying and conquering it. I really loved the refreshing take on a victim of bullying. You expect bullying victims to be shy and nervous but Max is quite the opposite of that. It proves that anyone can be a target for bullies and that confidence and talent isn’t necessarily a deterrent for those who want to persecute others.

I really enjoyed the humour in the book. It’s quite subtle but still easy for a pre-teen to catch. Of course, this subtlety also makes it enjoyable for older readers and the comedy is perhaps one reason why parents will enjoy reading the book with their children.

Max’s dad wants his son to stop doing magic and focus on getting a more stable, realistic career. This is definitely something that every kid with a creative or competitive career ambition deals with and without this doubt, I’m not sure Max’s story would have felt as genuine. I wonder if these were real words that Mulhern heard in his childhood.

The story is about keeping love and friendship at the centre of your world. Even the characters who believe in Max’s talent remind him of the most important things and Max is certainly someone who needs bringing back down to earth occasionally. It’s a lovely message to impart in a children’s book and one that will never get old or lose its significance, no matter how many times it’s repeated.

Max Magic is a funny, heartwarming, fast-paced book with a smart, inspirational hero and some fantastic side characters. It’s about overcoming obstacles and remembering the most important, irreplaceable things in life because these are surely what will steer you to true happiness.

[dreamsandroots]

Fanning the Flames of Self

An exegesis on my piece ‘The Long Journey Home’ published in Antithesis Journal volume 26. ‘Liminal’.

i. The Long Journey

Inspired by a pantheon of literary talent both near and far, my thoughts regarding a topic for the final piece of my creative nonfiction writing course wore many faces, and took me on a winding—and often circular—path. Its composition became of paramount importance to me almost from the outset; although I’d completed many interesting subjects, gained important skills and created numerous works to be proud of throughout my MA, there was something different—and significant on a personal level—about the workshop I found myself sitting in this past April.

I could tell right away that this is where I‘d wanted to be all along. The materials we were asked to read, digest and analyse were exactly what I’d been searching for in my quest for an appropriate medium to express my own thoughts, ideas and opinions. A style of writing that borrowed from academia without being burdened by its reflexive normativity, that was built upon the truth-telling impetus of the journalistic form yet was also open to experimental narrative styles capable of rivalling that of any fictional piece. A form that was open to the ageless mysteries of mythology as much as the profound banality of the digital mindscape—and often in parallel within a single work.

Inspired largely by Linda Jaivin’s seminal essay Found in Translation: In Praise of a Plural World, I had originally aspired to create a similarly styled piece focusing on the underlying ideas surrounding my undergraduate studies in semantics and epistemology—something which for a long time I’d hoped to expand upon in a medium which appealed to a wider audience—and translating this into an exploration of how we autonomise and further mediate reality through the precipices of ‘truth’, ‘belief’, ‘desire’, and so on.

“Words have the power to change the way people think,” Linda writes, “they are part of the architecture of perception.” In a world where it seems we’re constantly compelled, seduced and often demanded to remediate ourselves, our messages, our very essence it is becoming more immediately important to explore these ideas. The fluidity of language and thought which Linda examines in her essay, I believe, lies at the heart of the ongoing quest for effective communication. This idea manifests itself as a metatextual ‘Pandora’s Box’ for writers, indeed for creators of any kind.

Borrowing further from the light-hearted appeal and exploratory energy of Adam Gopnik’s New Yorker piece Death of a Fish, I was hoping also to create something which contrasted the tender energies of mundane life with the more deeply perplexing mysteries that would necessarily enunciate such an exploration.

I had many initial lines of enquiry that I felt might have served as the ‘odd-object’ element of my investigation, to borrow Gopnik’s terminology. I considered expanding upon the ideological flourishings of a toothpaste commercial I’d seen which depicted the genocide of a race of cartoon germ-like creatures who fell victim to a flowing green energy beam which washed over their empire within a human mouth. I considered writing about the existential angst of social media, and our drive to create and maintain the fictive self. I thought about reflecting on a free-to-play mobile app I’d recently downloaded called Tomb of the Mask, a simple, yet perplexing—and surprisingly addictive—title which propels the player upwards into a never-ending maze collecting coins and ‘bits’ in an infinite quest to buy items that assist you to collect ‘bits’ and coins with greater efficiency. These topics, while still appealing to me—and most certainly on the drawing board rather than the recycle bin—all had a common theme which superseded their more immediate pop-cultural appeal. There was a circular nature to them all; an implied question regarding the nature of meaning and meaninglessness in the face of an ideologically dense—and often unbearably absurdist—postmodern life.

Furthermore, before I would feel comfortable exploring the extreme noumenal fringes and fragments of reality, I was driven to put something on paper which resonated with me personally, and would project to my intended audience aspects of my life which I hoped would also resonate on a universal scale. If I was to discover my passion to become a writer and revealer of the unconscious—as have so many of the artists and thinkers that I love—I felt it appropriate to explore a topic which had a more immediately humanistic appeal. Finally, I decided to take a direct route towards a discussion of meaning and focus on something which I felt lay at the core of much of our shared quest for self-identification and mediation: I was going to write on memory itself, its malleability, its resonance with truth, and the hazardous seductions of its misappropriation or overindulgence.

Of course, writings on ‘memory’ and the makings of the ‘self’ are hardly new topics of discourse. Mythology, theology and philosophy have expounded on the conundrums of self in anachronous fashion, and it has been the topic of textual discussion as diverse as Plato’s Republic which some 2,400 years ago posited the triadic nature of the human being, through Shakespeare’s Hamlet reflecting that ‘a dream itself is but a shadow’ to Charlie Brooker’s recent psychological technodrama Black Mirror that presents a minefield of potential pitfalls in our modern conception of the self in relation to our highly mediated worlds.

Paradoxes can be platitudes as much as progenitors of new thought, I had to be careful not to simply throw a landslide of contradictions into a huge pile and leave them there. There also needed to be something which held the piece together. I found this in the idea of contrasting memoir styled reflections with images, themes and motifs which I found somehow strangely relevant to my past self, despite my being unaware of them at the time.

All that was left was to find a way to adequately frame this investigation.

ii. Home

For many, the idea of running in circles is a terrifying concept. The thought of eternal recurrence has brought thinkers to the edge of their minds, probably since before the dawn of human consciousness. The projective ‘dei-genus‘ involved in the myth-making aspects of religion are a testament to this—the mind positing itself as a distinct element within a cycle, an ‘object’ in relation to something fundamentally different—yet strangely familiar—which preceded it, allowing us to mimic this aspect of genesis, the creation as creators in full circle.

There’s a playfulness involved in the taletelling of gods and goddesses that the heavily data-driven world of academia seems all-too eager to forget. Like Nietzsche’s Zarathustra, I felt compelled, as I often have throughout my life, to take the road less travelled by confronting the lingering melancholy inherent in the longing look to the past and attempting to show the obverse side of this: the periods of change and inherent growth that lay therein. This brought me to the form of the memoir for my piece. This had to be my own attempt at myth-making, and my own origin story. I wanted to explore the idea of ‘home’.

We all want to go home. We don’t necessarily want to live there forever (for life must have its adventures into the unknown), but we love to return to that place that was once ours, that was secure and full of possibility and overflowing with family.

There were some important decisions that had to be made early on. Central to my idea of home, and my self of course, is my family. But mine is a large family, and my 2,000 word limit would not permit me to talk about each of my five elder siblings, nor my parents, grandparents, aunties and uncles and so on with the full impetus they would each deserve were I to attempt to tell the story in full. Overcoming my concern of being received as ‘self-indulgent’, I decided that the piece would concern my own particular journey, and only make allusions to other members of my story apart from my mother who I felt was integral to this exploration. This was somewhat of a tough decision, and felt arbitrary in some ways. For instance, if it was my mother’s ambiguous statement (or my remembrance of it) that sparked my wonder to the possibilities of meaning, it was certainly my father’s eternally recurring Dad jokes that gave me a firm grounding in irony. Suffice it to say, each of my elder siblings represent their own wealth of knowledge which they taught me in their own way.

My point is that part of my quest in assembling this piece was choosing what to exclude from the story, almost as much as what to include, and this became a matter of framing more than of deciding on the quality of the material.

I decided to visit our family home in Camden and talk to my mother and father about our old house in Ashcroft. We discussed the details of the house, many of which I could barely remember. My dad told me it was built in the 60’s as part of a housing commission lot, and they’d moved in soon after. My mum told me a lot about the garden and the different species of plants that lived there. They also told me about how our back garage was converted into two bedrooms through the generosity of some very close family friends, who when I was born were named my godparents, but have since been out of contact. We also drew and compared pictures of the layout of the property and the different things we remembered most. It was lovely to get a feel of the place through the perspective of those very close to me, even though many of these details didn’t fit into the final piece as they weren’t relevant to what I was trying to say. It was there that my mother mentioned the name of the crawling weed I’d remembered so fondly: tradescantia fluminensis, also known as ‘Wandering Jew’, named for its habitually displaced nature, a plant that wanders, as if eternally searching for home. Something struck a nerve with me about this monicker, beyond the slight racial tension it implied.

A quick Wikipedia search led me to Gustave Dore’s Illustrations as well as Sabine Baring-Gould’s Curious Myths of the Middle Ages, and I spent a night in Fisher Library reading about the ghostly spectre who had wandered through the collective unconscious of Europe, almost as if he was compelled onwards by a lingering sense of guilt from the crucifixion, a shadow of the celebrated Jewish figure—importantly, both ones incorporated by the Christian faith—in Western mythology. This sense of unconscious guilt represented by the wanderer felt important to my investigation of the past. It reminded me not to get caught up in the sentimental melancholy of lost wonder, and that there can be beauty in weeds, beyond our compulsion to label them. The images of the Ouroboros and the Eden myth came much more naturally to me, as I’ve held a fascination for creation myths and alchemical symbols for most of my adult life. These both felt appropriate as symbols of an emergent mind balancing the banality of consciousness with an insatiable hunger to rediscover and re-emerge. Finally, The Master and His Emissary affected me deeply a few years ago when I read it, and revealed the importance of balancing the conscious, social, rational aspects of ourselves and our communities with the intuitive, reflective and meditative aspects of the unconscious.

Ultimately, my present ideas of home—and what my overall journey means to me now—were set alongside the reflective moments I chose to write about. In this way I hope I was able to adequately give voice to my appreciation for my experiences of home.

iii. Conclusion

In her first guest lecture to our class, Linda concluded by telling us “writing won’t get you the girl. If you want the girl, become a DJ.” There was something oddly humorous about this statement, beyond the fact that she was addressing a room that was very predominantly filled with young women. I suspect Linda knew that any committed writer much like the DJ, take as their medium phenomena as ancient as thought itself, their skill set is the balance of order and chaos within the frame, their game the very transience of knowledge. We are all translators of experience.

The Jungian quest for individuation is an eternal one, and much like a Heraclitian fire, it seeks to reveal the unique and distinctly irreplicable aspect of each moment of a life. And perhaps it is only in such a state that true learning is possible.

[theharrowing]

Abyss 💫 4: I don't think I can wait any longer

Campus fuckboy Taehyung likes to break hearts. After Jungkook falls victim to Taehyung’s games, Seokjin—who is in love with Jungkook—decides to take revenge by making Taehyung fall in love, and giving him a taste of his own medicine.  

PREVIOUS | INDEX | NEXT

💫 Seokjin x Taehyung, Seokjin x Jungkook 

💫 word count: 11.3k

💫 friends & strangers to lovers, college au, hurt comfort, smut, angst, poly, nsfw, 18+

💫 warnings: rough blowjob, degradation, humiliation, daddy kink, impact play (slapping and spanking,) primal play, play fighting, pain play, breath play, anal play with toys, anal sex, orgasm control & denial, bad aftercare practice (aka none when there should be some!) catching feelings, welcome home cheater. 

💫 note: the smut in this chapter is very intense, with a lot of pain play. please proceed with caution.

💫 beta read by @neoneunnajimin​

💫 posted may 2022 | read on ao3

Seokjin wakes and stretches his arms, letting the hints of light that creep past his blinds help to adjust his eyes. He should get up, make coffee, and try to get some errands and other small tasks taken care of before the morning slips away from him, but it is beginning to get cold enough outside for it to make waking up in the mornings difficult. 

Beside Seokjin is stirring, a deep groan, and shifting under the blankets before warm, soft arms wrap around Seokjin's waist and pull him close. 

"Hey, pretty," Seokjin mutters, turning toward the warmth and wrapping his arm under the nuzzling head.

"Not ready to wake up yet," Taehyung grumbles as his leg helps to pull Seokjin even closer still, engulfing him in a warm, sleepy hug.

Seokjin chuckles and relaxes into Taehyung's hold, running his fingers through the soft, somewhat tangle of dark waves. He supposes he could stay in bed a little longer and closes his eyes, breathing in the hints of cologne that linger in Taehyung's hair and the musk from sweating all night. Jungkook wouldn't be back from Busan until much later, anyway.

Seokjin: We should do something this weekend

Jungkook: Like what?

Seokjin: Anything Maybe get out of Seoul for a night 

Jungkook: I wouldn't mind a nature hike if you're up for it

Seokjin: A nature hike sounds perfect Do you have anywhere in mind, or can I pick a place?

Jungkook: Surprise me, hyung 🥰

“I haven’t seen your not-so-secret admirer here in a while,” Jimin mutters as he sets his heavy book bag down.

Seokjin stands straight, having been hunched over the student literary journal again; he has read Taehyung’s piece Stargazers several times already, just this morning, alone. Seokjin closes the volume, pushing it aside to face Jimin. 

“For the best, I suppose,” he responds. 

But Taehyung is in the library; he is just concealed a little better in a corner and actually working on an assignment rather than loitering to gawk at the librarian. Seokjin takes a cart of books, many of which coincidentally need to go back to that same corner of the library, letting Jimin know he is off the hook from stocking because he would like to stretch his limbs. Jimin just shrugs, pulling some homework from his bag; he cares very little about most things. 

Taehyung: I need to see you again ASAP Please, hyung I can't stop thinking about you

Seokjin: You just watched me stock the shelves for twenty minutes, baby

Taehyung: I need you alone, in my bed I've been so distracted thinking about you Your tongue must be spun from gold, hyung

Seokjin: That good, eh?

Taehyung: Talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing, show-stopping, spectacular, never the same, totally unique, completely not ever been done before…

Seokjin: You've never had your booty hole eaten like groceries, baby?

Taehyung: 😳😳😳  Hyung!

Seokjin: I could pencil you in for Wednesday if you would like to meet again

Taehyung: Ooh, on a school night? Such a rebel, hyung

Seokjin: I have to leave town this weekend, so I won't be able to see you on our regularly scheduled Saturday

Taehyung: I won't complain about the chance to see you sooner I'm not the best cook, but I would be happy to host this time if you'd like

Seokjin: Ooh, going to invite me for more stargazing, baby?

Taehyung: You tease me so much If you'd like me to suck your dick on the roof, just say so

Seokjin: Hmm, now that you mention it 🤔

Taehyung: We can make it happen if you so desire

Seokjin: I do so desire, as a matter of fact

Jungkook:  Friday udon at the regular spot?  Or will you get tired of seeing so much of me in the same weekend?

Seokjin: I couldn't dream of being tired of you Friday at the regular time and place sounds great

Jungkook: 🥰

Taehyung is stunning with his hair curled, hanging in front of his eyes playfully. Dangling from his ears are long, delicate gold earrings, and he wears a simple red satin button-up shirt tucked into tight black jeans. 

Seokjin opted for satin and tight jeans, as well, dressed head-to-toe in black. His button-up top has small silver studs around the collar and lapels, and Taehyung instantly rubs them between his fingers, distracting Seokjin, who attempts to remove his shoes, nearly toppling over.

"I mentioned I'm not a great cook, so I put together some charcuterie plates and various healthy snacks, as well as a dish of fresh-cut fruit." Taehyung blushes; he looks so vulnerable about his efforts.

"You are so fucking charming, Taehyung," Seokjin mutters as he looks over the snacks laid out on a small dining table.

Taehyung lightly slaps Seokjin on the arm and nibbles on his bottom lip. "Don't pick on me hyung."

At this, Seokjin's heart swells with joy, and he turns to Taehyung, gently taking him by the arms. "I'm not picking on you, baby. You really are incredibly charming, and all of this looks delicious. I can tell you put a lot of thought into this."  

Taehyung blushes even deeper, and Seokjin brings his arms up to Taehyung's shoulders, pulling him in for a loose hug and twirling his fingers in his hair. Taehyung's eyelids have a light dusting of black eyeshadow, and Seokjin thinks he can detect mascara on his lashes. "You wore makeup, baby? How pretty."

"In case you make me cry," Taehyung responds coyly.

"What am I going to do with you?" Seokjin mutters, gently pulling Taehyung in for a kiss.

"Somehow, there are fewer stars visible tonight than last time," Seokjin jokes as he sits on Taehyung's comforter, gazing up at the polluted night sky. 

"Don't worry, hyung, I'll make you see plenty of stars," Taehyung mutters playfully as he squats and straddles Seokjin's thighs, bringing with him a floral-print blanket that is draped over his shoulders. 

Seokjin chuckles and sits back, leaning on his elbows. 

"You really wanna suck my dick on the roof, Tae?" he asks, cocking his head.

"I wanna suck your dick anywhere, hyung," Taehyung grins, leaning forward to smash his lips into Seokjin's. 

It is difficult to keep their hands and mouths off of each other now that they have gone a little further, and it makes Seokjin's head spin. He wants to fuck Taehyung so badly; it is all he can think about. He wonders if, now that he and Jungkook are in the beginning stages of something, he should just fuck Taehyung and get it over with and let the chips fall wherever they may. 

Taehyung moans into Seokjin's mouth as he eagerly licks and flicks Seokjin's tongue with his, and Seokjin lays back slowly so he can wrap his arms around him and pull him close.

In this position, Taehyung behaves like a dog in heat, eagerly rubbing their clothed cocks together and whining loudly from the friction. Seokjin grabs Taehyung's ass in both hands and grinds his cock against his in return, and Taehyung's back arches as he growls into the night sky.

"Hyung, please," Taehyung whines. "You drive me crazy."

"Gonna start howling at the moon, baby?" Seokjin teases.

Taehyung whimpers and takes two handfuls of Seokjin's hair, squeezing tightly, grinning as Seokjin's hips rut into him, whining from his hair being tugged on. It sends sparks throughout Seokjin's body—makes him want to slam Taehyung into a wall and carve pretty patterns over his skin with his fingernails. If Taehyung likes it rough, he can give the boy rough; all he has to do is ask.

"You're so fucking hot," Seokjin groans while Taehyung's mouth trails down to Seokjin's jaw, nipping at his skin. "You have no idea how badly I wanna fucking ruin you, baby."

Taehyung anchors himself on his hands against the duvet-covered rooftop and slides himself down Seokjin's body, under the blanket, wiggling onto his knees between his legs. He wastes no time unbuckling Seokjin's belt and opening his pants, and Seokjin doesn't complain; he lays back with one hand under his head while the other lifts the blanket enough to look at Taehyung's wavy hair. 

The feeling of Taehyung's long fingers teasing Seokjin's hard cock before tugging it free from his briefs sends a wave of excitement through him, and he reaches with his free hand to stroke Taehyung's hair, smiling when Taehyung looks up at him with lustful mirth swimming in his eyes. 

"Gonna make you feel good, hyung," Taehyung mutters with a grin.

"I know you are, baby. Show hyung how talented that throat of yours is."

Taehyung gasps, and, as always, his eyes widen, making Seokjin smirk. Then he angles his head back down and swallows Seokjin's cock with a groan that Seokjin can feel vibrating through him. Seokjin gasps, letting out a strangled moan, and although they are alone, he worries about making too much noise in such an open space. 

Eagerly, Taehyung sucks Seokjin's cock, swallowing him into the back of his throat until he lightly gags, then slurps as he pulls out, only to suck back until gagging again. Seokjin can't help but picture Taehyung's beautiful face streaked with tears and his hips gently rut. 

"Fuck, you're amazing," Seokjin moans, tightening his grip on Taehyung's hair. "I wanna fuck your mouth so bad."

With a loud slurp, Taehyung pulls off of Seokjin's cock and rasps, "Do it. Please, hyung."

Seokjin releases Taehyung's hair to lift the blanket and look at him, and just as he imagined, there is moisture under Taehyung's eyes, smudging his makeup around the edges. "You sure, baby?"

Taehyung nods emphatically with a smirk, and it is all the encouragement Seokjin needs. 

"Okay, baby, just pinch me if it's too much, got it?"

"Yes, hyung." Taehyung whimpers.

"Yes, what?" Seokjin growls, wondering if Taehyung wants to bring out the other nickname he used the other night, or if that was only something Taehyung did while he was intoxicated. 

"Yes, daddy," Taehyung whimpers, opening his lips around Seokjin's cock and keeping his head still. 

Seokjin takes a handful of Taehyung's hair and pushes Taehyung further onto his cock, angling Taehyung's forehead into his tummy before rocking his hips up, slowly at first, then picking up a pace. He can feel drool gathering around his cock, some of which Taehyung manages to slurp up while the rest slowly pools. Taehyung's throat is warm and soft and feels fucking amazing, and Seokjin moans and hisses as he uses it like a toy.

"Are you my pretty little cocksleeve?" Seokjin groans, rutting his hips hard.

Taehyung gags, then whimpers a muttered mmhmm, and Seokjin allows his eyes to roll back, mouth falling open and gasping, sucking in the night air. 

"So good for me. I bet you're so fucking pretty when you cry, baby."

More muffled noises come from Taehyung's throat, and Seokjin picks up his pace, feeling his high build. Taehyung has his hands braced on Seokjin's thighs, and he digs his fingers into the skin.

"Don't forget to pinch me if you need to, baby. I'm getting close, but I can stop if you need."

Taehyung mutters again and sucks his cheeks in, sending a spark through Seokjin's body, and he fights the urge to arch his back, wanting to keep a consistent angle and motion for Taehyung's sake. His movements are quick and rough, and he is surprised Taehyung can handle him. 

