#Crux taunts her in the line just before it

[mayasaura]

You're not the first person to suggest Alecto, so you're certainly not alone in that assumption!

I don't think it could have been her, for a few reasons. Mostly because the line is said as part of a conversation Nona is only barely paying attention to as Alecto's memories start bleeding through. It does fit as part of the conversation, though things are jumbled enough with Nona's perspective for it to take some detangling.

So let me set the scene. Here we have Nona, dying in front of the door to the Tomb as Alecto literally bursts through the seams of Harrow's body. Paul has extracted the blood key from Kiriona, and now they need a thanergy burst. They have to kill someone to open the door.

Kiriona volunteers first, but she's already dead, so it wouldn't work. Pyrrha volunteers next, to complete Wake's final mission. Crux objects, saying to use him instead, and someone says something that Nona misses, distracted by Alecto's memories. When Nona tunes back in, Crux is making his argument for why he should be the human sacrifice. He ends it with:

“I will die for her. She is my nurseling. I am the only one who knows how to die for the Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus.”

The unattributed line that starts "Good. Die. Die for her," is the very next line, said in response to Crux.

Assuming the line was said by Alecto, it would mean that Alecto surfaced from reliving the memory of waking as a ghost for just long enough to have a strong opinion about Harrow's childhood, before tuning back out to relive the memory of her death. Not impossible. She was thinking of Harrow when the line was said. But unlikely, considering how in that thought she called Harrow a "scrap of black-eyed meat."

It also means that everyone else ignored this savage interjection. If Alecto had said it, you'd think someone would have at least turned to look at Nona.

@spending-life-pretending

NO WE DON'T KNOW FOR SURE WHO SAYS THIS LINE!!

The book describes it as being said "so savagely that it sounded like a new voice altogether," with no further elaboration.

Aiglamene and Kiriona are talking over one another at this point in the conversation. Crux's response isn't very helpful because he could plausibly be talking to either of them. He never liked Gideon or Aiglamene, and he certainly believed he knew better than either of them what was best for the Ninth and best for Harrow.

Kiriona was my first assumption, too. Assuming this line comes from her, it shows some considerable evolution in her understanding of the relationship between the Ninth and Harrow, which she had always envied Harrow as a child. It's also tiny bit hypocritical. A sharp condemnation not just of the culture and people that failed Harrow so badly, but possibly also of herself and her way of thinking in Harrow the Ninth, lining up just like all the rest of them to shove her death down Harrow's throat as an offering.

The audiobook gives the line to Aiglamene. I had to think about it, but I like this interpretation as well. Giving the line to Aiglamene makes it a brief outburst from a woman who once believed the Ninth had a future worth waiting for, finally allowing herself to be angry that all they were waiting for was to die. That one way or another, all the Ninth knew how to give its children was death. I think she's due a moment of savagery on seeing the corpse of the child she thought she'd helped escape that cycle competing for the right to die again. She thought she'd gotten her out.

It drives me a little crazy, because both versions are good. Both versions are plausible. But they aren't entirely interchangeable in their implications, and there's no way to tell for sure which version is true.

On the balance, I still lean toward Kiriona. Aiglamene takes a bit more convicing to let Crux be the sacrifice, and it would be a damn quick about-face for her to lose her composure like this and then snap back to her titles and duty, volunteering to die herself. But Kiriona does also volunteer to die in this conversation, before being reminded she's already dead. Some ambiguity remains.

[jimilter]

riptide (m) | k.sj. | (1/2)

one | two

pairing:  kim seokjin x reader

rating:  m (18+)

genre:  angst | smut | established relationship!au

summary:  It takes a foolishly trivial incident to unravel how astonishingly little you and Seokjin actually understand each other. It has you questioning your relationship, and him? Well, he’s questioning his whole life.

warnings:  swearing + implied alcohol consumption + realistic relationship problems + mentions of insecurities, jealousy, complicated mental dispositions + emotional distress + sexual situations (unprotected penetrative sex, dirty talking, a bit of manhandling, fingering) + mentions of masturbation + a ton of miscommunication (refer to the summary smh)

word count: 12.3 k

note:  it’s FINALLY done, y’all! came up to be a monster of 25k words, so i decided to split it into two. i’ll drop the other part next week. this took a lot more time, energy and re-writing than i’d thought it would. i began writing this in january - it’s been five excruciating months! 😩 i really hope y'all will like this one~ 🥺💜

💟 YOUTH – 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

— masterlist

— feedback is always appreciated!

riptide (n) – a dangerous area of strongly moving water in the sea, where two or more currents meet.

Lady, running down to the riptide - Taken away to the dark side - I wanna be your left hand man.

The turn of events has been so fucking hilariously impossible that Seokjin has literally been rendered speechless. Which doesn't happen often, mind you. What can he do, he is just extremely witty—he always has something to say about everything, usually and preferably with impeccable comic timing. Especially when it comes to you. 

This, though. This completely baffling scenario, right in front of him, has him gaping like a goldfish with no words to say.

"Final call, Jin. Gawk at me for five more seconds and I walk out of here," you threaten, an elegant arm poised at your waist and gorgeously plump lips pressed into a thin line. "Say something?"

And Seokjin still cannot formulate a single word, because what the actual fuck? How can you even think that he could ever— 

"Alright." You catwalk out of his bedroom, leaving him blinking into space.

He jumps the next second, leaping after you. "Honey! How would—what—I can never—why do I even have to say—will you wait? You’re being so ridiculous, right now, I hope you know that!"

If he wasn't in such a fix, Seokjin would physically cringe at his speech. It was better when he was just gaping.

“Honey! Stop being so overdramatic, you’ve known me and you’ve known Jimin! For years! Stop acting like you seriously don’t know what happened, here!”

You don't stop, though, gliding down the stairs and hopping over the haphazardly tossed items in the living room as you exit out of the house.

And then you're gone. You're really gone, over something so fucking ridiculous, that Seokjin still has no words to say.

All he knows is that his girlfriend of five years has finally gone crazy enough to jump to conclusions of such high magnitude of stupidity.

And, that Park Jimin is a dead man.

It all begins on an unsuspecting Sunday morning, when the entire house is smelling of weed, stale booze and some worse fluids. 

Last night, Seokjin vacated his own bedroom for the boys to smoke up in at Jimin's request, because that is the only well ventilated room of the house. He spent the night in Yoongi's room with earplugs in, dead to all the chaos in the house—as he often does on party nights—to catch up on his beauty sleep. He cannot afford any unbecoming dark circles or, God forbid, breakouts.

And no, that's not a comedic moment, he really does need his face looking perfect this week for reasons outside of personal gratification too, because he has a shoot on Tuesday. He especially took a leave from his part-time job at the Mexican restaurant downtown where his girlfriend, you, work full-time, on a Tuesday—saying goodbye to all the amazing tips always forwarded to the cooks on Taco Tuesday—for this. Nothing would mess up his face.

Not to mention that one very important audition for a very gigantic project he's been looking forward to. They're yet to announce the date, but it would be this very month. He hasn't really told you much about it, planning a huge surprise for later when—if, actually, but he prefers to be unrealistically optimistic in every situation possible—he bags the coveted position, at the end. He hasn't really decided upon much, other than a long drive and a picnic date to one of those grasslands on the city's outskirts that you love so much. Oh, and bringing up the prospect of moving in together in an apartment with just the two of you. 

He's pretty certain you must not remember him raving about the opportunity, because it has been months since he did that. He then proceeded to be covert about all the mini auditions and trainings he underwent to prepare for the final audition, and he is confident you have not connected the dots.

But that is all a discussion for later — he doesn't even know when he would be auditioning. 

The crux of the whole matter is that he needs to keep looking as flawless as he can until that audition happens.

So he has slept like a baby, last night, while the rest of his friends have partied, including two out of three of his housemates—Hoseok and Jimin—along with Taehyung and Taehyung's girl. Namjoon had foregone attendance in lieu of the Halloween party, next weekend, that he knows he would definitely be forced to attend because Hoseok is hosting. Yoongi, his third and final housemate, escaped the house altogether to spend a night of music-making with Jungkook in his dorm.

So, in the morning, when Seokjin is moving around his kitchen that seems to have been hit by a tornado, checking the fridge and mentally praying that his baggie of smoothie ingredients is still in good shape—a scream echoes around the house.

Seokjin freezes. That sounded a lot like…you.

Immediately alert, he runs out of the kitchen and into the drawing room. Hoseok is hanging upside down on one of the couches, something that looks a lot like undigested white sauce pasta puddles on the ground, inches from his new, fiery red hair. Seokjin grimaces.

"Kim Seokjin!" your screech tears the silence.

Seokjin twists on his heels, looking up in the direction of his bedroom. It really is you. And you're in his bedroom—the room he did not occupy last night.

God only knows what kind of a scene you have walked in on. He hopes these idiots didn’t have an orgy up there, although he really can’t put it past them.

Not waiting another second, Seokjin rushes up the stairs and pushes through the doors to his bedroom. His mouth falls open on an audible gasp.

You stand next to his bed, dressed up elegantly in a navy dress that ends above your knees—which makes him wonder if you are here for an impromptu breakfast date—with one hand clutching his duvet that has uncovered what looks like…

…a head of long, dirty blonde hair.

Who the fuck?

In his bed?

"Hey, Honey!" Seokjin's voice is a squeak. "You… you here for a date?" he manages out of a suddenly parched throat.

You roll your eyes. "Uh huh. A fact you would've known if you looked at the texts I sent you last night." Your eyes are narrow at him. "This explains why you didn't, though. Busy night, Jin?" 

He balks at your words, at a loss. How could you even think it was him, when you know all about Park Jimin and his escapades?! 

Seokjin's blood boils. Fucking Jimin. There is going to be blood on Seokjin’s hands. 

In the midst of it, the blonde head shifts. 

Soon after, as you two watch, a pair of brown eyes with smudged makeup emerge from inside Seokjin's bed—and the audacity?! There’s makeup all over his covers! Jimin will pay for the dry cleaning. The face is followed by a whole, tiny woman of five-something feet who is, thankfully, covered in a shirt.

Seokjin is almost not breathing when the blonde starts to give him a dreamy smile, his gaze switching between her and you. And it’s extremely stupid, because he hasn’t seen this woman before, ever, in his entire life. But he catches the way your arms fall to your sides and those elegant, dainty fingers of yours ball up into fists as you look at the blondie’s face.

Fortunately, the girl recognises him at last before her grin could turn fully dopey, and with a squeak, jumps out of the bed. “You’re not—um. Hi. Sorry, I, uh. I’ll get going.”

And surprisingly, she does exactly that in less than a minute, leaving you to stare down at Seokjin.

“You know, it’s really unbecoming for a girlfriend to keep finding girls in her boyfriend’s bed every other week and not be given an explanation, ever.” Your tone is teasing, but your eyes are taunting. “You shouldn’t always be so dismissive, you know? What if I start getting ideas? I don’t think you even remember how to make up with your girlfriend, at this point, because I never fight.”

That is when Seokjin starts gawking. And literally doesn’t stop until you’ve left the house.

“I don’t get it,” Jackson says, stuffing cold noodles into his mouth and chewing on them without closing it. “Do you think he cheated on you, or do you not think he cheated on you?”

You look at your best friend with your face twisted up in disgust. You swear to God you would never have agreed to make friends with this guy on your mother’s insistence when the Wang family moved in next doors to you, had you known he’d turn out to be such a barbarian a decade later. Twelve-year-old Jackson had been such a decent kid—studious, elegant, well-mannered. What went wrong, along the way?

You exhale, shifting on your chair, very wary of any dried up fluids that you might come in contact with. “I know he did not cheat on me, Jax, the very notion is completely ridiculous.”

Jackson stops chewing and looks away from the WWE match playing on the TV to squint at you. “I’m…confused? Wait. What is the problem, then? What are you mad at him for?”

To be completely honest, you aren’t quite certain yourself.

But you do know that you don’t feel good. And that this feeling has been building up over a couple months, but you have only really acknowledged it head-on, today, in all five-something years of your relationship. Five years, seven months and eight days, to be exact, but that’s kinda besides the point.

You’ve had at least a few months’ worth of buildup that has gotten you to this point, you would admit. Especially after Seokjin had to cancel that visit to your hometown at the end of June, for your parents’ thirty-fifth wedding anniversary celebration because he had an important audition for a big-brand ad film. The cancellation was acceptable, but his offhand comment that, “thirty-five isn’t even that special, we’ll get them a huge gift for their fiftieth,” stayed with you longer than it should’ve. Things got okay-ish when you reminded yourself how Seokjin never really thought too hard about things he said, always being a humorous, unattached clown in every situation. But this morning's dismissal has pushed you over that edge. You straightaway goaded him, claiming he doesn’t remember how to make it up to you, and all you got in response was his shock and being called “ridiculous” and “overdramatic.” Fun.

You were most certainly joking, if a bit caustically, when you said what you did. He could have taken it as a joke and laughed it off. He could have taken it as a threat and comforted you, said it was Jimin that used his room, and maybe kissed you. You already knew what had happened when you saw the girl, anyway. But this was probably the third time this situation had happened, this month. 

Sure, you are understanding and really do know Jimin and what all he gets up to, but is that really supposed to be such a given? Asking your boyfriend to hug you close and kiss your forehead when you discover a girl in his bed just as you were about to cuddle the lump of sheets thinking it was him, is not too much to expect, is it?

Granted, Seokjin has never been extremely expressive, but still. It feels like he’s consciously trying to keep you at a distance, these past few months.

You don’t have the complete grasp of the storm of thoughts in your head yet, but you want to try and explain it to Jackson the best you can. 

“It was about respect, in a way, I guess,” you quietly mumble, and Jackson turns the TV off, now sitting cross legged on the couch to face your chair. He puts away his takeout container to frown at you, probably gleaning how serious this is for you. “He stood there, without saying a single word, expecting me to stop being mad. Almost willing me to stop being mad by making these big, incredulous eyes at me. Like it was that horrible of his girlfriend to demand for an explanation when she found a girl in his bedroom. It was just the two of us, I wasn’t making a scene in front of anybody. He just—ugh! He could’ve simply asked me to not be mad, said it was Jimin who spent the night in the room and maybe even laughed about it, or plotted Jimin’s murder—I would’ve joined in—but no. He acted like I was being stupid, told me not be ridiculous and dramatic. And that made me feel really stupid.”

Jackson winces. “And why do you think you were not being stupid?”

You exhale. “I wasn’t. Because I wasn’t actually accusing him of anything, and five years down the lane, he should know that now. I just wanted him to say it and not scold me when I tease-taunted him. He always expects me to know everything. And even though I always do, it gets tiring sometimes. These weird thoughts get to you — that maybe you’re being too understanding and he’s using that to his advantage, you know?” You look down at your lap, playing with your nails. “It’s just…um. I wanted him to coddle me, I guess. To treat this as something big because I was throwing a tantrum about it and, just, I don’t know—try to cajole me? Assuage me with his words, maybe? But he didn’t. Because he hasn’t done that in forever. Because I never need him to, because I always freaking understand everything!” A sob leaves you.

Jackson pats the place next to him. “C’mere, you dumdum, and stop hyperventilating,” he mumbles, hugging you to his side when you move to sit on the couch. “I don’t exactly understand how the relationship dynamics work, but from what you told me, I get that you wanted attention? Some loving? And instead you got disappointed looks because Jin expected you to be mature and rational about it — the way you always are — and that too with his fucking eyes and some low-key insult words? Is it something like that?”

Wow, Jackson really paraphrased all that amazingly. “Yes, actually. It’s exactly that.”

Jackson sighs. “Y’all have been together a long time, babe, so I guess it’s kind of a given that you’d get to a no-bullshit point. Which is why he hasn’t done that in forever, because y’all probably don’t need that kinda stuff between you anymore.”

“I get that, it’s how a relationship matures. But I’m pretty certain that it’s not supposed to make me feel like this,” you sound slightly muffled, having stuffed your face into Jackson’s hoodie-covered chest. “I feel—I feel like we got too comfortable and now he’s just started to take me for granted. And I also feel like I’m being too needy. Am I being needy and annoying? He’d hate me if I told him all this, won’t he? Half of the reason we’ve worked out so well is because we’re both career oriented and don’t waste time overthinking stupid shit.” You gasp. “Oh, no—would he leave me? He’s used to his girlfriend being mature, not needy—”

You are cut off when Jackson pulls you away by your shoulders, giving you a serious look. “Wait, wait, stop. What did you say? Not the needy part, you’re allowed to be needy once in all the damn three-sixty-five days y’all stay busy for. The…taking you for granted part. Pretty big of a thing to say, babe.”

You sigh. “We haven’t been on an actual date in months. Seokjin thinks there’s no need for that extra effort when we spend lunch breaks at work together, everyday. Outside of the restaurant, our meetings involve our entire flock of friends by default. It’s been three months since we slept together.” You sniff, hating having to impart such a private detail of your life. “So no, I don’t think it’s that big of a thing to say, at all.”

“Wow.” Jackson gives a slow whistle. “You’ve really been bottling up a lot in there, huh?”

You shrug. “I guess. It never made me feel underappreciated, though. Sure, I was irritated at some occasions and disappointed at others, but… Today I feel horrible, Jax.”

“Did you share anything with Byulyi?” he asks, referring to your flatmate and good friend since college.

You shake your head. “She already has a lot on her plate, right now. She got rejected by the photographer she wanted to intern with, so it’s back to freelancing for her.”

“Yeah, that must suck.” Jackson grimaces. Then he looks at you. “You need to take a break, hun. Sit back, today, and have tacos and beer with me. Reset your inner thoughts. Talk to Jin tomorrow. Although, I must say, it’s kinda depressing that you have to actually tell your boyfriend that he’s being a bad boyfriend. Isn’t that kind of shit supposed to be realized on your own?”

You purse your lips. “I guess, yeah. But…don’t say that he’s being a bad boyfriend, Jax. I don’t think he even realizes something is wrong.”

“And that…doesn’t make it worse?” At your raised eyebrows, he concedes with a roll of his eyes. “Fine, fine, in any case — maybe try to hint at it before you dive straight in with the kill? See if he reacts?”

“I don’t know, Jax. What if he doesn’t? He’s really not the best at taking hints and reading signs, or that kind of subtle stuff.”

“Then you can just say your shit. All I’m saying is, give him a chance to figure it out on his own. He’s probably really clueless why you reacted so big on something so small, this morning. If you drop hints, maybe he’ll feel it out.”

You nod, somewhat amazed at how sound Jackson’s advice seems. “How are you doing this, Jax? Being a love guru all of a sudden?”

Jackson scoffs. “I’m just tryna put myself in Seokjin’s shoes. If I was in the situation he’s in, this is what I’d like to happen — be given a window to figure out what’s wrong. You’ve been together a long time, hun. It really shouldn’t be that difficult for him.”

You shrug a shoulder. “I won’t be too sure about that. Why does it even matter if he can or cannot, though?”

Jackson seems to be mulling over something before he drops his chin to his chest. “Because you’re supposed to be partners, hun. If you can tell what’s up with him with a single glance, why can't he? Not being good at taking signs is not a good enough excuse. My gut says that he’d be able to, though. And that knowledge will make you feel infinitely better, trust me. It’ll be reassuring to learn that he really knows and understands you well, won’t it?”

You nod, slowly, but you still have your suspicions. Seokjin has just been the kind of guy whose emotional depth goes to a certain extent and then just — well, stops. There are things that he feels and realizes and sees, and there are things that he doesn’t. It isn’t even something he does, you believe. It’s just how he is. Certain feelings just don’t fall in his orbit. And you’ve never found there to be anything wrong with it when he’s been an immaculately amazing boyfriend and tended to every single one of your needs, always. Well, you have never actually needed emotional consoling, too, so you haven’t had the chance to audition him for that. You keep yourself too busy for all that unnecessary mental pressure. It comes as a surprise, but you have never cried on Seokjin’s shoulder in all these years of your togetherness. You’ve kept your head straight and chin up, even during your college exams. And so has Seokjin, because you’ve never seen him cry, either.

Lately, though, things have been kind of weird. The gradual transformation into your professional lives that began after college, has been drastic in the past few months. Seokjin has been constantly prioritizing his career over you, and you have been understanding about it because you agree with it — to an extent. Seokjin believes it all the way through, though, and you have known for a while that you would hit your limit at some point, and would try to bring him back to yourself. Today morning, it seems, you hit that limit. 

You felt dispensable. 

You hate this feeling.

To be very honest, you know you can get over this. You can give it some time, remind yourself of how much your Jin loves you, believe that he is eventually going to come back to you once he settles, and be understanding about the entire thing. 

You can — but you really don’t want to.

Something tells you that this feeling of getting too comfortable will only fester and take a worse form as time goes by. You can wait it out, sure, and hope you aren’t being a pushover as he works on building his career. You are building your career, too, after all, and at least some of it has been for each other. 

The thing is, your plans with Seokjin are long-term—marriage, kids, white-picket fence, and all that. And you believe that if you are sensing a problem now, you better deal with it now before it has the chance to change its form and affect you both when you are at a more responsible point in your life.

Mind made up, you look up at Jackson, immediately grimacing when he forwards a greasy hand to pick up a taco for you. “I don’t…I don’t like tacos. And may I exchange the beer for scotch?”

“You work at a Mexican restaurant, and you don’t like tacos,” Jackson deadpans.

“They mess up my skincare.”

“Oh, fuck off! Have a spinach smoothie with a drink, why don’t you?”

You purse your lips to hold back your laughter at his ire, your own worries forgotten in the moment as Jackson gets up to get you a glass of scotch and some healthier snacking alternative.

“You're a dead man.”

