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faebled-stories · 2 months ago

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Finding True Beauty

Kinkvember Day 4: Mirror Sex

Park Jihyo x Male reader

6.8k words

AN: I really adore this photo, It fits so well and she looks absolutely stunning

Jihyo had always felt the weight of expectations pressing down on her, unyielding and relentless. In Korea, beauty was revered to an almost mythic degree—a cultural ideal that demanded flawlessness, leaving little room for individuality. It wasn’t just about looking good; it was about embodying perfection, fitting neatly into a mold that felt impossible to achieve. Living in this reality, she spent her life feeling like an outsider, always just short of the ideal.

Billboards and magazine covers showcased faces with flawless skin, bodies that seemed more sculpted than human, impossibly slender and toned. She knew, logically, that many of those images were enhanced, that even those models weren’t perfect in real life. But logic didn’t ease the ache. The pressure she felt wasn’t only social; it was deeply internal, a voice that echoed with every glance in the mirror, whispering, “Not enough.”

Jihyo had done her best to fit the mold, adopting a skincare routine so meticulous it consumed her evenings, each cream and serum a silent plea to feel closer to the ideal. She followed strict diets, counting calories, always conscious of her figure. Even though her natural build was curvier than the thin bodies praised in magazines, she was constantly trying to slim down, to soften her edges, hoping one day she’d look in the mirror and feel like she belonged.

But no amount of dieting or creams could erase her natural curves, and her chest—fuller than most—often felt like a burden. She knew others saw her figure as attractive, yet she couldn’t shake the discomfort it brought her. Sometimes, she’d catch herself staring longingly at the clothes in store windows, delicate dresses and slim-fit tops that seemed to be designed for someone else. On other women, they looked effortless, perfect. On her, they stretched awkwardly, pulling tight across her chest in a way that made her feel out of place. No matter how she adjusted her posture or tried different sizes, those clothes never felt quite right.

And there were the comments. The lingering glances from strangers, the sly remarks from acquaintances, and especially the words from men who seemed to think her curves were an invitation. Compliments rarely felt complimentary; instead, they left her feeling exposed, as if her body were the only part of her that mattered.

In her most vulnerable moments, Jihyo found herself retreating, creating a barrier between herself and the world. She’d wear loose clothing, hiding her form beneath baggy sweaters and oversized coats, each piece carefully chosen to let her slip unnoticed into the background. The fabric became her shield, a buffer against curious glances and unspoken judgments. There were days she wished she could disappear completely, blend into the crowd without a single gaze finding her.

At home, she rarely ventured near mirrors, looking away from reflections that felt like harsh reminders of everything she felt was wrong, everything she couldn’t change. The mirror seemed to amplify her perceived flaws, highlighting the parts that felt too different from what she imagined beauty to be. Even a quick glimpse of her own face or body sparked a familiar pang—a longing to be smaller, softer, to have the delicate features she thought the world admired. Each time, she’d feel herself shrink inside, as though her very presence were too much, her reflection a sight unworthy of admiration.

Yet, beneath those pangs of self-doubt lay something else—a glimmer of yearning that refused to disappear. She wanted to see herself differently, to look in the mirror and find beauty staring back at her. Part of her longed to shed those layers, to one day strip away the loose clothing and stand openly, seeing herself as more than her insecurities. Still, that dream felt distant, like a hazy mirage on the edge of her vision, just out of reach.

This quiet, unspoken longing stayed with her, hovering in the back of her mind, whispering that there was more to be found beneath the layers she used to shield herself. It was as if a part of her knew that her reflection held a depth she had yet to discover—that beyond the clothes, beyond the guarded glances, lay a woman capable of seeing her own beauty, of embracing her own strength.

But for now, she pushed the thought aside, choosing the comfort of concealment. Yet even in these hidden moments, a faint desire lingered—a hope that one day she could look into her reflection unafraid, finding acceptance and maybe even beauty.

These insecurities shadowed her into intimate moments as well. She could never fully let go, fearing that any of her partners would silently compare her to an idealized version of beauty. The fear gnawed at her, holding her back from fully embracing her desires. In those moments, she couldn’t help feeling betrayed by her own body, as though it were keeping her from the experience others seemed to find so effortlessly.