With a string of particularly harsh thrusts, Seokjin is teetering on the edge of euphoria and, he is certain, insanity. 

"Gonna cum, baby," Seokjin groans, more of a warning than anything. His hips begin sputtered, rough movements, forcing gargled whimpers out of Taehyung's mouth that only serve to push Seokjin over the edge faster. 

Seokjin groans and whimpers as he cums, pushing Taehyung's head down as his release sprays straight into the boy's throat. Taehyung's fingernails dig into Seokjin's skin with a force that makes Seokjin wonder if he will bruise, and once the bulk of his release is out, Seokjin lets go of Taehyung's head, dropping his hands to his sides. 

After how forcefully Seokjin fucked his mouth, he half expects Taehyung to come up gasping for air, but instead, Taehyung slowly readjusts and continues to gently lick and suck Seokjin until he becomes oversensitive and takes Taehyung by the hair to pull him off his cock. 

Seokjin holds Taehyung's head in place while opening the blanket with his other hand, and the sight before him is absolutely stunning. Taehyung's eyeshadow and mascara are smeared around his eyes, globs of black imprints from wet lashes stain his cheeks, and his face is wet from tears and drool.  

"I want to commit this sight to memory," Seokjin mutters, pulling Taehyung by the hair, making Taehyung anchor himself on the ground and crawl to Seokjin. "You look devastatingly pretty."

Taehyung falls into Seokjin, crashing their lips together, smearing drool and tears onto Seokjin's face as they kiss, and he pulls Taehyung close, holding his hair and nape in both hands. 

"I want to fuck you," Seokjin whimpers, surprising them both. 

Taehyung gasps and pulls from the kiss, staring at Seokjin with wide, eager eyes, and Seokjin swallows thickly at the realization of what he has let slip.

"Only if you're sure," Taehyung says softly, "only if you're ready."

Of course, Taehyung is sweet and understanding and wouldn't hold it against Seokjin if he took it back, if he said he wasn't sure he was ready now, just that he wants to in general. But the thought of fucking Taehyung is so present and overwhelming, Seokjin isn't sure he wants to say no.

"I'm ready, baby. I don't think I can wait any longer."

Taehyung's face beams brightly—certainly brighter than any of the measly stars he can see in the sky tonight, and Seokjin smirks, unable to shake the swell of affection and need that bubbles in his tummy from Taehyung. 

"Fuck the rooftop; I need you in my bed, now," Taehyung says, haphazardly sitting up and adjusting his pants. Seokjin nods and reaches to adjust his own, to put his soft-but-already-excited cock away long enough to get back downstairs and into Taehyung's apartment. 

Taehyung bunches the blanket that is over his shoulders up until it doesn't drag on the floor, and Seokjin collects the comforter they had been lying on, and they make their way from the rooftop down the short flight of stairs and through the hallway. Taehyung is all giggles, and when they reach his apartment door, he throws Seokjin into it, pressing his body against him to tease his cock with one hand while he keys in the door code with the other. His fingers on Seokjin's already growing bulge feel heavenly, and he bites back a moan.

Once inside, Taehyung throws the blanket from his shoulders onto the small brown couch in his living room, then grabs the comforter in Seokjin's arms and does the same. He takes Seokjin by the hand and leads him through his small apartment past the remnants of their food into a room lit only with a dim bedside lamp. Paintings, photographs, knickknacks, and books cover every inch of the walls and surfaces, and Seokjin has to fight the urge to explore, knowing damn well that now is not the time. 

Although Taehyung lives alone, he closes his door behind them, then turns and leans against it, gently taking one of Seokjin's hands in both of his. Taehyung appears shy, almost vulnerable, especially with dried mascara lines running down his cheeks.

"Hyung," Taehyung mutters, and Seokjin closes the gap between them. 

"Yes, baby?"

"I want you to be rough with me," Taehyung admits, tilting his head just enough to gaze at Seokjin through his sticky eyelashes, and Seokjin feels a spark ignite inside of him. 

"How rough?"

"Hurt me. Bite me, scratch me, pull my hair until I cry. I want to feel your presence on my skin for days; I want to ache for you."

Seokjin can't help the growl that comes from his throat, almost animalistic at the request. 

"Nobody has ever fucked me as hard as I need it," Taehyung pouts. "Everyone is scared to hurt me. I need it to hurt. I need you to humiliate and degrade me. Please, daddy. Please make me cry."

In a swift movement, Seokjin takes Taehyung's jaw into his hand and slams Taehyung's head into his door, making a sound that is much too loud for how little it probably actually hurt. Taehyung gasps, body going stiff and then pliant in Seokjin's hold. 

"Is that so, baby?" Seokjin sneers.

Taehyung is trembling, eyes wide and mouth agape. "Y-yes, daddy."

"Green means you want more, red means stop. I'll check in from time to time, but you can also tell me without being asked, understood, little pet?"

"Y-yes, daddy."

Seokjin tightens his grip on Taehyung's jaw and stares at Taehyung with as much anger and intensity as he can muster, and Taehyung begins to relax further, still trembling. With his free hand, he paws at Taehyung's cock over his pants, pressing hard into it, making Taehyung hiss and whine.

"How do you want me?"

"F-fuck me, daddy. Please."

"Awe, does baby not want to use his pathetic little cock on daddy?" 

Taehyung pouts and shakes his head, eyes pleading. 

"I bet you couldn't even make me cum with this thing if you tried, is that right, baby?" 

Taehyung nods his head emphatically. "It's useless, daddy."

Seokjin squeezes Taehyung's cock—which is larger than average and definitely something Seokjin would love to feel his ass stretched around any time Taehyung feels so inclined—and Taehyung cries out. 

"This little cock is so pathetic it came completely untouched last time," Seokjin chides. "Just made a mess all over while hanging uselessly between your legs while I tongue-fucked that tight little ass of yours."

Taehyung is practically cross-eyed, and when Seokjin releases his grasp from both his dick and jaw, Taehyung whimpers, his body moving slightly forward as if searching for more touch of any kind. Seokjin takes a fistful of Taehyung's hair and pulls hard, bending Taehyung's body, forcing a cry from his throat. Taehyung's hands begin to move up as if to stop Seokjin but then fall to his sides.

"Color, baby?"

"Green, daddy," Taehyung hisses. 

Seokjin pulls Taehyung by the hair through his room. At Taehyung's bed, Seokjin pushes him by the head shoves his shoulders down harshly. Taehyung falls to the edge of the mattress, nearly sliding to the floor, looking at Seokjin with an expression that appears torn between fear and arousal. 

"Still green?"

"Fuck yes," Taehyung mutters. 

Seokjin slaps Taehyung across the mouth. "You'll address me when you answer me, little pet."

"And if I don't?" Taehyung raises an eyebrow, smirking as if he is real fucking proud of himself.

Taehyung is a mess of disheveled hair and smeared makeup, and Seokjin wants nothing more than to ruin him further. With a hand around Taehyung's throat, Seokjin leans in until their foreheads touch.

"Is this shirt vintage?" Seokjin asks softly.

Taehyung shakes his head, eyes squinting questionably. "It's new."

"Good. I'll buy you a new one," Seokjin mutters.

Taehyung cocks his head, and Seokjin responds by tearing his fingers through the openings between the buttons and pulling, ripping at the shirt until there is enough of an opening that he can grab the other side and rip it open further in both hands. Buttons clatter against the floor and hang limply from pulled threads, while some are still intact near the throat and at the bottom. All the while, Taehyung gasps—begins to pant as if feral, watching Seokjin with wide eyes. There is a hint of anger that makes Seokjin sneer.

Seokjin takes Taehyung by the throat once more and squeezes. "Disobey me again, little pet," he growls. 

Taehyung lifts a leg, placing a foot over Seokjin's hip, and grunts as he shoves him, pushing Seokjin off balance, nearly making him fall. Seokjin gets his footing a few feet away, stands up straight, and grins, running a hand through his hair. He watches as Taehyung attempts to unbutton his shirt the rest of the way with shaky fingers. Taehyung stares at Seokjin as if he is a predator—as if his life is in danger.

"Color, baby?"

"Green, daddy," Taehyung says in a tone that almost sounds teasing. 

In two long strides, Seokjin clears the gap and takes Taehyung by the throat again, throwing Taehyung back against the bed, pushing him into the mattress. Taehyung whimpers and claws at Seokjin's hand, and Seokjin grabs one of Taehyung's hands, pulling it over his head while straddling Taehyung and kneeling on his other arm, pinning him to the bed. Taehyung grunts and kicks his feet, causing his body to slowly begin to slide off the bed, and Seokjin laughs down at Taehyung.

"Pathetic," Seokjin sneers and spits on Taehyung's face, white saliva bubbles painting the bridge of his nose, and Taehyung stops struggling, looking stunned. "Color?"

"Green," Taehyung whimpers weakly.

"Promise?" Seokjin says softly, releasing his hold on Taehyung's throat enough to let the blood circulate into his reddened face.

"On my life, daddy," Taehyung rasps. 

Seokjin slaps Taehyung across the mouth. "Are you going to keep disobeying me?"

"M-maybe."

Taehyung's voice is weak; he groans and grunts, flexing his arms, trying to break out of Seokjin's hold. Seokjin slaps him across the mouth once more. 

"That the best you can do?" Taehyung groans through gritted teeth. 

"Want me to fucking punch you, little pet?" Seokjin asks with raised eyebrows. 

Taehyung chuckles. "You're too much of a pussy to punch me, hyung."

This makes Seokjin laugh. He squeezes Taehyung's jaw, lowering himself to spit into Taehyung's mouth. "I can't punch such a pretty face, dummy," he mutters sweetly before letting go of Taehyung's jaw and slapping him again. Taehyung's cheek is turning a bright shade of red, and there's a hint of blood on the inside of his lip.

"Can you taste your own blood, you fucking brat? Is that what you wanted?"

Taehyung tongues the inside of his lip as if collecting the blood and turns his head to spit off to the side, and Seokjin slaps him again, causing Taehyung to stare up at him once more. Then he scoffs and tries harder to break free from Seokjin's hold. 

Seokjin releases Taehyung and steps back; with the way Taehyung's body has ended up on the edge of the mattress, he falls straight to the floor on his ass. He takes Taehyung by the hair before he can adjust and yanks him up, and Taehyung yelps, hands gripping onto Seokjin's wrist, though not making much of an attempt to make Seokjin release him. 

Seokjin pulls Taehyung back onto the bed and pushes him back against the mattress, then gets onto the bed and straddles his hips and rips his shirt away at the neck. With the shirt only buttoned near Taehyung's belt, Seokjin open-hand slaps Taehyung against the chest, causing him to cry out.

"Color?"

"Green, daddy."

Seokjin strikes Taehyung on the chest, again and again, watching as red marks bloom beautifully on his golden skin. Taehyung cries and moans each time their skin connects, and Seokjin thinks he sounds just as good as he looks. 

"You look so fucking pretty marked up," Seokjin says before landing another slap. "Sound so pretty when I hurt you."

"Please, hyung," Taehyung cries, hands raised above his head, "it hurts."

"Color?"

Taehyung whimpers and responds, "Green, daddy."

"That's what I thought," Seokjin sneers with a slap over Taehyung's pec. Taehyung bucks his hips up, rubbing his cock against the underside of Seokjin's thigh, and Seokjin snickers. "That useless cock of yours feeling left out, little pet?"

Taehyung growls, gnashing his teeth as he shakes his head impatiently. "Please, I need you to fuck me."

"After you kicked me across the room, you think you deserve my cock?" 

Seokjin slaps Taehyung over a particularly red spot on his ribs, and Taehyung yelps. "Please!"

"You're lucky I don't wrap my fingers around that pretty throat of yours a squeeze the fucking life out of you, little pet."

"Please, daddy! I'm so needy. I want your cock, please!"

Seokjin stands up and backs away from Taehyung. He slowly begins to unbutton his shirt, and Taehyung angles his head up quickly, watching with his mouth wide open as Seokjin takes an agonizingly long time removing his clothing. When Seokjin finally shrugs the fabric to the floor, Taehyung is panting and staring at Seokjin as if captivated.

"Get undressed, then," Seokjin mutters flippantly as if he is bored by the entire ordeal. "Let me see that useless little cock of yours."

Taehyung scrambles to his feet and undoes his belt and pants quickly, ripping the last of his shirt open and letting it fall to the floor. He pushes his pants and briefs down, and Seokjin watches as his pretty, hard cock slaps against his tummy. 

Seokjin licks his lips, otherwise attempting to appear unaffected, then undoes his own belt and pants and steps out of them, fisting his cock as he watches Taehyung—drinking in his long limbs and perfect skin.

When Taehyung steps out of his pants, Seokjin approaches. He grabs Taehyung’s dick and squeezes, squinting at Taehyung as if disappointed. Seokjin spits down at his hand and rubs it over Taehyung's cock head, and Taehyung groans a deep, broken sound. 

"What a joke to think you can please anyone with this," Seokjin mutters, tugging roughly on Taehyung. "I bet you couldn't make me choke on this pathetic cock if you tried."

Seokjin drops to his knees and takes Taehyung into his throat, sucking his cheeks in hard, and Taehyung's body trembles as he moans a broken, stuttered sound. Seokjin has very little gag reflex, making it easy to pretend Taehyung's rather impressive dick is just as pathetic as he says it is as he slurps loudly and sucks hard, using one hand to squeeze his balls. Taehyung whimpers and hisses, struggling to stand on his own two feet, body jerking and trembling more as each minute passes.

Right when Taehyung seems on the verge of bliss, moaning loudly and gripping onto Seokjin's hair, Seokjin pulls Taehyung out of his mouth and sneers at him with a spit-slicked chin. 

"Please," Taehyung whines, "I'm so close."

"You can't even make me gag and you think you deserve to cum?"

Taehyung grips Seokjin by the hair tightly and shoves his cock back into his mouth, fucking his face roughly, and Seokjin allows it to happen, keeping his eyes on Taehyung, letting drool pool at his lips and run down his chin. It is quite amusing to Seokjin how hard Taehyung tries to make him gag with an angry, brow-knitted expression. With a petulant growl, Taehyung holds his cock in Seokjin's throat, pushing without pulling out, cutting off his airway, and giving him a light slap to the cheek.

Only then does Seokjin gag, and Taehyung slaps Seokjin on the cheek once more with a sneer before pulling his hips back and bucking roughly into Seokjin's mouth. Taehyung doesn't warn Seokjin he is going to cum, but Seokjin can tell from the changes in his breathing and his inconsistent thrusts.

Seokjin feels the first of the sticky, tangy release on his tongue, which gets pushed deeper into his mouth as more is shot straight into his throat, and he swallows hard, hollowing his cheeks with the intention of making Taehyung overstimulated and begging to be released. 

Taehyung whines and grips Seokjin's hair hard to remove himself from his mouth, then falls back onto the bed, panting heavily and covered in a nice sheen of sweat. Seokjin stays on his knees. 

"You cheated," Seokjin mutters, wiping the drool from his chin.

"Still made you choke," Taehyung pants.

"How do you feel, baby?"

"Electric," Taehyung grins, looking down with makeup-smeared eyes at the handprints on his chest and stomach. "I wasn't sure you could actually hurt me; you're always full of surprises."

"I could whip you with your belt if you'd like."

Taehyung bites his bottom lip and smiles. "Choke me with it, too."

"We should hydrate before I fuck you," Seokjin suggests, running a hand through his hair. 

Taehyung's eyes widen, and he stands. He takes Seokjin's face in his hands gently, bending to connect their lips into a soft, delicate kiss that has him whimpering into Seokjin's mouth. 

"Be right back," Taehyung says as he leaves the room. 

Seokjin stands and gets onto Taehyung's bed. He feels a bit dazed by everything that just happened and does his best to get his bearings, leaning back onto his hands. Taehyung returns with a glass of water and stops in his tracks as he stares at him. Seokjin grins and reaches a hand out to ask for the glass, and Taehyung snaps out of his reverie and approaches, handing it over. The water is cold and coats Seokjin's throat as it goes down.

"God, you're stunning," Taehyung says. "Like, so fucking hot, hyung."

Seokjin raises an eyebrow. "You're one to talk, baby. Look at you. Do you know how hard it is to call a cock as delicious as yours useless?"

Taehyung blushes and grins and Seokjin hands the water off to him, which Taehyung drinks from one last time before setting it on his bedside table.

"Do you want me to continue hurting you?" Seokjin asks.

Taehyung nods. "Please, hyung. You're so good at it."

"Was there any point when you had almost reached your limit?" Seokjin asks.

Taehyung turns his lips down and shakes his head. "No. I was starting to get light headed from your hand on my throat, but you let up before it became cause for concern."

"Alright, good. Get some lube and some toys, then. Something to prepare yourself for my cock," Seokjin commands.

Taehyung opens a drawer on his bedside table and pulls out a metal buttplug and a glass dildo. The dildo is fairly thick but not compared to Seokjin's dick, and Seokjin scoffs when he holds it up.  

"Size queen doesn't have anything bigger?" Seokjin teases. 

"I do," Taehyung responds with a smirk, then approaches Seokjin and straddles his thighs. Seokjin sets the dildo aside and puts his hands on Taehyung's waist, and slides them down, over his hips and ass. He spreads him open and uses a finger to gently rub over his rim, and Taehyung groans and bites his lip, his eyes falling closed. 

"And where are these toys of yours, baby?" Seokjin asks, applying pressure to Taehyung's rim. 

"Ah—I want it to hurt when you stretch me around your cock," Taehyung whines. 

"On your hands and knees for me, baby," Seokjin commends, dropping his hands from Taehyung's ass. 

Taehyung whines and crawls away from Seokjin's lap, getting into the center of the bed on his knees with his face against the comforter and his ass high in the air. Seokjin gets on his knees behind Taehyung, spreads his cheeks, and bites into one of them with enough force to make Taehyung whine and tremble beneath him. Seokjin slaps him on the opposite cheek, causing him to whimper, commanding him to, "Stay still."

Seokjin licks over Taehyung's rim, and Taehyung moans, falling even further into the mattress. The sweet, heady musk of Taehyung's skin drives Seokjin wild, and he plunges his tongue inside to taste more, turning Taehyung into a whimpering, shaking mess. Seokjin groans as he tongue fucks Taehyung's ass, holding his cheeks open in both hands, digging his fingers into the soft skin. Taehyung's voice is muffled by the comforter, but he whines and moans nonstop.

Although Seokjin could happily make Taehyung cum like this, he doesn't want to push him too much, so Seokjin stops with one final, slow lick over Taehyung's ass, then takes the lube and squirts it straight onto his rim. Taehyung whimpers and ruts his hips. 

"Cold," he wines. 

Seokjin slaps Taehyung on the ass harshly, in the same spot as before. "I said, stay still."

Seokjin presses one finger into Taehyung's ass, and Taehyung moans loudly. He can hear the sounds of Taehyung's hands bunching up the blanket beneath him. Although Seokjin wants to take it slow and stretch Taehyung properly, he knows he wants it rough.

"Color?"

"Daddy, please, make it hurt!" Taehyung whines.

"That's not a color, baby."

"Green!"

Seokjin fingers roughly, pushing past his knuckle, delighting in the sight of Taehyung swallowing him so eagerly, then slowly inserts a second finger. Taehyung's whimpers become louder and Seokjin fingers faster, slapping Taehyung roughly on the ass to make him yelp.

"Green, daddy, please!" Taehyung shouts, muffled by his blanket, and Seokjin snickers before pulling his fingers out of Taehyung, watching his hole clench around nothing.

"Daddy!" Taehyung shouts, waving his ass in the air, and Seokjin slaps it so hard it stings his hand, making Taehyung scream.

"I said stay still!" Seokjin shouts, and Taehyung stills his hips with a whimper.  

Seokjin picks up the metal butt plug and touches it to Taehyung's hole. The surface is cold and Taehyung gasps, flinching from the feeling but appearing to do his best not to move too much. Seokjin twirls the edge of the toy in tiny circles over Taehyung's rim to gather lube, then pushes it in slowly. 

Taehyung lets out a strangled cry, and Seokjin spits onto his rim to add a little more moisture before applying more pressure, pulling and pushing the toy deeper each time. 

"That's it, baby," Seokjin says softly, "relax so daddy can stretch you."

Once at the thickest part of the taper, Seokjin squirts more cold lube directly onto Taehyung's ass and moves the toy gently in and out to coat it before pushing it in, forcing Taehyung to take the entire girth. Taehyung's legs tremble, and his moans have quieted to gasps and grunts.

"How does it feel, baby?" Seokjin asks.

"Good," Taehyung mutters. 

Seokjin tugs on the toy, pulling it out of Taehyung's ass with a pop, making Taehyung moan, then pushes it back in roughly, making him cry out. 

"F-fuck, green, so good, daddy," Taehyung whines unprovoked, and Seokjin pulls the toy out before pushing it in roughly once more. 

Satisfied with the stretch, Seokjin removes the plug and tosses it aside onto the bed. Taehyung whimpers and clenches his hole, and Seokjin takes both of Taehyung's cheeks and spreads him open, marveling at the sight of his pink inner walls. 

"So pretty," Seokjin groans as he pushes two fingers inside Taehyung, scissoring them open and spreading him with his other hand to see inside. Taehyung whines and claws at his sheets.

Seokjin picks up the glass dildo, which has a series of bulbous sections, each bigger than the last, and Seokjin starts with the smallest end, pressing it against Taehyung's hole without applying too much pressure, just to make Taehyung whine from another cold touch. 

Seokjin slaps Taehyung on the ass and pushes the tip of the dildo in enough to make Taehyung whimper. He needs more lube, and Seokjin intends on squirting more on before pushing the dildo much further, but he wants to give Taehyung just enough rough friction to satiate his desire to be hurt without hurting him too much. 

"Daddy," Taehyung whines petulantly.

"Yes, yes," Seokjin mutters, grabbing the lube and squirting more onto his hole. 