Jimin stops dead in his tracks, arms frozen in the act of putting a t-shirt on. He blinks at Seokjin with big round eyes. “Hyung?” he mumbles, a picture of unblemished innocence, especially when he covers his toned torso with the oversized t-shirt he was in the process of getting into. “What—what’d I do?”

Someone who doesn’t know better would never believe that this young, innocent, frazzled haired fairy-boy could ever do any wrong. But Seokjin knows better. “You chaotic womanizer,” Seokjin nearly hisses, "you've gotta learn to clean after yourself. Honey found a girl in my bed. A girl—in my bed.”

Jimin had the decency to drop the innocent act. “Oh. Oh.”

Seokjin raises a brow. “Oh? That’s it?”

"Yeah, well, I clarified to her that it was a one time thing when we got to it. She was obviously expecting something more if she didn't leave when I told her to. Disappointed but not surprised." Jimin is frowning when he comes to sit down on the couch next to Seokjin. “Sorry you two had to see that. You clarified to Honey noona that I’d been the occupant of the room, though, right?” 

“I—what?” Seokjin scoffs. “Why would I even need to do that? She knows that already, obviously. She’s been seeing you for over five years, or have you forgotten?”

Jimin squints. “I mean…okay, fair point, I guess. Why’re you so worked up, then? Did something else happen, too? Where’s she, now?” Jimin looks around the living room as if looking for you.

Seokjin sighs. “Well, I couldn't really get much out before she was storming out of the damn house, altogether.”

Jimin blinks. “Storming out? Why? She… um, was she mad?"

Seokjin opens his mouth – and then shuts it. Was she mad, indeed. "I don't know. She looked kinda mad, yes. But maybe she was in a hurry?" 

"Why would she be mad? Did you try to call her? Text her? It's unlike her to react so big on something so small." Jimin bites down on his lip, looking lost in thought. 

Seokjin shakes his head. "She didn't pick up or text back."

“There’s definitely got to be an underlying reason for her being like this. Are you sure you guys haven’t been fighting, hyung?” 

Seokjin sighs. “Yes, Jimin, I’m absolutely certain that there hasn’t been any fighting of any sorts between the two of us before today.” He pauses. “Well, she was slightly irritated that I didn’t check her texts last night, but she knows I go to bed at eleven on days leading up to a shoot, so that one’s on her.”

Jimin looks genuinely concerned, which, in turn, makes Seokjin concerned. Jimin isn't the type to stress over stuff if he can help it. Sure, he cares about the boys and would always be down to do whatever he can for them, but his throwing-caution-to-the-wind way of life causes him to not take most of the things in life seriously.

You’ve been like an older sister to the boys ever since Seokjin started dating you and introduced you to them. They all have their ways of showing their respect and affection to you. Well, maybe not Jungkook because he can’t get over getting unnecessarily intimidated by Seokjin enough to relax around you. 

Jimin, especially, always seems to be affected by any tension in Seokjin’s relationship. Everyone can see how it upsets his entire life when you two are fighting, although he’d never admit to it. He doesn’t need to, because it’s pretty obvious when he becomes a cranky six-year-old who hates the world. 

Right now, he has a guilty frown on his face. "I should've seen to it that Suzette left before I went to shower," he mumbles as if talking to himself. “Shouldn’t have trusted her to leave just because I told her to.” He looks up at Seokjin with troubled eyes. "I'm sorry, hyung."

Seokjin can not believe himself when he shakes his head at Jimin's apology—this little demon causes so much chaos in all their lives that any apology coming from him should be justified and welcome. But this one isn't really on him. "It's not entirely your fault."

Jimin's demeanor changes a bit and the attitude Seokjin is used to witnessing makes an appearance. "Right? That's what I was thinking, too!" Jimin exclaims, some of the concern on his face lifting. "You have to talk to Honey noona and make things right, though, hyung. She’s the only womanly touch in our man cave. We’d all be barbarians without her.” Jimin looks very wary and kind of nervous.

“It’s funny you would crave her ‘womanly’ presence when she’s rushed off because of a woman that you brought home.” Seokjin scrunches his nose. "And I said it isn't entirely on you, because it is partially on you, Park Jimin. You borrowed my room to smoke up in. Why couldn't you take your Suzy back to your own room?"

"Suzette," Jimin corrects under his breath while shaking his head. "Yeah, I should've, but… your room just felt like a better choice during the high," he finishes in a mumble, dragging a hand down his face. “Hyung,” Jimin says with a pout on his lips, “the last time you two fought was two years ago, remember? On your birthday? When Hobi hyung dumped cake in noona’s hair and she had her first shoot for that bigshot magazine, the next day?”

Seokjin nods with a sigh. “She yelled at me for having stupid friends, and I yelled at her for caring more about the shoot that having a good time on my birthday. Yes, I remember.”

“And then she didn’t visit us for a whole week. Please don’t let that happen, again.” Jimin looks up at Seokjin with big, round eyes. “I can’t take that kind of unrest in my life."

Seokjin briefly wonders, if Jimin’s nightly conquests were to see this side of him, would they run in the opposite direction or be more attracted to him? Jimin definitely needs someone in his life that would bring out this side in him and stay to provide him the emotional comfort he requires when he gets like this. 

“I will try not to, Jiminie, but…” Seokjin shuts his eyes. “I seriously do not understand her actions from the morning,” he finishes in a mumble.

“Maybe she’s—maybe she’s worried about something else? Some other aspect of her life?” Jimin suggests with wide eyes. “And she’s just projecting onto you.”

“As sound as the explanation is, I am literally involved in ninety percent of the aspects in her life,” Seokjin says with a twist to his lips. “I would know if something was wrong anywhere.”

“That’s cocky of you to say,” Jimin snarkily comments with narrowed eyes. At Seokjin’s raised eyebrows, he amends, “That’s cocky of you to say, hyung-nim.”

Seokjin scoffs, but then he shrugs his shoulders. “It’s true. We work at the same restaurant, we’re scouted by the same agency. Even her agent is best friends with mine—she gossips a ton about how Honey passes up so many opportunities and pisses her agent off. Her friends are, well—” Seokjin stops short when it hits him. “Wang. Wang could know something!”

Jimin is looking at him skeptically when Seokjin meets the younger’s eyes. “I just think you should have a simple talk with noona first before digging around.”

That is sensible advice. Seokjin nods as he pulls his phone out.

“Just find out what’s been troubling her, hyung. You two are rational people, I’m sure you’ll work it out.” Jimin pauses to scratch the back of his head. “Just please don’t let this be another fight like that one?”

“Don’t worry,” Seokjin finally says with a pat on Jimin���s shoulder as he finishes sending off another text to you, “this one is nothing like that fight.”

Turns out, this fight really is not like that one. Or any other fights Seokjin has ever had with you, in fact, because you’re giving him the silent treatment. 

You’ve never given him the silent treatment. 

Not even when you were students and didn’t have a load of time on your hands and used to waste precious sleep hours arguing over stupid shit that would probably resolve itself if you just slept on it and looked back at it with a fresh state of mind. Not even then did you forego talking.

Needless to say, Seokjin is distressed.

You drive to the house to pick him up at your usual time, the next morning, after not having responded to any of his calls or texts for the entire day. Seokjin is aghast as he gets into the car.

“Honey! What is going on? Why didn’t you—where have you been?”

You simply start the engine and take off. “Busy,” you murmur after a while.

Soekjin’s head is close to exploding. “Busy? Doing what?”

Your face remains stoic as you weave through the morning traffic. Seokjin looks at you. You’re dressed up in your waitressing outfit that consists of a shirt, skirt and tights, and being who you are, Seokjin can proudly say that you would stand out to be the most well dressed server in the field. You’re always pristine and tidy — no accidents happen to you at the job ever. No spillage of drinks or ketchups, no soiled hands being wiped down on your skirt. Nothing even ruins your manicure. 

It is something that Seokjin has always tried to keep up with, this cleanliness streak of yours. Because he has always assumed you would expect it out of him, too. You were attracted to the cover model version of him, after all. It is quite natural that you would have those kinds of expectations. And Seokjin has always been more than happy to deliver. It has become a part of him, in fact. He doesn't even chew with his mouth open even when he's among the boys, anymore.

It has, somewhat, made him practical and less emotional in life, too, but he doesn't really think of it as a bad thing. You have always been practical in life – the most ambitious girl he has ever met, someone that has always prioritized her career and goals over everything else. Seokjin has admired that since college, and has tried to show you that he has similar priorities even if he has had to work on thinking from his mind more than his heart.

But when you are already by his side, what does he even need his heart for, anymore, when it's already yours?

Now, looking at you sitting with a morose expression on your face as you give him the cold shoulder, Seokjin is just as much in love with you as he was when he first met you.

“Stuff,” you say with a shrug, after some extended silence. “You should know about that, right? Your schedule’s always busier than mine and I never complain.”

Your sharp words have him reeling. Whatever do you even mean by that? “Uhm, okay. Fair enough. But… did you really not have the time to respond to a single text?”

“It gets impossible sometimes, Jin, you know how it is.”

Seokjin frowns. He does know that, but he doesn’t feel okay. Something is very off with you. It is as if you’re saying something else and expecting him to discern a different meaning out of it. 

He doesn’t understand why, though. You, of all people, should know how terrible he is at decoding signs.

He sighs.

Seokjin, after his conversation with Jimin yesterday, had decided to ask you about the morning’s incident, head on, whenever you called him back. But you didn’t, and this is the first opportunity he’s had to talk to you, so he decides to bring it up, now. “What—what happened yesterday morning, babe? You got really mad and stormed off, and… I mean, you’ve got to know the girl had been Jimin’s companion for the night, right? You know him, how he is!”

You say nothing, hands tightening a bit on the steering wheel. Seokjin looks down at his own hands.

“You know I was only surprised at your words because we really do not have the time to be discussing silly things." He shuts his heart down when it tries to tell him to go soft. He knows it isn't something you would appreciate. "After five years, you know what I’m capable of right? You can never start getting ideas, because that would be insane and stupid. I’m already so supremely occupied as it is between two jobs, when would I even have the time to cheat, right?” he jokes, snorting to himself.

You’re still quiet, but your tongue comes out to moisten your lips. It is a nervous tick of yours which Seokjin recognizes very well, because with your skincare and scheduled regular application of lip balms, your lips never need the extra moisture.

He frowns. Was he too straightforward? But this is exactly how you communicate with him! “Hey, is everything okay, babe?”

You exhale, noisily. “Everything’s fine, Jin,” you finally say with a roll of your eyes. “And you’re right. I know you wouldn’t cheat. You don’t have the time to chat me up, how are you gonna pick someone new to impress, huh?” 

Your snort sounds lacking in humor, but Seokjin still gives a couple of stilted chuckles. Even so, he's still somewhat relieved. “Right. Just so we’re certain, that was a joke, right? I mean, it would be really ridiculous of you to think that I would—”

“Yes, Jin!” you cut him off with a deep frown. “If I wanted to talk to you about something, or accuse you, or confront you — I’d do that without you having to prompt me. Stop obsessing over yesterday and stop trying to explain yourself. I know it was Jimin’s doing.”

Seokjin feels immensely relaxed at the conviction with which you say the last sentence, certainly, but something is still off. “Why were you ignoring me, then?”

“I just didn’t have anything to say to you.” You stop at a red light, the last one before you reach the restaurant, and turn to look at Seokjin with really vacant eyes. He doesn’t like your stare one bit. “We’ve been together five years, babe. If neither of us have got anything of significance to say, I’d rather not text too much, if that’s okay with you? I’ve got a busy schedule to work around, too, you know?”

Seokjin wants to remind you that both of you had something of significance to say after you left his place in anger, but chooses to just roll with whatever you’re playing at. Maybe he's thinking too much. He nods. “Sounds alright to me.”

“Great,” you breathe out, somehow looking disappointed along with the preexisting sorrowful expression you had on your face.

You really do not have a concrete explanation for why you acted the way you did with Seokjin, this morning. 

You were supposed to hint at being mad, not blatantly try to give him a taste of his own medicine. It could turn out to be a good thing if he eventually starts to miss you and reaches out, sure, but playing mind games never feels right to you. But when he started to joke about not having time to cheat, and something just turned off in you. He really could’ve seriously reassured you of his love. That would’ve been actually comforting. But no. He chose to joke about that, too. You didn’t feel like putting in all that energy anymore, after that.

Now, you sit down in the break room to check your phone during your ten minutes’ rest break. A text message floats at the top of your notifications.

Jax 🚽 Hey How’d it go?

With an exhale, you decide to call him back. Your fingers are too tired to type, and Jackson is sure to launch off into a rampage of texts the moment you tell him you’ve tried to turn the tables on Seokjin.

Seokjin is in the kitchen, his usual rest break not being for another hour, so you don’t have to worry about him walking in.

“Hey!” Jackson jovially greets you as soon as he picks the phone. “Did you get my text?”

“I did, yes,” you respond in a calm voice. “I’ve been looping milkshake mugs through my fingers since eight am, they needed some rest, so I decided to call.”

“Yeah, no, it’s cool. I was in a really boring class, anyway. So. How'd it go?"

You pull in your lip between your teeth. "I… I kinda ended up telling him I am a busy person too and that we shouldn’t text that much."

You hear silence instead of the outburst you'd expected. 

"Jax?"

"Are you actually gonna try to play a mind game with the dumbest human being you know on earth?" Jackson so very eloquently asks, his interpretation making you pinch the bridge of your nose. “He’s never even gonna figure it out!”

“I know how it sounds, okay?” You exhale. “I honestly don’t know what came over me.”

“Okay, alright, one thing at a time. So, no coddling?"

"Not a single soft word. Just more expectations of me understanding, and claiming that anything but that would be stupid of me. He acts like I'm supposed to know everything about him and everyone in his group of friends," you mutter in irritation. “As if those dumbasses know the first thing about themselves.”

You realize you're being a bit harsh, because his friends – basically your younger brothers, at this point – are a bunch of clueless idiots that love, adore and respect you. You shouldn't be badmouthing them, Seokjin’s growing callousness towards you isn't their doing. It's his own. 

You sigh. You really miss how things used to be when you were in college.

“Uh, I think we need to rewind a bit. What happened? What triggered this?”

It makes you smile a little when Jackson asks that. At least your best knows you’re not wholly clinically insane. “Well… I drove him to work. He…" your brows lower at the recollection, "he was the first to bring up yesterday morning. And yet again, he gave me the same you've got to know this and that crap, and then he tried to assure me in the dumbest possible way. Do you know what he said, Jax, do you?”

“Um, do I wanna know?”

“He said, and I quote, he doesn’t have the time to cheat. Jackson Wang, are you hearing this? He really straight up said he was too busy to cheat on me and so I should rest assured! Who says that?!”

“He must’ve meant it as a joke—”

“Yeah, he said that, too, and then very immaculately added that it’d be ridiculous of me to think otherwise. I have lost count of how many times the words ridiculous and stupid came up.”

“Goddammit.”

“Goddammit is right,” you mumble, morosely resting your head on your palm.

“What did he say, by the way? When you told him to text less?”

You give a wry chuckle. "Well, he said it sounded alright to him."

"Son of a bitch. You – you two are messed up, man. Messed up bad. Why the hell can you not just say shit you really mean and actually want to instead of saying shit you don't? You don't wanna text less because you're busy, you want him to dote on you because you miss him!" Jackson sounds beyond frustrated. "And it doesn't fucking sound alright to him! It sounds scary, it sounds confusing, it sounds like something you would never say to him!" He groans. "But none of you would say that shit to each other! You’re choosing to be evasive and fucking plastic instead of honest, and falling deeper into your mess."

You reel from the onslaught of his harsh words, eyes widened and breath stuttering. Jackson isn't usually the type to pay so much attention to your relationship problems. But this time, you guess, he has garnered the depth of your unhappiness and thus has gotten so involved.

You realize he is right. Nothing good can come out of any turned tables, because Seokjin is, anyways, not even going to be able to work out the problem by himself. He may even go around talking to his friends about how you were being cold with him and not giving him any time, and still not realize he has been doing the same to you. He is thick like that. 

When his friends tell you tales of his compassion, you're unable to relate. You've never seen that side of him. He has probably grown up from that emotionally overwhelmed high school graduate who had made friends on a whim, the night of his graduation.

You certainly don't appreciate the emotional abstinence, though, and would very much rather prefer if he would open up a bit more. It would help you be more open with him, without fearing him calling you "stupid" in response.

But it’s still alright, you accept him with that thick brain of his, because he’s still only ever going to be the only one for you.

"How are you two gonna get around to having a proper chat if you just keep building more walls between you both?" Jackson asks after the long pause from your end, this time softer. “I’m sorry, babe, I was wrong. Giving him signs and making him realize shit won’t work. It was stupid of me to suggest that. It’s probably why you ended up being so caustic with him.

“No, no, it was all me, Jax. I could’ve chosen to not listen to you, but my ego got in the way, I guess. It’s not exactly easy, telling your boyfriend you’re feeling neglected. I mean, what if he laughs in my face and tells me I’m being paranoid? What if he thinks I have no regard for his career — or mine — because my priorities don’t align with his?” You bite your lip, shutting your eyes as your insecurities attack you.

“Hey, no. None of that is gonna happen if you really share with him what you’ve been feeling. No hints, no sarcasm, you’re gonna have to tell him point blank. Allow yourself to be raw. He’s the love of your life. You don’t have to protect yourself from him, right?”

You sigh. “Yeah, I know. You’re absolutely right, Jax. But I really have no idea how to even approach him, at this point. He’s either too busy with shoots, or with the guys, or some meeting. I cannot do this on call, because that always leads to misunderstandings.” You bite down on your lower lip, contemplating. “But I’ll figure something out.”

"Yes, you will. You always do. So, that’s good then. In the meanwhile, can you at least clean up this latest pile of poop? The talking less thingy is gonna make you two more distant, hun."

You scrunch your nose at his metaphor, but then your shoulders slump. "I don't know, Jackson. The way he so impassively agreed to it would make me sound really stupid if I take it back. And given what he keeps saying, he really doesn’t want me to sound stupid."

Jackson gives a snort at that. “Hah, funny. But listen. At the end of the day, he’s your boyfriend. You're gonna have to really decide if you're trying to get your boyfriend to give you more love, or if you're fighting a battle of egos and would like to bend him to you."

You bite your lip. “You make me sound manipulative.”

“You yourself confessed you let your ego come into this, one time. Don’t let that happen again. I’m trying to make you realize that complicated problems can have simple solutions, too. If only you’d communicate. Just talk to him soon, please, and make him understand why you’re hurt. Don’t carry on with this stupid cold war, okay? You gotta figure out exactly what you want, first.”

“You know what I want, Jax. You’re literally the only person that does, actually,” you remind him with a sigh.

“Oh, he is, isn’t he?”

You freeze, eyes bulging at the familiar voice. “I’ll… I’ll call you back,” you mumble before you disconnect the call and turn to look over your shoulder at Seokjin’s unreadable face. He stands with his arms crossed, still in his uniform but without the apron. “Jin… what—uh…”

“What am I doing here?” he scoffs, lips curling in distaste as he stares you down. “Well, I was going to the loo when I saw you sitting here. You looked upset, so I thought I’d check in on you on my way back.” He clicks his tongue, a dry chuckle tumbling out. “But apparently, you’ve got other people doing it for you, already.”

You wince, shutting your eyes. The one time he was finally going to give you some much needed attention — you sent a bad message his way. 

“So. Good to know there actually is someone who knows what you want. Would’ve been easier if it were me, though, given how I stand to be the one that is to deliver.” Seokjin sounds pissed off, and despite your irritation, you really want to make him understand.

You rub at your forehead. “Stop talking like that, Jin, it was just Jackson.”

“Wang?” He seems to seethe more, for some reason. “Of course, it’s fucking Wang!”

You frown, standing up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Seokjin looks at you incredulously. “You—do you not see how this looks? You have problems with me, Honey, but you choose to discuss them with him? Who’s he, your therapist?”

“He’s my best friend, Jin, someone I trust,” you grit out.

Seokjin seems to take it the wrong way, his agitated expressions slowly fading into a blank stare. “Oh. You trust him, as opposed to…” He trails off with a shrug, but the implication is as obvious as it can be.

“Jin—”

He raises a hand up, palm facing you as he looks away. “If you need some time apart, you should tell me in plain words. You know I’m not good at reading signs.”

Seokjin gives you a blank stare before turning around to leave the area. You stand rooted to your place, jaw dropped and eyes wide.

Some time apart? Has he lost his mind? 

He really is a huge freaking idiot who cannot pause to think what implications his words have. He seriously doesn’t recognize what all his “don’t be ridiculous/overdramatic/stupid” speeches do to you. You realize you should really make him understand. This has gone on for way too long.

But maybe you should take some time to yourself to cool off before that. You don’t want to say the wrong thing in your rage and complicate things further.

You sigh to yourself as you slump back into the bench you were sat on before.

You’d set out to tell your boyfriend you were feeling neglected, but you ended up making him think you want to be apart. How the heck did you get here?

You belatedly recall Jackson's words.

Why the hell can you not just say shit you really mean and actually want to instead of saying shit you don't?

You’re choosing to be evasive and fucking plastic instead of honest, and falling deeper into your mess.

Your usually dumbheaded best friend was right on this one, you realize. You should’ve just talked like a normal human being instead of letting Seokjin’s words get to you and get pissy in retaliation.

You give a weary sigh. 

Seokjin is grateful for the sudden busyness he’s got on his schedule, or he would explode from all the pent up frustration you have been causing him. 

He realized he wasn’t as upset with you as he was irritated, right after he walked away from you on Monday. He dropped you a text with some excuse of needing to stay back so that he wasn’t forced to ride with you in the car again, and later took the bus home. 