One night, feeling restless and weary from her own thoughts, Jihyo found herself alone in her apartment, scrolling aimlessly through a website filled with romance and erotica novels. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for—maybe a distraction, maybe a world far removed from her own. She just needed to escape, to silence the internal dialogue that repeated on loop, reminding her of everything she thought she wasn’t.

A story caught her eye, a tale of a woman’s journey to self-confidence. Intrigued, she clicked on it, drawn to the description of a protagonist who found her beauty not in someone else’s gaze but in her own. It was an unfamiliar idea—finding worth, finding beauty, without needing validation from someone else. She read on, her curiosity sharpening.

As Jihyo delved into the story, she found herself captivated. The protagonist wasn’t flawless; she struggled with body image just as much as Jihyo did. Yet there was something extraordinary about the woman’s journey, the way she slowly reclaimed her confidence by seeing herself through new eyes. It wasn’t a partner who helped her—it was her own gaze, her own acceptance.

The most powerful scene lingered in Jihyo’s mind, describing how the woman used mirrors to confront her reflection, watching herself from every angle as she explored her body. There was no shame, only an unfiltered appreciation of her curves, her shape, the way her body moved. The protagonist allowed herself to see the beauty in what she’d always considered flaws, to find grace in the moments she’d once avoided. It was a complete reversal of everything Jihyo had felt, and the idea left her breathless.

She read the passage again and again, her heart racing as she tried to imagine doing the same. Could she really use mirrors to look at herself with that same gentle gaze, to confront her own insecurities and find beauty in her own body? Could she bring herself to face her reflection without feeling that familiar discomfort, without the weight of shame?

The thought was both terrifying and exciting. It would mean standing before herself, unclothed and vulnerable, allowing every curve, every flaw, to come into full view. But if the woman in the story could do it, maybe she could too. Maybe it wasn’t about changing anything but about shifting her perspective, seeing herself in a light that allowed room for acceptance and even love.

That night, as she lay in bed, Jihyo couldn’t stop thinking about the mirrors. She could almost picture herself standing in front of them, the soft light catching the lines of her figure, casting shadows that highlighted her natural curves. The idea made her pulse quicken, a rush of anticipation mingling with her nerves. She knew it wouldn’t be easy, that it might be painful at first to face herself so honestly. But the thought lingered, insistent, tugging at something deep within her that longed for release from the weight of constant comparison.

In that moment, she made a promise to herself: one day, she would stand in front of a mirror and see herself as something beautiful. Not because she was flawless, but because she was real. Because she was enough.

Jihyo closed her eyes, and for the first time in a long while, her heart felt lighter. She didn’t know how long it would take, but she felt a spark of hope—a small, precious ember that maybe, just maybe, she could learn to see herself through kinder eyes.

The thought lingered with her long after she set the book aside. It wasn’t just the story that captivated her but the idea of seeing herself fully, without judgment, without filters. What would it be like to stand in front of a mirror and not automatically focus on flaws or imperfections, but on the beauty in each line and curve? Her mind swirled with the possibilities, turning over an idea that felt equal parts thrilling and terrifying. For once, her fantasies didn’t involve someone else—they revolved around her, a vision of discovering her own body and beauty on her terms.

That night, a strange mix of curiosity and nervousness pulsing within her, Jihyo decided to try it. Pulling a small mirror from her drawer, she set it by her bedside, feeling a bit self-conscious. The mirror was small, only able to capture fragments of her, but that seemed fitting—a tentative first step. Slowly, she undressed, her heart racing as she slid beneath the sheets, both eager and hesitant. Her eyes flitted between the mirror and her body, unsure of what she’d see or feel, unsure if this would unlock something within her or merely deepen her insecurities.

As she lay back, the coolness of the sheets sharp against her skin, her hands moved tentatively, her fingertips grazing her collarbone, her curves, the softness of her thighs. A gentle shiver ran through her, and her eyes fixed on the mirror, seeing only pieces of herself—the arch of her neck, the swell of her chest, a hand tracing the curve of her hip. The mirror reflected these moments, capturing a quiet intimacy that she wasn’t accustomed to sharing, even with herself.