Seokjin twists the tip of the dildo to coat it in the liquid and then begins to slowly work it in and out, gradually stretching him open. Taehyung whines and mutters nonsense into the comforter, and Seokjin alternates quick, shallow pushes and slow, longer movements, stretching Taehyung over the first section. It tapers to a thin girth before becoming thick again, and Taehyung swallows the first part of the dildo with a deep groan.

"I know I promised to hurt you, but I can't be too rough just yet," Seokjin says as he smooths a hand over Taehyung's lower back, running it over his ass and giving it a nice slap. Taehyung yelps.

Seokjin takes Taehyung's inability to speak as an indication that he is doing well, and now that Taehyung has had a chance to adjust to the stretch, Seokjin begins to slowly pull the dildo out and push it back in, up to the end of the first section. Taehyung moans loudly into the blankets, legs trembling.

Gradually, Seokjin works the second and third sections, and Taehyung cries out as Seokjin twists the toy and fucks it into him. It is roughly the girth of an average-sized cock, perhaps a little smaller, and Seokjin picks up the pace, fucking it into Taehyung while slapping his ass, always in the same spot, causing the red mark that has bloomed on his skin to raise and get darker.

"F-fuck," Taehyung whines, clenching onto the blanket. His face is turned, mouth squished from his cheek pushing into the bed. "G-gonna make me cum, daddy. B-but I need your cock!"

Seokjin fucks the toy into Taehyung harder and faster, and Taehyung's legs shake so much that Seokjin worries they will give out and topple him over. Loud moans combine with a squelching sound so lewd that Seokjin's cock aches against his tummy. Taehyung trembles and his hips begin to rut uncontrollably as Seokjin continues to push him to the edge.

"You close, baby?"

"Y-yes, daddy."

"Tell me when."

Taehyung whines and mewls sounds as if he is attempting to form words but has forgotten halfway through what words even are anymore; he sounds utterly lost and blissed out and so ready to burst. Seokjin rubs a hand over Taehyung's ass, trailing it over his hip, then grabs onto the base of Taehyung's cock, sending a strangled moan from Taehyung's mouth.

"F-fuck, gonna, c-cum," Taehyung whimpers, and Seokjin squeezes just below Taehyung's head and pulls the dildo from his ass, stopping Taehyung's orgasm in its tracks. 

"Wh—daddy, why!" Taehyung sobs petulantly, and Seokjin chuckles, tosses the dildo aside on the bed, and squirts some more lube into his hand. 

"You wanted to cum without me? Naughty boy," Seokjin teases as he slaps the tender skin on Taehyung's ass, making the poor boy squeal.

Seokjin pumps his cock with his lubed hand and considers taking Taehyung's belt and fashioning it into a collar, remembering Taehyung's desire to be choked. But it is too risky, Seokjin decides; he can use his hand to apply some pressure while they fuck. He doesn't need to risk killing the guy just to make him nut a little harder. 

Once his cock is slicked up, Seokjin sits high on his knees and rubs his non-sticky hand delicately over the welts on Taehyung's skin, watching Taehyung shudder as he hisses, deciding what to do with him.

"On your back, baby," Seokjin gently instructs. "I wanna see that pretty face when I stretch you around my cock.” 

Taehyung more or less falls onto his side before flopping around onto his back. His limbs are clearly stiff, and Seokjin grins as he watches, waiting patiently for Taehyung to get into position and catch his breath. 

Gently, Seokjin spreads Taehyung's legs and kneels between them, leaning low over Taehyung to lick his lips and taste his spit, swallowing each whimper and moan that his languid kisses pull from Taehyung's mouth.

"I promise to be rough with you, baby, but only if you promise me not to go too far, okay? If it hurts too much, please tell me, and we'll adjust. I want to hurt you but I do not want to injure you, understand?"

The look on Taehyung's makeup-smeared face is one of unabashed affection, which makes something in Seokjin's guts flip-flop. He tries not to overthink it too much because if it is a look of love, then Seokjin has to swallow that reality, and right now, he is so far beyond wanting to break this boy's heart, he can't consider that his plan to do so might actually be working. At least, not until he is done fucking Taehyung; that is far too messy, even for him. 

"I understand, hyung," Taehyung mutters softly, pulling Seokjin into another kiss, this one heated and deep. "Thank you for taking such good care of me."

Taehyung's voice is dulcet and gentle and full of honey, and Seokjin can't bear to listen to it anymore.  

"Good," Seokjin sneers as he grabs Taehyung by the jaw and squeezes. "Be a good little fuck doll for daddy and maybe he'll let you cum from that pathetic little cock of yours, hmm?"

Taehyung gasps, eyes widening with anticipation, and Seokjin sits up, still holding onto Taehyung's face as he angles his hips and rubs the tip of his cock over Taehyung's rim. Taehyung's eyes are wide and needy, and Seokjin scoffs.

"So fucking desperate. Look at you laying there, begging with your eyes to be fucked."

Seokjin pumps his cock again, then presses it to Taehyung's rim and slowly pushes, breaching his tight, eager muscle just enough to make Taehyung wince and hiss in pain, then backs out and presses again. The squeeze around just the tip of Seokjin's cock is incredible, and he wonders if he is going to be able to fuck Taehyung at all.

"You're too fucking tight, baby," Seokjin groans.

Taehyung wraps his legs around Seokjin and pulls him close, attempting to force Seokjin into him more, and Seokjin releases his hold on his cock to spread Taehyung's legs, slapping his inner thighs harshly with both hands, forcing a sob from Taehyung's mouth.

"Disobeying me already, baby?" Seokjin sneers.

"Need your cock!" Taehyung shouts, pouting. 

"Good boys are patient."

"I'm not a good boy," Taehyung mutters with a smirk. "I'm a slutty little fuck toy. Use me, daddy. Make me your pretty little whore. Stretch me around that fat fucking cock and make me cry."

Seokjin bites back a grin and shakes his head, deciding he needs more lube. "The shit that comes out of your fucking mouth."

"You weren't complaining about my mouth when you were cuming in it earlier, daddy," Taehyung teases. 

After squirting a generous amount of lube on his cock, he lines it up once more and pushes in, stretching Taehyung around his tip. Taehyung's body goes stiff with a groan before he breathes heavily and attempts to relax, and Seokjin pulls out then presses in more, breaching his hole with the head. 

"F-f-f-fuck," Taehyung whines, squeezing his eyes shut and gripping onto the blankets. 

"At least I found a way to make you shut the fuck up," Seokjin teases as he pulls out and pushes in, inching more of his cock inside of Taehyung's tight warmth. 

Seokjin begins to slowly thrust his hips, languidly pushing into Taehyung further and further. Taehyung squeezes Seokjin tightly and sucks him in so eagerly, making Seokjin dizzy. When Seokjin looks down at Taehyung's beautiful face, his hips stutter to a halt, and a terrifying pang hits him in the guts. 

Taehyung opens his eyes, knitting his brows. "Something wrong?"

Yes, Seokjin thinks. Everything is wrong. Everything about this situation is fucking wrong. 

"N-no, sorry," Seokjin clears his throat, "just making sure I'm not pushing too far."

Taehyung smiles, and it is absolutely fucking devastating. "Feels amazing, hyung. Can't wait for you to make me scream."

Seokjin decides to pull his eyes from Taehyung's face, cursing his stupid decision to have Taehyung on his back in the first place, and stares instead at his throat. Then, he continues to slowly thrust his hips until there is less friction, and, in one rough motion, Seokjin pushes his entire length into Taehyung and stills his hips, listening to Taehyung's moans and checking his face to make sure he is still happy.

The fucked out expression of bliss on Taehyung's face is so pretty. Seokjin has to remind himself that he is just here to use Taehyung and not to fall victim to his overwhelming beauty, so he begins to fuck him. The deep, strangled sounds of pleasure mixed with pain that rise and fall in Taehyung's chest and throat send a chill through Seokjin. He is enjoying this way too much; he needs to assert more control and snap the fuck out of it.

Seokjin sits all the way back and holds Taehyung's thighs open, rutting his hips roughly against Taehyung's ass, biting back moans. Taehyung grips onto his thighs to hug them closer and open himself more, and his head pushes into his pillow as he moans and whimpers, mouth hanging open.

"P-please," Taehyung whines. "Please be mean with me."

Seokjin leans forward, changing his angle, and Taehyung cries out, squeezing his thighs tightly. He slaps Taehyung on the face, watching with a sneer as Taehyung's eyes open wide. 

"You like the way daddy fucks you?" Seokjin growls. 

Taehyung bites his bottom lip and nods his head, and Seokjin slaps him again.

"Use your fucking words."

"Ah—I love the way daddy fucks me!"

"Tell daddy how good it feels."

Taehyung whimpers. "S-so good."

"That's all?"

Taehyung shakes his head, eyes wide and pleading. "The best! Daddy fucks me the best."

"Yeah? How many boys does my greedy little slut let fuck him?"

Taehyung gasps and looks at Seokjin with a confused, almost worried expression. Seokjin picks up his pace, fucking Taehyung as if doling out a punishment. With one hand, he grabs onto Taehyung's throat and gives it a squeeze, and Taehyung's moans become louder.

"F-fuck—ah, daddy!" Taehyung cries. "I'm gonna cum!"

"That's strange; I never said you could cum, baby," Seokjin growls, squeezing a little tighter.

"P-please!"

"No."

Seokjin continues to fuck Taehyung and he sobs and whines beneath him. 

"I c—I can't hold it, please!" 

Seokjin halts his hips completely and watches as Taehyung pouts and writhes around petulantly. 

"Daddy!"

"You will cum when I say you can."

Seokjin lets go of Taehyung's throat and slaps him on the chest, over marks that were once bright red, and Taehyung screams. 

"I want to cum!" Taehyung shouts, dropping his hands from his thighs to wiggle his limbs around in a tantrum. He moves his hips, slowly sliding his ass up and down Seokjin's cock, and Seokjin slaps Taehyung on the chest once more, smirking down at him as he cries out and continues to act childish.

"Unless you can hold me down and fuck yourself on me, you'll cum when I say you can."

Taehyung's head snaps forward, eyes wide and blazing with mirth, and he grins. "Is that so?"

Seokjin swallows hard and braces himself, In a swift motion, Taehyung sits up, pulling Seokjin's cock out of him in the process, then takes Seokjin by the shoulders and wrestles him down onto the mattress. Seokjin lands on his side, and he fights Taehyung, who is straddling his thighs, attempting to get Seokjin onto his back. Seokjin reaches up to grab Taehyung by the throat, and Taehyung slaps Seokjin's arm away, then slaps Seokjin across the mouth, leaving a stinging warmth behind.

Startled, Seokjin gasps, and Taehyung pauses to assess whether he has taken things too far, so Seokjin smirks and puts up more resistance, nearly toppling Taehyung over before he gets his bearings and asserts control once more. 

"Stop, Taehyung!" Seokjin shouts, and Taehyung sneers down at him. 

"Color, hyung?"

Seokjin scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Green, you little shit."

"That's what I fucking thought,” Taehyung grunts as he manages to get Seokjin's hands above his head, pinning him to the bed.

Taehyung sits back on Seokjin's cock without warning, and Seokjin groans loudly, falling pliant under Taehyung, eager to let him fuck himself on his cock for a little while. Taehyung grabs onto Seokjin's throat with one hand while holding Seokjin's hands down under the other and squeezes just enough to make him feel dizzy. Taehyung's ass feels so fucking good.

With a moan, Taehyung leans forward and spits into Seokjin's face, chuckling when he gasps and looks up at Taehyung incredulously. 

"Hyung likes how I use his big fucking cock, doesn't he?" Taehyung whimpers.

"Fuck," Seokjin whines, squeezing his eyes shut and allowing his head to roll to the side; it feels incredible. Taehyung grips onto his jaw and forces Seokjin to look up at him, making Seokjin wince. 

"Look at me while I fuck you, hyung," Taehyung growls. 

Seokjin tells himself to gain control back and get the upper hand, but the rocking, swaying motion of Taehyung's hips has Seokjin feeling intoxicated, and he does not want it to stop. 

"Gonna cum, hyungie," Taehyung moans. "Gonna cover you in my release and make you all sticky.”

"You think so, huh?" Seokjin groans. He feels himself getting close to his own orgasm, and he does not want to stop just yet.

Taehyung hums in agreement and bites his bottom lip as his head lolls back. When Taehyung makes eye contact once more, Seokjin feels the breath pushed from his lungs, feeling himself falling once more for his beauty.

Seokjin struggles and Taehyung pushes his hand down harder to restrain him. One hand is not enough, however, and once Seokjin pulls an arm from Taehyung's gasp, he grabs onto Taehyung's throat tightly enough to force his hands to release him, then he pushes Taehyung to the side and slams him into the mattress. 

Taehyung crumbles, one of his arms hanging off the side of the bed, and Seokjin releases his hold, gets onto his knees, and towers over him. Taehyung scrambles and gets into a seated position, but rather than pinning Seokjin down, he sits with his back against the wall amongst his pillows, hugging himself as if suddenly, he is cowering away. 

"Did I hurt you?" Seokjin asks, unable to read Taehyung's expression, which has fallen from excitement to something flat and distant. 

"We're play fighting," Taehyung says slowly.

"Y-yeah," Seokjin responds, gradually crawling to where Taehyung sits.

Taehyung somewhat robotically nods his head. "So you're not rejecting me."

Seokjin cocks his head and studies Taehyung, knitting his eyebrows, asking himself what just happened while his heart kicks like a drum against his ribs.

"Why would I reject you, baby?"

There is a thick tension that hangs between them, and Seokjin swallows a lump in his throat, waiting for Taehyung to continue. Taehyung clears his throat, then blinks a few times as if snapping out of some dark place he just let his mind wander off to. 

"Sorry," Taehyung mutters. "I don't know what came over me."

Seokjin lets out a sigh of relief. "Should we stop?"

"No," Taehyung shakes his head. "No, I don't want to stop, I just—I think some wires got crossed somewhere, and my brain went haywire."

Seokjin nods, taking a guess. "The pain mixed with the play fighting put you into a negative headspace, and you began to interpret the scene differently, feeling insecure?"

Taehyung's breath hitches, and he looks at Seokjin with wide, surprised eyes. 

"Yeah, I understand," Seokjin says. 

"Can we try again, and go slower this time?" Taehyung asks shyly.

"Of course," Seokjin says as he crawls on his hands and knees to Taehyung.

Seokjin spreads Taehyung's long, gorgeous legs, tugs him down until Taehyung is slouched enough that Seokjin can enter him once more, and pulls Taehyung into a kiss. His cock is still half-hard, only needing a few pumps to get it erect enough to slowly press into Taehyung's wet warmth, and both men groan as Seokjin gently licks into Taehyung's lips, holding him close. 

"I'll fuck you nice and slow, baby. Does this feel good?"

Seokjin moves his hips in deep, languid movements, and Taehyung turns to putty in his hands, moving his hips forward to give Seokjin a better angle and allowing him to get deeper. Although Taehyung is scrunched up in a ball, his head falls back, softly hitting the wall, and he moans loudly.

"Cum for me, baby," Seokjin says softly, "you feel so fucking good, I won't last long."

"Fuck me harder, hyung," Taehyung whines, and Seokjin picks up his pace, spearing Taehyung hard enough to have them both whimpering and trembling. 

Seokjin grabs onto Taehyung's cock, gathering the precum pooled on the tip, and lightly strokes it, making Taehyung whimper, "Please, hyung. Feels so good, please don't stop."

A messy swirl of emotions floods Seokjin's mind, tying his guts into knots, and he tries not to mull it over too much, doing his best to focus on bringing himself and Taehyung to orgasm so he can clean himself up and get the fuck out of here. Taehyung feels amazing, looks breathtaking, and is so wonderfully vulnerable that all Seokjin wants to do is run away as fast as he can and never look back. 

"Fuck, hyung," Taehyung whimpers, "I'm gonna cum."

"Cum for me, baby," Seokjin purrs, picking up his pace. 

Taehyung lets out a series of sobs and moans, then cums with a gasp, spraying himself on the chest and getting remnants of his release on Seokjin's hand. When Seokjin is sure Taehyung is finished, he releases his cock and pulls his hand to his mouth, licking Taehyung's heady, salty mess from his fingers. 

"Fuck, hyung," Taehyung whines with wide eyes and mouth agape. 

"Where should I cum baby?" Seokjin mutters, feeling the coil in his guts tighten, ready to snap. 

"In my mouth, hyung, please." 

Seokjin nods and pumps his cock roughly into Taehyung’s tight, perfect asshole once, twice, three more times before pulling out and fumbling to reach his mouth. Taehyung slides down on the bed, curling himself further to find an angle in which to reach Seokjin's cock, then swallows him eagerly, groaning as Seokjin's hips rut. 

"Fuck," Seokjin whines, "fuck, baby, that's it."

Taehyung hollows his cheeks and slurps Seokjin's cock down, watching him through his sticky eyelashes, and Seokjin cum hard, moaning and grabbing onto Taehyung's head to still his movements while his hips tremble and buck against Taehyung’s mouth. Seokjin pulls his spent cock from between his lips and sits back on his heels, trying to catch his breath and stop himself from spiraling.

"Wow," Taehyung mutters, straightening himself out. 

He has managed to wiggle himself out from under Seokjin. Seokjin hums in agreement, staring ahead dazed.

"You okay?" Taehyung asks.

Seokjin clears his throat. "Yeah, just spaced out," he lies. "That was a lot."

Taehyung chuckles. "Yeah, it sure was. Thanks, hyung. You're truly amazing, and well worth the wait."

Taehyung smiles so widely, so brightly, that Seokjin feels burdened by it—nauseated. 

"I hate to fuck and run, baby, but I have work in the morning," Seokjin mutters, running a hand through his hair. 

Taehyung nods, expression turning blank. "I understand, hyung," he says, crawling close and pulling Seokjin into a soft kiss. 

Seokjin feels like sobbing and swallows it down, squeezing his eyes shut. He can't believe fucking Taehyung has made him harbor so many feelings for him. Taehyung licks into Seokjin's mouth, and he does his best to reciprocate, then smiles softly when their lips part.

"Okay, hyung. Get home safely and sleep well. I'll miss you."

With a nod, Seokjin pushes himself to get out of Taehyung's bed. He stands on trembling legs and gathers his clothing, dresses quickly with his eyes trained on the floor before blowing a kiss in Taehyung's direction and walking himself to the door.

Thursday morning, Seokjin calls out of work. He states he has a family emergency and that he will not be able to come in until Monday. His student assistants can handle the duties without him for a few days, so nobody causes a fuss or asks too many questions. 

Seokjin sighs with relief and curls in on himself in his bed, trying to think of anything but Taehyung's skin covered in red marks and the look on his face when he came on Seokjin's cock. Try as he might to pretend it never happened, small yellow bruises on Seokjin's thighs say otherwise. Seokjin closes his eyes and tries to picture Jungkook instead, deciding that, for the rest of the week, he needs to completely avoid seeing Taehyung.

Taehyung: Not in the library, hyung?

Seokjin: No, I've been out running errands and visiting nearby schools for some facility planning and other boring shit

Taehyung: Boo, I miss you I guess it's best for me to be less distracted

Seokjin: You'll see me soon, silly

Taehyung: I hope so, hyung 😰

The noodle bar is busier than usual this Friday afternoon, but Seokjin and Jungkook manage to sit in their regular booth in the corner against the window. Seokjin scoots in toward the wall, and Jungkook sits next to him, this time a little closer than usual. There is a soft blush that covers Jungkook's cheeks, and he doesn't make eye contact easily.

"You're so transparent; it's adorable," Seokjin mutters, reaching over to gently caress Jungkook's hand, which is gripping tightly to his thigh. Jungkook's breath hitches, and he looks surprised but relaxes into the touch and even slowly moves his hand to entwine his fingers with Seokjin's.

"I've had time to do some thinking," Jungkook says as he stares absently at the menu in front of him.  

"What's on your mind, pretty?" Seokjin asks. 

Jungkook swallows hard, then turns slightly toward Seokjin with a soft smile. "You. Us. Everything we discussed the night I confessed over several bottles of soju."

Seokjin hums in acknowledgment. 

"I guess we should discuss our expectations and all that, but...I don't know how to go about it. And I don't know if we even have the same expectations." Jungkook looks down, head tilted as if he is suddenly ashamed, and Seokjin squeezes his hand tighter.

"Let's get some food in you, and we can discuss all of that, okay? But don't look so worried. I told you I have feelings for you too, and that means I want to hear you out and take your wants and needs into consideration. I already expect that whatever we do moving forward will be a little difficult, but we can continue seeing each other the way we have been until the time comes that we feel comfortable with being in a public relationship."

Jungkook chuckles and rubs Seokjin's hand with his thumb. "It's so silly," he mutters.

"What's silly, Jungkook?"

Jungkook turns to Seokjin with damp, wide eyes and a soft smile, and his heart pounds in his chest. Jungkook is so pretty, even in his oversized gym clothes.

Just as Jungkook opens his mouth to speak, the server comes by with their food, and Jungkook drops Seokjin's hand, thanking the employee before tearing apart some wooden chopsticks. Flustered by this common occurrence, but also quite hungry, Seokjin decides whatever Jungkook was about to say can wait and picks up his own chopsticks to take a bite.

Taehyung: Safe travels, hyung! Have fun this weekend!

Seokjin: Thanks, baby! Have fun with whatever you're doing, too

Taehyung: Studying, meh Perhaps I'll paint to pass the time

"Wow, this place is amazing, hyung!" Jungkook says as he walks with a basket in his hands, eyeing his surroundings. 

It feels like deja vu bringing a pretty boy to picnic along the river, and Seokjin tries to block out memories of the first time he was here, making sure to lead Jungkook to a different spot under different trees than the ones he sat under, not long ago.

Jungkook curls up to Seokjin's side on his comforter and picks at the snacks they prepared together this morning, and Seokjin cracks open the first of several bottles of soju.

"Tomorrow we hike," Seokjin slurs as they pack the blanket and basket, "and do whatever else you want. There are food carts and a night market down the way."

Jungkook grins, eyes shining brightly. "Sounds good, hyung."