You had told Jackson Wang about what was troubling you, but not him. It made Seokjin feel upset, incompetent and more than a little insecure. Seokjin absolutely hates feeling insecure. Especially about you. You’re the singular most precious entity in his life — not that you are an entity, per se — and anything that seeks to threaten your position in his life or his position in yours, makes him lose his shit.

So it was understandable that he jumped to unfairly disproportionate magnitudes of conclusions that day. When he thought about it, later, he could easily tell that you are just mad at him and not actually contemplating leaving him, not even for a little while. Not that he’d just sit back and have you do that so easily.

Seokjin also hates overthinking, but that is all he did for the entirety of his Monday. 

Monday, though, was the last time he had time to overthink. Life got exponentially busier after that.

Immediately after his shoot on Tuesday, he received his agent’s call and was informed of his jam packed schedule for the remainder of the week. He was pulled into two separate magazine ad shoots on Wednesday, a perfume ad film drank up all of his Thursday, and today, a hair product ad film needed him to report to a sunrise point in the city at the ass-crack of dawn. The sky was still dark when he rode across the city with his agent at nearly four in the morning. 

And now, the afternoon sun beats down on his car as he drives back alone, his agent staying back to tend to some business. Stopping at a red light, he reaches for his spinach smoothie with one hand and his phone with the other. Ugh, he feels beyond tired.

Blearily, he looks down at the device around a yawn, fingers habitually reaching for your chat.

He took a week off from the restaurant and dropped you a text, late Tuesday evening, informing you of the same.

Honey✨❤👸 Hm, kay. Good luck x

Unsurprisingly, that stands to be your last message in his inbox. It’s been four days.

Sighing, he swipes a hand down his tired face and exits out of the message app. He went to bed at nine o’clock, last night, and owing to the way he has trained his body to sleep on command, he did manage to get a sleep of nearly six hours, too. But it was fitful and plagued with nightmares featuring you. 

Knowing he doesn't have to be at the restaurant until Monday and that his next gig isn’t until Wednesday, he cannot wait to get back home and drink his weight in alcohol before he sleeps his way through the weekend.

Just as he has moved past the intersection, his phone rings. 

Honey✨❤👸 calling...

He nearly spits the smoothie he just sipped at.

Coughing, he roughly jostles the plastic cup back in the holder and pulls up to a side of the road to pick up the call. “Hey,” he breathes into the phone, embarrassed at his desperation.

“Jin. Um, hi.” You sound awkward, as if you…have been compelled to call him due to some reason.

He is immediately worried. “Honey? Is everything okay, do you need something?”

He hates himself for being so concerned when you have been neglecting him for so many days – yet again, despite your spat at the restaurant – instead of finally talking to him about what’s bothering you, but he can’t help it. At the end of the day, you are the love of his life. 

“Yes, yes, I’m okay. It’s just, um. Can you pick me up from the restaurant?” you sound nervous.

But, Seokjin realizes, I was right. You do need something. He clears his throat. “Uh, okay, I guess,” he agrees before stopping short when he realizes the time. “Wait, it’s barely even two. Why are you leaving?” he asks, confused and a little concerned. You work your shift till five every day and till eight on weekends.

“Tomorrow is Halloween, Jin. We’re closing for the weekend, remember?”

Seokjin’s mouth falls open on a gasp. He really had forgotten. “Oh. Oh, okay. Yeah, I’ll be there in five, wait up.”

He swerves the car into the lane and takes off in the direction of the restaurant. 

He laughs at himself. He has been so caught up in work that he literally forgot Halloween. He wonders if this is what actual adulting is.

He is stopping before the restaurant within three minutes of your phone call, eyes immediately spotting your delicate figure standing on the sidewalk with your hands crossed against your chest.

You step down from the curb when you spot his car, and walk towards him. He watches your elegant legs as they beautifully fall in a straight line. Even when exiting your job as a waitress, you’re every bit the elegant model he met in college. Your hips sway tantalizingly, and something akin to longing swirls in his chest.

He composes himself quickly when you cross the car to get into the passenger’s seat. You awkwardly clear your throat as Seokjin busies himself with starting the vehicle, unsure if he should initiate conversation.

“Um, sorry about this. You were probably getting ready for shoot,” you finally say. “Byulyi dropped me off today. She wasn’t picking her phone up. I was trying to get a cab for half an hour. And the bus stop’s really far—”

“Hey, stop. It’s okay. You should’ve called me sooner.” Seokjin catches your apprehensive gaze on his oversized hoodie when he chances a glance at you. He sighs. “I was returning home from shoot, actually.”

He feels you stiffen, and he feels even more mentally drained at this. You used to be updated with his schedule to the tee — just short of having an actual copy of the calendar his agent carries on him. And the same goes for him with your schedule. This feels so wrong.

You are quiet for a while, your hands fidgeting in his peripheral vision.

“How—how was it?” you finally say, voice coming out like a croak.

Seokjin shrugs his shoulders. “The usual. Blinding, tiring, exhaustive. I did okay, I guess.”

He feels your gaze snap up to drill holes into his skull. Your eyes are wide when he checks. “Okay? Since when do you do anything less than amazing at shoots, babe?”

He feels endeared at your casual use of a pet name. “I had to get up at three in the morning and go through a skincare routine. Then drive across the entire city to get to the location, because they wanted to capture actual sunrise. I was more tired than excited by the time they rolled cameras, so.” He shrugs. “Can’t really say I gave my best today.”

You nod at his admission. 

Seokjin almost jumps when his phone rings, again.

Jiminie calling...

He feels you shift in your seat. His mouth sours at the reminder of that Sue girl that started off this entire tussle between you and him. Fucking Jimin and his conquests. What happened to the shy and more than a little glum looking freshman he let into his living space, three years ago?

Your hand suddenly reaches forth to accept the call, putting it on loudspeaker, immediately. Seokjin gapes at you, momentarily looking away from the road. 

“Uh…hyung?” Jimin’s confused voice echoes in the car. 

Seokjin snaps out of his daze when you gesture towards the device. “Wh—Jimin, hi, what’s — what’s up?” he stumbles his way through a haphazard greeting.

“Hyung, I needed a favor. Are you on your way back from the shoot, right now?” Jimin asks, and Seokjin sees you freeze in your seat.

He feels a perverse sense of satisfaction. Yes, take that! Park Jmin knows of my schedule better than you do! This is what you get for ghosting me! “I was, yeah. What is it?”

“Oh, great! I kinda need your help, hyung. My tire gave out. Could you pick me up from the Kappa hall?”

Seokjin scowls. “Yah! Who am I, your butler? Hop on a damn bus!”

He notices you pursing your lips, no doubt finding his agitation humorous — you always do. 

“Hyu~ng,” Jimin whines. “I would take the bus, but the next one leaves in forty-five minutes and I need to be back within an hour!”

“What? Why?”

“I started on my sem project really late, hyung, and now I gotta spend any time I can spare at the rehearsal hall. I’m meeting a choreographer here in an hour. Please help me out!” Jimin is still whining, and maybe his reasoning is kind of alright, but—

Seokjin is tired to his bones. He literally cannot drive all the way down to your apartment and then drive back to the university campus to pick Jimin up.

He sighs, wearily. “Jimin… I’m really tired.” 

“And I’m really desperate, hyung! Dancing is tough! And the subject I've chosen, tougher. I haven't done ballet since first semester, Freshman year! I have to work my butt off and be done in under two months."

Seokjin exhales, feeling beyond exhausted. But then your finger is tapping on the screen and the call has been muted. Seokjin’s surprised eyes fly up to meet yours. You look conflicted, biting down on your lower lip as you shake your head with a frown.

“You should go home and rest, Jin. Leave the car with me, I’ll pick him up.”

“Hyung? Say something?”

Seokjin blinks. “You…”

You roll your eyes. “I’ll pick him up, yeah. He’ll drop me off and drive back to your place.”

“Hyung?! Did you put me on mute, or what? I can't hear a thing!”

“Tell him you’ll be there in ten!” you say, unmuting the call.

“I’m in the car, the network must have glitched. I’ll, uh… be there in ten?” Seokjin nervously finishes off, looking at you in question. You give him a nod, blinking slowly. “Wait up, okay?”

“Oh my God, thank you so much, hyung!” Jimin practically squeals through the phone. “I’ll be in the ice cream shop across the building. I love you, hyung-nim!”

Seokjin rolls his eyes and disconnects the call. He looks at you from the corner of his eyes as he takes a right, now moving in the direction of his apartment instead of yours. “You sure about this? Jimin, um, knows. About our…” Seokjin doesn’t want to call it the f-word, because he would like to believe that you two aren’t actually fighting. “You being upset, I mean,” he settles for the easier alternative. “He might ask questions.”

You give a small huff of wry laugh. “I can handle it, Seokjin. I’ve known Jimin for almost three years now.”

Seokjin doesn’t like it when you address him by his full name. And so, his lips remain pursed for the remainder of the ride, only parting to tell you to “drive safe and text me when you finally get home,” and then he walks inside his apartment without looking back.

He hears his car come to life and then speed away. He shuts his eyes, leaning against the kitchen counter. Gathering his emotional as well as physical bearings, he opens the refrigerator to rummage through some leftovers to munch on while he breaks out a six pack of Budweiser. 

Before his fried rice has even reheated, Seokjin groans at the sight of an all too jovial Hoseok entering the kitchen with a glint in his eyes. “No, Hobi. Not now.”

“What? I didn’t say a word, hyung!”

Seokjin winces, shutting his eyes just as the microwave beeps. “I don’t have enough energy to deal with your general aura, right now,” he mumbles, extracting the piping hot glass bowl. He leans down to open one of the compartments beneath the kitchen table to get to the beer that he’s been dreaming of for nearly an hour, now. “I’m dead on my feet and—woah!” Seokjin gasps, cutting himself off.

Hoseok hops into the kitchen, coming around to stand behind Seokjin. “So you found ’em,” he says around a chuckle.

“Found ’em? This is you?” Seokjin whips his head around to glare at Hoseok up from his crouch. “Why is my liquor closet resembling a liquor shop, Hobi? Why do we have all this—” he turns around to read the labels, cursing under his breath. “Why do we have,” he pauses to count, “five bottles of Tequila and eight bottles of Vodka?”

Hoseok frowns in concern. “Eight? There should be ten, hyung, check again.”

Seokjin actually gasps, this time. “What the hell, Jung Hoseok? Explain yourself before I start throwing hands!”

Hoseok smacks a palm against his forehead, taking Seokjin by surprise, yet again. “Tonight’s the Halloween party, hyung! Did you actually forget?”

Seokjin screws his eyes shut, letting his head roll back with a frustrated whine. “No~o, don’t tell me it's tonight. Halloween’s tomorrow, right? Why is the party tonight?”

“Yes, hyung, Halloween in tomorrow, which is why it would be stupid to hold the party when Halloween is ending.”

Seokjin finds the logic to be very severely flawed, but his energy is draining out fast and he cannot keep up with this quarrel. There’s no point, anyway. He’s known about this party for nearly a month. And Hoseok isn’t going to postpone a whole party just because Seokjin is tired.

“You look tired, hyung. You should rest. Recharge yourself before the party, okay? There’s plenty of time.” Hoseok pats Seokjin on the shoulder with a kind smile.

“I’m not even in the mood to party, Hobi,” Seokjin mutters, reaching behind all the glass bottles to extract his pack of cans. 

Hoseok scowls at Seokjin. “Because you’re upset about your fight, I realize that. All the more reason to party, hyung! Take your mind off it for some time, why don’t you? You don’t even have to dress up, come as yourself.”

“I’d rather just drink myself to sleep and not wake up for the next twenty four hours.”

Hoseok blocks his path as Seokjin moves to exit the kitchen. “Is Honey coming?”

Seokjin sighs, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know, Hobi. Did you invite her?”

“No, hyung, because you said you would.”

Seokjin clicks his tongue. He completely forgot. “Then she isn’t coming.”

Without listening to his protests, Seokjin trudges upstairs with his food and beer. He will be forced to come down for at least a couple shots, he is certain, so he better make as much of the time he has on his hands as he can.

These days, it seems to be becoming a pattern for you to do things without really understanding why you do them. 

You nibble at your bottom lip as you recall how gaunt and pale Seokjin had looked when you sat in the car. You had been really self-centered as it is, not really keeping in touch with him for four days, and then reaching out when you needed help. You couldn’t bear to think, on top of everything, that he had driven you home despite his extreme exhaustion while you sat back selfishly and let him drive around the city to pick Jimin up when he looked like a ghost.

You shake your head at yourself as Jimin jogs down the road to enter the car, ten seconds after you texted him. 

His gaze is slightly hesitant when he meets your eyes, even though his smile is nothing but genuine. “Hello, noona. How come you are…” he trails off, gesturing around the two of you.

You start the car, shrugging one shoulder. “Seokjin came to pick me up. Now you’re gonna drop me off.”

Jimin gives you a huge smile, before his eyebrows suddenly lower. You look away, veering onto the road. “Wait. Were you in the car with him when I called?”

You chuckle. “Yes.”

“Oh,” Jimin mumbles around a small laugh.

You hum to yourself as you drive, distracting yourself from the thoughts that keep encircling your head. Seokjin is your boyfriend, no matter how mad you might be at him — you love him and care about him. Which is why you have tried to help him out. Not to mention, you felt slightly guilty, as it is, about calling him to pick you up. Why is your gesture of goodwill bothering you, then?

This is what you do for people you care about. Seokjin would do the same.

Your train of thoughts suddenly comes to a screeching halt.

Would he? Would he, really?

“You okay, noona?”

You jolt back from your thoughts, wide eyes turning to look at Jimin. “Wha—yes, yeah, I'm fine.”

He cocks an eyebrow at you. “You’re gripping the wheel really hard.”

You look at your tightly clenched fists, and immediately ease them. “Oh, uh. Sorry. A lot on my mind, I guess.”

“Understandably,” Jimin mutters, looking out of the side window when you turn to look at him.

You purse your lips and press down on the accelerator. 

A few beats of silence pass between you two before Jimin clears his throat. “Can I say something?” he asks you in a soft voice, looking nothing like the seductive persona he puts forth to get ladies falling in his bed. 

You exhale. “Sure.”

“You, um. You are not just hyung’s girlfriend, you know?” he says slowly.

You scoff. “Of course, I do. I am also the very best server my restaurant has ever seen and the best struggling model you’ll ever meet, on the side.”

Jimin snorts, before giggling with his eyes closed. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

You do. But you do not want to face it. You want to be selfish, for once. You do absolutely know that you have been ignoring all the boys in your anger at Seokjin, but you absolutely do not wish to do anything about it. Not until you’ve resolved this tense air between you and Seokjin.

“You are also a part of our little family,” Jimin quietly finishes.

You suck your lips in at that. The word “family'' really gets to you. 

He’s right, isn’t he? 

All eight of you — well, nine, now, with the addition of Taehyung’s girlfriend — have been a family since the day you met these guys.

You smile as the memories start to filter in.

You had had a giant crush on Seokjin since the very first time you saw him in your Freshman year. Well, having a crush on the guy wasn’t that unheard of given how handsome he was. It also helped matters that he modelled for the cover page of your university’s journal within his first month in college. What surprised you was his reciprocated interest when you both finally got to know each other, thanks to Byulyi. Your current roommate was majoring in photography back then, and somehow roped the two of you into modelling for her portfolio. Seokjin asked you out during the sixth month of your Freshman year.

You recall being introduced to Yoongi in your Sophomore year, when he entered your college as a Music major. You found him laid back, calm but really sassy, and fun to be around. The three of you often hung out together, and you took immense pleasure in singling Seokjin out with the two of your sarcastic back and forths.

In your senior year, Hoseok transferred to your college as a Sophomore, and Taehyung and Jimin entered as Freshmen. 

Hoseok was literally the most lively person you’d ever met in your life. There wasn’t a single moment of boredom next to him. He was easily given the responsibility of planning all your outings and parties, henceforth — a position he still holds with full competence.

Taehyung was usually found to be lost in his head more often than not in his initial college days. He was confused about his major for two entire semesters. With inputs from the group, when he eventually picked Art, he eased into college life. After that, he came out to be one of the weirdest and unwittingly funny guys in the group. You still don’t get how he was the first amongst all the boys to find him a girl.

Jimin was a really quiet and reserved individual, at first. He very rarely interacted with you all, choosing to stay holed up in his dorm room, instead, that Taehyung had forced him to share with him. You suspected he was recovering from a recent heartbreak. It became evident when he started dating someone within a week of getting into college, only to confess it was a rebound when he got dumped. The whoring around that began after the whole debacle is yet to cease, though. Obviously. 

Hoseok comes from a really well-off family, and had brought along with him the four-bedroom apartment he currently resides in with Yoongi, Jimin and your boyfriend. His uncle gave it away to him, rent-free of course, and he proposed to share it with the rest of the guys. Seokjin and Yoongi were immediately on board, more than eager to leave the chaotic dorm life behind. Taehyung, contrarily, decided he wanted to get the whole college experience and refused to quit the dorms. Jimin, then, left the dorm he shared with Taehyung to move in with the elders.

You met Jungkook immediately after your graduation on the boy’s eighteenth birthday. He instantly struck you as a smart kid, really good at singing as well as art. Yoongi disclosed he wanted to be a music major in your college, and you tried to encourage Jungkook about it, but the guy could hardly even look at you. It was cute but also hilarious how much he was scared of Seokjin, and by principle, you.

You believe that is still true. Now that you think about it, you're pretty sure you haven’t seen Jungkook ever actually relax around the two of you.

“Noona?”

You blink, coming back to the present as Jimin calls out to you. You take a deep breath, the memories hitting you with tender emotions. All these people are really precious to you, aren’t they? The bunch of you really are a family, aren’t you?

A sad smile swims up to your face. You miss the boys.

When he calls again, you turn to look at Jimin, questioningly. 

“Please don’t be mad at hyung,” he slowly says, looking down at his lap. In this moment, he looks quite unlike the Jimin you are used to and reminds you of, instead, the one you’d first met. “He might lack tact, sometimes, but he really loves you a lot. You’re his whole world. Whatever it is that you are angry about, you should tell him about it. I don’t think he would be able to figure it out by himself.”

This, you agree with. “I’ll try, Jiminie.”

“We all miss you. Especially Hobi hyung and I,” he says with a lopsided excuse of a smile. 

You resist the urge to fluff his hair. Jimin and Hoseok have been like the younger brothers you never had. You miss them, too. 

He suddenly chuckles. "And Yoongi hyung hides it well, but I think he's the one that misses you the most. No one helps him roast Jin hyung quite like you do."

You roll your eyes. "Of course not. It's a waste for Yoongi to even try to find a better partner at roasting Jin."

You spot your apartment building and pull up to it. 

“I’ll try to talk to Jin as soon as I can, Jimin, I promise. Don't worry so much about it,” you say as you step out, patting the boy once on his head. "I miss you all, too."

You give a small wave and faint smile to him as he drives away.

tagging: @shrimpmsg​

note: so! a lil bit of backstory and the infamous halloween party - how we feelin’ so far? the next part is ~12k words, too, and i’ll post it next wednesday, wait around~ 😘💕

SECOND PART OUT NOW: read here!

© jimilter | 2021

[wevegottogetaway]

Thanks fo’ saving my ass tonight

I got so much going on with uni, but I couldn’t resist. If you too are queen/king of procrastinating uni work, you have my deepest support! Hope you enjoyed x

TW: none (except fool language)

Part 2    -    Part 3*

Office parties have never been y/n’s cup of tea, the idea of enjoying yourself in the very place people usually count down the hours before they can leave, is rather ludicrous in her humble opinion. Alas as the boss’ personal assistant, she not only had to plan and organize the whole shebang but her presence was also required, supervision purposes and all that. The only solace sweetening the deal for her was that she’d be in charge of the catering too, and y/n learnt very early on that good food and greater booze could make any boring work function at least tolerable.

Now that the festivities are in full swing, conversation flowing almost as heartily as the champagne in the guests’ eager mouths, y/n thinks she did quite well. The vast open space of the office is decorated with taste, the music set at the perfect level as to not overpower the boring chitchat bouncing off its walls, and to her greatest delight, the catering company she hired has truly outdone themselves. All in all, everybody seems to be having a grand time, and y/n decides that’s reason enough to officially relieve herself of her supervisor’s duties.

As she scans over the assortment of canapés, mini-quiches, crudités and other mouth-watering ambrosias, y/n fails to notice the tall figure casually approaching her. She’s in the midst of pondering whether she should try the humous or a cream cheese and salmon toast first, mouth salivating and stomach growling in appetite, when a raspy voice interrupts her inner battle, "I see m’not the only one who’s here just fo’ the food".

Her eyes pop off the delicious hors d’oeuvres to the sight gracing them next and she doesn’t know which is the most appetizing. Because standing a few feet from her is Harry, vibrant smile and pretty dimples on show, as he leans over the verrines platter to pick the best-looking one. He’s wearing an olympic blue floral suit on top of a scandalously unbuttoned transparent shirt, a bold number that would grant anyone else looks of surprise and confusion but looked absolutely divine on his broad frame. Besides, after two years working at the office, everyone had gotten used to his unconventional fashion choices by now.

Y/n quirks an eyebrow in curiosity as she dips a cucumber stick in a bowl of humous, before quipping, "not a big fan of these things?"

Harry lets out a small chuckle in a ‘no kidding’ way, and attaches his emerald eyes to hers, "they’re kind of a drag, if m’bein’ honest."