The sensation was undeniably alluring, her breathing quickening as her hands moved more freely, each touch intensifying the connection between her mind and body. But as her pleasure built, she found herself distracted. The small mirror offered only glimpses, incomplete flashes that couldn’t fully capture the experience. Even as waves of pleasure washed over her, a deeper yearning remained—the desire to see herself completely, to confront every insecurity, every aspect she had avoided for so long.

The realization struck her hard: she needed to see all of herself, every angle, every detail, without hiding. The mirror had given her a taste, but it wasn’t enough. She yearned for a space where she could truly explore, where her reflection could reveal her without judgment.

Suddenly, a memory surfaced—a flash of an ad she’d seen a few weeks earlier while online shopping. It had been one of those pop-ups, something she’d quickly close or scroll past, but now the words came back clearly. It was for a place called The Pleasure Paradise Hotel. Her pulse quickened as she hurriedly pulled out her phone and found the hotel’s website. The tagline read, “Where every fantasy blooms in paradise.” She chuckled at the phrasing but clicked on the “Fantasies” tab.

And there it was, nestled among the long lists of fantasies: the Mirror Rooms. The description made her breath catch, detailing spaces crafted for self-exploration, adorned with mirrors that reflected every part of her from every angle, allowing for a judgment-free discovery of self. This was precisely what she had been craving—a sanctuary where she could be alone with her reflection, liberated from the societal expectations that weighed so heavily on her.

Her hand hovered for only a moment before she clicked the “Book Now” button, her nerves quickly overtaken by a rush of excitement as she filled in her information. After a moment, a confirmation screen appeared, thanking her for choosing the Pleasure Paradise Hotel.

The day of her booking arrived faster than she’d anticipated. Entering the luxurious lobby, Jihyo felt a blend of anticipation and nerves. The hotel exuded a quiet elegance, with soft lighting, subtle hints of jasmine, and decor that made the space feel intimate and indulgent. Her heart raced as she approached the front desk, where a poised woman greeted her with a warm, professional smile.

“Good evening. Welcome to the Pleasure Paradise Hotel. How may I assist you today?” the receptionist asked, her tone calm and reassuring.

Jihyo hesitated briefly, lowering her voice. “Hi, I… I’ve booked a stay in one of the Mirror Rooms,” she said, glancing around to ensure no one else could hear.

The receptionist’s smile deepened knowingly. “Ah, the Mirror Rooms,” she said, her voice laced with understanding. “A popular choice for guests looking to explore and connect with themselves more intimately. We offer a few packages, each designed to provide a unique experience.”

Jihyo’s hands fidgeted slightly, the receptionist’s gentle confidence helping to ease her tension as she listened.

“Our first option is a private experience,” the receptionist continued, gesturing toward a sleek tablet on the counter. “In this package, you’ll have the room entirely to yourself, with mirrors arranged to let you see yourself from every possible angle, creating a safe space to explore your desires alone. It’s very popular for first-time guests.”

Jihyo nodded, intrigued, but a faint restlessness lingered—something told her she needed more than just the mirrors. She wanted something deeper, though she wasn’t yet certain what that might be.

“Our second option,” the receptionist went on, “is similar to the first, but you may bring up to five partners to accompany you, giving you the chance to share your experience with others, if that’s something you’d like.”

Jihyo nodded again, appreciating the variety but feeling a stronger pull toward exploring alone, without an audience. The thought of including others felt premature. She wanted the experience to feel wholly her own.

“And finally,” the receptionist said, her smile widening ever so slightly, “we offer a guided experience. Here, you’re joined by a professional guide who assists in your exploration, offering support, guidance, and whatever level of interaction you’re comfortable with.”

“A guide?” Jihyo’s voice was a soft whisper, barely audible.

“Yes,” the receptionist confirmed, turning the tablet toward her. “Should you choose the guided experience, you can select from a gallery of experienced guides, each highly trained to ensure that your experience is everything you desire. Whether you’re seeking gentle encouragement or someone to help you delve deeper, there’s a guide to match your preference.”