"I rented a hanok for us to stay in, not far from here. Do you want to go there now and turn in early or do you want to explore the area?"

"Let's turn in now," Jungkook responds with a yawn. "The soju made me a little sleepy, and it's starting to get cold out."

"Sounds good," Seokjin says as he stands with a groan.

They make their way back to the car, chit-chatting about the river and how the sunset shines pink and orange across it. Jungkook is in a chipper mood tonight, and Seokjin can't help but grin widely as Jungkook points to every bird and rodent he sees, squealing with delight. The leaves have all changed to deeper shades of yellows and reds and fall around them, and Seokjin breathes in the autumn air, feeling grateful to be in this moment with Jungkook.

In the car, Jungkook holds Seokjin's hand while they drive the short distance to their rental home, and once they have gathered their luggage and have settled inside, Jungkook links their hands together once more, tugging Seokjin to the cushions in the main room.

"Wait, let's grab some water before we melt into the couch," Seokjin suggests, pulling Jungkook to the kitchen. The rooms are designed to have a traditional feeling while providing modern amenities, and Seokjin marvels at how charming the space is. Jungkook doesn't seem impressed, gazing only at Seokjin. 

With a glass of water in hand, they return to the main room and settle into a couch that is low to the ground and consists mostly of thick, satin cushions. Seokjin sits with a groan, his limbs feeling tired and weak, and Jungkook plops down beside him. 

"Hyung," Jungkook says, scooting close to Seokjin. "Thank you for bringing me here.”

"Of course," Seokjin says, taking a drink of water and doing his best to ignore the eager look on Jungkook's face. He wonders if all that soju was a mistake. "I'm glad to be in such a beautiful place with such a beautiful man."

Jungkook pulls the water from Seokjin's fingers, takes a drink, and sets it aside, then hoists one leg over Seokjin's lap, straddling his thighs. Seokjin gasps, looking at Jungkook with wide eyes. 

"Jungkook—" Seokjin mutters, but Jungkook shushes him. 

"Hyung," Jungkook pauses while his cheeks flush. "I need to kiss you. Please."

"But, I thought we—"

"We can. We will. We'll take it so, super slow. But I need to kiss you before I go crazy, hyung. Please."

Seokjin's hands hold onto Jungkook's impossibly tiny waist through his zip up hoodie, and he does his best to stop his heart from pounding so hard, taking slow, measured breaths.

Jungkook leans down with a smile and softly presses his lips into Seokjin's, and as Jungkook's cologne and musk flood his senses, Seokjin closes his eyes and pulls him closer, wrapping his arms around him. Seokjin darts his tongue out to lick at Jungkook's bottom lip, and Jungkook groans as he opens his mouth, flicking his tongue out as if to beckon Seokjin inside.

Kissing Jungkook is better than Seokjin could have imagined. Jungkook whimpers as he melts into Seokjin, his tongue shyly exploring before allowing Seokjin to take the lead and lick into his mouth. Pitchy, high moans fall from Jungkook's lips, and Seokjin swallows them whole, tightening his grip around his back and pulling him closer. 

Without thinking, Seokjin slides his hands down to Jungkook's ass and squeezes, and Jungkook mewls as his hips rock, sending a wave of pleasure over Seokjin's cock. Jungkook runs his hands over Seokjin's chest and squeezes his pecs, and Seokjin whimpers from the friction over his nipples.

"Fuck, Jungkook," Seokjin mutters against Jungkook's mouth. "We're supposed to take it slow."

Jungkook whines and rolls his hips, deliberately rubbing his ass over Seokjin's cock. "Fuck slow, hyung. I need you."

Seokjin gives in long enough to let Jungkook lick into his mouth more aggressively and rock his hips down harder before he comes to his senses, pulling from the kiss. Jungkook is undeterred, nibbling along Seokjin's chin, down to his neck.

"Wait, baby, wait." Seokjin says, grabbing Jungkook gently by the ribs and pushing him just far enough away from Seokjin that they can look each other in the eye. Jungkook's lips are swollen and red, and he looks absolutely sinful.

"Call me that again," Jungkook smirks.

"Baby," Seokjin says sternly. "Are you sure you want to do this? You said—"

"I know what I said," Jungkook huffs, leaning forward enough that Seokjin releases his hold. It is futile; Jungkook is a lot stronger than he is. "I want you to fuck me. Please, hyung. I've wanted it for so long."

Seokjin wraps his arms around Jungkook's ribs. "I know, baby, I have too, but we should think about—"

"No, you don't understand. I haven't just wanted you since I came to college, hyung. I've always wanted you. I applied to that university because of you."

Seokjin clears his throat, feeling a pile of emotions hit him all at once. He is far too intoxicated from both the soju and from Jungkook's eager hips and spit-slicked lips to process this information.

"I've been in love with you for so long," Jungkook whines, pulling Seokjin into a kiss. Seokjin melts into the feeling, but his heart picks up its pace, making Seokjin feel dizzy.

"Please," Jungkook whines, rolling his hips over Seokjin's cock. 

"Baby—"

"Hyung, I'm not a kid anymore. I want you so bad. Please, I can make you feel so good."

Seokjin's phone vibrates, causing him to flinch, and he pulls it from his pocket and tosses it aside. Whoever is messaging right now can wait. Jungkook goes back to nibbling on Seokjin's neck, this time a little harder, hands trailing down over his ribs to his waist. He shifts his hips back and runs his hands further down until they are both resting over the bulge in Seokjin's pants, and Seokjin whimpers softly.

"So hard for me, hyung," Jungkook teases, and Seokjin snickers.

"Of course I am."

The screen on Seokjin's phone lights up once more, vibrating on the cushion, and Seokjin does his best to ignore it as Jungkook's fingers make quick work of his belt, button, and zipper. 

"Hyung is popular." Jungkook teases, biting his lip as he opens Seokjin's fly, eyes widening as they land on Seokjin's hard cock pressing against black briefs.

Seokjin scoffs, "It's probably nobody."

The phone buzzes again, and Jungkook rolls his eyes as he sits back on his heels, sighing dramatically. "Tell whoever it is that I want to suck your dick and that you'll respond later."

"You wanna suck my dick, huh?" Seokjin teases, and Jungkook pouts. 

"I do, but hyung's phone keeps distracting me."

Seokjin grabs his phone, looking at the screen briefly before he decides to just turn the damn thing off, doing his best not to blush. Jungkook lets out a humorless laugh and takes the phone from his hand before Seokjin can shut it down, and Seokjin gasps, reaching feebly for it.

"Jungkook—"

Jungkook clears his throat, reading the messages on the screen aloud, "Thanks for being such a perfect muse and helping me break out of my funk, hyung. I owe you the world. I was right, by the way; you really are pretty when you cum."

Seokjin feels nauseated, swallowing down the taste of bile in his throat, and Jungkook sets his phone down beside him, sitting on the floor. The silence is terrifying, but Seokjin doesn't know what to say, so he says nothing. 

After the longest minute of Seokjin's life, Jungkook tugs his mouth into a straight line and says, "I'm going to bed. Sleep well, hyung," Then he gets up, and walks away from Seokjin.

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[zenonaa]

'The smart thing would have been for Touko to retire to her room. Anyone could wear the mask of a handsome man, even a monster. Instead, she found herself following him, spurred on by her own curiosity, not only about what he offered to tell her but why he wanted to tell her something potentially so important. As she walked, she felt extra conscious of the holster of scissors hugging her thigh. Throughout her life, she had met many monsters that wore fake faces, but with Byakuya, she felt sure he didn’t wield a mask hiding his true self.

It was a gut instinct. No. Not gut. Her heart told her this.'

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Fukawa Touko/Togami Byakuya Characters: Fukawa Touko, Togami Byakuya Additional Tags: Togafuka Week, talent swap Summary: Talent Swap AU! Togami and Fukawa bump into each other and discuss what motive Monobear would need to provide to push them to murder. Also there may or may not be smooching.

Comments: A (late) Day 5 for TogaFuka Week - Swap! Takes place in the universe from this fic I wrote in 2016. When I was a more optimistic Livi, I wanted to write a multichapter fic for this talent swap.

💗 Please like, share and comment if you enjoyed it! 💗

***

Ten students remained.

As Touko Fukawa sat at her desk, twirling a pen between her fingers, she passed over their corpses. She stepped over Yasuhiro and Kiyotaka. Skipped around Hifumi and Chihiro. Hopped across Sakura and Celes. Of course, she wasn’t really maneuvering around them. Her dorm obtained no bodies. In reality, they were tucked away wherever Monobear dragged them to once it had finished with them. What had been described was figurative, as could be found in a passage from a literary novel.

Not that Touko was a published author. The title of Super High School Level Writer belonged to her classmate, Byakuya Togami. Touko Fukawa was the Super High School Level Heir, not that her title was anything to scoff at. Already she had earned billions of yen, and she had survived more attempts on her life than anyone else here. Except perhaps Sakura, the Super High School Level Soldier. But she was dead so she didn’t count.

Other than Sakura, Kyouko was also likely to have fought off death, and Touko wondered whether the Fighter had participated in any deadly battles. Whether she had inflicted such pain onto others. Whether she had ever murdered an opponent before arriving at this school.

Touko had. Killed people.

Not in the way her alter had, puncturing the veins and lungs of corrupt businessmen, of perverts, of half-siblings, always with scissors, always with a signature written in the victim’s blood nearby. No, Touko didn’t need to do that. With victims working for other corporations, she struck them bankrupt. In her conglomerate, she confiscated jobs, leaving victims to drown in their desperation as they tried to stay afloat. She exposed fraud, blackmail attempts, human trafficking, and with nowhere for her victims’ darkness to hide, they withered in the light.

Memories dug into her skin like termites. Tasting bile, she looked up from her desk. The walls of her room lurched toward Touko before reeling back into place. If she stayed here any longer, the room would close its jaws and crush her to pieces. She stood up, her chair shunting backward with a grunt, and marched to the door.

Ahead of her lay a silent corridor. Most of the others were probably sleeping by this time. Touko stayed on guard as she wrapped her arms around herself and started plodding along with no particular destination in mind. The cafeteria would be shut, so she couldn’t acquire a cup of tea to try to soothe her jittering nerves from there. While she had glimpsed a box of teabags in the storage room a few days ago while searching for some towels, she still had no way to heat them up.

Then she remembered she had also spotted some chocolate in there, and chocolate was supposed to be able to help calm a person down. That was better than nothing.

Touko quickened her pace, moving with more purpose now. Maybe she was being reckless. Six of them had been slain and another motive dangled over their heads. Someone would surely attempt murder for what Monobear had on offer. Not her, but someone else would. All Touko had to do was ensure she wasn’t the victim.

By the time she entered the storage room, she hadn’t seen Monobear nor any other students. The idea of returning to her room, where the only sounds would be her own thoughts, made her stomach roll, so she decided to eat her chocolate in the library. Reading about another’s life ought to distract her from her own. Grabbing two bars, she left, and she soon arrived at the library. She managed a few paces forward before she heard rustling, turning her blood to ice, freezing her, rendering her immobile.

Moments later, Byakuya Togami emerged from behind a bookcase. His presence in the library wasn’t shocking in and of itself. He was the Super High School Level Writer and an avid reader. Touko just hadn’t expected him to be here so late. Though she had seen him here during the evenings, she usually stayed in her room after the nighttime announcement so never saw him in here after that. She would have thought he would have kept to his room at this hour, especially when one took into account the latest motive to murder.

“Which one are you?” he asked her. When she entered, she hadn’t made much noise - at least, she thought she hadn’t, but Byakuya seemed to have homed in on her as soon as she came in. “The abhorrent admirer, or the creepy loner girl?”

“I’m Touko Fukawa,” she replied.

“The latter then.”

She stayed where she was, and he stayed where he was.

“Have you come to murder me?” he asked. “Or is this just a regular stalker with a crush behaviour?”

Touko squeaked and shook her head. Her cheeks burned. “I... I came here to read, that’s all.”

“You’re rather jittery. Does my presence unsettle you? Do you believe that I intend to murder you?”

A gasp cracked in her throat. He sighed and pushed up his glasses.

“Compose yourself. I will not harm you right now. I intend to be the last man standing. The survivor who confronts and defeats the monster at the end.” Byakuya’s brow furrowed, his face darkening. “I refuse to yield to the pressure that Monobear tries to inflict on us.”

“... is that it?” Touko asked, her voice a pinprick. “You don’t plan on murdering anyone because two students will be allowed to leave? It ruins your envisioned ending?”

That was the motive. For the next murder, if the perpentrator was not voted out in their victim’s trial, they were allowed to choose another student to graduate with them.

“Not quite. I couldn’t care less if another escaped with me.” The bitter twist of his lips morphed into a smirk. “It’s simply too early for this to end. The plot has barely reached the halfway point.”

Even with such a wicked expression, he was still handsome. Touko’s heart raced watching him. By now, the chocolate bars in her hands had crumbled from the pressure of her fists. Not that it mattered, because her insides were writhing too much for her to keep any food down. She shifted her weight between feet.

“You don’t have to believe me,” he told her. He cocked his head to one side, his gaze as sharp as a knife. “I do wonder about you, though.”

“Even if I wanted to kill anyone, I couldn’t,” she said. “Everyone knows about my alter, so I would be the first person to be heavily scrutinised and suspected.”

His stare embedded deeper.

“Still. I must be on my guard. Your alter may wish to seek revenge on me for revealing her identity,” said Byakuya.

Touko hunched her shoulders. She should have hated Byakuya for announcing her secret in the last trial, even if the alternative was being framed by Hifumi and dying. After all, when a person shoved another out of a window on the top floor of a blazing building, the fall still left bruises.

And yet the sight of him still filled her chest with butterflies.

“My alter wants to survive as much as any of us,” said Touko.

“None of the motives so far seem to have impelled either of us to murder,” remarked Byakuya. “Not money... not the paranoia of another owning one of our secrets... not being forced to sleep in the same room, in the same clothes, and abide by the same rigid routine everyday.”

He trailed off. She didn’t offer a word to the silence, waiting to see what he was getting at, if anything.

“Tell me, what would drive you to murder?” he asked her.

“I told you - ”

“ - that you’re always going to be a suspect because of Genocider Syo,” he interrupted with a flap of his hand. “You already said. But is there nothing that Monobear can do to force your hand?”

Touko edged back a step, eyeing him. She found it hard to tell if the fluttering inside of her was still attraction, or fear. “What are you? The m-mastermind?”

He smirked. “That would be a twist, but no. Curiosity.”

“There is nothing that Monobear could offer me,” she said firmly, even if her legs were trembling. To counteract that, she clenched her legs together and further mutilated the chocolate bars in her tightening fists. “What about you? What would push you to murder?”

The glimmer in his eyes disappeared as he glanced away. “This isn’t the best location to discuss this. Monobear may be listening in.” He returned his gaze to her. “How about we continue this conversation elsewhere? The locker room by the baths will provide sufficient privacy.”

She was still processing his offer when he strode toward her. She stiffened. Didn’t breathe. He paused next to her.

“You may stay here, or hurry back to your room if you desire,” he said. “Should you wish to indulge me in more conversation, however, you know where I will be. I shall be there for the next hour, with an answer to your question.”

Touko stood motionlessly as she listened to Byakuya’s receding footsteps. The smart thing would have been for Touko to retire to her room. Anyone could wear the mask of a handsome man, even a monster. Instead, she found herself following him, spurred on by her own curiosity, not only about what he offered to tell her but why he wanted to tell her something potentially so important. As she walked, she felt extra conscious of the holster of scissors hugging her thigh. Throughout her life, she had met many monsters that wore fake faces, but with Byakuya, she felt sure he didn’t wield a mask hiding his true self.

It was a gut instinct. No. Not gut. Her heart told her this.

They arrived at the locker room together, slipping past the noren curtain.

“So what about you?” asked Touko once both were well inside. She had thrown away the chocolates on the way there and could now fidget her hands together. “What could convince you to deviate from your plot outline?”

He was already standing near Touko, but he took a step toward her, approaching like the swell of an oncoming wave.

“Perhaps,” he said, dragging up his glasses, then hers, “a love interest.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Byakuya dipped his head, drawing closer and closer. Touko could have pushed him away. Kicked him between the legs. But she didn’t. She didn’t want to. As their lips pressed together, and his hands rested against her upper arms, her heels creaked away from the ground and her hands latched onto his waist.

Byakuya withdrew first. Touko wobbled for a moment, feeling light-headed. Even though he had initiated the kiss, she still expected him to grimace and swipe the back of his hand across his mouth. He scraped his teeth lightly against his lips, wetting them. Tasting. Then he made eye contact again.

“Hm? Are you suffering from post-kiss catatonia?” he asked. She stirred, the fog in her head not yet fully cleared.

“I’m s-surprised.”

“That is what is known as a test kiss.”

Touko squinted. “Test kiss?”

“It’s a trope that means... I am testing to see if you would partner with me in murdering one of our classmates.”

Her head jerked back. “W-What?”

He held out his hand toward her.

“Would you commit murder with me, Touko Fukawa?” he asked like a marriage proposal. Touko’s eyes flickered.

“I...”

She didn’t finish her sentence. His fingers curled into his hand before retreating, coming to rest on his hip.

“It doesn’t matter. As I told you, I have no intention of murdering yet. This was really a test to see if you could be recruited for murder. Though as you have said, due to your alter, you are by default a prime suspect.”

A test. There was always some kind of catch. Touko nodded, gazing down at her feet. She should have hated him.

“That’s all,” he said. “You are dismissed.”

The room hummed.

“Goodbye, Fukawa,” he said. “Go to your room now.”

Touko turned away and trudged out. With her back to him, she didn’t see him bring his hand to his lips, not to wipe his mouth, but as if he could still feel the kiss lingering.

She should have hated him.

And yet... she was smiling as bright as a butterfly.

[theshedding]

Lil Nas X: Country Music, Christianity & Reclaiming HELL

I don’t typically bother myself to follow what Lil Nas X is doing from day to day, or even month to month but I do know that his “Old Town Road” hit became one of the biggest selling/streamed records in Country Music Business history (by a Black Country & Queer artist). “Black” is key because for 75+ years Country music has unsuspiciously evolved into a solidly White-identified genre (despite mixed and Indian & Black roots). Regrettably, Country music is also widely known for anti-black, misogynoir, reliably homophobic (Trans isn’t really a conversation yet), Christian and Hard Right sentiments on the political spectrum. Some other day I will venture into more; there is a whole analysis dying to be done on this exclusive practice in the music industry with its implications on ‘access’ to equity and opportunity for both Black/POC’s and Whites artists/songwriters alike. More commentary on this rigid homogeneous field is needed and how it prohibits certain talent(s) for the sake of perpetuating homogeneity (e.g. “social determinants” of diversity & viable artistic careers). I’ll refrain from discussing that fully here, though suffice it to say that for those reasons X’s “Old Town Road” was monumental and vindicating. 

As for Lil Nas X, I’m not particularly a big fan of his music; but I see him, what he’s doing, his impact on music + culture and I celebrate him using these moments to affirm his Black, Queer self, and lifting up others. Believe it or not, even in the 2020′s, being “out” in the music business is still a costly choice. As an artist it remains much easier to just “play straight”. And despite appearances, the business (particularly Country) has been dragged kicking and screaming into developing, promoting and advancing openly-affirming LGBTQ 🏳️‍🌈 artists in the board room or on-stage. Though things are ‘better’ we have not yet arrived at a place of equity or opportunity for queer artists; for the road of music biz history is littered with stunted careers, bodies and limitations on artists who had no option but to follow conventional ways, fail or never be heard of in the first place. With few exceptions, record labels, radio and press/media have successfully used fear, intimidation, innuendo and coercion to dilute, downplay or erase any hint of queer identity from its performers. This was true even for obvious talents like Little Richard.

(Note: I’m particularly speaking of artists in this regard, not so much the hairstylists, make-up artists, PA’s, etc.)

_____

Which is why...in regard to Lil Nas X, whether you like, hate or love his music, the young brother is a trailblazer. His very existence protests (at least) decades of inequity, oppression and erasure. X aptly critiques a Neo-Christian Fascist Heteropatriarchy; not just in American society but throughout the Music Business and with Black people. That is no small deal. His unapologetic outness holds a mirror up to Christianity at-large, as an institution, theology and practice. The problem is they just don’t like what they see in that mirror.

In actuality, “Call Me By Your Name”, Lil Nas X’s new video, is a twist on classic mythology and religious memes that are less reprehensible or vulgar than the Biblical narratives most of us grew up on vís-a-vís indoctrinating smiles of Sunday school teachers and family prior to the “age of reason”. Think about the narratives blithely describing Satan’s friendly wager with God regarding Job (42:1-6); the horrific “prophecies” in St. John’s Book of Revelation (i.e. skies will rain fire, angels will spit swords, mankind will be forced to retreat into caves for shelter, and we will be harassed by at least three terrifying dragons and beasts. Angels will sound seven trumpets of warning, and later on, seven plagues will be dumped on the world), or Jesus’s own clarifying words of violent intent in Matthew (re: “Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.” 10:34). Whether literal or metaphor, these age old stories pale in comparison to a three minute allegorical rap video. Conservatives: say what you will, I’m pretty confident X doesn’t take himself as seriously as “The true and living God” from the book of Job.

A little known fact as it is, people have debunked the story and evolution of Satan and already offered compelling research showing [he] is more of a literary device than an actual entity or “spirit” (Spoiler: In the Bible, Satan does not take shape as an actual “bad” person until the New Testament). In fact, modern Christianity’s impression of the “Devil” is shaped by conflating Hellenized mythology with a literary tradition rooted in Dante’s Inferno and accompanying spooks and superstitions going back thousands of years. Whether Catholic, Protestant, Mormon, Scientologist, Atheist or Agnostic, we’ve spent a lifetime with these predominant icons and clichés. (Resource: Prof. Bart D. Erhman, “Heaven & Hell”).

So Here’s THE PROBLEM: The current level of fear and outrage is: 

(1) Unjust, imposing and irrational. 

(2) Disproportionate when taken into account a lifetime of harmful Christian propaganda, anti-gay preaching and political advocacy.