She smiles at his admission, realizing they both share an aversion for mundanities, "I know right. Like, why party here where everyone has to be on their best behavior when we could be down at the bar without the boss gallivanting around?" she cries out in exasperation and not for the first time, Harry thinks she’s quite possibly the most endearing thing he’s ever seen. His smile widens the tiniest bit at her passionate rant, "my thoughts exactly. Do we even know what we’re supposed to celebrate?" The question makes her laugh, she wouldn’t have known either if not for her involvement in the affair, "well as the person behind this all drag," she give him a pointed look at his jeering choice of word, "it would be weird if I didn’t."

Harry’s face falls at the possibility of having offended her, but his uneasiness quickly dissipates when she starts laughing at him. "M’sorry, that came out wrong," he tells her before letting out a giggle of his own and y/n revels in the moment. The idea of interacting with him beyond the usual ‘here’s the presentation for today’s conference’ or ‘do you have the quarterly report ready’ is rather intoxicating for her already feeble nerves. "Don’t worry, I take no offense, I’m just as bored as you are," she reassures him with a smile, "the party is for a new potential investor, something about wooing them with some ‘corporate fun’. S’a load of bullshit if you ask me".

Harry nods at the explanation unimpressed, his boss’ intentions being the least of his worries. Aside from being the classic douche every manager typically insists on being, the guy has always made his distaste about him pretty clear, so Harry would rather focus on more interesting things. Like how beautiful y/n looks right now, her hair tied up in a loose bun at the top of her head, leaving a few strands to fall around her face. "You look amazing, by the way," he brings himself to say, though he thinks his compliment doesn’t even do her justice.

Y/n looks down at her own outfit then: a knee-length red dress composed of a skater skirt and a backless top that only holds with a couple pressure buttons clasped behind her neck. Her cheeks warm up to match the color of her apparel, betraying the timidity she’s always fallen victim of whenever he happened to be in her vicinity. Y/n’s never been one to shy away from her feelings or trip over her own words when facing her crushes, but there is something about Harry that teleports her right back to her sheepish 13 year-old teenage self. Also, she’s not too keen on office romances and the drama that usually ensues so she’s always made sure to stifle her blossoming attraction and keep their relation work-appropriate. Surely that must account for most of her awkwardness, doesn’t it?

Her eyes trail back to his face and her response comes in a shy euphemism, "thank you, you clean up quite nicely yourself." It’s enough to quirk Harry’s lips in a bashful smile, their  complexion evidently on edge as they tread uncharted territories. Professionalism has always regimented their interactions with kind but polite rigidness, neither of them quite inclined to cross that invisible line, but tonight seems to challenge that.

Tonight, Harry is resolute in his infatuation, no longer inhibited from social construct but driven by a quest for knowledge; anything that will help him decipher her carefully shielded crux. Tonight, he endeavors to scrape the edges of her rough diamond to expose the gem encapsulated inside, peel back the stoic layers of her exterior to find her unapologetic and intrinsic nature. Tonight, he is thirsty for secrets and confidential disclosures, and he won’t leave until he’s drained it all out of her. Unless she tells him to fuck off, obviously.

Harry keeps the conversation going as he browns the buffet for a new delicacy to snack on, "so, what would you be doing if you didn’t have to be here?" He wants to know everything, the present and the past, the good and the bad, the superficial and the substance, the messy and the orderly, but he figures he should start by what she likes to do in her own time. The things that loosen her up after a tense week at work, the things that will make her eyes shine with passion as she relates them back to his curious mind.

The question reaches her ears as she takes a sip of her drink, "mmm," she smiles around her glass before placing it back on the table, "-that’s easy. Playing pool with the gang at Gibson’s." Her answer spills without hesitation, a heap of follow-up questions already brewing up in Harry’s brain, but the foreign name is what beckons his attention first, "Gibson’s?" he echoes with a faint rumple pulling the skin between his eyes. Is that the name of a friend? A boyfriend? Out of all the questions he’s contemplated, y/n’s relationship status never crossed his mind. He’s always assumed her to be a single woman, the evidence of a significant other never present in her language and demeanor.

A wave of relief washes over him at her elaboration, "it’s a bar couple blocks from my place. It’s been my friends and I’s HQ ever since we all met." The sentiment has her eyes sparkle at the remembrance of all the happy memories the place hosted, and Harry stores the information in his mental list of all y/n’s soft spots.

"Sounds rad, so you play pool?" he inquires with enthusiasm. He’s been knows to play a game or two in his youth, though it’s been a hot minute since he’s felt the weight of the cue in his hands as he sinks ball after ball in their respective pockets. He remembers the elation of it all, the adrenaline coursing through his veins at each successful strike, and his heart flutters at the thought of ever sharing a game with her; she seems like the competitive type in the most entertaining way possible. Before his thoughts can spiral into much filthier realms, like bending her over the table mid-game when his own skills prevail and she turns into a sore-loser, y/n’s voice rings him back to reality.

"Uh uh, correction," her expression suddenly turns in false seriousness before she proves him right about her competing tendencies, "I win at pool." Her eyes are so full of confidence, a spice of mischief sparkling in their corner, she would have no difficulty persuading anyone of anything that passes the threshold of her mouth. Harry certainly doesn’t doubt her mastery of the bar game, but it doesn’t stop him from challenging her in a slightly elevated pitch, "oh is that so?"

Y/n only grins at the banter, not at all fazed by his taunting remark, "maybe you’ll have to find out for yourself." She reaches for another snack, not taking her come-hither look off his handsome face, and Harry revels in her flirtatious advances, a smug smile taking possession of his lips as he surfs of the same wave of seduction. "Is that a challenge?" he philanders back, fueling the sensual back-and-forth they seem to have embarked upon.

"Not much of a challenge if I know I’ll win," y/n replies with cheek, her self-assurance once again burgeoning like sexy wildflowers sprouting from the ground underneath Harry’s feet, wrapping around his ankle and growing along his body to twine around his spellbound heart. He absolutely loves her unfaltering aplomb, finds it undoubtably sexy but he can’t let her know that just yet.

"Cocky."

"Confident."

They both chuckle at their repartee, enjoying this ping-pong of quick-witted banter they’ve never found in anybody else before. It’s like their intellects were meant to collide in galvanizing forces, the encounter of two fiery psychs too brilliant to one up the other.

Harry is mesmerized by their connection, if he knew sparks would fire this bright, he would have made a move ages ago. "Fuck, you’re something else," he shakes his head in incredulity before confessing, "definitely not what I expected."

Y/n’s chest tingles at his comment, a rivulet of liquid glee leaking through her arteries to pump her heart and her ego full of bliss, "Oh so you expected something, did you?" She punctuates her teasing with a thousand-watts power smirk, and Harry finds it strikingly alluring.

Not about to let her have the upper hand however, a burst of smugness crosses his features as he boomerangs her earlier allurement back to her, "maybe you’ll have to find out for yourself." It earns him a deep jazzy laugh rooted in her tummy and a tinge of pride swirling in his own. He wants to pry laugh after laugh from her belly until her last giggle, only relenting once the muscles in her chest are aching from unbridled joy.

Y/n sighs in content before taking a bite out of a mini-tartlet as she considers how to proceed in this much too flirty conversation. "So what would you be doing tonight, if not for this stupid party?" she returns his first question before realizing,  "-wait a sec, what are you doing here if you hate these things so much? My presence was mandatory but yours isn’t."

"I’ll have you know I was coerced into coming too," he quips back in a fake defensive tone, hand pressing to his chest, "Mike from accounting begged me to tag along, he just broke up with his girlfriend so I didn’t have the heart to tell him no." The selfishness of the gesture softens her heart in a goo of adoration, but she can’t let him know that just yet.

"Softie."

"Chivalrous."

His comeback has her giggle, a rejoinder already tiptoeing at the edge of her lips, "see, who’s cocky now?" Her eyes are full of jest and lightness, somehow taking the weight of the party off his shoulders. Turns out, food and booze are not the only remedies for boring work functions, y/n’s company is just as effective if not more, and that’s with the guarantee of a hangover-less comes next morning. Harry is truly happy he decided to make an appearance tonight, a sentiment he definitely didn’t foresee for the night. The realization has him faintly shaking his head in amazement, his lips letting out another whispered "something else" softly enough that it doesn’t quite reach her already inflated ears.

"So did you have any plans tonight?" She reiterates the question not wanting to ever stop talking with him.

There are probably a hundred exciting plans he could have conjured up to come off half as intriguing as she seems to be, but instead he decides to go the honest route, "nah, I would have probably crash on my couch, this week’s been pretty hectic." His truth is confirmed by the faded blackness tinting the skin below his eyes, a proof of hard work and long hours under the heedlessness of a greedy superior. Y/n knows it all too well, having had firsthand experience with her boss’ jackassery. That’s why she directly inquires, "boss giving you trouble?"

Part of Harry is eager to steer the conversation back to more pleasant waters but he guesses talking a little bit about work was inevitable at some point, especially since they both share palpable distaste for their superior. "The maniac keeps giving me last minute reports like I’m expected to work all night along on his bullshit projects," he explains dejectedly before running his hand through his luscious curls in sign of frustration. "Barely finished in time fo’ the party tonight, I had to slip in his office to put the file on his desk, that fucker had already left."

Y/n listens attentively, her chest tightening in empathy at the recollection of his misfortune. She’s very familiar with the embittering feeling that comes with working your ass for someone that barely registers your efforts and dishes the office hours before you can even dream of clocking off. She’s faced the same scenario time and time again, including tonight, when she’d come up to lock the boss’ office hours after he left to get pampered for the party. She barely got time to make the double commute to and from her place, much less spend hours getting dolled up. She does remember the odd file on her boss’ desk though, "oh I was wondering what that blue folder was about, he never usually leave unattended paperwork on his desk."

Harry starts nodding in confirmation before stopping dead, eyes widened in distress, "wait, did you just say blue?" he asks in urgency.

Y/n frowns at his sudden agitation, her mind reeling to try and visualize the state of the surroundings she left several hours ago. She’s pretty positive she saw a blue binder laying there, not that she knows the ramifications of that simple fact, "yes I think so, why?"

The dire nature of the situation becomes painfully obvious as Harry’s face turns into a mess of  dread and panic, "oh shit, oh fuck, no no no," the words keep tumbling from his mouth in a ramble of nerves. "So stupid, m’so fucked" he keeps muttering self-admonition in quiet anger, hands griping at the root of his hair.

Concern is starting to fester in y/n’s guts as she takes in his disheveled state, "Harry, Jesus, take a breath, tell me what’s going on," she steps closer to him, one hand softly holding at his biceps as she tries to connect their gazes.

Once his eyes plug into hers, pupils blown out in turmoil, he finally calms down enough to word  out his mishap, "s’not the right file on his desk, I only use red binders for the reports." Spinning around out of her hold to shout his stress back to the wall in a loud "fuck!", Harry’s mind is caught up in a swirl of possible excuses to give to his boss, all sounding more ridiculous than the other. He can’t think of way to fix his mistake and escape the inevitable berating coming his way comes morning.

Fortunately for him, y/n is not about to let this happen, "it’s okay, we’ll fix this," she encourages. "What’s on his desk right now?"

Harry looks back at her then, not totally convinced that this all mayhem is salvageable. His boss is never going to tolerate this minor negligence, especially once he finds out the irrelevant material mistakenly slipped amongst his work. "My 14 year-old niece’s english project" the answer comes out as a question, a hint of self-deprecating humor lacing through his words. "Bloody hell, he’s gon’ have my head fo’ that one."

Harry is adamant in his doom, but if anything, y/n is not a quitter. "No he’s not. He hasn’t seen it yet, right? You said he was already gone when you brought the file."

He takes a long breath, "I suppose not."

"Guess it’s a good thing I have the keys to his office then, yeah?" She smiles proudly as a beacon of hope shines on his conflicted face. The forest green of his eyes seems to breath back to life in an endearing revival, effectively tugging at y/n’s heart’s merciful strings.

"Fuck, you’d do that fo’ me?" his shoulders loosen up in relief, the tension slowly simmering down to a gentle buzz, as he envisages the possibility of an illicit break-in. Well, as illicit as it may be, considering they have the keys. Still, best they don’t get caught snooping in the boss’ office, for both of their sake.

"Of course, silly. No questions asked," y/n answers with a smile, and her willingness to put herself in potential trouble, warms Harry’s heart from inside out.

"Y/n, you’re an angel, a life savior," he grabs her shoulders in each of his hands, his gratitude painted all over his soft traits. "Fuck, I could kiss you right now." The words fly out of his mouth without him realizing their significance after spending the last ten minutes coming onto her. And well, y/n isn’t too opposed to the idea either, and she thinks she might hold him to that promise in retribution for her saving grace when the time and space works better in their favor. "Alright Casanova, let’s get your ass out of this mess," she grabs her purse form the table and takes his hand to guide him through the cluster of people milling around the office space, eventually reaching the row of elevators across the room.

As they stand waiting for their lift to come, Harry starts fidgeting with nervous energy, feeling like a kid who’s about to get caught trying to steal straight from the cookie jar. "Shit, alright, we have to be discrete if we want to pull this off," he tells her, not taking his eyes off the room in case someone would look at them and read their plan straight off their guilty-looking faces.

"Says the guy in the flashy suit," y/n immediately counters, in an attempt to revive the playfulness of their synergy. The night was going swimmingly before the whole ordeal, and she’s convinced this foxy little adventure can only add to the appeal of an evening full of surprises.

Harry’s indignation at her dig teeters from his pouty lips, "hey! It’s not that bad." She giggles at his poor rebuttal, and as the doors of the elevator open, they quickly take a few steps inside.

"Harry, that suit is so loud, it could break the sound barrier," y/n teases as she eyes the crowd of people frivolously chatting away, while waiting for the door to close back.

"Thought I cleaned up nicely," he cheekily throws back her words from earlier, letting them resonate within the small confines of the elevator as they make their way up to their boss’ office.

She turns to face him then, a smile spreading on her supple lips, "don’t get me wrong, you look wonderful, just nowhere near decent for a secret spy mission."

Her words have him beaming back at her in a second, his mind fixated on her compliment rather than how impractical it is that his clothes are flashier than the Queen’s; in his defense, neither are y/n’s. "Damn, just got upgraded from nice to wonderful, this night is actually turning around," he chirps as the door open to the deserted hallway of the top floor.

"Alright, more action and less flirting, Styles," y/n playfully chides him. "Go get the right file, while I open his door, we should be quick in case he decides to bring the tour and his special guest up here." She sends him off with a tilt of her chin in what she knows to be the direction of his office, and Harry complies with ease and starts backtracking a few doors down, "yes ma’am."

While he’s gone to fetch the correct document from his office, y/n rummages through her purse to find the key of her boss’ office and unlock the door. Once she’s inside, she makes her way around the imposing mahogany desk commanding the space, and finds the imposter file sitting innocently on the polished wood. For pure curiosity’s sake, she starts leafing through its contents and lets a small chuckle as she takes in the endearing work of a young aspiring writer.

Her reading is interrupted by Harry’s hurried strides when he joins her in the room. "Here’s the damn report," he flings the folder on the desk next to his niece’s, red clashing with blue, mocking him for his slight negligence. As he absorbs the sight of y/n’s face engrossed in the teenage’s fiction, he moves slowly behind her, getting a glimpse at his niece’s whimsical words over her shoulder, before his eyes settle on the bare skin of her back.

Y/n welcomes his sudden proximity, has stranding on end as she feels the soft puffs of his breaths against her neck. "Your niece is quite the writer, does she always come to you for advice?"

She ignores the shivers running down her spine, and gulps when Harry’s voice greets her ears in a deep quiet hoarse, closer than she excepted, "usually, yeah. I was the one who got her into writing, so it’s kinda become our thing, I guess."

She smiles at his softness, "that’s really sweet," and draws in a long breath in a vain attempt to calm her jitters. She can almost feel his presence on her skin though they’re technically not touching, her fingertips tingling in anticipation.  

Another frisson travels through her when he responds with a low "mhm," his nose slightly grazing behind her ear, taking in her beguiling fragrance. Jasmine and vanilla, fresh and soft, exciting and comforting at the same time; it suits her perfectly.

"Harry-" she doesn’t know what to follow the whisper of his name with. Careful? Not here? Please don’t stop? At this point, she wants nothing more than to succumb to his affections, regardless of their improper whereabouts.

Harry brushes the back of his index down the smooth skin of her back in a featherlike caress, "thanks fo’ saving my ass, tonight," he murmurs into her ear, before laying a small kiss behind it.

Y/n is exulting under his tender ministrations, her eyes closed to enhance the feeling of his touch. "Anytime," she breathes out as her head tilts backward, a hand coming behind his neck in a silent plea not to let go, and Harry smiles against her skin at her receptiveness, goosebumps of his own blossoming across his body.

His next words are out of his mouth before he can think, "mmm, I owe you a big one," his playful persona resurfacing now that the situation was handled. They snort in unison at the double-entendre, and Harry slides his free arm around her waist to bring her closer to his chest in silent remittance. Y/n doesn’t mind though, she kinda likes this boyish side of him, but she can’t let him know that just yet.

"Gross."

"Hilarious."

Their ping-pong of wisecrack is back despite the tension permeating the air. It’s the kind that speeds heartbeats and moistens palms in lustful anticipation, the kind that curtails people’s breath as their lungs fill up with voluptuous aphrodisia. "Will you let me kiss you? Show you all my gratitude? I really wanna have a taste, love," he pleads for her permission, and y/n is too consumed by desire to deny him, "have it."

In one swift move, he spins around and latches his eager lips onto her. Passion ensues, hands roaming all over each other to find the perfect hold; the back of a neck, the lapels of a suit jacket, a few strands of hair, the curve of an exposed ribcage, it’s all intoxicating but there is always more to explore. Their tongues are caught up in a heated tango of their own, swirling around each other to quench the thirst of passion, licking their lustful way around their mouths.

At one point, Y/n finds herself pressed against her boss’ desk, one leg around Harry’s waist as he attaches his hips to hers in a heated embrace that leaves them breathless upon parting. He rests his forehead against her temple as they both process the intimate exchange, not ready to burst out of this fairy bubble. "Fuck, been waiting to do that for a while," he exhales with a smile, still incredulous at the evening’s proceedings, and the girl nestled in his arms.

"Same," she agrees and gently cups his face to bring his eyes back to hers, barely believing the adoration and warmth swimming within his lovely olive irises.

Harry’s heart feels like a ticking bomb about to implode, the sweet taste of her lips already providing him with a fix he didn’t know he was addicted to. "One more," he demands against her mouth before diving into another searing kiss. This time his hands explore more meticulously, scavenging for other soft spots to add on to his mental list. The dimples in her back right above the curve of her ass seem to rival the area at her side right below the swell of her breast, but Harry is pretty sure he’ll find more sensitive spots in the near future. Hopefully.

Once again, the need for oxygen compels them to part way, but neither of them make a move to separate their tangled limbs. Y/n is reveling in the moment she’s been daydreaming about for months, "so good," she keeps whispering sweet nothing against his lips while rubbing her nose against the bridge of his.

Harry clears his throat as he regains his bearings, realizing that there are still very much in the middle of their boss’ office, a place they are not supposed to be in, doing stuff they’re not supposed to be doing. At least not here. "Let’s get outta here, yeah?" he brushes a strand of hair that fell in front of her face, "you can kick my ass at that game of pool as promised, and I’ll tend to yours once we’re back at my place, what’dya say?"

And well, how can one say no to that?

➪ Masterlist

[thevibraniumveterans]

I'M STARTING WITH THE MAN IN THE MIRROR...

I'm asking him to change his ways And no message could have been any clearer If you want to make the world a better place Take a look at yourself, and then make a change

-

A couple of points to make.

1. Loki and identity

According to head writer Michael Waldron, "in a series that, to me, is ultimately about self-love, self-reflection, and forgiving yourself, it just felt right that that would be Loki's first real love story." 

Loki learning to love himself, reflecting on who he really is as a person, and forgiving his past misdeeds, is the ultimate character growth, something that the TVA was hell-bent on preventing because it did not line up with how they saw Loki to be. Loki seeing himself in his mirror and realizing that he needs to change? Yeah. That's the big thing going on here.

According to Tom Hiddleston, "I don't think Loki's relationship with himself has been very healthy. Trying to accept those aspects of himself, which he's been on the run from, was a way of thinking about that in a really interesting way."

Think about how Loki praised Sylvie for being amazing because she's been running rings around the TVA. Again, it's a metaphor, because Loki has never in his entire life, honestly praised himself and talked about himself in a good and honest way. I will talk about how Sylvie is Loki's mirror and metaphor later, because this is important. It's also the reason why I started this post off with the chorus of Michael Jackson's "Man in the Mirror". It's relevant, okay?

According to director Kate Herron, "The whole show is about identity. It's about him, and he is on a very different path, and he is on a different journey." And it is! It's kind of how the saying goes, when one reaches rock bottom, there's nowhere to go but up, right?

2. "Love is a dagger."

Terrible metaphor it may be, according to Tom Hiddleston of what Loki says to Sylvie in Ep3, "They were having a talk about love and trusting other people, and not being able to either love or trust for whatever reason." The dagger, then, would represent "Loki's experience of love, I suppose. He certainly feels like it's not been something he's been close to. It has been some sort of illusion that he has trusted and been let down by."

(https://www.marvel.com/articles/tv-shows/loki-love-is-a-dagger-sylvie)

3. "Love is… uh, something I might have to have another drink to think about."

Interestingly enough, I've had several thoughts on the relationship dynamic between Loki and Sylvie.

Yes, Mobius did describe it as "Two Variants of the same being, especially you, forming this kind of sick, twisted, romantic relationship", but even I'm having opinions that would start to contradict each other.