She tapped the screen, bringing up the gallery of guides. The display featured a diverse array of men and women, each with their own unique energy. Some wore inviting, gentle smiles, while others gazed intently at the camera with a more intense, brooding expression. Each image seemed to convey a distinct presence, as if each guide held a different key to unlocking the experience.

Jihyo’s gaze lingered as she took in the faces on the screen. Some were soft and nurturing, others exuding strength and confidence, each inviting her into a different possible experience. She felt the tension between choosing solitude and allowing someone else to witness her vulnerability, to help her confront her insecurities in a way that felt both terrifying and thrilling.

Then, her eyes fell on one photo—a man with an aura of quiet confidence that stood out from the rest. He wasn’t overly posed; he looked relaxed, a calm strength in his features softened by a warm, genuine smile. Something about the ease in his posture and the spark of curiosity in his eyes made her heart skip. He looked approachable yet held an unmistakable air of control, someone who could help her feel both seen and safe.

Underneath the photo, your name appeared.

A quiet thrill shot through her as she clicked to read his profile, each detail deepening her intrigue.

“He seems…” Jihyo began, her voice trailing as her gaze lingered on the photo of the man she’d chosen.

The receptionist smiled knowingly, sensing her indecision melt into interest. “He’s one of our most popular guides,” she explained warmly. “He has a gift for making guests feel at ease. Intuitive, patient, and incredibly thoughtful, adapting to whatever you need—whether it’s gentle guidance or firm direction. He’s here to help you explore at your own pace.”

Jihyo swallowed, feeling a new spark of excitement flare in her chest. A sense of reassurance steadied her as she nodded. “I think… I’d like him,” she replied, her voice soft but resolute.

“An excellent choice,” the receptionist confirmed, tapping a few buttons on the tablet. “your guide will meet you directly in your room. If you wish to adjust the experience or set any new boundaries, just let him know. His sole focus is on your comfort and fulfillment.”

Jihyo nodded, feeling both reassured and anticipatory. The idea of having a guide through this exploration—someone attuned to her desires and limitations—was thrilling yet calming. Somehow, it felt right.

“I’ll take care of everything else. You can head up to your room whenever you’re ready,” the receptionist said, handing her a sleek key card and a small, discreet goodie bag. Inside, she found tiny bottles of lube and a couple of condoms. “And remember, this is your experience. You’re in control of how it unfolds. If you need anything replenished, just call the front desk.”

As she headed toward the elevator, her heart raced. Her decision was clear now; she was ready to step into this unknown space of self-discovery.

The room was exactly as advertised, but the reality of it was more powerful than she’d imagined. Four mirrors framed the bed, each offering a unique angle. But it was the ceiling mirror that drew her attention, catching her off guard. A surge of vulnerability washed over her, seeing herself reflected from so many sides, so exposed and open. Yet with that vulnerability came an undeniable power—a sensation of strength in being fully seen, even if only by herself. She let herself take in the room slowly, breathing in the potential it held, the beauty of the setup that invited her to confront herself completely.

“Hello, Ms. Jihyo. I’ll be your guide this evening,” you say, your tone friendly, though your gaze holds a depth, a quiet intrigue that mirrors her own emotions. Her cheeks flush as the experience becomes tangible, their connection palpable.

With calm confidence, you enter the room, carefully closing the door behind. “Have you done something like this before?” you ask, your voice gentle and curious, free of any judgment.

Jihyo shakes her head, her own voice barely a whisper. “Just Jihyo is fine… and no. I’ve thought about it, but… I haven’t gone this far.”

A soft smile crosses your lips. “Curiosity is a wonderful place to begin.” Moving with unhurried grace, you gesture toward the mirrors surrounding her. “This space is yours to explore, to experience however you choose. There’s no rush, no expectations. I’m here solely to support you.”

The warmth in your voice deepens the intimacy of the moment, your presence both soothing and emboldening. As you move around the room, adjusting the lighting and taking subtle cues from her, Jihyo feels ease settle over her, tension gradually dissipating. The mirrors no longer feel like mere reflections; they become invitations—portals into her own depth, her own truth.