(3) Historically inaccurate concerning the existence of “Hell” and who should be scared of going there. 

Think I’m overreacting? 

Examples: 

Institutionalized Homophobia (rhetoric + policy)

Anti-Gay Ministers In Life And Death: Bishop Eddie Long And Rev. Bernice King

Black, gay and Christian, Marylanders struggle with Conflicts

Harlem pastor: 'Obama has released the homo demons on the black man'

Joel Olsteen: Homosexuality is “Not God’s Best”

Bishop Brandon Porter: Gays “Perverted & Lost...The Church of God in Christ Convocation appears like a ‘coming out party’ for members of the gay community.”

Kim Burrell: “That perverted homosexual spirit is a spirit of delusion & confusion and has deceived many men & women, and it has caused a strain on the body of Christ”

Falwell Suggests Gays to Blame for 9-11 Attacks

Pope Francis Blames The Devil For Sexual Abuse By Catholic Church

Pope Francis: Gay People Not Welcome in Clergy

Pope Francis Blames The Devil For Sexual Abuse By Catholic Church

The Pope and Gay People: Nothing’s Changed

The Catholic church silently lobbied against a suicide prevention hotline in the US because it included LGBT resources

Mormon church prohibits Children of LGBT parents to be baptized

Catholic Charity Ends Adoptions Rather Than Place Kid With Same-Sex Couple

I Was a Religious Zealot That Hurt People-Coming Out as Gay: A Former Conversion Therapy Leader Is Apologizing to the LGBTQ Community

The above short list chronicles a consistent, literal, demonization of LGBTQ people, contempt for their gender presentation, objectification of their bodies/sexuality and a coordinated pollution of media and culture over the last 50+ years by clergy since integration and Civil Rights legislation. Basically terrorism. Popes, Bishops, Pastors, Evangelists, Politicians, Television hosts, US Presidents, Camp Leaders, Teachers, Singers & Entertainers, Coaches, Athletes and Christians of all types all around the world have confused and confounded these issues, suppressed dissent, and confidently lied about LGBT people-including fellow Queer Christians with impunity for generations (i.e. “thou shall not bear false witness against they neighbor” Ex. 23:1-3). Christian majority viewpoints about “laws” and “nature” have run the table in discussions about LGBTQ people in society-so much that we collectively must first consider their religious views in all discussions and the specter of Christian approval -at best or Christian condescension -at worst. That is Christian (and straight) privilege. People are tired of this undue deference to religious opinions. 

That is what is so deliciously bothersome about Lil Nas X being loud, proud and “in your face” about his sexuality. If for just a moment, he not only disrupts the American hetero-patriarchy but specifically the Black hetero-patriarchy, the so-called “Black Church Industrial Complex”, Neo-Christian Fascism and a mostly uneducated (and/or miseducated) public concerning Ancient Near East and European history, superstitions-and (by extension) White Supremacy. To round up: people are losing their minds because the victim decided to speak out against his victimizer. 

Additionally, on some level I believe people are mad at him being just twenty years old, out and FREE as a self-assured, affirming & affirmed QUEER Black male entertainer with money and fame in the PRIME of his life. We’ve never, or rarely, seen that before in a Black man in the music business and popular culture. But that’s just too bad for them. With my own eyes I’ve watched straight people, friends, Christians, enjoy their sexuality from their elementary youth to adolescence, up and through college and later marriages, often times independently of their spouses (repeatedly). Meanwhile Queer/Gay/SGL/LGBTQ people are expected to put their lives on hold while the ‘blessed’ straight people run around exploring premarital/post-marital/extra-marital sex, love and affection, unbound & un-convicted by their “sin” or God...only to proudly rebrand themselves later in life as a good, moral “wholesome Christian” via the ‘sacred’ institution of marriage with no questions asked. 

Inequality defined.

For Lil Nas X, everything about the society we've created for him in the last 100+ years (re: links above) has explicitly been designed for his life not to be his own. According to these and other Christians (see above), his identity is essentially supposed to be an endless rat fuck of internal confusion, suicide-ideation, depression, long-suffering, faux masculinity, heterosexism, groveling towards heaven, respectability politics, failed prayer and supplication to a heteronormative earthly and celestial hierarchy unbothered in affording LGBT people like him a healthy, sane human development. It’s almost as if the Conservative establishment (Black included) needs Lil Nas X to be like others before him: “private”, mysteriously single, suicidal, suspiciously straight or worse, dead of HIV/AIDS ...anything but driving down the street enjoying his youth as a Black Queer artist and man. So they mad about that?

Well those days are over.  

-Rogiérs is a writer, international recording artist, performer and indie label manager with 25+ years in the music industry. He also directs Black Nonbelievers of DC, a non-profit org affiliated with the AHA supporting Black skeptics, Atheists, Agnostics & Humanists. He holds a B.A. in Music Business & Mgmt and a M.A. in Global Entertainment & Music Business from Berklee College of Music and Berklee Valencia, Spain. www.FibbyMusic.net Twitter/IG: @Rogiers1

[falsegoodnight]

I just hope things get better for him and us as well it’s not fun to not enjoy fandom that’s supposed to bring you joy especially sense he brings be so much comfort I hate that it’s being tinted. Thank you for replying to my ask I will definitely check these fics out and also I most definitely interested in any novel you would like to recommend

i hope things get better too even though it feels very unlikely atp :'( and i agree, it does sort of tint or taint that usual comfort 😔  that being said, i love louis with my whole heart and always will <33

some novel recs – i'm reccing only the books i rated 4 stars and above in the past couple of months. not sure what genre you're into but this is a pretty diverse range so hopefully one of them sticks out!!

- crying in h mart by michelle zauner / nonfiction; memoir (tw: cancer, grief)

this one really hit close to home for me in many ways and i almost couldn't get through it because of how much it hurt but at the same time it felt really cathartic. michelle zauner is a talented writer... and also apparently a really talented musician??

- after i do by taylor jenkins reid / adult; romance/contemporary (tw: mentions of cancer, grief)

taylor jenkins reid has quickly become one of my favorite writers of all time (if you haven’t read the seven husbands of evelyn hugo or daisy jones & the six what the fuck are you doing!!) but i haven’t read any of her pre-evelyn hugo books so i set out to change that with one of her second(?) novel which seemed the most up my alley: marital angst (lmao). this follows a couple whose marriage is falling apart – they decide to spend a year apart to see if they still want to stay together by the end of it. i really enjoyed it!! not my favorite tjr read but definitely still so good <3

- know my name by chanel miller / nonfiction; memoir (tw: rape/sexual assault, medical trauma, mentions of suicide, mentions of school shootings)

"i am a victim, i have no qualms with this word, only with the idea that it is all that i am." chanel miller wrote this memoir to reclaim her identity and tell her story in her own words, and she did exactly that. this was powerful and heartbreaking and so beautifully written. i'll be thinking about it for a long, long time.

- project hail mary by andy weir / adult; science fiction (tw: mentions of suicide)

also if you haven't read the martian, do that too!! what can i even say about this book??? it's science fiction and space and aliens and so so so good!!! i think some people are intimidated to read andy weir books because of how much science is involved and while there is indeed a lot of that (which is probably exactly why i adore them so much) i definitely think it is accessible to readers who don't have that extra knowledge, and definitely will not affect the enjoyability of the story itself!!

- girl, woman, other by bernardine evaristo / adult; literary fiction (tw: rape, domestic abuse, racism, homophobia, transphobia, miscarriage)

i've been meaning to read this for ages but ahh it's amazing!! this novel tells the stories of twelve predominantly Black women in the UK with a vast range of experiences and lives. usually books that follow this many characters fall flat for me, but evaristo portayed these vastly different narratives effortlessly imo <3

- how do you live? by genzaburo yoshino / middle-grade; coming of age

this is supposedly going to be the last studio ghibli film ever which is extremely sad </3 but this book was so lovely and heartwarming and definitely made me stop and contemplate how we're all connected – the only thing i cannot believe is that copper is fifteen years old (he is eleven or twelve at most!)

- she who became the sun by shelley parker-chan / adult; historical fantasy (tw: violence, gender dysphoria, misogyny, some internalized homophobia)

this is a "reimagining of the rise of the founding emperor of the Ming Dynasty" and is also pitched as "mulan meets the song of achilles" and... actually lives up to that?? a bit dense and slow at times but overall incredible!

- the kingdoms by natasha pulley / adult; historical fantasy (tw: rape, murder, general violence associated with war)

finished this last night and it was SO GOOD!!! it takes place in the early twentieth century but in an alternate timeline in which france won the battle of trafalgar in 1805 and conquered britain which is now a french colony and involves time travel, amnesia, and a dual timeline – i think this is a book you should go into not knowing much even if the beginning feels a bit disorienting or choppy (as it did for me). this book has a way of digging into you and once it catches hold, you're hooked!!

let me know if you want any other specific recs!!

[dreamofasupernaturalchamber]

Dabb's Dream of a Red Chamber: Death's Library (Bo Ming Si) and Dean as Qin Keqing

I've seen a lot of SPN meta on this website, and in typical fashion, I'm YEARS late to the game. But I think there are some things that can only be understood in retrospect, and SPN's structure is one of them. What I'm trying to say is this: when Dabb took over, he turned Supernatural, a Western show about saving people and hunting things, into Dream of a Red Mansion, a Chinese literary classic about inter and intra family conflicts, class conflicts, political conflicts, and above all-- women.

Yes, I know how absurd this sounds. Why on earth would Dabb do that? My guess: because there is no surpassing Dream of a Red Chamber when it comes to metafiction-- the answer to the question "why metafiction?" will probably devolve into speculation about the network, so I won't get into it now.

What really tipped me off was that scene in 13x05, where Dean tries to commit suicide, but ends up Death's library instead. Some necessary background info: there is a scene in the first few chapters of Dream of the Red Chambers where Baoyu takes a nap in Qin Keqing's room (which is scandalous in its own right) and is transported to Taixu Huanjing, a dream world of goddesses in another dimension. The English translation? Taixu = The Void (note how this corresponds to the Empty, which makes its first appearance in 13x04), Huanjing = Dream World. Baoyu comes upon Jinghuan Xianzi, the goddess in charge of this world, who then takes him into a library called Bo Ming Si-- the Office of Unlucky Women-- and shows him books containing the fates of all the women in his family.

Does this sound familiar? Because it should. Here's a screenshot of Bo Ming Si from the 2010 adaptation:

A screenshot of Jinghuan Xianzi leading Baoyu through Bo Ming SI:

A screenshot of how the books are kept:

Now let's take a look at Death's library (pics from Superwiki):

Look at how the books are stacked in both shows. The reason they're stacked horizontally in Dream of a Red Chamber is that Chinese books tend to be very soft. The reason they're stacked horizontally in SPN is???

But that's just a coincidence, you might say. But Dabb doesn't just stop there. He borrows symbols, motifs, character relationships, family conflicts, and more from Dream of a Red Chamber-- he even borrows the structure. I'll talk about the structure and the motifs in another post-- today I'm here to talk about Dean.

Readers familiar with Dream of a Red Chamber might ask at this point-- is Dean Baoyu? No. (I'll talk about Cas, Jack, and Baoyu in a separate post.) So who is Dean?

Billie tells Dean that "every notebook on this particular shelf tells a version of how [he] die[s]." Let's see what Jinghuan Xianzi tells Baoyu-- he's shown three volumes titled "The Twelve Beauties of Jinling." The main volume records the ladies of his household, the second volume records the concubines, and the last volume records the maids.

Dean gets multiple notebooks because he's a combination of multiple characters from the first volume-- he starts off as Qin Keqing, who has multiple identities in the book, despite dying within the first thirteen chapters. Who is Qin Keqing? She is:

- the younger sister of Jinghuan Xianzi.

- the one who teaches Baoyu the matters of love in the dream world. She is his sexual awakening, and even though she doesn't do anything more scandalous than let Baoyu sleep on her bed in the human world, her brother is Baoyu's introduction to gay sex.

- the wife of the first and only son of the legal wife of the older branch of the Jia family. In other words, she's the wife of the future head of the household.

- there are theories that she may be the daughter of a prince who lost power, but I doubt those count for much here.

- she "dies from illness" but according to the "The Twelve Beauties of Jinling," she hangs herself after everyone learns that her father-in-law raped her.

- her death signals the beginning of the end of the four major families; her funeral is far too lavish, as is her coffin (it's made from wood that was originally reserved for a prince's funeral), and it's hinted that this is the beginning of the end of the Jia family, because they've reached above their station.

Now let's see how this matches up with Dean. We know that he:

- has played the reaper and has a special connection with Death.

- teaches Jack about romantic love in 14x06.

- is the head of the household.

- is possessed by Michael at the end of S13, an experience that's coded as rape, and is suicidal for most of S14 as a result. He then brings back a special coffin, which later causes Jack to lose control, which marks the beginning of the end for the Winchesters. Of course, the coffin scene references other media too. Angel comes to mind.

Now let's talk about Qin Keqing's best friend, Wang Xifeng. I'm not implying that Dean is anything like Wang Xifeng (although a case can be made that her panci might have influenced Dean and Cas's storyline, but that's a separate post). I bring up Wang Xifeng purely because I want to compare Dean to Lady Wang, Wang Xifeng's aunt and Baoyu's mother. If you're a Dean stan who's read Dream of the Red Chambers, you're probably livid right now. But think of it this way-- Lady Wang is a victim of patriarchal feudalism, and while Dean isn't a woman living under this sort of oppression, Dabb alludes to a similar power structure, and there's a reason why there are so many posts comparing Dean to the Eldest Daughter.

Late season SPN is where Dabb explores female-centric themes in a male centric show. Yes, I find this absurd too, but that's the choice he made. It's why Amara exists. It's why he brought back Mary. It's why S12-15 is extremely domestic. And it's why he covers a range of female experiences through Dean.

Let me go back to Qin Keqing. If she hadn't died, she would have been in charge of running the household, and she would have done an excellent job. But would she have been happy?

No.

The only other woman who matches Qin Keqing's talents is Wang Xifeng, and she dies relatively young. If she'd lived-- would she have turned into her aunt? Lady Wang is described as "wooden," but we know from Grandma Liu that before she married into the Jia family, she had a fiery personality, just like Wang Xifeng. Marriage turned her bitter. Indeed, Baoyu remarked that marriage turned women from pearls into dead fish eyes. And even though Dean isn't married, the role he plays in his family and his conflicts with Cas (and his resulting dislike of Jack) are very similar to the problems the legal wife of a wealthy man in ancient China would face. Or rather-- they're very similar to the problems the wife of a wealthy man/noblesman in a patriarchal feudalistic society would face. He probably would have identified with Catelyn Stark in GOT.

I'll probably write another post exploring how Red Chamber influenced the intra family conflicts in SPN, but before I do that, I want to talk about one more thing: Qin Keqing's nickname is Jian Mei, which means Both Beauties; she's considered to share both Daiyu and Baochai's beauty. Am I saying that there are shades of both Daiyu and Baochai in Dean's late season characterization? Yes. Dabb leans toward Daiyu = Dean and Baochai = Sam, although he plays with Baochai = Eileen too. Let me give you the shorthand for what these women stand for.

Daiyu = rebellious, bucks societal conventions, dies from a broken heart when Baoyu is tricked into marrying Baochai.

Baochai = obedient, adheres to societal conventions and thus the patriarchy, marries Baoyu but is then cast away because Baoyu decides to become a monk.

Tomorrow, I'll go into greater detail on how Baoyu, Daiyu, and Baochai appear through Cas, Dean, Sam, Jack, and Eileen, and how these choices tie into the finale.

[eagle-raider]

Of hidden meanings

I wrote this back in August and it’s been collecting digital dust in my draft folder ever since. To celebrate International Translation day (yes, it is a thing, and yes, it’s today) I told myself I’d post it. Behold the wall of text.

I’ve been (re) reading one of my all times favorite books, which is Les Liaisons Dangereuses (1782, Choderlos de Laclos), but in English this time – after months of trying to get my hands on a translation (the one I got is by Thomas Moore and was published in 1812).  

The book is a classic of French literature, an epistolary novel telling the story of the Marchioness de Merteuil and the Viscount de Valmont, two narcissistic rivals (and ex-lovers) who use seduction as a weapon to socially control and exploit others, all the while enjoying their cruel games and boasting about their talent for manipulation.  

The book has had several movie adaptations, ranging from the most faithful (Dangerous Liaisons, Stephen Frears, 1988) to the most forgettable (Valmont by Milos Forman, 1989), to a loosely based adaptation/Modern setting re-writing (Cruel Intentions, 1999 and that infamous tongue kiss between SMG and Selma Blair). So yeah, you’ve probably either heard of it, or seen one of those movies, or at least the gifs of that kiss.  

Now, this book has been censored to hell and back because of its depiction of amorality. It explores different subjects: revenge, manipulation, malice and even female homosexuality (briefly, but it’s there – both in the book and the movie adaptation by Frears), with feminist undertones, which, for a book written by a military man in 1782 is a real novelty.  

Yes, the Marchioness de Merteuil is a villain, if you look at the book through a Manichaean perspective (which is what the movie did), but above all, she is a victim of her time. And again, for a man to fully grasp the societal burden of women circa 1782 is absolutely unprecedented. And it’s way too real for it to be a happy coincidence.

I know this book almost by heart my copy is filled to the brim with annotations and almost all pages are dog-eared.  

Now, one of my all-time favorite letters within the book is letter 141. It’s about 2/3 through the story – the Marchioness de Merteuil is peeved at Valmont because he is too enamored with his lover to pay her any attention – said lover is a married noble, a devout Christian he managed to defile—his words not mine.  

The reason she’s peeved is never explained. Jealousy, perhaps, but it’s not borne out of love. Merteuil doesn’t love him, she just wants him wrapped around her little finger.

So, in this letter, as per their twisted game, she tells him that now that he got what he wanted, it is time to break things off with that Christian woman. And, in her infinite generosity, Merteuil provides him with the perfect breakup letter. I was really looking forward to seeing how the translator – Thomas Moore – would handle the nuances, and I wasn’t disappointed for the most part.

It goes as follows:  

One tires of every thing, my angel! It is a law of nature; it is not my fault. 

 If, then, I am tired of a connection that has entirely taken me up four long months, it is not my fault.

If, for example, I had just as much love as you had virtue, and that’s saying a great deal, it is not at all surprising that one should end with the other; it is not my fault

It follows, then, that for some time past, I have deceived you; but your unmerciful affection in some measure forced me to it! It is not my fault.

Now a woman I love to distraction, insists I must sacrifice you: it is not my fault.

I am sensible here is a fine field for reproaches; but if nature has only granted men constancy, whilst it gives obstinacy to women, it is not my fault.

Take my advice, choose another lover, as I have another mistress—The advice is good; if you think otherwise, it is not my fault.

Farewell, my angel! I took you with pleasure, I part you without regret; perhaps I shall return to you; it is the way of the world; it is not my fault

It’s perfect, it’s vicious, it’s exactly what you’d expect to receive from an asshole like Valmont.

Now why am I telling you this? Because there’s a slight change in the movie adaptation, that I think fully grasps the hidden meaning behind “It is not my fault,”  which is the literal translation of the original French version: ce n’est pas ma faute.

The writing team decided to change “It is not my fault” to “It’s beyond my control” and if you’re a purist, you might think they were absolutely stupid and why choose another option when word for word translation works just fine in this case? Why change it when the meaning behind the words is there?  

To answer your question: because it’s not.  

Keep in mind that the book is written in old-French, or an older iteration of French, rather. Words had a slightly different meaning than they do now, e.g. the verb to hear (entendre in French) meant “understand” which is something that the French verb kind of lost while the English retained somewhat (when people say I get you/do you hear me).

So, when the letter says “It is not my fault.” what it really means is, “It’s beyond my control.”  

Earlier, I said that Merteuil wanted to have Valmont wrapped around her little finger? This is what I meant. It’s beyond his control. She demanded of him that breaks up with his lover, she provided the means to do so, and as she writes earlier in the same letter:

“My comparison appears to me the more just as, like [a Sultan], you never are the lover or friend of a woman, but always her tyrant or her slave.”

Boom. Burn.

Valmont is Merteuil’s slave and she spelled it out to him (quite brutally). Which is why, I believe that the translator could have maybe underlined the hidden take behind “It is not my fault.” 

The movie did, because it fully grasped Merteuil’s intention: Valmont is her puppet. He should break up with his lover because Merteuil wants him to and because it is literally beyond his control. Which is what Valmont keeps repeating in the sequence:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cjUmvHBgHr0

(apologies for the potato quality)

It’s nitpicky but it matters in this case because the nuance is lost in the translation, unless the readers pay careful attention. I’m not saying the translation is bad, because it’s not. Literary translation is a balancing act of subjectivity.  

It begs the question: how far can you adapt a translation into your target language before it reaches the point of no return and everything that made the text special/authentic/flavorful is lost? It’s the eternal debate between traductology scholars: are you a target-oriented/source-oriented translator. Most translators will say they’re target-oriented, and they’re right.  

However, the game changes when you’re translating classics, because you’re not just translating a text into a language your audience can understand—you’re translating a chunk of history with it. You can’t dissociate the book and its author from the historical context it was written in because the context gives crucial clues on how to navigate the translation. A book, whatever it may be about, is a testimony of its time.

Does an English-speaking audience in 2020 understand that “It is not my fault” means “I’m somebody’s puppet, your life and mine aren’t ours to do as we please?”

Does “it isn’t my fault” hold as much meaning in 2020 than its French counterpart did in 1782?

If yes, keep it.  

It not, then change it. Adapt it, make it more obvious even if you stray a little from the original version. 

This is what the movie did, in all subtlety, forgoing a literal translation for something else that was in line with the context of the book/history/plot.

I will admit my own bias because this book is among my favorite pieces of classical literature – and Renaissance/pre-French revolution is my favorite period, so I nerd. A lot.    

Next up: Game Localization and how the Japanese translation/VA work of Ghost of Tsushima influenced Jin Sakai’s personality (goody two-shoes in English vs. darker/grounded in JP)

Happy International Translation Day, folks!