At first I went around saying that the dynamic between Loki and Sylvie are strictly platonic, and I pointed out that to me, the Nexus Event might've been honesty and truth, because according to the "Sacred Timeline", those are two things that nobody associates with Loki, and the fact that in that short amount of time, Loki realizing that he needs to be honest with himself throws the entirety of TVA into disarray. It's a chance for Loki to be honest with himself and really come to terms with who he is as a person.

Now where does Sylvie fit into all of this?

In my opinion, even from Episode 3, I saw Sylvie as a mirror, Loki's perfect metaphor. Why do I say this? Remember in Ep2 when she told Loki, "If anyone's anyone, you're me"?

I had jokingly thought to myself that Loki was just about to tell Sylvie how he feels about her and himself (because Loki talking about his feelings is rare, as he himself said, “this is new to me”), but then I thought a little deeper and went, “hmm, this doesn’t have to be taken in a romantic way at all, Sylvie is not a love interest (because to me that’s just weird, no offense, unless the circumstances were super different, under which I think it might’ve been okay then and depending on the situation, but not here in these circumstances) it’s just Loki admitting what kind of a person he is, and if he can be better, it’s just Loki figuring himself out.” (I'll talk about why I have conflicting thoughts later.)

Even Tom Hiddleston, in a recent interview with ComicBook.com, had specifically stated about his character: "It will be interesting to see what happened when Loki can't talk his way out of a situation, as is his dominant strategy in most encounters. I am most excited for fans to see what happens to Loki when he has nowhere left to run, when he can't delude himself anymore." That last bit with Sylvie? Yeah, Loki coming to terms with himself, being honest, not being able to delude himself anymore. He had nowhere left to run.

I know I did say that at first I did not see Loki and Sylvie as having any romantic tension between them, but please, hear me out first. 

According to Classical Mythology, PSYCHE is "a personification of the soul", which is exactly what Sylvie is to Loki. It would make the "if anyone's anyone, you're me" comment make way more sense. Remember how I said Sylvie is Loki's mirror? Loki getting this close to talking about his (what I see as non-romantic) feelings about himself, how he sees his own person, talking about himself in an emotional way, really admitting to his mirror that reflects the deepest parts of himself who he really was, and then just STOPPED before he could do so was so heartbreaking.

I had said that he was not gonna tell her he loved her because that’s so messed up (I get that narcissism is loving yourself but Sylvie is NOT Loki, nor is Loki Sylvie, they’re two different individuals), but Loki was just about to reveal his true feelings, his real emotions that he’s been trying to hide from himself all along. Loki can no longer run away (remember this comment from one of the interviews?), from himself, his emotions, there’s nowhere for him to run, it was time to be honest with himself.

Somewhere I made a comment that went like this:

Loki finally finding a connection with someone who is so much like him, yet so much unlike him is rare. ("Sylvie's not Loki. Sylvie is Sylvie" and "while they're the same, they're not the same" - Hiddleston / "She is him, but she's not him." - Herron) In that Loki has always been alone, and everything that he did was a cry for help that he never received, while Sylvie had been alone for so many years she's had to rely on herself to survive.

It makes sense then, that both Loki and Sylvie see themselves in each other ("I see a scheme, and in that scheme I see myself" from Ep2) and acknowledge that they are both lonely survivors who made it through so much, that they had each other for even that short amount of time.

That connection they had, that emotional attachment that they came to share, was not romantic in any way. (I'll get to why I’m conflicted about this, and why I may come to be okay with it, in a bit.) I read somewhere that the Nexus Event was not as Mobius described it, but was that Loki finally knowing that he'll never be alone, that he's honest with himself, which is something that goes against the TVA's dictates. THAT's the Nexus Event!

According to the TVA and Ravonna, Loki can't be caring! He can't change from being a homicidal maniac! He can't change! But we know Loki can. Loki himself knows that he can change. This knowledge and acceptance was enough to cause the damn Nexus Event, because the Timekeepers did not decree it! Even in Ep1, Loki declared that he would not let the TVA dictate how his story ends. It's clear that Loki's story is nt over yet.

Two lonely survivors find each other, so it's not surprising that Loki himself was THIS close to finally admitting the truth about himself, admitting and being honest with himself... until Ravonna pruned him.

Ravonna has always been pro-TVA and anti-Loki, so it's not surprising that earlier when she was speaking to Mobius, he's like, "Loki can change" but she's like "no because the TVA said so", so therefore when she hears that Loki is finally being honest with himself (through almost revealing his feelings to Sylvie), Ravonna cannot take it and obliterates him herself. According to her, which says that according to the TVA, Loki having an honest and real change of heart is the real Nexus Event and as such, must be prevented.

Now, about love, I guess, new to Loki as it may be. 

(Talking points from https://www.marvel.com/articles/tv-shows/loki-sylvie-in-love)

Here's where I think I can explain why though I'm not 100% on board with Loki being romantically involved with Sylvie I might warm up to the idea, the possibility of them being kind of a thing. I'm a little divided on it myself, but here goes.

First and foremost, here's something that head writer Michael Waldron says about the possibility of a romance: "That was one of the cruxes of my pitch [for the series], that there was going to be a love story. We went back and forth for a little bit about, like do we really want to have this guy fall in love with another version of himself? Is that too crazy?" Maybe, maybe not.

You see, as you know, Sylvie is a version of Loki, but is not Loki. Mobius describes them as "Two Variants of the same being." Director Kate Herron notes, however, saying of Sylvie about Loki that "she is him, but she's not him. They've had such different life experiences." Tom Hiddleston chimes in with "Sylvie's not Loki. Sylvie is Sylvie. I think he realizes, and she realizes, that while they're the same, they're not the same."

But what about the love story?

Mobius concludes through context clues that Loki is "an incredible seismic narcissist! You fell for yourself!" He taunts Loki, "You like her! Does she like you?"

Here's where it gets interesting. Loki had reassured Sylvie that people like them don't die so easily, they survive. He had praised her for running circles around the TVA, calling her amazing (again, another metaphor, but I think I've covered that), after which she had placed her hand on Loki's arm. Notice his reaction - he looks down at where her hand had made contact with his arm, shifts in a way that suggests his surprise. He's like, 'Is this warmth I'm feeling? I've never felt someone's gentle touch before. I think she cares for me, is that even possible for someone like me?'

He looks up at her, and though his story differs from Sylvie's, he recognizes that though he may have suffered, she had been physically on the run her entire life, whereas Loki had been mentally and metaphorically on the run from himself. We see from the look on his face that though Loki and Sylvie had spent less than 12 hours in each other's presence, he's come to respect her and her courage to do what he could never have. "You're amazing," he says.

Michael Waldron continues, "The look that they share, that moment, [it started as] a blossoming friendship. Then for the first time, they both feel that twinge of, ‘Oh, could this be something more? What is this I'm feeling?’ These are two beings of pure chaos that are the same person falling in love with one another. That's a straight-up and down branch, and exactly the sort of thing that would terrify the TVA."

Sylvie's not sure if she's got any sort of feelings for Loki, but she does ask if he's okay after they reach the golden elevators that would take them to the Timekeepers. Anyway, after the time loop punishment on Asgard, during which Lady Sif tells him, "You deserve to be alone and you always will be", Loki realizes that he's scared of being alone. He hopes that there might be someone out there with whom he can connect on a deeper level.

Director Kate Herron points out, "Who's a better match for Loki than himself?" Or Sylvie, for that matter. But because "but she's not him. They've had such different life experiences," it would make so much sense and would totally be in character for Loki to connect with someone he sees himself in, again, metaphorically speaking.

This is the ultimate journey of "self-love, self-reflection, and forgiving yourself", as Waldron puts it, so for Loki to come to terms that he might possibly love Sylvie is a metaphor for accepting himself as he truly is, not what or who he projects himself to be. It's about being kind to himself, because as he reflects on this new feeling about Sylvie, he's also reflecting upon himself and whether or not he can keep running from his emotions, as Tom Hiddleston says. The answer is no, he cannot run any longer from his acknowledgment that he's got feelings for Sylvie than he can run from his own realizations about himself. He forgives Sylvie as a metaphorical way of forgiving himself for his past misdeeds, like admitting that cutting off Sif's hair was not funny at all. It would make sense then, according to Waldron, that "that would be Loki's first real love story." Not a story about a narcissist, but a story of identity and self-acceptance and honesty.

The fact that Loki and Sylvie are two COMPLETELY different people who are so dissimilar except for the fact that they're two lonely survivors, could possibly result in them having a relationship.

Hear me out on why.

You know how Loki had said to Sylvie at the end, "this is new to me"? He means that he has never before known how to express love and care because he's never received any of either. For all of his life, he had been treated badly by all except perhaps his mother, but as in Ep3, he agrees that though he's had courtships before, none of those relationships, none of it included any type of love that felt tangentially real to him. Loki doesn't know what real love is... until Sylvie comes along. She does not make him know what love is, because he comes to terms to his feelings all on his own.

Tom Hiddleston says, "When Loki meets Sylvie, he's inspired solely by curiosity." Herron adds, about the relationship, "It was just about giving it the space to breathe and digging into it in a way that felt earned." And I think that I might come to accept that it is earned, in some way.

Two lonely survivors who quite literally run into each other, who recognize each other for who they really are, who accept each other and themselves, and who can finally be truthful and honest with themselves and each other. It's not always a game of checkers or chess. Sometimes, it's a maze of metaphors and mirrors.

I understand that this relationship between Sylvie and Loki is controversial for some, cute for others. If I hadn't already made myself clear, I was never really against the pairing, just that I was never 100% sure I'd board that train myself. I was initially of the opinion that their dynamic was strictly platonic, but because I'm open to different interpretations, I decided to have a look at why people saw the relationship between Loki and Sylvie as a beautiful one.

The conclusion I came to, is that there definitely is more than one interpretation of Loki and Sylvie's dynamic, and that I'm okay with both. We've got two episodes left, so I'm curious to see how Sylvie and Loki's dynamic plays itself out.

Ultimately, this story is about Loki.

Loki has to start with the man in the mirror. The person he metaphorically sees himself in is Sylvie, his perfect mirror, and he's asking himself to change his ways. No message, no relationship, no reflection, no realization, no feeling could have been any clearer. So, if Loki wants to be a better person, which we know he can and will be, he will take a look at himself in his mirror and make that change.

[magos-dominus]

FFVII: REMAKE Exists to Mock Your Pain

This is a post about Aerith Gainsborough.

If you are wondering, this is not a post about shipping.  It is also very long. 

I do talk about the love triangle from a narrative construction and game design standpoint, though. If that interests you, go ahead. If not, scroll on.

+++ Open Spoilers for FFVII (1997) and FFVII: REMAKE +++

So, my reading of FFVII’s infamous Love Triangle has always been that, in the text, there, uh…

Isn't one.

Not really.

The structure of the entire narrative and the trajectory of Cloud's and Tifa's character arcs are built around the two of them baring their vulnerabilities at each other in a rare moment of acceptance, connection, and understanding. You might argue that we never see them physically intimate, here them say those three little words, or even engage in a few PDAs, that the nature of their relationship isn’t clear.

But to be honest?

Who cares that we don’t?

Something we can learn from Good Omens is that, if two characters have to kiss or fuck or say ‘I love you’ to convince you that they’re head over heels for each other, the story is either poorly written or you don’t really understand the meaning of the word.

I have a higher opinion of this game than that, and I want to have a high opinion of you, gentle reader.

The Lifestream Sequence is the emotional climax of the game’s narrative. The rest is simply clean up and denouement. However, that fact does beg the question: "What then, is the narrative purpose of Aerith's attraction to Cloud?"

To start, it's not a connection to Zack Fair, given that in the OG he's more plot device than person. So, what is it then?

I'd argue, that through a combination of incident and design, the Triangle exists at the crux of two competing narrative threads, held in tension by the fact that, as an audience, we share our perspective with the POV character, Cloud in this instance, and the plot works through him to us, most of the time. These two narrative threads are:

Establishing and foreshadowing Cloud's romantic feelings for Tifa as present and important to him and his character.

Getting the audience, not Cloud, to fall in love with Aerith Gainsborough.

If you’ll allow me to put my Doylist hat on for a moment, I have some trivia for you.

As an interesting hiccup of human psychology, the wad of soggy bacon that is your brain is incapable of distinguishing, on an emotional level, between real people and fictional ones. This is why you can start to feel like, after watching the same streamer or listening to the same podcast for long enough, you might start to feel like the hosts are your friends, even if you logically know that isn't true. It is the fundamental psychological reason fiction can resonate with us, despite us knowing it’s, fundamentally, an entertaining lie. Video games, as an interactive medium, can dig into this phenomenon like no other form of storytelling. With Aerith, you might have spent 20 to 30 hours with her by the time you get to the Forgotten Capital. You’ve laughed and fought and maybe cried with her across two continents and a trio of plot arcs. She’s a person the audience has, via Cloud, shared a whirlwind, globe-spanning adventure.

The reason that its her death, out of all the other fictional deaths we’ve experienced, out of all the deaths within FFVII itself, that hurts the most, is because that, by the time she leaves the Temple of the Ancients on her own, she doesn’t just feel like Cloud’s friend.

Its over just when she feels like she’s become yours.

Not content to simply to explore the grieving process of its own characters, FFVII reaches out to take something from you, and have you grieve with them.

A recurring and oft-pointed-out design decision is the empty space left by Aerith after she dies. Holes in group formations, gaps in menus, etc. Places where she used to be. A reminder of the loss, or more optimistically, a commentary on how she’s still with the party in spirit.

I would argue that it might just as easily be you in that space. AVALANCHE is a rag-tag group of misfits bound together by their grief, and when you leave the Forgotten Capital, you’ve been blooded. You’re trauma-bonded to the group now, and you’re all there, shoulder-to-shoulder to do right by your fallen friend.

It’s a gimmick that appears on the ludic level as well. Cloud’s various panic attacks, out-of-body experiences, and struggles for control are experienced by the audience through the mechanics. Sephiroth manipulates Cloud by disrupting, blocking, and limiting your connection to him. he isn’t just denying Cloud agency, he’s reaching out through the fourth wall to deny you your own.

To personally victimize you.

Once you leave the Forgotten Capital, the dialogue choices vanish. You are no longer Cloud’s co-pilot. The trauma and grief has severed that connection you had with him. You can’t do anything to help or guide him anymore. He’s on his own and you, along with Tifa, have to watch him slip out of your grasp and into the hands of an enemy all three of you are powerless to fight.

Final Fantasy VII isn’t a video game.

Final Fantasy VII is an elaborate mouse trap masquerading as a late-90′s JRPG, and Aerith Gainsborough, part-time human, full-time hello kitty monster truck, is an insidiously crafted piece of fine Swiss Gouda. It is designed, from script to visuals to music, to fill your heart to bursting and then run it over with a sixteen-wheeler; then leave you reeling for long enough that you don’t hear the tell-tale crunch of rubber-on-asphalt as it backs up over your pulped torso for good measure.

Which brings us to REMAKE. Namely, why did they cut a lot of scenes from the OG’s script that heavily featured Aerith flirting with Cloud? Or suggested there might be something there, between them, to the audience? It’s for the same reason that Sephiroth no longer has his trademark slow-burn rise to the center of the stage.

Those plot points no longer served their narrative purpose.

REMAKE is, functionally, a pseudo-sequel. A retelling that exists in conversation with a past version of itself, and is constructed with the assumption that the audience is, at least passingly, familiar with its legacy. 

Sephiroth doesn’t get a mysterious build-up because everyone already knows who he is and what he’s about, he and Aerith are familiar with at least a broad-strokes version of the script because the audience already knows it by heart, Cloud gets headache flashbacks of scenes from the OG when we see something we know will be picked up down the line, and Aerith isn’t pushed as hard as a love interest to the audience because we’re already attached to her at the hip.

Aerith seemingly knows about her fate, and while the game leans heavily on suggesting Tifa and Cloud’s shared romantic feelings, even moreso than the original did in this segment, it still holds space for Cloud to pursue Aerith, should you choose. However, she all but talks past him and directly to the audience in her Chapter 14 Resolution scene, warning us away and signposting an oncoming tragedy so that we might brace for it when the time comes and spare us any unnecessary pain.

Her character development gets fast tracked too, through knowledge granted from the Arbiters, she grows quickly towards her late-disk-one identity as the Last Ancient. She gets a piece of the closure with Zack she might get at the Gold Saucer on her date with Cloud, a chance to say goodbye to the last bit of her normal life before she was able to fully embrace the fact that it was gone. She even gets the closing speech this time, last words usually reserved for the protagonist.

But that’s what she is at the end of REMAKE, isn’t it? The only one on the same playing field as Sephiroth and the only one who might be on the same page as the audience. Equal parts the Aerith that just left Midgar and the Aerith that we saw leave for the Forgotten Capital back in 1997, on a mission to protect her friends from the danger that lay on the path she knew she had to walk. 

All of us now get to walk that path on more time.

Maybe this time we’ll get to walk it with her. Maybe this time we’ll get that happy ending. Hell, maybe Zack makes it out fine too and we get that heartfelt reunion our hearts bled for when finished Crisis Core. Maybe yours is still bleeding.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

The Arbiters subplot exists to taunt us with these possibilities, to roll back our grief from acceptance to bargaining to denial, if we ever reached those stages to begin with. I can almost see our girl getting to go home this time, safe and happy and surrounded by her newfound misfit family, free of the crippling loneliness that’s haunted her entire life.

But to be honest?

All I can see is a better mouse trap.

[barbarasbae]

Just a Taste-Bait

Part six of Just a Taste 

Vampire!Billy Hargrove x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1.2k 

Warnings: attempted murder (kinda), violence

Not gonna lie this is somewhat how I thought the new season would go (the confrontation). Now Im just wishing that had been the case 😔

original gif by @kylos  

Y/n let out a slow breath, looking over the bag she had started packing. She was supposed to spend the weekend at her friend Logan’s house. Now she wasn’t so sure she was going to want to if tonight went well. She grabbed her piggy bank and emptied it, putting it in a little purse in the duffle bag (they almost always went shopping together). She decided that it was more than fully packed and picked up the phone in her room. “Hey, it’s Y/n. We’re gonna meet at the quarry tonight at 6.” 

“Okay, kid. We’ll take care of everything. Just be ready to give him a bit of a distraction.”

“What kind of a distraction?”

“Whatever you want. We just want an about ten-ish minute buffer to make sure we’ve got everything together to pull this off. We kinda only have one shot.”

“O-okay.” She let out a shaky breath. Before she left that night, she hugged each of her parents extra tight, Billy’s ring of the doorbell scaring her so bad she jumped. “Have fun on your date sweetie!”

“Thanks mom. I love you guys.”

“Love you too, sweetie.” She climbed into his car, Billy tapping his smoke out the window. “Hi.” She said softly climbing in. “Hey. We getting burgers first?”

“Yeah.” She gave him a nod, toying with the strap of her purse. “I brought a tape.” She said, having mixed some of her favorite songs on it (and some her friend Valarie had randomly put on there). They picked up burgers, Billy’s rare, driving to the quarry. He rolled the windows down. “You can put your tape in if you want.” She kissed his cheek. “Thanks.” Warmth spread through her body over his simple permission, but for someone like Billy, it was actually a fairly big deal. They sat on the hood of the Camaro, Y/n scolding him for being gross, him letting burger juice running down his face. He rolled his eyes as she wiped his face. “Thanks, Mom.” He teased, licking his thumb and reaching over to wipe some cheese off the corner of her mouth. “Thanks, Dad.” 

“Shut up.” She smiled, Billy taking one of her fries. 

Burgers now gone, her playlist filled the air as they sat on the hood of his car looking at the water. She was getting antsy, not understanding what was taking so long. “I don’t understand why you like this shit.” He said, smoke puffing from his mouth. “Smoking’s not good for you.” 

“Immortal, sweetheart.”

“Whatever, it’s a good song.” She protested. She bopped her head along to the rhythm.”It’s disco.” He protested, disgusted. “It’s Copacabana. How can you hate this?” He shrugged. “‘Cause it’s shit.”

“Maybe your ears are just shit.” She mumbled. “What was that?” She jumped, his voice a gruff whisper in her ear. She almost slipped off the hood of his car, the blond wrapping his arm around her waist. “I said your ears are just shit.” She snarked back, biting back a smile. He saw it, smirking. He moved between her legs, throwing the cigarette on the ground and stomping it out. “Is that why you scream so much in bed, huh? Helping my ears out?” He asked, nipping her throat right under the crux between her ear and jaw. “Maybe.” He kissed her nose, Y/n kissing the corner of his mouth in response. 

“Wow she’s good.” Dustin remarked to Steve from their hiding spot in the bushes. “She should be like a spy or something. I’d be shitting myself.” They were pretty much just looking at Billy’s back, Y/n’s legs on either side of his hips. “Classy, man.” Steve scolded. Billy started trailing kisses down her neck, until he reached the bite mark he’d scarred her skin with. Then ‘You Sexy Thing’ by Hot Chocolate came on, they pair bursting into laughter. He kissed her cheek, her body still shaking with laughter. Then he rubbed his nose against hers, getting a soft smile from her. She wrapped her arms around him, Billy genuinely smiling, enjoying himself. There was a loud crack in the woods, her tensing and gripping his arms. He turned, looking for the source. Dustin had accidentally broken a branch while trying to get in position. But then there was another crash, Y/n getting scared. “There’s nothing out there that could hurt us.” Billy tried to soothe her, rubbing her back as he heard her heartbeat start to race. Y/n couldn’t help but let her mind wander to those creatures they’d fought off just a month or so ago. There was another one, Billy sick of this. “Hey, why don’t we go to a movie or something, hm?” She nodded staring into the foreboding woods. Steve and the kids ran out, Billy scoffing, Y/n’s heart relaxing. “Get in the car.” He told her, Y/n not getting in but standing at the door, Billy having handed her the keys. “We know what you are!” Dusting screamed. “Yeah? What are you gonna do about it kid?” Billy taunted. Hopper came out of the woods next, Billy looking a lot less intimidating. “We need to talk for a second, kid.” Billy took a step back, finally taking in the weapons they all had. Wooden stakes in practically every hand. Was Hopper holding holy water? 