Taking a steadying breath, Jihyo reaches for the edge of her clothing. She hesitates, fingers hovering as she catches her reflection in the mirror. Slowly, she begins to undress, her movements almost tentative, as if each piece removed exposes more than just skin. Her gaze remains fixed on the mirror, her eyes tracing the curves and lines of her body with a mixture of scrutiny and reluctance. There’s an involuntary judgment in her stare, her expression tinged with dissatisfaction as she examines each perceived flaw with a familiar, critical eye.

As she glances at the reflection beside her, she notices you undressing in the background, your movements natural and unguarded. Your frame, by contrast, seems to fit easily within the accepted ideals she’s grown accustomed to seeing, adding a new layer to her own self-consciousness. A quiet comparison arises, unbidden, and she finds herself thinking how effortlessly you seem to belong in your own skin. Her shoulders stiffen slightly, insecurities whispering reminders of all the ways she feels she doesn’t measure up, each perceived flaw amplified as she stands there exposed.

She shifts slightly, as if hoping another angle might soften the imperfections she’s focused on. Yet, she allows herself to remain fully bare, lingering in the vulnerability despite the discomfort that rises within her. She feels the weight of her own self-consciousness, and though the impulse to cover herself hovers, she resists it, reminding herself that here, in this space, she doesn’t have to hide.

Still, the unease doesn’t quite fade. Her eyes remain cautious, holding onto traces of the self-doubt she can’t seem to shake. The familiar instinct to take control tugs at her, but there is another part—hidden, quieter, and long-buried—that yearns for release, to feel what it might be like to let go, to be seen as she is.

“Can you… take the lead?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper, soft with uncertainty.

You meet her gaze with understanding, your expression gentle and reassuring. “Of course,” you reply, reaching out to touch her shoulder with a steadying presence. “Let me guide you. You’re safe here. Just relax and be exactly as you are.”

Her heart pounds as she nods, releasing her defenses for the first time in a long while. As you move behind her, hands tracing gently along her sides, Jihyo turns her attention to the mirrors. In their reflections, she sees herself in a new way—open, vulnerable, fully visible from every angle. A tremor of anticipation runs through her, magnified by the warmth of your touch, which sends ripples of sensation down her spine.

Each movement is deliberate, a steady rhythm allowing her to lose herself in the feeling. Your fingertips skim over her shoulders and down her arms, grounding her in the present, reconnecting her with her own body. She watches, captivated, as you guide her, your touch both tender and commanding, knowing exactly where to linger, allowing her to ease into herself.

Her breath quickens as you continue, each touch more intentional than the last. Glancing from one mirror to another, she sees her own body reflected from every angle. The ceiling mirror above captures her in the most vulnerable, raw view possible. Seeing herself like this makes her heart race, each angle revealing parts of herself she’d never fully embraced.

With every trace of your fingers across her skin, her breath hitches, anticipation building. The sound of her own shallow breaths, the sensation of your presence, and the reflections encircling her all merge into a heady, intoxicating mix. Every sigh, every subtle movement, mirrored back to her—a tangible reminder of her own beauty, her own strength.

The intimacy of the moment deepens, warmth spreading through her with each gentle touch, every lingering look at her reflection. You adjust her posture ever so slightly, positioning her to meet her own gaze from every angle. There is no hiding, no escape from the image of the woman staring back—her beauty raw, her presence powerful and real.

Each touch, each mirrored glimpse, becomes a quiet yet profound invitation for her to embrace herself fully, to revel in a beauty she’d often overlooked. The control she so often held onto now slips away, leaving only the freedom to feel, to see herself as she truly is. With you there, guiding her with a steady hand and calming presence, the weight of expectation and insecurity begins to dissolve, replaced by a deep sense of acceptance she has rarely felt.

The tension between you grows, thickening the air with anticipation. You slide your body onto the bed, beckoning her to sit Infront of you, Jihyo slowly gets on the soft sheets and leans her back on your chest.