[atamascolily]

After Ursula K. Le Guin died, I made an agreement with myself I would read anything and everything she'd written as the chance arose. That said, Searoad: Chronicles of Klatsand probably would have been the last on my list, had I not stumbled across a paperback copy in a library booksale (in pre-pandemic times) in a "fill a paper bag for $10" sale and it languished in my TBR pile for months before I finally got around to it.

The reason? Genre snobbery, in reverse of the usual direction. Searoad is a collection of short stories published in magazines like The New Yorker, and fancy-sounding publications with Review in their names. Serious publications publishing so-called "literary" fiction, or maybe "realistic fiction" or just plain fiction--fiction that's supposed to tell-it-like-it-is, lay bare the inadequacies of modern life, and leave you feeling empty and unfulfilled after watching empty and unfulfilled people make poor decisions in futile attempts to fill the emptiness and inadequacies of their lives. Because that’s the whole point of literature, right?

Oh. Perhaps I'm generalizing. But so it feels to me whenever I dip into one of these publications. They are "literature", everything else is "genre": romance, science-fiction, fantasy, action, adventure, thriller, mystery, crime. "Literary" fiction is usually just plain old "fiction" in the library classification systems and in common parlance: it is assumed to be the norm, the default, from which everything else is a deviation. And I hate this. I've always hated this.

To write about petty modern people with their petty modern lives is one thing--we all have our kinks--but to disdain others for imagining different things, for epics and grandeur and you-could-have-anything-so-why-not-go-for-it always struck me as a deep failure of, and disdain for, imagination. Genres, like so much else in our lives, are social constructs: us and them, the have and the have-nots. Literary fiction are the "haves", everything else is the "have-nots". That's changing, obviously, and the boundaries aren't as rigid as they once were, but I still see that divide reflected in so-called "serious" publications, and I generally avoid them.

Ursula K. Le Guin has always hugged the boundaries between "pure" genre (aka trashy, flashy, unfit for serious folk in the eyes of the pedants) and "literary merit". She's been accepted and respected by both camps, although the "literary" folks speak of the sci-fi rather patronizingly in their reviews of her works. Le Guin, however, never disdained the sci-fi labels in the same way that Margaret Atwood--another boundary-spanning writer--has always done.

For this reason, I've retained infinitely more respect for Le Guin than Atwood, despite Atwood's considerable talents as a writer. Atwood wants to play with sci-fi tropes, but she doesn't have the backbone to stand up and be proud of it. Atwood wants to write science fiction but not be judged for it, and the easiest way to do that (since genres are a social construct) is just to firmly insist that it's not sci-fi at all--move along, nothing to see here.

Here's a blurb on the back of my copy of Searoad by Carolyn Kizer, a Pulitzer-prize winning poet from the Pacific Northwest:

"For a number of years, the only science-fiction I read was that of Ursula K. Le Guin. I don't read science-fiction any more, thought I wouldn't think of missing a book of Le Guin's. She has transcended the genre..."

How very generous and open-minded of you to only read science-fiction so elevated it “transcends” its genre entirely, thereby becoming worthy of notice. And this is supposed to make me like literary fiction? 

That said, the irony is that Kizer’s statement sums up my approach to non-genre stuff as well, although I would not have phrased it quite so baldly. More like “Okay, not usually my cup of tea--but if it’s you, it’s okay....” The genre transcending thing, as much as I despise the phrasing, works both ways here.

All this is to say I finally read Searoad, even though I had to coax myself into it by pretending that this was an alien society that Le Guin and I were exploring together in order to tell us stuff about our own, and that helped. It also helped because the stories were so damn good, and I got carried away, even though they are very literary stories, with ambiguous endings, the usual focus on unexpressed and/or self-destructive emotions of love, birth, and death, and no magic or wizards or dragons whatsoever.

(To repeat: I am a genre snob who has never understood why writing without dragons was inherently better than writing with dragons in it. I have always operated under the principle that dragons made everything better. And I have never understood why depicting the world as it is was a stroke of literary genius, if all you were going to do with it it is show people being unhappy in the usual old ways instead of unusual ways. Or even imagine something new and different!)

Searoad reminds me of Lake Wobegon a little, but that's only because it's a small town, with characters from one story popping up in others in the most unexpected places--just like small town life. After a while, it feels like we're constantly running into old friends, a shared world--real, but in a good way. The stories were published across a wide range of outlets from 1987-1991, yet flow into each other astonishingly well when read in rapid succession, or indeed, in any order at all.

My favorite is "True Love," which is all about ditching unsatisfying conventional relationships to focus on one's true passion instead:

For me, sex is sublimation. Left to itself, in its raw, primitive state, my libido would have expend itself inexhaustibly in reading.

And since I have been a librarian ever since I was twenty, I can truly compare my life to that of some pasha luxuriating in his harem--and what a harem! Half a million mistresses, when I was at the Central Library in Portland! A decade-long orgy! And during the school year, since I teach now at the Library School, I have access to the University Library. Here in Klatsand where I spend the summers, the harem is very small and a good many of the houris are rather out of date, but then so am I. My lust has lessened somewhat with the years. Sometimes I imagine I could be contented with a mere shelf of tried, true, and highly selected Scheherazades, with only now and then a pretty little novel to flirt with, or a volume of new poetry to make me cry out with excess of pleasure in the heart of the night.

And in the same story, Le Guin makes it clear she's one of us:

"Do you like science fiction" I asked her, because all I can really talk about is books. And of course, she couldn't talk about books. That had been knocked out of her years ago. We compromised on "Star Trek," new and old. She liked the new series as well as the old one. I liked the old one better. Antal stared, not at Rosemarie, only at me. "You watch it?" he said. "You watch television?"

I didn't answer. ... I was not going to let him try to shame us for our commonness.

"The one I liked best was the one where Mr. Spock had to go home because he was in heat," I said to her.

"Except, he never, you know," she said. "They just had a fight over the girl, him and Captain Kirk, and then they left."

"That's his pride," I said, obscurely. I was thinking how Mr. Spock was never unbuttoned, never lolled, kept himself shadowy, unfulfilled, and so we loved him. And poor Captain Kirk, going from blonde to blonde, would never understand that he himself loved Mr. Spock truly, hopelessly, forever.

Reader, I LOLed. Because it's true. You know it, I know it, and so does Le Guin. And she had the guts to say so in the Indiana Review, and the editors published it. LEGEND.

Like all of Le Guin's writing, the stories in Searoad are lyrical, elegant, soaring, and moving--sympathetic, yet unafraid to call out bad behavior and terrible things when she sees it. My other favorite story, "Sleepwalkers," is a brilliant example of this: it starts with a complaint by a privileged male playwright about the housekeeper at his summer cabin, only for us to quickly learn (if his tone and phrasing didn't give it away) that he's an arrogant asshole who sees only what he wants to see and misses what's actually in front of him. We then pivot to a number of other people at the little resort, and their views of the housekeeper, and we're left with an open question at the end: which view is more accurate? Which story do we believe? What is actually going on? Can any of us really know or understand the hidden depths within another person? It's so deep and lush and well-written, and even funny on occasions.

And there's also a diversity of viewpoints and perspectives and scenarios enough to keep me interested: a lesbian grieves the death of her long-time partner, a war veteran deals with PTSD, a college student runs off into the woods to secretly map illegal old-growth logging stands, a ghost appears in a late-night diner to a sexual-abuse victim. The ghost thing seems like it ought to fall under genre conventions, but doesn’t because of the framing, and yet it still works for me--another example of Le Guin’s skill.

Anyway, so Le Guin actually made me enjoy so-called "literary" fiction and that was unexpected and delightful. Regardless of my feelings about most "realistic" fiction, I'm glad I read this collection.  

[fearsmagazine]

MY HEART CAN'T BEAT UNLESS YOU TELL IT TO - Review

DISTRIBUTOR: Dark Sky Films

SYNOPSIS: Dwight prowls the streets after dark for the lonely and forlorn. He is searching for those who won't be missed. Dwight takes no joy in this, but he needs their fresh blood for his fragile young brother Thomas. Without it Thomas cannot survive. Each death takes a larger toll on Dwight, the burden of his crimes weighing heavier each time. But Thomas and his sister Jessie are all the family Dwight has left, and as a fiercely private and close-knit family unit, they depend on him and the rituals they've learned in order to keep their secret. Dwight yearns for another life, but Jessie needs them to stay together. Afterall, the boy must feed.

REVIEW: Imagine if you will, you find yourself the oldest sibling of three. Your sister is the middle child, has an ironclad will and is so determined when she puts her mind to something she is frightening. Then there is the youngest. You might feel your sister coddles him too much, but after all he is not well. His condition leaves him listless, not able to venture outside the home, and the only remedy is his consumption of fresh blood. Is it some new disease, a psychological condition, or could he actually be a vampire? Jonathan Cuartas’s film MY HEART CAN'T BEAT UNLESS YOU TELL IT TO examines this dysfunctional family dynamic as Dwight is torn between doing what he needs to do as the head of this family and struggles with guilt and anxiety of all the literal blood on his hands.

MY HEART CAN'T BEAT UNLESS YOU TELL IT TO is a complex narrative as the filmmaker explores the forces driving Dwight and his sister, Jessie, as their story is about to go supernova. Thomas is no handsome creature of the night with bravado or swagger. He comes across as a timid and fragile creature that longs for human connection with kids around his own age. He wants to leave the house and venture out into the world but his siblings keep him confined for his own safety. Cuartas’s paints Thomas as this sympathetic victim whose only real issue is that he requires blood to survive. Initially we might consider that it is Jessie’s domineering personality that is the root cause of his issues. However, the filmmaker unfolds his plot like a master poker player and keeps us guessing to the very end. He does an outstanding job of setting up these character dynamics that subtly run through the narrative and erupt with a ferocity when they begin to overlap. Cuartas manages to create these moments of innocence and sincerity, and he spices things up with a few moments of satire. There are a few occasions where he waxes a tad political and those moments are not as effective as the overall tone of the film.

The film has a brooding tone to the cinematography that enhances the narrative. That color scheme is woven into the production design and the costumes. It creates a moody, dreamlike aspect to the film. The energy explodes at the times of violence in the film and there is plenty of blood. It’s interesting as the blood is not bright red, but a deeper, richer tone of red.

The film features an amazing ensemble cast. Each performance is a unique character and they are able to elicit a wide range of emotions from the viewer. There is something organic, gritty, and raw about these characters that is clearly the skill of these talented actors.

Jonathan Cuartas' film has taken the vampire myth and uses it to craft a contemporary American story. In Toby Hooper’s “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre” he does not present the viewer with the story or any clues behind the cannibal family. Here Cuartas does not dwell on the victims so much and allows the viewer to get to know these characters and the snapshot of their story towards the end of it. We never know why or how Thomas came by this condition, but we know he is not the only one suffering because of it. Some might consider this an art house film but I believe it has deeper roots and because of its tone has more in common with a literary gothic story of Poe or Hawthorne. MY HEART CAN'T BEAT UNLESS YOU TELL IT TO is a rich cinematic view that will certainly take your mind sometime to digest.

CAST: Patrick Fugit, Ingrid Sophie Schram, and Owen Campbell. CREW: Director/Screenplay - Jonathan Cuartas; Producer - Jesse R. Brown, Patrick Fugit, and Anthony Pedone; Cinematographer - Michael Cuartas; Score - Andrew Rease Shaw; Editor - T.J. Nelson; Production Designer - Rodrigo Cuartas; Costume Designer - Camilla Phelps; Special Makeup Effects - Shirell Nestlerode; Prosthetics - Abigail Steele; Visual Effects - Malgorzata Grzyb and Maciej Sankowski. OFFICIAL: www.dualist.com/my-heart-can-t-beat-unless-you-tell-it-to FACEBOOK: www.facebook.com/heartcantbeat/ INSTAGRAM: www.instagram.com/heartcantbeat/ TRAILER: https://youtu.be/y6AvgkRP6Dc RELEASE DATE: In Theaters & Digital release June 25th, 2021

**Until we can all head back into the theaters our “COVID Reel Value” will be similar to how you rate a film on digital platforms - 👍 (Like), 👌 (It’s just okay),  or 👎 (Dislike)

Reviewed by Joseph B Mauceri

[grandhotelabyss]

A good essay on translation and world markets. The final lectures in my Introduction to U.S. Multicultural Literatures class—soon to be publicly available on my YouTube channel, as I believe I won’t be teaching that course again anytime soon—addresses the same topic and uses as a starting point the same passages in Valeria Luiselli’s Faces in the Crowd. Luiselli is more a victim of the world market than its critic, as our author notes, since she began as a lyrical, aloof, apolitical neomodernist writing in Spanish and became, even if it did not totally dim her talent, more of a somber “social justice” writer in American English. Ideologically, this essay seems torn between believing that what made the Latin American Boom worthwhile was its ties to actually-existing communism and thinking Borgesian universalist aristocratic anti-political modernism the path forward. 

On one hand, it recalls Alex Perez’s Bolaño-themed podcast appearance I was discussing last week; Perez has decamped from the mainstream literary scene, though, and I suspect feels free to scorn without apology the absorption of literature today by the institutions of the center-left and its insatiable desire to manage the populace by reifying and commodifying identities. In this censorious context—which affects what gets published elsewhere too—it’s hard to imagine Anglophone literature receiving a vital jolt from outside, as when the Romantics read the Germans, the realists read the French, the modernists read the Russians, and the postmodernists read the Latin Americans, despite the essay’s concluding call to “create markets anew.” Manga and anime will have to fill the void, until the NGO-CIA-DNC axis gets its moralizing hands on that too.

I link this article also as a reminder that I need to read more Boom novels and more Bolaño. I read Borges and García Márquez young, young enough that they might even count as influences, but I’ve been in a holding pattern for a decade and a half with Fuentes and Vargas Llosa, stuck on their nonfiction, not knowing how or where to start with their novels. I’ve always been like this with fiction writers who are strong essayists—it took me an obscenely long time to read Didion’s and Ozick’s novels, for instance, though they’re great—and I am currently suffering the appropriate Dantean punishment for it: I have a popular literary blog and a hard time selling my own novels! Often I think the Don DeLillos and Cormac McCarthys and Kazuo Ishiguros, the novelists who’ve mostly refrained from writing essays, have it right. But I am in the Woolf-Lawrence line—I want to write everything.

[rgrettes]

heyy, I hope I'm not bothering but I've seen that you used to post about faberry and faberry fics like Shafd, and since I'm trying to find some faberry fanfics to read, could you please recommend me some of your favorites? Thank you :)

OKAY so this took me a whole lot longer than anticipated because I didn’t want to make it be like 500 fics long! But here, in no particular order, are my top 10 faberry fanfics! [excluding SHAfD of course bc whomever asked this definitely knows SHAfD!]I will be including trigger warnings/content warnings! Please be sure that you can handle the subjects before reading the content! Be safe and put your mental and physical wellbeing before a work of fiction!

10. Dirty Little Secret by patchesofink

Chapters: 77/77 [208k]

This fic would actually happen to be the first faberry fic that I ever read. I felt my little 15 year old self cry several times throughout this fic. It’s what first got me into writing fanfic, because I wanted to write as well as this author! There is a content warning so please be careful reading it if you are sensitive to topics mentioned!

Rachel has a secret and Quinn has figured it out - but will Quinn use this knowledge to exact revenge on Rachel for telling Finn that Puck was really the father or will she use her own experiences to help. WARNING - language and sexual content, r*pe.

9. I’ll Be by stix04

Chapters: 20/20 [330k]

God I was such a sucker for fake dating au’s as a young teenager and I’m most definitely a sucker for them now. This one I didn’t read right when it came out, I didn’t actually find it until it had finished but it still makes my top 20 because it’s just too good not to talk about!

Can Quinn pretend to be in love with Rachel just to get out of Lima? Can Rachel pretend to love Quinn so she's not so lonely in New York? And what happens when both girls realize they're no longer pretending?

8. Long Way to Happy by patchesofink 

Chapters: 42/42 [104k]

This is the sequel to Dirty Little Secret and makes the list for being just as good as the original. This author is so talented and the story just resonates in my soul! 

warnings for sexual content, language, violence and potential ptsd triggers!

Sequel to Dirty Little Secret. Rachel still has some healing to do as well with dealing with becoming a mom. Quinn has her own issues to deal with. Can their fledgling relationship deal with the ups and downs of life and cope with senior year? Quinn learns to open up and Rachel deals with motherhood and not letting her past define her. It's a Long Way to Happy.

7. Leather Jackets and Bad Coffee by antonius

Chapters: 11/?? [75k] [has not updated since 2018 :(]

Bikers, 50′s style diners, and good girl/bad girl pairing. Literally who could ask for anything more? I’m super sad this one hasn’t updated in a long time but it’s still such a fun read!!

warning for violence!

Ninety miles and nearly two hours from the heart of New York City, just off of PA-33 North, is the little town of Belfast, Pennsylvania: population 1,257. Right outside the city limits sits Moe's, a small 24-hour diner whose newest waitress, Rachel Berry, has taken her best friend Kurt's advice and started a calm summer temp job away from the hustle-and-bustle of busy city life in order to rest up before her final year at NYADA.During her very first midnight shift, she encounters a group of rowdy regulars led by a pink-haired woman with piercing hazel eyes. Quinn Fabray is the leader of the Skanks, a small but well-known local biker gang that doesn't take shit from anyone.So began the strangest summer of Rachel Berry's life.

6. Talk by saintdyke

Chapters: 17/? [43k] [last updated may 2019]

This is another one I’m sad hasn’t updated in a while! This honestly stole my heart to a point that in the time I found it in mid April 2019 and June of 2019 I have re-visited the fic 105 times, rereading it at least half as many as that. I’m really hoping the author comes back to the fic, because it was keeping me on the edge of my seat.

warning for violence, abuse mentions and depictions, homophobia and ptsd triggers!

(Previously titled Grease Stains, Starry Skies) Famous actress Rachel Berry’s car breaks down in the middle of nowhere. A pretty blonde with a blue truck rescues her from the side of the road, and just so happens to own an Auto Repair shop in town. Quinn is frustrating and mysterious, and Rachel is just as stubborn. Together, they start a revolution.

5. Just off the Key of Reason by iamapanda

Chapters: 30/30 [129k]

This one is another absolute classic in the Faberry fandom, and is another fic that has stuck with me throughout the years! It has a fantastic softer take on Quinn that I truly appreciated because everyone back in the early years of the fandom would make her so angry and bitter and she’s just so soft in some interpretations

Rachel Berry is a successful Broadway star with a new roommate, the very odd, naive Quinn Fabray. It starts with a note on the fridge and a childishly scrawled doodle of an elephant. Everybody has a little crazy in them.

4. Still off the Key of Reason by iamapanda

Chapters: 37/37 [185k]

The sequel to Just off the Key of Reason! Still as soft and as crazy! I can’t mention one without having the other in the list as well! I can’t explain how it feels to look at the ff.net pages after so long, my heart is transported back to 2011 and I’m sitting on my bed after I’m supposed to be in bed. I miss the days where I could just spend time reading these fics and not having adult responsibilities.

Quinn is thundering her way through vet school. Rachel is enlightening the west coast with her talent. The story continues with a wedding, dogs in tuxedos, and Pooh Bear vows. Crazy never fades.

3. A Million Miles of Fun by Jade8Devlin

Chapters: 12/12 [103k]

This one is a little different from the last ones! It isn’t my favorite because of its literary genius, but because of how fun and out there it is! It’s concept is fresh and dark and something I honestly didn’t expect to see but it quickly grew to be a favorite for me!

warning for violence, abuse, mentions of murder! the whole story revolves around The Unholy Trinity + Rachel murdering Quinn’s family so please take that into consideration!

And in Lima, Ohio, a man and woman were killed earlier today during what is believed to be a home invasion. Russell Fabray was last seen leaving Gas'N'Go at two o'clock; his wife, Judith, from a grocery story an hour earlier. Police are linking the double homicide to the area's recent surge in breaking and entering – though these appear to be the first fatalities. The victims are survived by their daughters; Quinn and Stacey."Jessalyn Briggs shuffles the papers on her desk, clearing her throat. The somber expression on her face seems to float off her as she turns towards camera 3."Otis-the-Otter finishes today's news headlines as the little critter that could. Abandoned by his mother and found foraging for scraps in the Nelson family's garbage cans, Otis has proven; if you can't teach an old dog new tricks, teach them to an otter! Otis placed second at this year's Ohio Dog Show after last year's well-documented struggle by the Nelson family to allow Otis to be included. Well done Otis, we here at Channel 43 salute you.

2. The Silence of Silence by your.kat

Chapters: 31/31 [135k]

This one... I can’t describe why I liked it, I just liked it.

warning for mental health, and trauma [possible others, please read with caution]

Quinn and Rachel meet at Haverbrook under unusual circumstances. Why is Rachel silent? And why does Quinn care? "You can hear," Quinn said simply, "but can you speak?"; "Yes," Rachel signed. "I can speak. But silence is a friend who will never betray."

1. Kissing Quinn Fabray by vondrunkaton

Chapters: 6/6 [45k]

This one just makes me super warm and fuzzy inside. I don’t think I can say it’s entirely changed my life but it’s just so soft and i love it

Quinn comforts Rachel after Finn says something oafish. Rachel is surprised by how sweet Quinn is. There's also some making out in delicious detail. Fluffy getting together fic.

I am super open to talking about more fics I love/like and other pairings! This was a ton of fun to talk about and sent me down memory lane! I went searching for two hours on a vague memory of a fic that I think has been deleted by now. But if anyone wants to help me track it down! Hit me up and I’ll give you the details!

[what-is-your-plan-today]

CSI: Rogers and Barnes- The Serious Cereal Serial Killer

Ch4: Hit and Run Co written with @icanfeelastormbrewing

Episode Summary: There’s another body, and it’s another familiar face. Some bitching and arguing and an accident. SHOCK!!!

Episode Warnings: Bad Language words. Contains flash back which alludes to a sexual assault. Nothing graphic but avoid if this is a trigger.