“Woah! You never said anything about killing him!” She protested, getting in between Billy and the chief of police. “You knew about this?” 

“I wanted to help you!” She protested as she turned around. She felt like crying. This isn’t what she had wanted when she told them she knew who the vampire was. “Move.” He growled, coming to stand in front of her. “Billy no, don’t hurt them, they’re kids.”

“He’s not.”

“Billy!” She grabbed his arm, Billy’s eyes red, tears threatening to spill. She shook her head and ran to the car. “Billy, it doesn’t have to be this way. We do want to help you.” Hopper called. Y/n fumbled with the car keys, the camaro roaring to life. “GET IN.” She screamed, pulling her seat belt on. He threw himself into the passenger seat and she tore off down the road, leaving her friends in the dust as they tore away. “You knew they were going to be there?!” 

“Yes, but they only told me my part in the plan which was getting you there. I had no idea that they were gonna try to kill you!” She yelled, turning her attention back to the road. She screamed and swerved to avoid a deer. “Okay okay calm down.” He told her, knowing her heart was pounding in her ears. She screeched into her driveway and ran into her house, telling billy to stay put. She got to her room and threw a few extra things into her duffle bag before scribbling a quick lie onto a scrap of paper and running out of the house, house keys in hand. She drove to his house, the couple silent and panicked, “What are we doing here?”

“Grab whatever you need. We’re going away for a bit.” He was back in less than a minute, having used his speed to help him pack. She roared out of Hawkins, not really breathing until they were three towns over, ‘The Four Horseman’ quietly coming from the camaro’s speakers. Billy reached over and placed his hand on her knee, picking at his jean-jacket. Once they passed the state line, Billy was the first to speak. “Where are we going?”

“Santa Cruz.” 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Please send me an ask or dm if you would like to be added to the tag list for this series.

@bluegirlusa1 @excellentbecca @xxphoenixflyerxx @thats-so-rhyan @harrysstyleseyes

[alexandrasavior]

Alexandra Savior is here to pierce us all by way of melancholy as The Archer aims right for the heart

Tinged with Arctic Monkeys’ flair in spades, Alexandra Savior’s sophomore follow up to 2017’s Belladonna of Sadness, co-written with Alex Turner, is an homage to the heartbroken everywhere. And while one would think that Turner’s sound would be all over her debut, in retrospect, Belladonna of Sadness lacks his distinctive mark. Instead, it seems to appear more prominently on the new record, The Archer (a title Taylor Swift does not have the monopoly on). And just as Belladonna of Sadness was written two years before it finally came out, so, too, has The Archer long been in the works, with Savior commencing the title track in 2016.

Commenting on the notion that, during that period, in something of a Lana Del Rey parallel, she had reconciled with surrendering to the idea that she wouldn’t make music anymore, at least not at the “fame level” (just as Del Rey had bowed to while writing “Video Games”), Savior stated, “I was living with my mum and going to community college and thought that I was never going to make another record again. I was dropped [by the label] about a year after the first [album] came out. I wrote the song ‘The Archer’ on Christmas 2016.” So it was that the crux of the record was born. One that starts with the fittingly surreal and melancholic “Soft Currents.” The simple lyrics lament, “Seven years, I’ve had seven years of bad luck/And I’m just fine/Happiness I find happiness in the wrong places/Every time.” Even if that’s the case, in either her professional or personal life (more especially intertwined when one is a musician), she has ostensibly learned with time that, “My fate is at the hands of my mistakes/And that’s alright.” The ambient gloom of this acceptance segues effortlessly into “Saving Grace.”

Psychedelic to its core and filled with sweeping, overpowering guitar riffs, “Saving Grace” takes a page from 2013’s AM, on which Arctic Monkeys reached the zenith of their guitar usage, perhaps inevitably leading to the subsequent piano-favoring Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino. With lyrics that serve as a means to paint so-called Saving Grace as some sort of cruel drag queen dangling the potential for salvation before ripping it away, Savior sings, “Saving grace/Come here to petrify me/She’s not an angel, my dear/She is a beast.” In other words, do not trust her, she is a fugly slut.

And don’t trust the security of relationships for that matter, either, Savior soon apprehended after being dropped by her first label, Columbia Records. Of the “breakup,” Savior remarked, “…so a lot of the songs that I was writing before I got dropped, I was intentionally trying to impress this label that I wasn’t really suited for. When I had that freedom, it felt like I’d write the songs and they would just go into the abyss because there was nobody for me to send them to and and nobody was listening at all. But then I think that’s probably what made them a lot more personal than my last record.” So it was that she had a sort of Lady Gaga in “Marry the Night” experience, which occurred right around the same time as a romantic breakup that led to the creation of “Crying All the Time” on New Year’s Day, 2018. The moody, Sam Cohen-produced backbeat paired with the lament, “My death, it taunts me like a ship/Without a sail I know I’ll be gone soon/But just for him, I will prevail,” smacks, indeed, of a Del Rey/Turner lovechild, further compounded by the irony, “He doesn’t like it when I cry/And now he’s gone, so I’m crying all the time.”

The sultry overtone of the appropriately mating call-esque “Howl” solidifies the jilted lover theme of the record, as well as Savior’s adeptness at making spartan lyrics feel varied, with the only non-repeated verse of the song being, “Handsome dictator of my crimes/I can’t tell if they’re yours, I can’t tell if they’re mine/Sweet revelation bitter wine/I’m dreaming, but mostly I’m feeling behind.” With the fine line blurred between whether or not she’s responsible for her actions or the toxic love manipulating them is irrelevant after a certain point, and Savior must admit, “It’s a little dangerous when you come treading by me.” And yet how could we, as her listeners, not with a record like this”

The midpoint of The Archer, “Send Her Back,” persists with the laconic lyrics, the chorus, “Why don’t you send her back where she came from?” being easily applicable to both a mother after birthing her child or a boyfriend after rejecting his girlfriend of so many years. Whatever your particular interpretation as a result of your own personal situation, “Send Her Back” certainly inflicts some deep-seated feels. Of the kind that her unwitting mentor, Alex Turner, also knows too well about–not to mention how to evoke within his own listeners. As for the comparisons to their styles, let’s just say, “Can’t Help Myself,” which happens to be the sixth track on the album, opening with the sound of ambient waves washing ashore (likely a common sound when one is from the same Pacific Northwest milieu as Savior). More tinged with sardonic 60s girl group flair than some of the others, the song bears an additional tonal resemblance to the 60s stylings of Del Rey on “Radio” (as when she sings, “Now my life is sweet like cinnamon…/My body’s sweet like sugar venom, oh yeah”) and Arctic Monkeys on “Black Treacle.” Savior, in fatalistic turn, expresses, “Light dims as he walks my way/I’ve been running for a reason I could never retain/Sweet lips like pink lemonade/When he’s feeling generous he’s gonna give me a taste/’Cause nothing else can satisfy me/Oh, oh, I can’t help myself/Something comes over me, baby/Whenever you are around.” 

Such a sentiment transitions seamlessly into a song title like “The Phantom,” all rife with the connotations of being haunted by the object of one’s affection. Discussing the common phenomenon in unrequited love that essentially finds one person being more of an erotomaniac than the other (e.g. “I fell in love alone”), Savior reconciles the cult-like tendencies of the one she truly believed could love her as much in return, describing with the poetic turn of phrase we’ve come to expect by now, “Fell in love as a lone disciple/His altar at the root of my fate/Fell in love on a lonely night/Could predict every word he’d never convey.”

More languorous in rhythm than the others, “Bad Disease” is peak “creepin’ on you” vibes mixed with Arctic Monkeys’ verbiage. Again imbuing her lover with cult leader status, Savior offers up the sort of images one would expect from a The Shangri-Las, The Marvelettes or The Ronettes song (and then, of course, there are shades of Del Rey’s “Shades of Cool”), boasting, “Pandemonium quivers at his touch/My preacher, my undefined creature/Consumes me.” But who cares so long as that “bad disease” she’s referring to only involves a metaphorical burning in one’s loins?

The uber groovy “But You” is Savior at her most evocative in terms of making the listener fathom her extreme loneliness in the absence of the one she loves (or loved). The best way to conjure this picture is, naturally, with a mattress. More to the point, “the wilted edge of a lonesome mattress” where once her boyfriend used to lay. No more, alas. And the one person who can heal the pain of this wound is the one person who isn’t around to do so. Oh how cruel irony can be in matters of love and all the agony it wreaks (also causing one’s own body to reek from the depression side effect of not washing on the reg).

The denouement that is “The Archer” is as meandering and dreamy as the video itself, featuring Savior roaming aimlessly along the coastline (of Port Townsend, Washington) near a lighthouse that seems useless to her. Not just because it’s the daytime, but because, from a navigational standpoint, there is nowhere she needs to be anymore now that she’s lost the port in the storm that she thought was her true love, the one who “bit [her] head right off with [his] tiny little mouth,” prompting her to “lick the blood from [his] lips.” Indeed, Savior admitted that after some reflection, “At the time, my perception was that I was writing a song about how it feels to love someone, but now when I listen back to ‘The Archer,’ I realize that I was writing an observation of a psychologically unhealthy relationship, from the perspective of someone who is unconsciously aware that she is being emotionally mistreated.” Maybe, in the end, however, if The Archer is any indication, music is both emblematic of the lighthouse and her home. Regardless of living in any (last) shadow (puppet) of certain parties that have worked with her before. Savior is very much her own musician, even if also an amalgam of so many kinds of infinite sadness as previously conveyed by some of her more obviously influencing forebears.

[moviegroovies]

so to me, one of the hallmarks of a good piece of media is people willingly thinking about the characters after it’s over.

obviously, this isn’t like, a 100% success rate kind of thing. there are objectively good, enjoyable pieces of media out there that have no “fandom” type presence on the internet, because, while it exhibited great worldbuilding/storytelling/framing/what have you, it just wasn’t made up of the kinds of characters that people latch on to; the joke about avatar (2009) having less than 100 fics on ao3 despite being the best selling movie of all time for a solid decade is well known because of this phenomenon exactly. amazing cgi, solid plot, but at the end of the day, not that many people cared about jake sully. even still, i think this character-imprinting thing has an important, often overlooked role in intrinsically endearing people to movies that, outside of this factor, might be easily forgettable or even outright disliked. 

case in point: my movie of the day/week/month (how often do i post on this blog, anyway?)....

that’s right, lads, today i’m going to talk about the lost boys. 

if you’ve seen the lost boys, you’ll probably know that it’s not like, objectively, a masterpiece. in fact, if i were feeling particularly uncharitable, it would be easy for me to describe it as a fairly straightforward, low-budget horror b-movie, with a aesop-heavy and simplistic plot and a penchant for cheesy special effects, saved only by its rockin’ soundtrack.

...but i won’t.

i won’t, because using that description would leave out a detail i think it’s completely unfair of me not to touch on: the characters. i love them!! i was hooked from just about the very start of the movie by david’s creepy, affably evil leadership style, sam’s dorky little brother-ness, and michael’s 3cool5school airs. each of the characters, down to the frog brothers (named edgar and allan after the esteemed mr. poe, which really tickled me), the other lost boys, grandpa, lucy, and max, have their own distinct quirkiness that makes them memorable and draws me to want to explore more of their world, more of their stories. 

not enough to watch the infamous direct-to-dvd sequels, of course, but you get what i’m saying. 

there’s an old tip in writing that says something along the lines of “good characters can save a bad plot, but a good plot can’t save bad characters,” and that pretty much sums up my thoughts exactly on this movie. like, the plot itself is pretty much the message ‘peer pressure is bad’ wrapped up in some ugly monster makeup; not exactly cult classic material. however, like i’ve said, the characters and the fact that we get genuine, endearing interactions between them outside of just furthering the plot save it from the dumpster fire and, together, put together a story greater than the sum of its parts. no, it’s not a fuckin’ cinematic masterpiece by any stretch of the words, but it’s a fun movie, and there’s a reason i’ve watched it four times in the past three days, you know? 

(a good chunk of that reason was me slowly losing my grip on my sanity as i frantically put in the dvd over and over again, desperately trying to make myself attracted to kiefer sutherland so i could enjoy the movie to the fullest extent of my ability. i’m proud to announce a perfect success rate, and a slightly degraded sense of taste in men, reflecting the completion of that goal. 

if you too want to find something to lust after beyond his objectively ugly as sin face, trust me when i say it’s all in the voice. mmmmm) 

my favorite thing that the lost boys did was the exploration of different types of friendship and familial bonds. that’s the most striking thing about the movie for me; not only are the characters individuals whom i would like to explore, their interactions with each other are touching and worth exploring in their own right. there’s definitely something about some stories that drives people to write fanfiction (or is that just me? ha ha), and imo, the lost boys totally has it. in fact, while the fandom is sitting pretty at 600+ fics on ao3 (take that, avatar), i was honestly sort of surprised there weren’t more, exploring all the interesting ‘what if’s’ the film presented, and expounding on the bonds that we got to see the effects of in the limited screentime we had. 

what i liked about those bonds was that there were such a multitude of them. there were quite a few platonic bonds making up the crux of the movie (being, in my opinion, much more interesting than the main romantic bond which was explored through star and michael, although isn’t that kind of always the case in these 80′s teen movies? i can’t think of a single designated couple i was actually invested in except for veronica sawyer and jason dean... ferris bueller and sloane peterson, maybe? but i also feel like those two were making a cameron sandwich, so idk if it counts lol), but the way they were treated was cool in that they were unique: we got to see two different kinds of sibling bonds, with michael and sam emerson joking around in an easy, teasing way that totally screamed “wow, this movie was written by someone who actually has a brother” to me (isn’t it sad that some people have clearly never so much as seen a set of siblings in their life, judging by the way they write them?) while edgar and allan frog seem to take themselves more seriously, like a pair of army buddies, we got to see the pack-like bond of the lost boys and the (mostly) good-natured way they hazed michael into their group before things went to shit with them, we got to see star (and some of the lost boys, if you pay attention) being protective and maternal around laddie, and we got to see the uneasy alliance turned nerdy friendship between the frogs and sam. there are also three parent-child bonds that get explored, between lucy and her father (it’s a pretty sweet take on the kindhearted grown child taking care of senile-ish father thing) and lucy and her boys, each of which she has a distinct relationship with: sam is the baby, while michael she seems to level with and trust more, even after he starts getting into trouble and acting up. 

then of course there are two (three, if you count the widow johnson/grandpa emerson subplot, which.... i totally do) romantic relationships: star and michael falling in a sort of love-at-first-sight passionate relationship that soon dooms mikey and eventually saves star, while lucy tries her best to get back into the dating game with max, who is nefarious, of course, but also a little bit sad. remember what i said about what-ifs? i would love to see a fic exploring what might have happened had max’s plan worked out after all, but i guess that’s neither here nor there.

not to be a blatant slash shipper jumping on any two male characters who move or anything, but i think possibly the most important/influential relationship in the whole thing was that between david and michael; michael, obviously, got drawn into the lost boys’ circle by his insta-attraction to star, but he sticks around because of david. he pretty much ignores star once they get to the cliff that night, his attention focused on david because he’s there, and he’s intense, and michael is kind of a dumb bi bitch totally captivated. he drinks max’s blood at david’s taunting, and in direct opposition to star’s advice. there’s a lot i could say on this subject but tbh i’m running out of steam, so that might be a thing for a whole different post.

basically, there are a lot of cool interactions in this movie, and i think a lot of film makers could take note of that. even critically acclaimed, award winning movies being made in today’s world tend to fail to hit that special note, that character-imprintation which makes the audience not only stay engaged to the end, but also to care. not every movie needs that, of course; not everything can launch a darkhorse fandom the way the lost boys has, and honestly, not everything should... unless it’s trying to cater to my interests, in which case, well. 

if all movies were made to cater to my interests, i would have the time of my fucking life, but it’d probably be dark days for the rest of y’all.

thinking about it now, the lack of that element is kind of what makes me wary of the horror genre in the first place; i find so many of those movies just boring as all hell, because they’re too into the “scaring” thing without any of the “caring” thing. people, if we don’t care about the characters we’re watching, then who the fuck gives a shit if they get devoured by shitsucking vampires, anyway? finding the lost boys, a “horror” (i guess i use the term loosely) movie which relied heavily on those character interactions was honestly a godsend, because THIS is what i want to see more of. going down that line of thought, i think it’s honestly a shame and a half that the sequels which joel schumacher planned never got to see the light of day (and, of course, that we were instead left with the tribe, which for the life of me i refuse to fucking watch). the interactions between the lost boys could have been the most interesting part of the movie, if only they had been spotlighted a bit more. that would have been the case in the proposed prequel, the beginning, which would see the boys start out before they became vampires at all. reading about the script for that is honestly sending me, tbh. we could have seen that, and what we got instead were “sequels” that focused mainly on the frogs, when they connected to the original movie at all? where’s the fucking justice?

whatever. that’s the one thing about this franchise i never could stomach; all the damn frog brothers.

(till next time!)

[marshmallow--3]

Imagine - going on a supply run with Shaun Hastings.

Written for and with the help of @balladofthesadcat . Thank you so much for all your help! 🥰♥️

You're not sure how you've managed it, but the two of you have successfully kept your relationship a secret from the group. And between how prying the members can be and the confined spaces you often find yourselves calling a base, it's a miracle no one has picked up on the subtle clues. The lingering brush of his fingers against yours whenever he passes you a file, the furtive glances in each other's direction, the softer way Shaun speaks to you in comparison to how he addresses the others.

Saying that, Desmond spends most of his time unconscious with his brain getting picked apart by the Animus, Rebecca has her eyes glued to the screen most hours of the day, and Lucy? You imagine her thoughts resemble a coding screen with how much hacking she does. No, it's probably the last thing on their minds.

But the walls are terribly thin, leaving you with barely enough privacy to steal kisses in a supply cupboard, let alone be as intimate as both of your nightly dreams taunt you with what could be.

As luck would have it, supplies are running low, so Shaun volunteers to head out. Concerned for his safety going out alone, Rebecca asks you to accompany him, dismissing you with a wave when you ask if they'll manage without you. Sighing, you slip a blade into the sheath attached to your boot and chase after Shaun, buckling yourself into the van. You shift your gaze over to him, noting the way he stares straight ahead, tapping his finger on the wheel before registering that you're ready, driving off in silence.

***

Time after time, you notice Shaun glancing in the rear-view mirror, his actions restless, making you hold your breath, your body as still as a statue.

"What is it? Abstergo?"

He doesn't respond, turning the wheel and heading down a dim alleyway, putting you completely on edge.

"Shaun?" You press, growing exasperated.

Shutting off the ignition, he turns to face you, his face catching a slither of moonbeam, his white skin glowing under the night's natural light. Seeing his relaxed expression calms your nerves a little, at least in the sense that you're not being chased by an enemy. But the way his eyes bore into yours, his mouth opening and closing as though waiting on the perfect line to come to him, has you feeling somewhat skittish.

Opting instead to express himself with actions, he cups your face and closes the distance between your lips, clumsily nudging the tip of your nose with his glasses. As the exchange grows more heated, fog steaming up on his lenses, you cling onto your qualms and voice them as his lips brush over your jaw.

"What if the others start to worry?"

Peppering your neck with kisses, he lists, "Traffic was a nightmare." Kiss. "There was a queue at the store." Kiss. "Or maybe," he grazes his teeth over a sensitive spot on your neck, lifting his head to meet your gaze. "I just wanted to spend time with the woman I love."

Your heart thumps in your chest.

"You can't tell them the last one."

"No, but I can tell you."

Half a beat passes before your lips collide in a fury of passion, frantically stealing gulps of air between the smooth rolls of your lips, your tongue tracing his in a carnal dance of appendages.

You somehow communicate the need to move to the back of the van, though you're both loath to do the sensible thing and break the kiss while you move positions. Shaun shrugs his outer jacket off and lies it down on the cold plywood floor, letting you lay down yourself without shivering.

He kicks his shoes and socks off while you tug at his jumper, a fruitless endeavour with everything that's going on. After unzipping your boots with you toeing your socks off thereafter, he unbuckles his belt and shimmies his trousers down to his thighs.

Your fingers fumble with the zip of your jeans, your tongue probing deeper into his mouth with a sultry moan. In lifting your hips, you allow him to tug your pants down your thighs, where he scrunches the fabric and throws it behind him.

Unzipping your hoodie, you draw his attention towards your chest. Sucking on your tongue one final time, he departs your lips and litters kisses down your neck, sucking instead on the hollow of your throat with gentle nibbles that tear mewls from your lips.

He palms your breasts through your tank top, squeezing them boldly. Tugging the flimsy fabric over your bra, which in turn is hiked over your breasts, he exposes them in all their glory, his breath catching - it has been quite a while since he last had the pleasure, his thumb idly tracing a rosy brown nipple as he sighs at the wonderful curves of cleavage. Soft, supple and nothing short of enticing.

His head dips down, his mouth engulfing a nipple and sucking with just enough pressure that it hardens under his care, deliberate laps of his tongue maintaining its erect state. You find yourself squirming from the hot puffs of air that fan over your skin, warming you as a tendril of pleasure rises through your centre.