Your hands move with practiced precision, each touch making her skin feel like it’s coming alive beneath you. Starting at her hips, your fingers brush lightly along her thighs, stirring a subtle ache that resonates deep within. You trace upward, skimming the sensitive inner thigh, your fingers moving closer to her center but stopping just short, building her anticipation with every teasing pass.

Your fingers drift to the edge of her folds, each movement languid and measured—never quite giving her what she wants, but keeping her hanging on each touch. You press the pad of your thumb over her clit in a slow, circular motion, firm enough to draw her hips forward, her body instinctively urging you to go further. But you don’t rush; your touch expertly coaxes her reactions, guiding her to match your rhythm. The gentle circles over her clit send waves of pleasure through her, a steady pulse that grows with each pass of your hand.

Her breath quickens, her fingers curling as she sinks into the pleasure you weave around her, the tension winding tight within her as you keep her on edge. Your eyes meet hers in the mirror again, your gaze holding a subtle command, urging her to comply. “Look at yourself,” you murmur, with a tone low and warm. “See how beautiful you are.”

As she gazes into the mirror, her reflection captivates her. Her cheeks are flushed, a deep rosy hue that contrasts beautifully with her soft skin, her breath quickening as she watches the way her body responds to your every touch. There is an aura of pure bliss surrounding her, a glow that highlights the ecstatic expression on her face. The way her chest rises and falls, the subtle arch of her back, all blend into a portrait of surrender that sends a thrill through her. It’s a sight that makes her pulse race, the beauty of the moment wrapping around her like a warm embrace.

With practiced patience, one hand travels up her side, pausing just below her chest. You meet her gaze in the reflection again, fingers ghosting over her skin. “May I?” you ask, your breath warm against her neck. A shiver runs through her, and she replies, breathless and quick, “Yes,” her voice trembling with eagerness.

With her permission, your hand slips over her breast, your touch firm yet gentle, sending sparks across her skin. The other hand remains at her core, circling slowly, pressing just enough to make her hips tilt toward you. Your mouth traces a line along her neck, your breath hot just behind her ear, unraveling her composure further. Her breaths grow faster, soft and uneven, each exhale mingling with the quiet hum of the room, enclosing you both in your own world.

Your hands work in tandem, the deliberate squeeze and tug on her breast blending with the rhythmic pressure below. Her mind grows hazy with need as you hold her close, every movement perfectly timed to her building tension. Her fingers tangle in the fabric beneath her, grounding herself as she climbs higher, each sensation building on the last.

Finally, with the combination of your hand possessively gripping her chest, the other pressing into her core, and your lips igniting her neck, her climax surges. It begins as a slow, shivering wave, rising from her center and spreading outward, consuming her in pulses that leave her breathless. Her back arches, pressing into you as the tension within her snaps, transforming into a raw, rolling pleasure that seems to echo through every inch of her body.

Her gaze stays locked on the reflection, and as she watches herself surrender, it amplifies everything—the sight of her flushed cheeks, the quiver of her parted lips, the rise and fall of her chest. The intensity of watching her own body unfold in pleasure makes her climax feel endless, a powerful rush that pulls her deeper with each second. Her hips buck in need, her fingers clutching at the fabric beneath her, grounding herself as she rides each wave. She can’t look away; the vulnerability and beauty of her reflection hold her captive, amplifying the sensation, making her feel as if she’s both inside her body and observing herself from a distance, awash in her own surrender.

As her breathing steadies, she looks back at the mirrors, feeling a newfound determination stirring within. This experience was hers to claim. Meeting your gaze in the mirror, her expression shifts, her resolve clear. “I want to take the lead this time,” she whispers, her voice steady with newfound confidence.

A smile of admiration softens your expression, your eyes alight with encouragement. “Then take it,” you reply gently, leaning back to give her the space to step into her own power. “This is your room, Jihyo. It’s yours to explore.”

A pulse of excitement thrums through her as she positions herself over you, her legs framing your hips, her posture upright and commanding. Facing away, with her gaze fixed on the mirrors in front of her, she’s fully absorbed in the view—a woman confident, unashamed, with every angle of her form magnified in the glass surrounding her. For the first time, she feels the full thrill of being in control, the power in shaping her own pleasure. The image is intoxicating, each movement captured from all sides, revealing a beauty she’d rarely allowed herself to see.