Episode Pairings:  Steve Rogers x OFC Katie Stark (she still hates him…)

Song for Episode:  Demons At The Door by Sleeping Wolf

A/N: This entire series contains dark humour (CSI + Brooklyn 99=CSI Steeb) Avengers and Stark Spangled Banner Easter Eggs and jokes. You don’t need to have read the SSB series to understand or enjoy this, but we’ve used the Universe to spin this off from so somethings might puzzle a few of you if you ain’t, but feel free to ask.

Also, our knowledge of American Policing and Brooklyn is limited, so bear with us if we slip up, but at the end of the day this is a fiction so we’ll claim any mistakes as creative license!!

As always we live for re-blogs and comments  

CSI Rogers and Barnes Master List 

Main Masterlist 

"Of all the places in the world...." Steve groaned as they approached the murder scene.

It was a late July evening and the cool breeze that blew at the Ice Rink at 8 p.m. wasn't a good match for his short sleeved navy blue polo shirt. He didn’t like ice, either. But that was a whole different story. He shrugged on his denim jacket as he walked, giving a slight shiver.

"Hey, it's me who has issues with winter sports, not you. You love ice, Capsicle." Bucky said laughing at his own lame pun.

"Jerk" was the only thing Steve bothered to say to his friend.

They waved at Thor who, as per usual, was directing the police operative. The man was more rushed this time as the new body had appeared in a more popular with tourists spot at a busier time of the evening too.

The area had been secured but people still lingered in the area, trying to get a glimpse of what was happening and, if they were lucky enough, of the bulk under the sheet before they put it in a body bag.

Steve saw a pair of journalists trying to bargain some information out of the police officers who were trying to keep the curious onlookers at bay. He had seen them around other crime scenes and at a few press conferences he had attended over the last couple of years. It was a matter of seconds when another two or three more turned up.

As they approached the scene, they saw that Sam had arrived and was discussing some sort of procedure with Bruce who was crouched down by the body. Katie was busy inspecting the surroundings oblivious to the two men behind her and gave a start when Steve and Bucky greeted her.

"Hey" she said catching her breath and placing a hand on her chest. "You startled me."

"Sorry" Steve smiled. "How are you holding?"

She didn’t return his smile, instead she just gave a shrug.

"Reinforcements are here" Bucky said puffing his chest.

"God bless America" Katie scoffed. "Well, pretty much same crime scene only this one is frostier."

"You can say that again." muttered Bucky. Katie glared at him and ignoring his jab regarding the tension between her and Steve and continued her report on the scene.

"No bullet wound, so no casings. This is a promenade so no vehicle tracks, I was inspecting the area for footprints but there are no wet marks so the attacker wasn't on the ice. We need to see what Sam says about the body, but I presume from the lack of evidence of a vehicle, plus the fact it would be pretty hard to drive here anyway at this time of day without being seen, that the victim was attacked where he's lying, by the bench that faces the ice rink."

"Have you talked to the boys that found it?" Steve asked Katie while looking around searching for the kids who had spotted the body.

“Him.” she replied, not looking up

"It's a male?" Bucky asked Katie.

"Yes, the boys reported the body of a man who seemed to be dead by one of the benches in front of the rink." Katie said. "Well, according to Thor their exact words were “There's a dude here, he got smoked.”  Yeah, quite the literary talent." she added when Bucky chuckled at the boys’ use of slang. "Anyway, a police officer is with them, we’re waiting for their parents to show up and then we can drive them to the station to take their statements."

"Ok. Let's see what Sam and Bruce got." Steve said as he began to walk towards the scene, followed by Bucky and Katie who was now grabbing a mint from the packet that Bucky was holding out for her.

"Do we know anything about the victim?" Steve asked turning her head to Katie and then turned again to greet Sam.

"Nope. Not yet. Sam only told me there was no bullet wound, only what seemed...." Steve frowned and turned to ask Katie why she had stopped talking when he saw she had paused in her tracks and stood there frozen looking down at the body.

"Katie?" Bucky who had also stopped walking asked a worried look on his face.

She didn’t reply, merely stood there her eyes wide, a look of utter shock on her face.

"She's shaken. She's not hearing you." Steve told Bucky as he moved towards Katie, recognising the signs instantly. He’d seen it often enough "Can you please take the reins, while I... umm..?"

"Sure, pal. I've got this." he said before Steve could finish the question and turned to Sam and Bruce whose worried looks were focused now on the three of them rather than on the dead body on the floor.

"Hey. Are you ok? Katie? Look at me." Steve said quietly holding Katie's face between his hands.

She seemingly reacted to the human contact and the soft voice speaking to her. Her eyes fell on the ones before her and Steve saw those green orbs staring at his, struggling to focus, and once she did  she flinched from his touch and composed herself.

Steve swallowed hard and tried to hide his wounded pride as much as possible.

"Come here." he said as he took her arm gently and guided her to the spot where their cars were parked.

"Need anything? Water?" Steve offered patiently giving her time to adjust to reality.

"No, I'm fine thanks." she said and fell silent again looking past him towards the bulk on the ground beside the bench.

"Are you gonna tell me what that was about?" Steve asked tentatively.

Katie stood now leaning back against the left door of her car as Steve waiting patiently for an answer which he honestly wasn't sure he was going to get given how things were between the two of them. His fists clenched inside the pockets of his denim jacket fighting the urge to reach for Katie to comfort her but he knew she wouldn’t appreciate it. Instead, he watched her carefully as she moved her eyes frantically between the crime scene and him, and closing them she whispered "I know him."

"You knew the victim?" he asked frowning.

She nodded and inhaled deeply before opening her eyes again and saying "Sitwell, Jasper Sitwell."

Steve looked at her intently trying to get more information from her, he couldn't recall where had he heard that name but it did sound familiar.

"Sitwell..." he repeated as if uttering that surname again would magically bring a memory back. "Katie, I don't..."

"Steve" she said her eyes on his "remember what happened with Rumlow?"

"Yes." he said the word nearly getting stuck in his throat. Now he was beginning to get worried.

"Sitwell was Rumlow's alibi when Peralta and I were digging into him. We had to drop the case because that bloodsucker stated they were together when it all happened." she rubbed her temples and laced a strand of hair behind her ear before continuing "Never believed him. We were forced to drop it. And then..." she choked on her words.

"Shhhh" Steve said gently reaching for her to calm her with a hug. But she raised her palms stopping him on the spot and he retreated hurt showing in his eyes as it was the second time in less than 5 minutes that she had rejected his touch.

"I'm fine." She said biting her lower lip and looking down to the ground "Or I will be... gotta get out of here Steve" she added before moving around the front part of her car.

"Are you sure you can drive?" Steve asked before she reached the driver's door. "Want me to take you?"

"No." she said too fast and sharp for Steve liking

"Let me call Tony... or Bucky could?" he tried again, worried she would be too upset to focus on the road.

"I'm fine, Steve. Just need a hot bath and to get some sleep." she said taking the car keys out of her jacket right pocket.

"Ok, well… be careful.” She nodded and went to open her door before Steve suddenly remembered something.

“Wait…” he said, and she turned to look at him "I've got something for you.”

He ran towards his car while Katie stood there by the open door of hers waiting for him with a frown.

"Here! My ma gave me this for you." he said handing her the slice of apple pie Mrs Rogers had sent with him.

"Does she know...?" she said taking the foil wrapped pie he was handing her, looking down at it as he handed it over.

"That you're back? Yes, told her earlier." Steve nodded pursing his lips at the memory of her mother's advice.

"Tell her thanks and I'll drop by when I can." she said smiling to him for the first time since she came back from DC.

Steve nodded and smiled back at her as she closed the door and started the car. He leant over the driver's window and said "Drive safe." before she pulled away. He sighed, hands on his hips, his never wavering gaze on the taillights of the blue Honda Civic as it drove away.

"What was that about?" Steve turned around to see a concerned Bucky.

"The victim was.... ummm.... Let's say he was an old acquaintance. Long story. Tell you about it later." Steve said and gestured to the crime scene before asking Bucky.

"Same scene?"

"Yeah, pretty much. This time there's apparently increased violence though. Two blows." Bucky answered.

"Cereal?"

"Yes. I would say it was Jump Start this time. God I hate that shitty generic brand stuff." Bucky scoffed while unlocking his phone.

Steve raised an eyebrow and was about to ask him what was the deal with him and cereals, but honestly he had too many things in his mind at the moment and Bucky's one of many quirks was the last thing in the list right now.

"Ok, get in the car. I sent Katie home, so it's you and me taking the statements of those kids tonight." Steve said walking to the car and opening the driver's door.

"You sent her home and she did as you told without putting up a fight? That's a first." Bucky grinned as he entered the car and sat on the passenger seat.

Steve only groaned and started the car and shook his head at the sight of Bucky devouring his slice of pie.

During the drive back to the station Steve filled Bucky in on everything. And by doing so he found himself catapulted back 5 years previously to one of the NYPD Charity Balls.

Steve could see Katie was excited for this one, it was her first formal event since moving from Uniform into the Detective branch little over 7 months previously after years of hard work on her part to get there. She was determined to make a name for herself, prove to people she wasn’t just Commander Howard Stark’s daughter. Of course Ward had let her down last minute, as per usual, but she wasn’t letting that dampen her spirits. He picked her up, and had to smile as she practically skipped down to his car, her deep red, knee length dress flared slightly out from her hips and she had a soft black shawl draped over her shoulders. She climbed into the passenger seat and gave his cheek a quick peck as he told her she looked stunning, as always. She beamed and then the car filled with her happy chatter, about how she was looking forward to letting her hair down, especially after the case that she had been working for weeks had collapsed.

Steve, as always, kept an eye on her all night, without being overbearing. If she wanted to get drunk to the point of puking then that was her prerogative, he’d simply be there to mop up just like he had done several times before. But then he was caught in a conversation with Thor, Terry Jefferson and Barton about the recent Super Bowl and as such he hadn’t seen her for a lost sight of her for a while. When he looked up to find her, as it was his round, he realised she was nowhere to be seen. After asking Natasha where she was, the red head had frowned saying she hadn’t seen her for a while either, so Steve had headed off to see if he could find out where she was.

And he found her.

“Katie…what the hell?” Steve looked at her as she was stood near the bathroom. She was pressed hard against the wall, almost like she was trying to sink into it. Her breathing was ragged and there were tears streaking her face and he noticed she was shaking from head to toe “Jesus Sweetheart what’s…” “I just...Stevie…I…” She was stumbling over her words as turned to him and practically threw herself into his arms. He frowned and pulled her close, rubbing her back softly as she trembled against him.

“You’re scaring me honey.” he said softly. He’d never seen her like this in the entire 5 years they had been friends. “What…”

“He…er…he was waiting and…”

“Ok, slow down…” he said gently, his hands sliding to her face. “Who?”

“Rumlow…”

Steve took a deep breath through his nose as he felt the nerve in his jaw twitch. “What did he do?”

“He….he was rambling on about the case and….”

“Katie…” he looked at her, his voice calm and commanding “Tell me, what did he do?”

“He said that if I told anyone no one would believe me anyway because of the rape case being dropped and…”

Steve felt cold all over as he looked at her. His thumbs gently skated over her cheek bones as she took a deep breath “Did he touch you? Because if he did I swear to God…”

“He put his hand up my skirt and…” “Mother fucker…” Steve said, one of his hands taking through his hair, the other slamming against the wall causing Katie to flinch “Where did he go?”

“I don’t know….”

With that he wheeled round, ignoring her calls and stormed towards the main door of the bar, yanking it open.

“Hey Rogers…” Peralta looked at him “You seen Katie? The boss is just about to…” “Where’s Rumlow?” Steve demanded, cutting him off.

Peralta’s face darkened “He just left…bastard had a nerve showing up anyway, I can’t believe…”

Steve didn’t wait to hear the rest, the red mist had descended and he had only one thing in mind. That fucking cunt should be banged up in a cell from what he had heard. Apparently he had a cast iron alibi from the rape, but both Katie and Peralta were 100% convinced he had done it. But the case had been dropped as the victim had decided not pursue and as such he was still wandering around the 99 free to do what he wanted.

And he’d just assaulted one of the most important people in Steve’s life.

He ran out of the bar and spotted Rumlow as he headed towards his car. Picking up a sprint, at the sound of his feet pounding on the tarmac, Rumlow turned round and Steve sent a punch straight into the bastards face, sending him sprawling over the bonnet of his car. Steve dragged him up off the bonnet with one hand fisting in the front of his shirt before delivering another punch again, feeling his nose crunch under his fist as the man dropped to the floor. He was just winding up to boot him hard in the ribs when someone grabbed him from behind.

“Cap…” He heard Barton speak, but Steve shrugged him off easily. He went to lead with his foot again, the only thing on his mind was beating the piece of shit until he couldn’t stand up, but when someone else grabbed him, the grip was much stronger, and he was dragged back by both arms.

“Rogers, leave it…come on man…” It was Terry Jefferson.

“Son of a bitch!” Steve yelled, attempting to work his way out of Terry’s grip but to no avail.

“Stevie…” another voice, this one quieter cut through the fog and he took a deep breath as Katie appeared in front of him, both hands on his chest “Stop…”

His chest heaving he took a deep breath and looked down at her as Rumlow gave a groan from the floor behind her. Clint bent down to see to him and Steve held his hands up in surrender. Terry let go and Steve looked at Katie, his hands once more holding her face, the knuckles of his right tender from the punches he had landed.

“You alright?” he asked softly and she nodded. Steve drew himself up and turned to Terry “He assaulted her…”

“What?” Terry frowned, and looked down to Rumlow. Upon hearing Steve’s words, Clint had turned to look up at them and Natasha moved forward, her hand falling to Katie’s shoulder. Katie gave a small nod, and took a deep breath as Natasha looked at her and Steve stepped away slightly, and noticing Katie was still shaking he shrugged off his jacket and dropped it lightly over her shoulders before he heard Terry barking instructions to Peralta to get a unit down to the bar.

Rumlow was now on his feet, and in a second Clint had his arm up his back, and had shoved him down on the bonnet of the car, Rumlow giving a yell.

“Move again and I’ll break it…” he snarled, giving it a harsh jerk.

“He attacked me…”

“Did he?” Peralta asked, his phone clutched to his ear as he looked around, “I didn’t see anything…”

“Me neither…” Terry spoke.

“Yeah, hi, this is Detective Jake Peralta, I need a unit…” Peralta spoke, walking a little way away from the group as Rumlow gave another yell as Clint yanked on his arm again

“Looks like you’re mistaken shit bag.”

“Doll…” Steve turned to Katie again, who was now leaning her head against Natasha’s shoulder clutching his leather jacket around her as the red head’s arm pulled her in. She looked up at him, her green eyes still sporting that petrified look. “You up to giving a statement?”

She glanced at him, then to Rumlow, and then drew herself tall “Yeah, he’s not getting away with it a second time.” “Only he did.” Steve spat out as he swung the car into the station parking lot “The Prosecution advised Katie that it would simply be her word against his. Rumlow was sticking to his story, saying Katie had led him outside on purpose and then got cold feet. And the previous accusation couldn’t be used as the previous victim had dropped all charges…” “What previous accusation?” Bucky asked.

“Rape.” Steve sighed “The victim saw Rumlow at the station and her reaction basically led Katie and Peralta to believe it was him. But before they could go any further, he had a cast iron alibi…and that was Sitwell, the guy we just saw with his head caved in and a mouth full of cereal”

“Fuck…” Bucky mumbled.

“Katie basically went through weeks of hell to in the end drop her case, which killed her. And her fucker of a boyfriend wasn’t much of a support either, simply telling her that she shouldn’t wear such “tight or revealing clothing” for fear of egging men on.” “Are you for real?” Bucky frowned.

“Yup. Trust me, it took everything I had not to kick the crap out of him for that.” Steve sighed, “Still, being Howard’s daughter had some perks. He went in all guns blazing when he learned about what happened and kicked up an absolute storm, threatening to go to the press and everything.  Pierce, in the end, instructed Rumlow to “resign”. Which is another thing that sticks in my throat. He should have been fired.”

“Instead he got to leave with the full benefits of a pension.” Bucky shook his head.

“Yeah, still, it meant he was away from Katie. Which was something she was thankful for.”

Bucky was silent for a moment as Steve cut the engine and ran his hand over his face. “You think his murder could be connected to the dropped rape case?”

Steve shrugged “I dunno. It could just be a coincidence but…” “I don’t believe in coincidences.” Bucky shook his head “Not when it comes to stuff like this.” “Me neither.” Steve said, undoing his belt. “Let’s get these statements taken.” “Aye, aye Captain.” Bucky said, saluting as he followed his friend out of the car.

*****

It was way past eleven the next morning when Bucky entered the kitchen of the station. He and Steve had been working late the previous night, taking statements and going over the case files again and again. The rest of the team had been working on other minor cases or doing paperwork waiting for them to arrive for briefing and were now taking a coffee break.

"Morning, Barnes." greeted Clint who was perched on the kitchen counter. "Fancy some coffee?"

"Yes, please. You really remind me of my ma's parakeet, always perched onto something." he said taking the coffee pot Clint was holding out for him as he opened one of the cupboards to get a mug.

"Tweet, tweet." Clint retorted and Natasha, who was filing her nails, scoffed.

Bucky spotted Katie engrossed on some files that were scattered over the kitchen table while sipping from her coffee mug and moved closer to her and leant over her.

"How you holding?" he whispered placing a kiss on her head.

She looked up at him and smiled softly for an only answer.

"Good." he whispered again and turned to the others to ask "Is there anything worth eating around here?"

"Here, have one." Wanda, who had been watching his interaction with Katie with a broad smile, offered him a box of doughnuts. But she slapped his hand when he was about to take a particular one.

"Not that one. Those are Steve's favourites!" she cried.

"Sorry." he said with a sarcastic tone as he raised an eyebrow at Clint and Natasha who were smiling at him knowingly. "God forgive me if I ate your Captain’s food." he continued while Wanda pulled a face.

It was at that moment that Katie sat up and gathered all her papers to head for her desk but she bumped into Thor at the kitchen's door.

"Greetings, little Stark" Thor said joyfully.

"Morning" she said flatly before heading out. Thor shrugged and moved to one of the cupboards.

"What's wrong with her?" he asked the others while rummaging inside the cupboard "Have we run out of pop tarts?" he groaned turning around.

"Take a doughnut, and watch your hand, picking one is like playing Russian roulette." Clint quipped and Wanda stuck her tongue out at him.

"She's been particularly snarky all morning." Natasha deadpanned looking intently at Bucky who sighed and ran his hand through his hair.

"Bitchy." Wanda added and Bucky shot a glare at her.

He was going to say something, not too compromising but enough to get them to leave her alone, when Steve appeared at the kitchen door and called "Everyone, briefing in five." before leaving again.

"Gotta go" Wanda said and before stepping outside the door she turned and added "Are we meeting for lunch?"

"Yes. Diner on the corner, just after briefing!" Natasha yelled for her to hear.

Steve was already sat in the briefing room checking his phone when Wanda came in and placed a coffee mug and a plate with two doughnuts with red, white and blue sprinkles on the table in front of him.

"Thanks" he said "Where is everyone? I told them five minutes."

"They're coming. Well, everyone bar Katie, I don't know where she is." she shrugged.

Steve raised her head to look at her and asked "What do you mean you don't know where she is?"

"She left the kitchen without bothering to look us in the face. Ask Barnes, they seem very close." and as she leant over his ear she whispered "I think they were having a moment back there."

Steve stiffened on his seat and gave an angry bite to one of the doughnuts avoiding saying something he could regret later on. He hadn't failed to notice how close the pair of detectives had become over the last week and it was something that was starting to piss him off. Would Bucky....? No, he wouldn't... He tried to shake those thoughts from his mind and was snapped back into reality by the voices of his team plus Bruce entering the briefing room.

"All right, let's start." Steve said when everyone had taken their seats, noticing Katie sliding in and taking up a seat further down the table. "Sam called. He's currently doing the second victim's autopsy and Tony is out of town working in another case, so Bruce here will do the honours." he said gesturing to the scientist.

Bruce cleared his throat and in a nervous tick he took off his glasses before speaking, "Well, regarding the first victim, we have concluded that the murder weapon could be a round, blunt hammer…"

"A chasing hammer." Thor nodded and everyone turned to look at him, questioningly. "What? I like hammers." he shrugged. "I was actually the hammer throwing champion in the school athletics team."

There was a pause everyone taking in what Thor had just revealed. Then Katie spoke turning to Bruce "But it wasn't a frenzied attack? A single blow?"

"Yeah, that is unlike the second victim, but we'll come to that later." Bruce confirmed.

Steve saw Katie shiver at the mention of the second victim and before he could even register what he was doing he asked her if she was ok to which she only nodded not taking her eyes from the table. He looked directly at Bruce, gesturing for him to continue, not able to deal with the glances he was sure Clint, Natasha and Wanda were sharing at his question to the sergeant.

"As you know we recovered some hairs from Ross trousers" Bruce resumed his report.

"Oh, well that's something." Bucky nodded. "A potential lead maybe?”

"Yeah, wouldn't bank on it." Bruce said "Initial tests show us it's not human."

"What do you mean it's not human?" Steve frowned.

"What do you mean, what do I mean?" Bruce stuttered looking at Steve "Exactly what I just said. That hair is not from a human being. And it's not from the more common domestic animals either like dogs, cats, rabbits, horses... So Peter's on with it now, as soon as we get something we'll let you know."

"Ok, thanks Bruce." Steve said while everyone was lost on their thoughts trying to decipher what kind of animal Ross had been around.

"As for the second victim, we have confirmed his identity." Bruce said chewing one of the arms of his glasses "His name is Jasper Sitwell."

And at the mention of that name Steve saw Katie close her eyes and couldn't help but ask her again.

"You sure you're ok, sweetheart?" he had blurted the words out before he could stop himself and her head shot up and she gave him a filthy look.

"Stop asking me if I'm ok for fuck sake, Steve!" she raised her voice angrily "And DON’T call me that! I'm not your sweetheart, never have been."