He discards his briefs while you shuffle your knickers down your legs, feeling it tangle around one ankle. The indulgently sweet smell of your arousal hits the air upon the nudity of your lower half. Fumbling with a pocket in the jacket underneath you, he produces a condom between his nimble fingers. He tears the seam of the packet and rolls the rubber sheath over his cock, bracing his arm by the side of your head and kissing you breathless.

One peek has your body pleasantly trembling; the erotic sight of Shaun half-dressed, looking uncharacteristically disheveled and stroking his cock as he nudges closer to you has you dipping your fingers into your sex, accumulating your arousal on your fingertips to show him.

"Holy hell," he grumbles, bumping his nose against yours and breathing against your lips.

He presses his cock into you, gingerly withdrawing and inching his way inside, should you find the intrusion painful. Fidgeting underneath him, your breath hitches upon feeling his thighs tap yours, his pelvis flush against your mound. Time seems to come to a standstill, the earthy green of his eyes, the soft pink of his lips, the unkempt poof of hair the only things that matter in your world.

For a moment, however brief, there's no danger, no living in hiding, no grumpy coworkers waiting for their damn yoghurts. Just the two of you, ready to submit to the pleasure and lose yourselves to a higher plane of reality.

His thumbs stroke circles at your hips, rocking only fractionally until he's certain you're not in pain. Upon confirming this, he pulls his hips back and experimentally fills you with his full length, driving deep and eliciting a series of whimpers from your touch starved self.

Feeling at ease knowing you're okay, he shifts your thigh to the side so he can grind up against you with passionate snaps of his hips. You soon find yourself babbling his name, your hands bracing the back of the seat above your head.

Between the delectable stretch of his cock and the glorious friction burning along your sensitive walls, you begin to leak juices with every thrust. The intimate way his eyes bore into your soul and read every minor twitch of your lips, every gleam in your eyes, ensuring not a second goes by where you're not in pleasure, simply drives you wild.

Removing his glasses, Shaun buries his face in the crux of your shoulder, shuddering in disbelief of how wonderfully tight you feel. In mewling his name, he huffs several times, snapping his hips into yours and zoning out the sound of the van squeaking under his frenzied thrusts.

Your hands run down the smooth plane of his back, fingers relishing the soft touch of wool before grasping handfuls of warm skin, digging your nails into his ass lightly. You kick your underwear off your ankle, hooking both feet over his legs to trap him close to you.

Your fingers massage his buttocks, timing the kneads with the determined gyrating of his hips. White light begins to flood your vision, shudders rushing through your body when you find yourself keening, "More."

You're not sure what you're asking for exactly, but Shaun kneels upright, his hands sliding to your hips as he pulls you onto each thrust. Between the uneven breaths he emits, the choppy snaps of your hips meeting and the thrilling realisation that everything you're experiencing is real, you find yourself crying out a little louder than you were anticipating, quickly shooting both hands to your mouth as you attempt to muffle the reverberant din of your orgasm.

As your hazy delirium settles, you sense he's not quite there, helping him as best as you can with your limbs numb and tremoring. You will your muscles to squeeze around his length, your nails scratching down his forearms, followed by his stomach.

It seems he has other intentions, licking his thumb as you would turning a page of a book, pressing it to your clit and rubbing calculated circles. Your eyes roll back at the contact, inwardly cursing him for working your body so well, outwardly moaning his name in a way that showers him with unspoken praise.

You soon find yourself teetering on the edge of another orgasm, and with it approaching so soon after your previous one, an ache forms in your stomach, the pressure of a lead-like weight as tight as it is pleasurable.

Shaun soothes you, his British accent low and purring, "Good girl, good girl."

His name is a chant on your lips, your body squirming as you ride out your pleasure. Closing your eyes, you find yourself gripping the floor for dear life, ahhs spilling from your lips as you tighten around him with several jets of come gushing over his cock.

"I'm gonna pull out," he warns, muffling his grunts by biting his lower lip.

After half a dozen or so thrusts, he withdraws his cock and you feel it pulse against your thigh, the pleasant twitching along with his scrunched-up face the only indicators of his orgasm.

You lie beneath him with your forearm draped over your eyes, breathing heavily and blushing at how much you came. Coming down from your high, you register a cold dampness coating your inner thighs, your bare skin adhering to Shaun's jacket under you. He busies himself with disposing of the filled condom, before returning to you with a sweet kiss to the bridge of your nose.

"You look beautiful, my dear."

His comment earns him a playful slap on the chest. You've never been one to take compliments like that, certain you'd blush more if such a thing were possible. After he captures your offending wrist, peppering it with kisses to the point you're writhing and giggling under him, swatting him all the more to free you from his hold, you sigh upon spying the time on his watch.

"We should get back."

The words felt like acid in your mouth. You hadn't wanted to raise it, yearning for just a little more time alone with him, but it certainly isn't fair to have the others worry about your well-being. Shaun seems to share your despair, nodding and stroking your face affectionately, his eyes reflecting the love he feels for you mixed with the dejection in the evening coming to an end. Pressing a final lingering kiss to your lips, he smiles upon parting and brushes his thumb over your cheek dotingly.

"I love you, Y/N. Truly I do, I couldn't imagine my life without you there to make it brighter."

Lumps form in your throat. "I love you too, Shaun. I--" You pause, words failing to come to you.

His eyes light up, dazzling like diamonds, hearing enough from the tone of your voice to know the feeling is entirely mutual. Bumping his nose against yours, he nuzzles you, whispering, "It's okay, I know."

GIF sourced from:

@sassenach-on-the-rocks @katbernoulli @winterwriter8845 @iceboundstar @lcvingvincent @balladofthesadcat @ass-sass-sin-o

[lollercakesff]

milk - chapter 1

rating: explicit pairing: anne/gilbert  fandom: anne with an e, anne of green gables ao3

“You’re really full of yourself, aren’t you?” Anne snaps, running her hands over his chest and pulling him closer. His lips break from their place on her neck and he draws back, flashing a cocksure grin at her.

“I could make the same argument for you, Anne-girl,” he breathes. She shakes her head and leans back, putting some space between them.

“Really? Me? You barely even know me,” she responds hotly. It only seems to spur him on and he grabs once more at her chin, his lips crashing into hers and drawing the air from her lungs. They push and pull, fighting to gain the upper hand as their fingers slip buttons loose and slide waistbands down past their hips.

“Can you believe the flight is delayed again?” A voice grinds out, gravelly as though they smoke five packs a day. It makes Anne freeze in her state of undress, her hands gripping Gilbert’s shoulders as he slows his nibble at her neck. “I swear, if we don’t get out of this airport soon I am going to take over an airplane and fly my ass home direct!”

“There’s someone here,” Anne whispers in his ear. He chuckles and nips at her lobe, his hand sliding boldly down her hip.

“I couldn’t tell,” he replies sarcastically, anticipating her slap and grabbing her wrist before it can make contact. “If you do that she’ll definitely hear you. Do you want to get found or do you want to get fucked?”

His words make her skin flush, the red rising from her chest and spreading up to the tips of her ears. Did she want this? Sure, he was good-looking, not married (she’d checked), and generally intelligent, but they were complete strangers in an airport killing time between their connections.

They’d met in the security line when he’d handed her back her dropped earphones, his warm smile and casual conversation easy to fall into as the wait progressed. After they’d cleared the metal detectors he’d hovered to wait for her, falling into step beside her as she headed towards the first bar she could find to pass the time. Since then they’d flirted, had somehow connected with stories of home, and found their hands leaving tentative touches that progressively became bolder. Whose idea it was to stumble into the women’s washroom together she wasn’t quite sure but it had happened and now she was here, poised to decide who she wanted to be. Was she really that kind of person who fucked random men in airports?

“Eh?” He prods as his hands tighten their grip on her sides. She looks up at him and his expression softens, a moment of uncertainty flashing across his features. “It’s okay,” he adds, releasing her and taking a step back. She could swear he just heard her thoughts, his own hesitation blooming over his face as the sink starts to run.

“You know I ain’t buying those overpriced drinks - no, I know! I need to…” The voice starts to fade away as the woman leaves, the only sound left in the small stall that of their heavy breaths filling the air.

“I’m sorry, this was completely inappropriate of me,” Gilbert says lowly, dragging his pants up and fighting with closing them over his pronounced bulge.

“She’s gone though,” Anne says after a moment, glancing up at him through her lashes. She takes the leap and hopes, prays, he’s there with her. She was going to do this. She was too riled up not to and the fact that he’d backed off, had given her that moment to think it through, was the true selling point. She had the autonomy and goddamn she was going to take it. “I’m in if you are.”

He stares at her as though he can see right through her, his dark eyes flickering in the low light. If he doesn’t make up his mind soon they were both going to miss their flight. With steady hands she makes the decision and slips her fingers into the waistband of his boxerbriefs, yanking him back towards her.

It only takes him a second to catch up, his hands sliding her panties down her legs as his fingers move to the crux of her legs. Boldly, he runs his fingers along her slit and watches as her eyes light up at his touch. Not one to be left behind, Anne pulls him free of his restraint and nearly groans at the weight of him in her hand.

“Was that a pun?” He rumbles as she moves her hand over his length, rolling on a condom as she draws him closer. His hands mirror hers and he slides a finger inside her, her legs shaking as he spreads her wetness through her folds.

“What - what do you mean?” She replies weakly, skin pebbling with gooseflesh at his touch. He sees the change in her and he grins, trapping her against the wall and lifting her so that she has to wrap her legs around his hips to stop from falling. It’s more erotic than anything she’s ever experienced and her brain shorts out as he chuckles.

“Am I in?” He breathes and in the next second he’s pushing himself inside of her, his thrust making her yelp.

Surprised, turned on, insane, Anne slaps her hand over her mouth at the sound that she emits and groans at the feel of him moving into her. When she’s finally able to breathe again she releases her hand and rests her head on his shoulder, her arms clinging tightly to him as he slowly drives her crazy. Where did this guy even come from? Was this what he did on Tuesday’s? Jesus.

“Tell me what you like,” he instructs as his body thrusts into hers, deeper than most and more steady than any boy she’s bedded since university. How could he string a sentence together when it felt so good?

“This,” she replies lamely, rolling her hips and mewling as his hands grasp tightly at her rear. “That,” she continues and pauses only when he sighs with contentment.

“How about this?” He asks and captures her lips with his, one hand moving to palm her breast and tweak her nipple. She nearly passes out then, her hand reaching out to steady herself with the stall wall. Gilbert only continues his efforts, increasing his pace with a heady grunt.

She can feel herself getting close as his hands work magic, his lips breaking from her own as his breathing starts to turn to pants. With her ankles locked behind his lower back she closes her eyes and tries to get lost in the feel of him sliding in and out of her with a quickened pace.

“I’m almost there,” she hisses into his shoulder. It seems to urge him on, his body stepping infinitely closer until they’re fully connected. Her skin burns as he starts to hammer into her, his hips slapping against hers as he pushes deeper, drives harder.

“You feel so fucking good, Anne-girl,” he gasps and his staccato moves become erratic. Her hands hold tightly to his neck, his back, and she bites into his shoulder as she starts to come undone. “Oh Jesus,” he groans and with a final jolt he finishes inside of her, his whole body taunt as she holds him flush against her.

There’s a moment of silence between them as the intercom overhead sounds out, leaving them to listen to tinny voices and their own heavy breathing as they slowly come down from their frantic coupling. Anne is the first to come back to reality as she slides her legs slowly down to the ground, disentangling herself.

“That was...“ She starts, glancing up at him with a guarded look. He stares back at her with confusion in his gaze before he leans towards her once more and lifts a hand slowly to her chin. Before she puts the pieces together he’s kissing her again, though this time it’s slow, cautious, and oh so much more than she can catalogue in this haze.

“Yes - it was,” he affirms when he eventually pulls away. His hands slowly start to close the buttons of her blouse, his own clothes abandoned as he locks his gaze on her face.

“We should probably get to our gates for our flights - when did you say yours was again?” Anne asks brightly to break the spell, stepping into her pants and leaning down to drag them back up her legs. He follows suit, tucking in his shirt and looking wholly more put together than she did in just a few seconds.

“Nine, I think, I have to check the board again,” he replies and returns to helping her realign herself, his hands brushing her red locks back into her bun. She can’t help but think how bizarre it is that he’s still here and hasn’t just bolted from the stall now that they’d both gotten what they wanted.

“Ah, okay,” she mumbles and abruptly reaches for her bags, her hands quick to turn the lock so that she can stumble out of the stall. “Gil,” she warns as he crashes into her back, the janitor standing with her arms crossed before them.

“Oh!” He gasps, resting his hand on her shoulder quickly. “My wife - she sometimes needs assistance and we couldn’t find the family bathroom.”

“Mhmm,” the woman sighs, nodding her head and dismissing them. They take off at a quick clip, cheeks flushed with embarrassment as they stumble down the concourse to hastily get away.

“Hey - wait up,” Gilbert calls as his hand reaches out for hers, drawing her away from the moving walkway and towards a gate posting board.

“My gate is A23 which is like, seven years away by foot,” Anne grumbles, shifting her bag further up on her shoulder.

“Same. Want me to take your bag? I figure some chivalry always goes a long way in getting a callback from an airport hook-up,” he jokes, reaching out for the strap of her bag. She scowls at him and walks away, trying to put distance between them. “Hey - where are you going?”

“To my gate. Thanks for the good time but there won’t be any callbacks. We don’t even live in the same place, isn’t that the beauty of this?” She replies as she continues to walk away, looking back over her shoulder. He stands frozen to the spot, silent and watching as she disappears around a corner and out of sight.

Her plane gets in almost an hour late, the sky dark as she disembarks and heads towards the terminal. Grabbing her bags from the trolley, she beelines for the pickup area to look for her marked ride. She finds it in the corner of the lot, shoving her bags in the trunk before climbing into the backseat.

“How long to the camp?” She asks the driver, adjusting the timezone on her watch.

“About an hour. We’re just waiting on one more passenger,” he answers and checks his phone. Anne does the same, sending a quick message home to let Marilla know she’d arrived safely.

“Man, am I glad to see you!” A familiar voice calls through the passenger window. Anne’s head snaps up abruptly as she sees Gilbert-from-the-Airport looking towards the driver with a wide smile on his face. “Let me just put my stuff - “ He freezes as his gaze lands on hers, shock hitting him head on.

Gilbert doesn’t finish his sentence. He puts his gear in the back and then climbs into the backseat beside her, his head swivelling in her direction more than she’d care to admit. What were the fucking chances? What the hell was he doing here?

“Hi there - I’m Doctor Blythe,” he eventually says, reaching out his hand towards her. She takes it slowly, swallowing back her instinctual quips and settling on something a touch more professional.

“Anne Shirley-Cuthbert. What are you doing here?” With a laugh he rubs his face and closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the headrest.

“I could ask you the same thing, although I’m pretty sure we both understand what my role is here. What’s yours?” She takes the question like an affront and crosses her arms over her chest, shifting away from him slightly.

She knew this was going to be one of the things that became an ongoing point of contention for her. It was rare to get first-hand experience and even harder to get honest stories from returning aid workers. Ever since she’d heard about the ongoing conflict in the country she’d been trying to get an inside look at how international groups were helping the cause. She’d spent months lobbying different organizations, trying to break her way into their ranks so that she could see for herself what was going on and write something that would wake people up to the crisis. Her mission opportunity had come up almost Providentially after a meeting with the NGO she volunteered for and she’d been booked on the next rotation out to the medical site they ran in the displacement camps. Now she was here to see what was happening and report her first pieces back to HQ so that they could work dually on getting a message out. It was just the start but she could feel in her bones that it was the start of something big.

“I’m here working on a book.” Her tone makes him lean his head back, a groan erupting from his chest as he looks towards her.

“Of course you are,” he growls. “It’s just my luck to happen upon the one journalist they bother to send to this thing. I didn’t realize this was your subject area, Anne-girl.”

“Don’t call me that. And what do you even mean by that?” She demands, her cheeks heating with his accusatory tone.

“Why can’t I call you that? I think it’s cute,” he cuts into her thoughts, getting caught up on the nickname and ignoring her counter-question. Typical.

Glancing towards him she frowns, reaching up and brushing loose strands of her hair back from her face. “Because. It implies familiarity that we don’t have, Doctor.” Her words bite and he watches her with an intensity that makes her squirm. How had she not noticed that before at the airport? That he could see through her facade?

“Okay. I’ll try to refrain. How long are you here for?” He looks away and twists his watch on his wrist distractedly, dropping the familial tone along with the concession.

“Three weeks for now. You?”

“A month. I guess we’ll be getting to know each other better.” She looks at him then and notices the way his smile isn’t as bright, his attention focused elsewhere.

“I guess so,” she replies lowly. The heat from earlier has all but disappeared and left her with a lonely anxiousness, one born from the fear that what was supposed to have been a meaningless connection in a random airport had turned into the longest date she never signed up for.

They spend the remainder of the ride looking out their respective windows, silence heavy in the vehicle until they pull up to the gate of the camp and step out into the cool evening air. She moves slowly around the back of the vehicle trying to give Gilbert more time to collect his things so that she didn’t have to face him but he was one step ahead, already having pulled her kit from the back and settled it on the ground ready for her.

“You don’t have to do that,” she grumbles, grabbing the handle and stalking towards the administration tent. Gilbert follows a distance behind her, keeping silent as they enter the space and receive their sleeping assignments.

After checking in and sorting out their paperwork they head towards the housing tents and split down the different walkways. They’re almost out of sight of one another when Gilbert stops, turning to face her. “Anne,” he says, causing her to pause and look at him.

“Yeah Gil?” He smiles, his face lighting up as though it was a personal victory for him that she would say his name like that.

“I’m looking forward to building that familiarity. Sleep well.”

[fadedtoblue]

Overall thoughts on Jessica Jones S2

So how about that S2 huh? I finished it Sunday night but found that I really needed to take some time to sit and try to destruct all of the emotions I had over it. A good conversation with a friend the other morning helped me get a better grasp on my feelings regarding this season. Specific thoughts below the cut...

Clearly this season has been a divisive one amongst the fans...mostly that it imploded a lot of things / characters who were well loved and didn’t live up to what it was in S1 -- to a certain extent that might be true. I’ll say that I  understood what they were trying to do with this season but I don’t think they were able to bring it altogether with the execution. Nothing wrong with trying to do something different but when the final product doesn’t feel like the best outcome, it’s difficult to not be disappointed. Anyway, I’ll try to break down what I liked and didn’t like.

The good stuff:

Seeing these characters in this world again. Coming off of Defenders, I was most intrigued to see Jess, Trish, and Malcolm and well, if that’s what you’re looking for you get it in SPADES. Everyone plays a crucial part in season 2. 

Character driven stories to the max. If you enjoy character driven stories, then you’re in luck, as this is essentially the majority of JJS2. Any of the good stuff that happens is purely on the character level -- whether’s it’s shading in more sides of Jessica’s personality and messy internal conflicts, or showing Trish’s steady and frustrating decline, or introducing new side characters to drive home the crux of each character’s central conflict...this is where the show really made sure to take their time. Everyone has their own moment to drive the narrative forward, though some are able to do it with more purpose than others. 

Exploring new relationship dynamics. This will probably also end up being in the bad category lol, but generally speaking, I liked that they tried to show our primary characters in dynamics that felt different from last season. It made me feel like the world had continued moving, and the characters were growing, which was cool. And I realize I may be in the minority but I actually ended up liking Alisa and the surprise twist that she was Jessica’s mom actually worked for me?? I wasn’t sure what they were doing with her, as I found her to be frustratingly one-note when they first introduced her -- like, okay, she’s just going around killing people involved with IGH? What’s the point? But the reveal that she was actually Jessica’s mom made it all click for me. Sure, it still skirted the line a bit between drama and flat out soap opera but I think this was one of my favorite new dynamics. It was a hot mess in a lot of the moments, and it really shouldn’t have been one of the main drivers of conflict in this season, but I’m sympathetic to the messed up mother / daughter connection and seeing Jessica fall apart and not know what the hell to do about this woman. 

Malcolm. Special shout out to Malcolm who was truly the MVP of this season. He also goes through his own shit but he is probably the one who manages to come out of it in better shape than he went in. It was sad that the trust was so broken by the end between him, Jess, and Trish, but I think he needed to mature beyond the naive idealist who idolizes Jessica and find his own footing. 

The bad stuff:

Too much character focus, not enough of anything else. They threw a LOT our way for all of the characters. Jess dealing with her family’s deaths. Jess dealing with her trauma at IGH. Jess dealing with her relationships with Trish and Malcolm going down the shitter. Jess going apeshit on the competition and going on probation and to anger management. Jess dealing with her mom being alive and being a scary ass murderer. And oh wait, Jess also randomly kills a guard and has a dissociative episode where she imagines Kilgrave around every corner. And this is just Jess! It’s incredible that for all of the things I listed, which I think worked in that they contributed to Jessica’s gradual breakdown over the season, it really felt as if we were treading water most of the time narratively. Because every time something bad happened, or she made a bad decision, or whatever...nothing happened. Nothing got really resolved or truly broken until the end of the season. And the thing is, I 100% track with why Jessica keeps flip flopping around. I absolutely see that she’s barely hanging on and she literally can’t deal with it all and especially WHY she can’t deal with it. But it could have been more to the point and still driven us to larger, more important story details. This feeling of nothing happening also applied to Trish, who had a story line I appreciated on paper -- showing just how hard a person can spiral downward, especially someone who used to be an addict and now isn’t just dealing with street drugs, but ridiculous power-inducing shit -- but my god, this woman has this awful fall off the wagon, pretty much blows up her life, career, relationships, also nearly dies in her quest to gain powers from the mad doctor, but still manages to bounce back enough to snipe Alisa with a handgun from 50 feet and deal with zero consequences. I’m not going to list out every storyline for every character, but while these character building moments work to a point, the lack of balance and payoff make for difficult TV watching. Also Jeri’s storyline started out intriguing when there was still a connection to IGH but once that went out the window, it just felt like it should have been on another show altogether. 