With a shared, silent understanding, she lifts herself slightly, giving you the space to reach for protection. You slip on a condom as she steadies herself, her breath quickening with anticipation. She then takes you in her hand, guiding herself, and slowly lowering her hips, placing your length inside. A shallow gasp escapes her lips as her eyes remain on the mirror while she moves, watching herself take control and savoring every second of the connection.

She begins to move, her hips rolling in a slow, steady rhythm that sends shivers of sensation through her, intensifying with each shift and sway. Every part of her feels alive, attuned to the heat building between you, her body becoming the focal point, the center of her awareness. Each curve, every subtle arch of her back, every sway of her hips is captured in the mirrors that surround her. She feels more real, more tangible, than she ever has before.

Her movements grow more purposeful, a quiet confidence driving her, deepening with each slow, deliberate motion. Her breath quickens as she watches herself, captivated by the image in the mirrors—a vision bathed in warm, golden hues that soften her form while enhancing the allure in every line and curve. The room’s gentle lighting casts her skin in a rich glow, accentuating the lines of her body, the sweep of her shoulders, the strength in her arms. She sees herself with newfound respect, a fierce ownership over her form that feels both freeing and grounding. In each reflection, she doesn’t just see her body; she sees the strength she’s beginning to claim as her own. Yet in the end, it’s her eyes, focused and unwavering, that hold her attention the most, her gaze fierce, filled with intent.

A soft groan escapes from you beneath her, your hands resting lightly on her hips, grounding her yet allowing her the freedom to move. She feels your admiration, senses it in the subtle tension of your grip, in the way your gaze never leaves her. You look at her with awe, but she realizes the most powerful gaze in the room is her own.

“You’re absolutely stunning, Jihyo,” you murmur, your voice warm with admiration. “Look at you—so strong, so beautiful.”

A soft flush blooms on her cheeks, but your words only heighten her awareness of herself, fueling the desire pulsing steadily within. She can feel it now—the raw beauty of her control, the unfiltered confidence that has blossomed from the moment she took the lead. The mirrors don’t just reflect her body; they show her strength, her self-assuredness, qualities she has only begun to embrace. Each roll of her hips, every deliberate shift, feels like an assertion of her power, each soft gasp a quiet acknowledgment of her own beauty.

Her rhythm intensifies, movements growing faster as her body responds eagerly, the tension building low and insistent in her belly. Fingers gripping your legs for balance, she leans into the sensation, chasing the release that feels tantalizingly close, riding the wave of pleasure that surges through her with every motion. She can feel it all—the heat, the friction, all blending into a heady mix that sweeps her closer to the edge.

Lost in the rhythm, her head tilts back, and her gaze catches the ceiling mirror. She had nearly forgotten it, too absorbed by the other reflections, but now, seeing herself from above—a fresh angle highlighting the curves of her breasts, the strength in her posture, every movement purposeful and commanding—sends a shockwave of pleasure through her. The image is almost overwhelming. She looks powerful, entirely in control, moving with an instinctive grace as she rises toward her climax.

The sight is intoxicating, and in that moment, her breath catches, her body tensing as the release finally surges forward, consuming her. “Oh—yes,” she gasps, her voice trembling as the waves of pleasure hit her with full force. “I'm gonna cum... Yes! I'm cumming!,” she screams, her words slipping out in between each pulse, each wave of bliss that crashes through her. Her muscles tighten, her voice rising as the sensations build, and she lets out a cry, unrestrained, raw. Her eyes stay locked on the mirror, watching as her face softens in pleasure, her body quivering, her back arching as she succumbs to the intensity.

The sensation deepens, amplifying as her reflection stares back, grounding her in the sheer power of her release. Her lips part as a moan escapes, her body trembling under the force of the climax, every inch of her alive with sensation. She feels herself unraveling, yet within that unraveling is a new, unity with herself, a reclaiming of every part of her. The image in the mirror transforms her, revealing a woman fully unbound, lost in the depth of her own ecstasy, her pleasure radiating outward in waves.