Steve clenched his jaw and for a second closed his eyes. If he could have smacked the back of his own head right there and then, he would have. That was on him. Still, he needed to react, despite the grudge Katie was holding against him, they were in a briefing meeting and he was the Captain, being talked to like that was out of order. He looked at Katie and opened his mouth to tell her off, when Bucky shot a quick glance at him and then turned to Katie grabbing her arm.

"Stark. You're off the line. We're not discussing personal matters here." Bucky told her before leaning and whispering to her "Even if he is an asshole."

Steve watched her soften a bit under Bucky's call and then saw a glimpse of a smile on her face when he had whispered something to her. But that smile had faded when she had spotted Wanda shaking her head gazing at Katie reproachfully. That's when he decided to step up, but was again cut off.

"What's your problem?" Katie glared at Wanda while Bucky sat back in his chair and raised his hands in a sign of surrender.

"Katie...stop it!" Natasha tried to intercede also shooting daggers at her.

"That's enough!" Steve spoke up, his voice loud as he cut across the briefing room. "Sergeant Stark, you have any problems with your superiors just issue a complaint form."

"I'll issue a form, I'll shove it up your fucking ass. Fuck this..." Katie yelled at him before she stood up and stormed out of the briefing room.

Bucky stood up fast as lightning and went for the door hurriedly after saying "I've got her, just continue with the briefing."

Steve stood there frozen deciding whether to call the meeting off or get it over with once and for all, when he heard Clint say to Natasha "You should have gone after her." and she shot him a deathly glare.

"What a ..." Wanda started to say.

"I said enough, Wanda." Steve raised his voice and heard Bruce groan and he couldn't blame him, after all the scientist didn't like people with anger management issues.

"Sorry Banner, you were saying..." he said pinching the bridge of his nose and gesturing for him to continue.

"Ummm yes..." Bruce said scanning his notes " that is, I was saying the victim is Jasper Sitwell. Preliminary visual inspection at the crime scene says it was two blows on the head this time. Cereal in mouth as well. So we'd say same MO but we'll give you more details after Sam has finished with him."

"Thanks Banner" Steve said to Bruce who nodded shyly.

"Barton, Romanoff, I want you to investigate Jasper Sitwell. Use all your spy tricks, the guy must be someone relatively important, Sam said yesterday the tie he was wearing was expensive."

"What a pity" Natasha drawled.

"Well, he was a suit and tie kind of guy. We'll find something Cap." Clint said and Steve rolled his eyes at the detective's use of nickname.

"All right, I'll call Rhodes, same course of action with the press." Steve said now looking at Wanda who nodded.

"Wait, why was Little Stark so pissed?" Thor asked out of the blue and everyone turned to look at him astonished.

"What, were you napping?" Steve said and sighed “OK. You're dismissed, I can feel a headache brewing." and stood up to head for his office, but before that he heard Natasha say not as quietly as she intended "I can feel a storm brewing." and Wanda sniggered.

***** Bucky caught up with Katie as she stormed out of the main office and into the corridor.

“Doll face, just...” She wheeled round at him and he held his hands up “Ok, my bad…”

“Leave me alone…” she said, her voice quieter “I’ve had enough.”

“I can tell.” Bucky said “You made that perfectly clear.”

Katie sighed and folded her arms, her tongue poking into her cheek.

“I’m not defending him but maybe, just maybe, Steve’s a little concerned about you.”

“He’s no right to be.” “Maybe not, but you two were friends for a long time before it went sideways.” “Before he sent it sideways…” “Whatever, the point I’m trying to make is that was a slip of the tongue, that’s all.” “I am sick and tired of this.” She said, looking at him. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the team being off with me.” “Well, you are kinda scary when you’re angry…and you always seem kinda angry so…” “And why do you think that is?” she asked “I didn’t ask for any of this Bucky… he was the one that pulled me back here I just…” “So, let’s just get the job done and then you can go back.” Bucky soothed. “Look, we’re going for lunch in a moment so this afternoon let’s just get our heads down and get our ideas up on the boards.” She frowned and then there was a look on her face as if she was understanding something. But what it was, he had no idea. Instead she shrugged and headed back into the office, ignoring everyone as she walked, in particular Wanda. Wanda followed her with her eyes, narrowing them slightly until she spotted Bucky watching. He gave her a look of his own and she scurried back to her desk.

“Right, lunch!” Thor clapped his hands. There were murmurs in the office and Bucky nodded, telling them to go ahead and he’d catch them up. He popped his head into Steve’s office.

“Punk, we’re going for lunch.” he said. Steve looked up “you coming?” “No I’m gonna go have half an hour in the gym.” Steve said. Bucky knew that was Steve’s way of working out some of his frustration so he didn’t argue.

“I’m assuming from the lack of a black eye you managed to calm Katie down.” Steve looked at him.

“In a fashion.” Bucky shrugged “I’ll feed her a double cheeseburger like you suggested, she’ll be fine. Just maybe stop with the pet names huh?”

Steve snorted “force of habit.” Bucky gave him a final nod and leaving his friend to it he headed after Natasha and caught the gang up as they walked the block or so down the road. They headed to a table in the corner and Bucky took a seat between Clint and Wanda, picking up the menu and giving it a glance. He looked up momentarily when Natasha spoke to the waitress who took their drinks order, saying she would come back and take the one for their food in a moment. They all began to discuss what they were having, Bucky deciding he would probably go for his usual, the Southern Fried Chicken sandwich. Putting the menu down he looked around the team, Natasha and Wanda leaning together pointing at something on the card before he realised they were one short.

“Hold up…” he frowned “Where’s Stark?”

At that Thor frowned and looked around, as if only just noticing she wasn’t there. Clint gave Natasha a look, one that clearly said ‘I told you so’ whilst Wanda looked down at her nails.

“Have you deliberately not invited her?” Bucky’s frown deepened as he began to realise what it was that Katie had understood before. She’d understood that she hadn’t been invited. 

Fuck.

“We’re just getting a little tired of her attitude.” Natasha sighed. “She was out of line at briefing before.”

“The way she speaks to Steve is disgusting. She’s being such a fucking bitch…” Wanda added. “Ok, that’s enough.” Bucky said sternly. “She’s got a lot going on. And Steve, well frankly, he isn’t innocent in all of this.”

“Oh please!” Wanda snorted “They fucked after a Christmas party and then she made a meal out of it, dramatically running away to DC…”

“That’s not…” Bucky sighed, shaking his head “You know what, it doesn’t matter. I’ll take mine to go. Not having her sitting alone in the office, it’s cruel and frankly I expect more from you.”

Natasha frowned “Do you know something we don’t Serge?” 

“Ask her…or Captain Goldenboy.” he sighed, standing up. He headed over to the counter, ignoring the hushed whispers that had struck up and ordered his own, and then after a pause added a few extra items. He sat by the counter, faffing about on his phone until about 20 minutes later it was ready. Grabbing the bags he headed back, still feeling slightly pissed at the behaviour of the unit.

He headed up the elevator and into the office, crossing towards his desk. Katie was sat at hers, pen between her teeth and he could see she had been crying.

“Hey…”

“Thought you had all gone for lunch…” she said looking up at him and he could tell she was trying to keep her tone casual.

“Decided on take out…” He waved the bag and spotting the logo she smiled, a genuine smile at him and it lit her pretty face up. “Cheeseburger, chilli fries and a vanilla shake?” he asked as he began to unpack the items.

“Thanks Bucky.” she said softly, taking her food from him. He smiled at her again before he took one of the subs he had bought through along with a bag of chips and a soda to Steve’s office, dropping it all on his desk. He was just leaving when Steve walked back into the room, almost bumping into him.

“Thought you were going for lunch?” Steve said, brushing his damp hair back with his right hand.

“I was…” Bucky said, before he gestured to the door. Steve shut it and turned back to his friend “Until I got there and found out they’d deliberately excluded Katie.”

“What?” Steve frowned “Why?” “Sick of her attitude…apparently” Bucky said and Steve sighed.

“So you bailed?” “Yeah, not having her sitting here alone.”

Steve took a deep breath and rubbed at his temple. He looked at Bucky, opened his mouth and then shut it again, shaking his head.

“Spit it out…” Bucky said, looking at him.

“I err, well, there’s nothing going on between you and her is there?” Steve asked, his eyes locking onto Bucky’s.

“What the fuck?” Bucky scowled, an angry flush spreading up his neck to his cheeks “Because I bailed on lunch as she wasn’t there? I did that because it’s fucking cruel…”

“It’s not just the lunch…” Steve cut him off, his eyes still focussed on his “Wanda said she thought you two were having a moment before and I’ve seen the pair of you…” “Man you really are as stupid as you look…” Bucky snorted. “She looked lost this morning, so yeah, I gave her a bit of a hug and a kiss on the head but fuck me Steve…even if I did like her that way do you really think I’d go there knowing your history? You’re by best friend, it’s an unwritten rule…”

There was a silence in the office and Steve sighed, hanging his head.

“Sorry man, I know. I just…”

“Just nothing, get your head out of your ass.” Bucky snorted. “You need to watch Wanda, Steve. She’s got a thing for you and I get the impression she instigated leaving Katie off of the lunch invite. She was being particularly nasty about her this morning too before briefing.”

Steve gave a groan and shook his head “That’s all I need…”

“And as you keep saying, Katie is vicious so you could end up with a full scale bitch fight on your hands.”

“Do you think I should talk to Wanda?”

“To be honest I’m not sure whether that will help.” Bucky shrugged “I’m just telling you to be aware. You say Katie is strong but…well, there’s only so much anyone can take. She’s been crying, I can tell.” He looked at Steve who bit his lip and glanced out through the blinds to where Katie was sat, eating her lunch.

“You brought her lunch back?” Steve looked at him.

“Yeah, is that ok or does it mean we’re fucking?”

“Alright, I said I was sorry…”

“Good, because I got you a Pastrami and rye, extra pickle. And there’s no way I want to be romantically involved with your punk ass so…”

Steve glanced at the bag and when he turned back to look at Bucky, the sergeant was surprised at the look on Steve’s face. Almost like he was about to burst into tears. “Thanks Buck.”

“It’s only a sandwich.”

“No I mean for looking after her.” Steve said, giving him a significant look.

“You’re welcome pal, what can I say? I like your girl.” Steve sighed “She’s not my girl…” “Yeah, yeah…” Bucky said, and with that he turned and left the office.

***** Steve looked up as there was a knock on his open door. Katie stepped in, file in her hand and she strode to his desk, dropping it down.

“Initial profile.” she said, nodding to it “It’s only a basic one at the moment but I’ll keep working on it. I’ve given a copy to Barnes as well and run him through my initial thoughts.”

“You wanna give me the basics?” Steve asked, leaning back in his chair, gesturing for her to take the one on the opposite side of the desk.

“Not really but you’re the boss.” she said, remaining stood up, arms folded “I think we’re looking for a male. The MO doesn’t fit with a female as you know and the victims have all been struck at the back of the head at an angle that would insinuate the height of the attacker in Ross’ case was similar, or in Sitwell’s case taller. Ross is 6ft and the blows took significant strength. Of course it could be a tall, bodybuilding female but I doubt it.”

Steve nodded and waited for her to continue.

“Also the hammer blows…it’s a typical cave man move. A bang on the back of the head, like with a club. Most Male serial killers are known to hunt their victims like that, throw-back to the hunter gatherer days. Women serial killers will normally use poison or suffocation…or if they’re in a frenzy a sharp knife.” He smiled, he had almost forgotten how good she was at this.

“I also believe that the victims were known to our guy, and that they know him too. First off there’s little to no physical resemblance, apart from them being male. Which leads me to believe he is targeting them deliberately. The lack of other marks on the body means they’re not being manhandled out to the place their killed either, so I believe it to be prearranged. Oh, and on that Barnes has had tech start to look at their phone records…see if either of them had calls or messages before hand.” Steve nodded “And the calling card?” “I’m stumped.” Katie said, shrugging. “Literally. I can only, again, go back to what I said in DC. Normally leaving things in mouths is either a sexual thing, which in this case we can rule out as there’s no signs of any sexual activity taking place, or a class statement, you know the whole silver spoon trope. I can only conclude this is his message about how dangerous either an everyday object can be, or how dangerous he can be with an everyday object. It could mean something to the killer, but…”

She paused and then looked at Steve “I want to dig into Sitwell more.” Steve watched her as she continued and bit back the smile at the fact she was telling him what she was going to do rather than asking for permission, like she always had.  “I’m going to call back to the 99, drag the Rumlow case files out…see if there’s anything that can tie Sitwell to Ross or vice versa. I know Rumlow is doing a stretch inside but…” “Sure. I’ll call Holt and let him know.”

With that she gave him a curt nod and went to leave. 

“Katie.” he said gently and she turned to look at him.

“Just be careful”

She didn’t reply, simply gave him a cold look and left. He watched her head to her desk where she said something to Bucky who nodded to her as she picked up her hoody, purse and then the mug in her usual end of day routine- she would NEVER leave an unwashed mug on her desk, no matter what time she was leaving.

A few moments later Bucky popped his head in, telling Steve he was heading off and had a couple of things to do on his way home so he would be later back. By couple of things, Steve assumed he meant a dame so he simply nodded and then once his friend was gone he glanced at the file Katie had left him. Before he started looking at it in detail he needed another coffee. He left his office, heading for the kitchen and as he made his way down the corridor he paused as Natasha’s raised voice hit his ears.

“You know as well as anyone round here, Stark, we’re a family. We look out for one another…and we’re just tired of the way you keep snapping at Steve. It’s not fair…”

“Wait you think... “Katie snorted and let her a bitter laugh "You think that I'm being unreasonable?” "You’re being a bitch!” Nat scoffed

Katie let out another derisive snort “Whatever…” she replied sarcastically and Steve knew from her tone she would be rolling her eyes.

“Look, you slept together. Yeah, we figured as much, and then you ran…” “I ran?” Katie laughed bitterly “Oh, that’s fucking priceless that is! Of course he hasn’t told any of you, wouldn’t want to ruin his God’s Righteous Man reputation would he?” “What are you talking about?” Nat asked.

“I didn’t run anywhere, Nat, he did!” Katie said, her voice loud “After we spent the night together I woke up to find him gone. And then he ghosted me for 3 days.”

"Shit." Nat said gently, "Katie…honestly I had no idea…I knew you'd both...you know but we all just assumed you'd decided it was a mistake and…"

“I wasn’t the one that decided it was a mistake. He did. Nat, I practically begged him to give me a reason to stay but he wouldn't.”

There was a pause and Katie spoke again, and Steve could hear the emotion in her voice. “You know, he told me that he cared, that he’d had feelings for me for years but…then he goes and does this and…”

She trailed off and Steve swallowed, he hated that he had hurt her so much, but more so that he couldn’t do anything to make it right. "I'm so, so sorry." Nat spoke again, her voice soft “I wouldn’t have…well, leaving you off the lunch invite was cruel, I should have said something to Wanda.”

Again nothing. And then Steve heard a sniffle “Shit, Katie come here..." There was the rustling of clothing as he assumed the two women embraced.

“Why didn’t you talk to me?” Nat asked.

“I don’t know I just...I suppose I thought by cutting myself off it would help but it didn’t. I’ve been so lonely…DC is great and the job is amazing but, well all my friends are here and…”

She was crying now and Steve’s heart sank even further. He’d done this to her.

“I’m sorry I ran out on you all like I did…and I should have talked to you I know. I missed you Nat.” “Yeah?” Steve heard the amusement in Nat’s voice.

“Of course I did.” Katie laughed a little “You were my best friend.” “No I wasn’t” Nat said softly.

“Well, my best girlfriend…” Katie replied.

"Have you told any of the 99 you're back in town?" Nat asked after a short pause. "No." "You should call Diaz. Us girls can go out, beers and a catch up."

"I'd like that. That is if Wanda hasn’t poisoned me before hand." Katie snorted. "Yeah well she’s sweet on Cap... you know that. " "She’s welcome to him. Let him give her the best fuck of her life and bail before the toast is ready." "The best fuck of your life?” Nat said, chuckling “That’s some claim.”

Katie gave a bitter laugh. "And don’t I wish it wasn't true."

“Well you know what they say…” Nat replied “The best way to get over a man is get under another one.” Steve didn’t want to hear anymore. He couldn’t. Frankly the thought of her with anyone else was enough to make him ill. He turned and strode back the way he had come and grabbed the files, shoving them into his laptop bag along with his tablet and his trusted leather bound notebook Katie had bought him the previous year. He’d do this at home, he didn’t want to be in the station anymore.

He was in a daze as he drove through the streets off Brooklyn, Katie’s voice ringing in his ears. "She’s welcome to him. Let him give her the best fuck of her life and bail before the toast is ready."  Her tone had been cold, callous, a far cry from the Katie he knew and loved.  A fuck. That’s all she believed she was, but it had never been about that, she meant far more to him. She always had. He couldn’t blame her for thinking that at all, but hearing her speak about him that way was tearing him in two, especially as he knew it was his fault.

Bucky was right, he should have left her well alone, got another profiler on the case. And it was for that reason he made a snap decision. He’d talk to her tomorrow, give her the opportunity to go back to DC.

He was that wrapped up in his thoughts, he didn’t notice the car running the red light, as it hurtled towards him. The last thing he remembered was hearing the screeching of tyres and brakes, the sounding of a horn, and then the squealing and crunching of metal caused by a harsh impact to the driver’s side of his vehicle. He was thrown sideways, his car sent into a spin, his head snapping painfully to the side as it collided with the metal of his door column as it folded inwards.

And everything went black.  

@the-omni-princess  @momobaby227​ @geekofmanythings16 @angelofhell-666 @thewackywriter @marvelfansworld  @cobalt-gear  @asgardlover75 @jennmurawski13  @jtargaryen18 @saiyanprincessswanie​  @navispalace​ @patzammit​  @joannaliceevans-fanficblog​ @djeniiscorner​  @ayamenimthiriel​  @coldmuffinbanditshoe​  @disneylovingal​ @madzmilllz​  @sgtjaamesbaarnes​ @sweater-daddiesdumbdork​ @southerngracela​ @goldenfightergir​ @kellymat​ @official-and-unstable-satan​ @charmed-asylum​ @pagesoflauren​

[just-patchy]

https://picrew.me/share?cd=4tKnwQ9Qo1 (おにさんメーカー)

ღBasic Informationღ

Name: Johnathan Reynard de Onestà (ジョナサン・レイナード・デ・オネスタ)

Nickname(s)/Alias(es): John, Rey, Monsieur le Renard

Age: 18

Sexuality: Bisexual/Pansexual

D.O.B.: 4th November

Horoscope: Scorpio

Homeland: Land of Pyroxene

ღNRC Fileღ

Dorm: Florenetta

School Year: 3rd

Class: 3-B

Class No.: 7

Occupation: Student, Vice-Dorm Head

Club: Science

Best Subject: Magical Pharmaceuticals

ღAppearanceღ

Height: 185 cm/6’1”

Weight: 170 lbs

Hair Colour: Reddish brown (it’s more red in the pic but his hair would be the same colour as the fur of red foxes)

Eye Colour: Copper (they’re black in the picture because it was the closest option)

Clothing: Aside from the school and dorm uniforms, he likes to wear suits or any sort of clothing that makes him look put together

Jewellery/Others: He owns some cheap makeup that he bought from a shady vendor

ღPersonalityღ

Johnathan is a rather manipulative, persuasive and charming liar, using his looks and false kindness to trick his victims, mostly to give him money or expensive gifts that can be sold at a high price. He is also meticulous when it comes to money, and he is good at budgeting money as well as bargaining. He is dexterous and capable of easily swiping smaller items, namely valuables, from pockets and bags. Since he and his family live in a more poorly-managed neighbourhood in the Land of Pyroxene, lying and stealing are things that he is used to doing.

Johnathan likes to appear to be educated, talented and carefree due to his family’s expectations. In reality, he is hard-working and has good morals to an extent. He shares a similar background and personality with Ruggie, thus leading to a strange relationship between them as frenemies: they’ll argue and quarrel over bargains, but if one of them finds a good deal or a helpful tip somewhere, they’ll tell the other.

Favourite Food: Curry

Least Favourite Food: Anything rotten, spoiled and generally expired

Dislikes: Overpriced daily necessities

Hobby: Reading literary works

Talent: Acting

ღAbilitiesღ

Unique Magic: Actor’s Life (俳優の人生　アクターズ・ライフ)

Johnathan creates an overlay on himself to make him appear as though he were another person: it could be an actual person that he has observed, a fictional character from a book, a imaginary person he simply thought of, or even a mix of different people’s characteristics to make a whole new person. The more he understands the person/character, the better his unique magic works. However, he cannot replicate other people’s unique magic, and his unique magic only allows him to act as another person from his memory. In other words, his unique magic would only allow him to act as how he remembered them, even if their personality or looks have changed.

ღTriviaღ

-Dominant Hand: Left, but he’s ambidextrous

-CV: Shirai Yuusuke (as Nikaido Yamato)

-He has a younger brother

-Twisted from Honest John in Pinocchio

-Jonathan is used as a longer version of John, Reynard because he’s a fox, and de Onestà because Pinocchio has Italian roots. Onestà means honesty (according to Google anyway cause idk Italian) and refers to ‘Honest’ John. I tried to use more of his real name but when translated into Italian, the names didn’t sound quite right, so I ended up narrowing it down to Volpe and Onestà. I already had Reynard for ‘fox’ so I went with the latter.

-Originally planned to name his unique magic after the original song but the name sounded really awkward and funny (Hi-Diddle-Dee-Dee? Really?) so I ended up using part of a repetitive line instead (“An actor’s life for me!”)

I tried to choose villains that hadn’t been done by other people yet because I don’t want to end up copying someone else’s oc even on accident just because I did the same character even if I had the same idea in mind (sorry if I happened to clash with someone!)

It’s my first attempt at making a twst oc based on a villain (I was sorta working on female and male mcs as well as characters that weren’t based on any villains or based on good characters, etc.)

Feedback/constructive criticism is appreciated!