Too many plot contrivances. This was a point of conversation I had with my friend and like, nothing wrong with plot contrivances to create moments for our characters to DO something but I think a better written show could have created these moments more naturally. And maybe the problem was that some of these moments felt contrived because things were getting dragged out and it was hard to ignore the moments when they happened. 

Bad overall plotting of the storylines. So the weird thing is that I pretty much got why everything happened the way it did. But literally every storyline could have been condensed by 2-3 episodes. It was as if this stubborn dedicated to driving the story purely by character also meant to the writers that they needed to slowly draw out each detail and reveal. No, not really. With each delaying tactic that kept us from getting to the next point in the story, it killed any momentum that was starting to build up. I have no expectations that JJ should be an action driven show, but if you’re going to go full tilt into the psychological slow burn, there has to be a balance somewhere. If it’s not going to be some overarching villain, then it should be a better mystery. You know?

Lack of payoff with IGH. Listen, I don’t know what’s up with TPTB and if there’s something preventing these creative teams from writing compelling shadow organizations or whatever, but we’re 0/2 now and that’s so majorly disappointing. To find out that IGH was ultimately just one somewhat well-intentioned dude who got a little carried away with human experimentation...really?! That was something that majorly deflated my sails as it could have been exactly the kind of grounded connective thread that could’ve being pulled across all four shows. This is where the separate but connected universe really bites these shows in the ass because obviously, they all exist in the same time and place and share characters but because they also need to stand as individual shows and be able to pursue their own creative agenda, the choices made by one show inevitably affect the others show that could’ve used IGH. 

Random stuff:

As much as Tennant’s Kilgrave (and his crazy good screen presence) was missed, I think it was ultimately the right choice to keep him limited to an episode. My husband was griping about how they could have integrated Kilgrave’s over the shoulder taunting throughout the whole season instead of saving it for the end, but I disagreed. The way they set up his reappearance made a lot of narrative sense to me -- that her accidentally killing the guard, on top of the incredible stress she’s under to take care of everyone’s shit, is what makes her temporarily dissociate and conjure up this vision of Kilgrave. The shtick would have gotten old quickly if he’d be present the whole season, and it would have severely undercut her progress from last season, at least the aspect where she was able to face her abuser and take back her life. I guess you could have done some version of PTSD and that’s why he’s in her head, but I think it would have been a distraction. 

Trish is an interesting pickle for me. I am not that emotionally invested in her as a character so for me, the shift in direction doesn’t devastate me as much as it seems to have done for a lot of people I know. And honestly, I think the point of her storyline was to make her this awful and unlikeable. There was already a kernel of the competition and jealousy that existed in her relationship with Jess, but her idealism and compassion for her sister usually won out. And I think it’s also worth noting that she was already pushing Jessica’s boundaries way too hard, even before she falls off the wagon, but obviously falling back into drugs  exacerbated a lot of the things that were already lurking under the surface. Also, I don’t think I was even bothered by the fact she’s the one who killed Jessica’s mom, but as I briefly alluded to earlier, it really bugs me that she didn’t reap the full consequences of her season long arc, especially since she still gets to become Hellcat at the end. That being said, karma has a way of coming back and biting you in the ass. If Jeri had to reap the karma of her craptastic behavior of S1 this season, then I fully expect Trish to face it in S3. Ideally we’ll see her attempt to be the hero she’s always wanted to be and crash and burn in spectacular fashion. There’s a reason why our heroes are the heroes and while I don’t think it means Trish will never get to be a hero, being a hero for the wrong reasons doesn’t make you a hero. And this is a tough lesson that I really want to see Trish learn. 

Alright, I think I covered most of it. Apologies for any errors, I try to edit my word vomit but I’ll usually miss something :p. And if you want to chat / vent about particulars, I’m all for it! Hit up my asks or send me a message!!

[brian-wellson]

What got you into writing? What's your story?

It would be cliché for me to say that I have been writing all my life… cliché, but also true. In order to understand that statement, you have to understand who I am as a person.

I come from a broken home. An actual broken home — my biological parents divorced when I was two or so; I lived with (and was physically and emotionally abused by) my biodad while my mom was in a psychiatric hospital; my biodad told me I was a mistake; and my mom lived with a prostitute because she needed someone to help her make rent. All of this by age five! Books were, by all rights, my only friends. Books were a marker of stability — they were pretty much all I had.

When I had entered kindergarten, I was already reading at the fifth grade level. By the end of that school year, the seventh grade level. Even as a kindergartener, I think I recognized that literacy was imperative, for it was through reading that I could give myself something I was not getting elsewhere. I could play in a peaceful, sun drenched  meadow, I could meet dignitaries and nobles and queens and kings, I could be a biological researcher … If I could imagine it, then it would happen. (Reader’s Digest had some amazing coffee table books back then filled with detailed pictures and graphics and flow charts … but, most of all, clear and concise text.)

Anyhow. Around second grade or so, I immersed myself in the Choose Your Own Adventure series (and its compatriot, the Time Machine series). I thought they were amazing. It was then I realized that there were so many different ways to end a story, so many different ways to your demise. I think I liked them so much because the crux of their concept and execution hinges on personal choice; the books were comprised of short vignettes, and every short vignette was accompanied by a choice at the vignette’s end. That choice would send you to a different part of the book, down a new line of inquiry. Retrospectively, I see my child’s reasoning — if I could not control things at home, then I would seek it out elsewhere. Lo and behold, I was given control in the form of books! The choices I made actually mattered! I was hooked, and read every book many times over. I found myself wanting more of them, but none in that series were to be had; I was reading them too quickly, and my pace overtook new book drops.

Concomitant with reading the aforementioned series, I began to staple little books together. They were made of college-ruled notebook paper. As you can no doubt guess, I modelled my own writing off that in which I had immersed myself. I think the first ‘book’ I ever wrote was entitled “The Lost Gold of the Seneca”. I’m originally from upstate New York, and we are pretty steeped in Iroquois culture; as a child, the Seneca tribe fascinated me. Well, I had my culture… what about the plot? The plot was based off a myth my grandfather had told me about an old, abandoned lead mine in the southwestern Catskills. So I merged the lead mine myth with Seneca culture, and made my own story. Of course there was no gold to be had in real life… but I was only eight. A writer typically writes about the things with which they have familiarity. And, like I said, I was eight. (I wonder if that little book, written on scraps of stapled notebook paper, is laying around anywhere?)

When I was 12 (1991), my mom had several psychotic breaks. She became violent and delusional. My reading habits had, of course, grown along with me over time. I had just finished Tom Clancy’s Hunt for Red October and Patriot Games. (I was also an avid reader of comic books, though they did not figure into anything. I just liked Spider-Man, The Fantastic Four, and Infinity Gauntlet. They were so fun to read!)

As my mom battled her mental health issues, my stepfather searched frantically for job following his layoff from a defence contractor… all while I had to contend with being — well, bad things would happen to me when I would visit my biodad.

High school was a  difficult transition for me. My mom, stepfather, and I moved from our creepy ass apartment in the bad part of town to a complex close to the high school on the hill; our complex was in the nicest part of town. Somehow the rent was cheaper… well, not somehow, it was about two-thirds the size of what we’d had before. I was small and awkward. I read books. I was a musician. Accusations of homo- and bisexuality were levelled at me, and I was bullied relentlessly as a result (high school was much different in the 1990s… ‘boys will be boys’ was still the norm, and bullying was not that big of a deal). You can imagine how that went — a poor, artistic kid who kept to himself, and was socially awkward, and slapped with the label of – as they would say – “being a queer”? During my walks home from school, rocks and bottles would be hurled at me from passing cars along with  derogatory taunts about my mom, my stepfather, and me. What friends I had were people of convenience, people in my orbit. One of them even shot me with a BB gun once just because he thought it would be fun. (Hint: it wasn’t.)

So I took control.

The resultant novella I wrote was sprawling, a true epic of ambition. 150 pages. Gunfights, a conflicted sniper, the mafia, international jewel thieves, a corrupt cop, the mass media, a jet ski pursuit down raging rapids, Army Rangers, and international, multicultural government agents. Oh — and a town levelled in the third act by gunfire and bombs and grenades and an exploding helicopter shot down with a Stinger missile. All of the novella’s characters were metonymic for people I knew in real life. This was my attempt to put them into the slots as I saw them: hero, villain, bystander, enabler, or something in between. This was my attempt at control. I left it open for a sequel, but it never materialized. The novella itself took about 1.5 years to crank out (on a word processor; we did not have a  computer in our house until I was a senior). Not bad for a 12-year-old. I was proud of that manuscript. I am still proud of it… in fact, it’s one of the few artifacts I have kept from those horrible adolescent years; the sole copy sits with my other archival materials from later in life (like my ballets and my flute concerto/dissertation). Who knows. If I ever write a novel, perhaps I will use that plot.

With college came baggage, and with baggage came a downward spiral of my own mental health. I ended up functionally homeless for a couple of months… I was not allowed to be around the house when my parents were home, but I could clean myself up and catch some sleep during the day. That summer (1999), I started an Angelfire online journal, one that was modelled after my best friend’s. She and I were in a very similar space, and it seemed to help her out, so I decided to try it; to tell you our state of mind, my favourite line I had written from that time: ‘I wish I was a river rat’. My best friend had been thrown out by her dad, so, that summer, we had each other’s backs: sleeping under bridges, dumpster diving for cans and bottles and trinkets, selling trash at yard sales, eating from abandoned room service trays. Things were bad, but we still had our words – I still had my words.

Every day for a year (1999-2000), I updated that online journal. Over that span, I welcomed more and more followers — so many followers that had I to buy my own domain and server space (2000-2004). The domain hosted not only my own online journal, but those of others, as well. That core of people, we became our own community, and exchanged stories with each another across the continent. We organized an epic meet up, and people from up and down the Eastern Seaboard showed up. In fact, I am still in contact with several of the other online journalers. My site won a “Best of the Web” award, an award I had not sought, nor did I necessarily think I deserved, but one which made me happy. The site was a true labour of love: all of the HTML & CSS coding was written by me (in Notepad), all of the photos were digitally rendered by me, and all of the written (and musical) content was written by me. I even had a live streaming cam for the semester when I reënrolled. (And yes, there were watchers.)

I kept that online journal for years; eventually the constant maintenance became too much for me to handle. I needed to bang out my Masters (including thesis!) in a year, and went straight on to my doctoral program (2004). Writing fell by the wayside for many years…

…and then I had an accident which rendered me neurologically and physically compromised (2010). I couldn’t work, and I hated doing nothing, so I went back to school (2012-2016), and started down a path of study which has proven to be generous to me.

If you had told that disabled guy of four years ago that he would be offered an MFA slot at many different & prestigious schools to study Creative Nonfiction, he would have laughed at you.

If you had told the little, socio-economically disadvantaged teenager from a broken home that he would be offered a slot at an ivy for graduate school, he probably would have tried to kick your ass … it had been accepted that those things weren’t meant for people like him — for people like me. We don’t get to do that, we don’t belong there. This is a belief that still haunts today for many different reasons. That said:

I believe education is the great equalizer. Knowledge, wisdom, and literacy are the things that grant equity in our culture. Yes, it is used as a weapon by some; yes, it is also used as a form of control.

But that control was mine to take. I had no other option. So, I seized it.

That just about sums it up. These are the stories and reasons why I write, why I read, and why I care so very much about literacy. These are the reasons why I care about all of the writing I read on this site every single day. Each person has it in their power to craft a good story, and each story has the potential to change the way a person sees themselves and the world around them.

These are things I believe to be true.

Thank you for such a lovely ask.

(( @alastar-wyatt ))

[thisdaynews]

Trump’s North Carolina Supporters Were Ready to Unload

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/trumps-north-carolina-supporters-were-ready-to-unload/

Trump’s North Carolina Supporters Were Ready to Unload

GREENVILLE, N.C.—Whatever President Donald Trump was planning to do at his rally Wednesday night, the crowd outside Minges Coliseum was ready for it and ready to ramp it up.

More than three days after President Donald Trump triggered national outrage with tweets telling four Democratic congresswomen of color to “go back” to the countries “from which they came,” the feeling among the throng mustering in the sweltering heat at East Carolina University was that the president had ample rope before he even came close to offending them.

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The best-selling “MAGA” merchandise, perfectly parroting and even amplifying his taunts on Twitter, indicated just how much latitude he enjoyed.

“LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT.”

“LET ME HELP YOU PACK!”

“BUILD THE WALL DEPORT THEM ALL.”

“FUCK OFF WE’RE FULL,” said one of these sorts of shirts, the design of the letters contorted into the shape of the United States of America. It was prominently displayed in the tent of sweat-drenched Glenn Wilcoxson, who had come from his home in Hudson, Florida. “Four left,” he told me, “out of—I don’t know—a lot.” It was a special offering, all his own, envisioned by him, his wife and his daughter, its timing the opposite of accidental. “We go by news cycles. We’ll design what’s going on in the news,” he said.

The vendors and the snaking line of voters—they were pumped up and primed for the rally and for what would be the essence of its message. Inside, barely 15 minutes into his hour-and-a-half stemwinder, Trump gave the people what they wanted: “The four congresswomen,” he said. The capacity crowd in the venue of 8,000 seats booed on cue. And then Trump named the women, starting with the only one of them not born in this country. “Representative Ilhan Omar,” he enunciated. He talked about the Minnesota lawmaker originally from Somalia, and only her, for the better part of five minutes, portraying her, a U.S. citizen since she was 17, as an anti-Semitic, America-hating sympathizer of terrorists.

“Traitor!” someone shouted from high up in the crowd.

“Treason!” someone else yelled.

And then the chanting started.

“Send her back! Send her back! Send her back!”

If there had been any doubt about how Trump’s latest political gambit would be received—had it inspired his supporters as much as it had enraged his opponents?—it disappeared here. Earlier in the week, when Trump defended himself against charges of racism, insisting “many people agree with me,” it was crowds like these he almost certainly had in mind. But until right then and there, he hadn’t heard directly from them—a live audience feeding back direct proof that this was something he could keep running on.

This is and always has been the engine of Trump’s political ascent and appeal—not just perpetual, calculated conflict, but particularly and specifically race-laced foils and feuds. His proto-candidacy was birtherism. The crux of the announcement of his 2016 candidacy: Mexican rapists. The ongoing battle cry: “Build that wall!” And while he filed for reelection the day of his inauguration, and his first official 2020 rally was a month ago in Orlando, Florida, this past half-week capped by Wednesday night felt like the truer, more telling start.

In this state, which he won in 2016 by nearly 4 percentage points—a wide, varied, critical swing state that is slightly more red than blue—Trump flagged with a new vigor and venom what is to come in these next 15-plus months. To his overwhelmingly but not exclusively white audience — composed of people wearing Trump flags like capes and “Make America Great Again” caps of an array of colors and shapes — the president roll-called his newest enemies.

The mere mention of Hillary Clinton had acted as an adrenaline jolt through crowds at scores of rallies just like this one. The Pavlovian response of “lock her up” had carried Trump all the way to the stage of the 2016 Republican National Convention in Cleveland and then on to the White House. It seems self-evident he would have been looking for a useful replacement.

And he had to hear what I heard, seated in the press pen. Trump stood at the center of the stage, under a giant American flag, and that blunt chant, unscripted and spontaneous, rained down, a newfangled three-syllable shiv. Television clips fail to convey its intensity. It was, by far, the most visceral, guttural sound of the night.

***

The place Trump pickedto test this sharpened pitch isn’t purely Trump-friendly territory. But it has the kind of divisions—between immigrants and native-born citizens, Democrats and Republicans, whites and people of color—that look a lot like the broader American fault lines to which Trump has taken a crowbar.

The largely rural eastern end of North Carolina leans hard for Trump, but Pitt County does not, or didn’t nearly three years ago. He lost handily to Clinton. Greenville, with a population of just over 90,000, and the county as a whole, with a population roughly double that, is home to both a major university and a community college and is a regional health care hub. It’s one of the state’s most educated metropolitan areas. And as popular as what Trump said was to those inside Minges Coliseum, it was chilling to many others I spoke to mere miles away.

Across the street from the local airport where Air Force One landed is a Tropicana Supermarket that services a growing Latino population. Surrounded by shelves stocked with Hojaldra cookies, chicharrones and the jerseys of the Mexico national soccer team, one of the owners told me business was markedly slower than on a typical Wednesday. With the arrival of president, this president, he said, many of his customers seemed to be lying low.

Outside, in the mostly empty parking lot, Miguel Ramos looked around.

“Usually,” said Ramos, 44, a Puerto Rican-Jamaican who runs a catering company with his Trinidadian partner, “Tropicana’s booming right now.”

I asked Ramos what members of the local Latino community think of Trump. His answer was as profane as some of the shirts I would see a few hours later.

“Fuck Trump,” he said.

People are afraid.

“The fear,” he said, “of being sent back to a country they were trying to get away from. I know people from Mexico, I know people from Honduras, I know people from South American countries …”

It’s what I heard all over the more Hispanic sections of the city in the morning and early afternoon before I headed over to the arena for the rally.

“People are tense,” said Jay Bastardo, the owner of the Dominican restaurant Villa Verde.

“The president has displayed scare tactics, and it actually has worked,” he added, “because there’s some self-deportation that we know, and people who would rather not spend six, seven months going through the process of getting deported, and some families that we know who are just not looking forward to making a future in America. And that’s a little discouraging.”

Wednesday crystallized this overall anxiety.

“You have the commander in chief coming into town, the guy who has called for these massive deportations,” Bastardo told me. He had heard from fellow business owners about employees calling in and not coming to work, “assuming,” he said, “that there’ll be checkpoints all around.”

Immigration and Customs Enforcement raids haven’t happened here. Yet.

“You see all the stories,” said Esperanza Whitfield, the owner of the El Azador taqueria.

“We’ve heard rumors,” said Leticia Zavala, the local head of the Farm Labor Organizing Committee.

There’s a significant population, too, of Latino migrant workers, working seasonally in the fields in surrounding areas on cotton and tobacco and soybeans and sweet potatoes. “Thousands of them,” said Spencer Crawford, the research coordinator of the Greenville-based Association of Mexicans in North Carolina. “Just a completely underground population. They’re completely unseen.”

Wednesday afternoon, I talked on the phone with a 17-year-old high school student who wasundocumented and whose mother and father, also undocumented, brought him to the U.S. when he was a toddler. His younger sisters were born here and are citizens. His family were originally migrant workers, he told me, and their lives changed when Trump became president. He and his sisters get to school via the school bus, and his parents struggle to pay bills with odd jobs, and they live increasingly as shut-ins in their trailer in a nearby town. They make quick trips to the grocery store a couple times a week and hurry home.

“The fear for ICE,” he said. “Having to be careful, where you go, who you go with, how long we go somewhere.”

***

This, needless to say,was not the North Carolina that Trump described in his remarks at the rally. The way he described it was transactional and passing, saying the state was “beautiful” and calling its people “patriots” and thanking them for their votes. To me, it felt like the star of a sports team after a winning season praising his or her fans for being the best fans, which is to say: rote. The applause sounded about as obligatory. He welcomed onto the stage the Republican candidates in the pair of special congressional elections in the state this fall. “But let’s not talk too much about North Carolina,” Trump said at one point. What he said on Wednesday night mostly could have been said anywhere.

And in large part has been. It was a meandering mixture of breezy, box-checked, sometimes specious accomplishments (rolled-back regulations, “big, beautiful” tax cuts, a roster of confirmed conservative judges and Supreme Court justices, “jobs, jobs, jobs,” “better health care,” “we’re taking care of trade … nice and slow,” the economy that he’s “created”), reprised greatest hits (“hoax,” “witch hunt,” “fake news”), and odd phrases and easy laugh lines. He said bullshit once. He said goddamn twice.

The longer he talked, the more he told mostly uncheckable tales in which people called him sir. A smattering of policy squeezed between much more rousing personal asides and attacks, the speech was a sine wave of energy peaks and troughs. It was the extemporaneous product of an attention-seeking, room-reading savant, an instinctual gauger and tweaker and torquer of crowds, who understands the ebb and flow of their appetites, always aware of what line will get the biggest reaction.

Oddly for a campaign rally, one of those troughs came when he finally mentioned the Democrats who might be his actual opponent come next November. His invocations were brief, halfhearted, practically parenthetical. He called Joe Biden “Sleepy Joe.” He called Elizabeth Warren “Pocahontas.” He called Bernie Sanders “desperate.” He called Kamala Harris “a new one that knocked the hell out of Biden during the debate.” He called Pete Buttigieg “a beauty” who “runs a failed city” before poking fun at his name (“Boot-edge-edge!”). He called all of them “sad.”

The real takeaway, though, was some 20 minutes in. He spent far, far more time on the quartet of congresswomen he labeled “vicious” “extremists”—first Omar, and then Rashida Tlaib of Michigan, and then Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez of New York, and then Ayanna Pressley of Massachusetts, a hard-to-miss chronology that prioritized the two Muslims before shifting to AOC (whom he pointedly called “Cortez”), and finally Pressley. He paused to listen to the chants about Omar and let others in the arena do the same.

Vote for Trump next year, the president suggested, or vote forthem.

“The choice for every American,” he said, “has never been more clear.”

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