As the final tremors ebb, she falls backwards, her body softening, surrendering as she relaxes against you. Her heartbeat echoes through her chest, her breath slowing in soft gasps as she lets the experience settle around her. She lies still for a moment, savoring the fullness of what she has just felt, the echoes of pleasure still vibrating through her, lingering in her limbs, in the hum of her skin.

The mirror has revealed something far beyond beauty—it has shown her strength, her vulnerability, her raw, unfettered power. She has taken control, and in doing so, she sees herself with a clarity that transcends simple reflection. She isn’t just a body; she is a woman of immense power, a woman capable of holding her own beauty with reverence.

A soft smile tugs at her lips as she lets the last of her tension dissolve, her body still alive with the remnants of her climax. She feels incredible. In this quiet, profound moment, Jihyo knows that she has stepped into a new version of herself, one who can look at her reflection and see the full scope of her beauty and power, unfiltered, unafraid. And that realization, even as her breath slows and her heart softens, is a pleasure all its own.

A warm hand brushed softly against her back, grounding her in the present, and your voice came as a gentle whisper. “I hope you enjoyed your time here,” you said, your tone reverent.

She turned to you, her eyes warm and glistening with gratitude. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice carrying a quiet depth. “This experience… it’s shown me parts of myself I’d forgotten, parts I didn’t even know were there.” Then in a moment of realization a quick panic rushed upon her. "Wait you didn't get to finish"

Your hand brushed softly against hers, grounding her in the present, and your voice came as a gentle whisper. “This was always about you, not me. Its okay, truly” you said, your tone reverent.

You smiled, meeting her gaze with admiration. “There’s such a difference in you now,” you added, a note of pride in your voice. “From the Jihyo I met just a short while ago to the one standing here now… it’s like night and day, even without words. You’re radiant—glowing with a confidence that wasn’t there before.”

Her cheeks flushed with quiet pride, and a soft smile touched her lips as she let herself sink deeper into the warmth of the moment, her body still alive with the lingering sensations that rippled gently through her. She felt incredible, her very core awakened—a part of herself that had always been there, now freed and fully embraced. Confidence, steady and unshakeable, flowed through her, filling her with a sense of wholeness she’d never quite known before. This feeling, this assurance, was wholly hers.

-----

In the weeks that followed, Jihyo found herself returning to the Mirror Room again and again. Each visit became an opportunity to peel back another layer, to delve deeper into her own story, her own beauty, her own strength. Every time she stood before those mirrors, something new awaited her: another hidden facet, another part of herself coming into the light. She found herself lingering in her reflections longer, tracing the lines of her body, absorbing the softness and strength she was coming to know and love. Sometimes, she led the experience, moving with purpose; other times, she allowed herself to be guided, reveling in the sensation of surrender. You had become an intuitive presence, familiar with the subtleties of her preferences, attuned to her every movement without needing to ask. Each time, she left the room with a richer understanding of herself, a deeper acceptance of her own worth, resilience, and beauty.

The mirrors became her companions on this journey, revealing her from angles and perspectives she would never have considered before. They offered her a clearer view of a woman whose confidence and self-love had blossomed from a place of discovery and acceptance. She no longer shied away from her reflection; instead, she looked at herself with a newfound openness, appreciating the uniqueness that made her who she was.

Eventually, Jihyo realized she wanted to bring this experience home, to let this newfound freedom settle into her daily life, beyond the mirrors of the hotel. One evening, after what she knew would be her final hotel visit, she found herself standing in her bedroom, unwrapping an oversized mirror she had ordered just for herself. The frame was sleek, elegantly crafted, its generous size designed to capture every angle around her bed—just like the mirrors in the hotel room that had shown her so much. She traced her fingers along the edge, feeling the cool, smooth surface beneath her fingertips, a soft smile playing on her lips as memories of her journey flickered in her mind.

The mirror was more than a piece of decor; it was a symbol of everything she had uncovered and the confidence she had unlocked. It embodied her courage to embrace not just her desires but her own beauty, her own strength. It was a reflection of the woman she had become—a woman who could look at herself without fear or hesitation, fully aware of her beauty in all its complexity.

After placing the mirror carefully at the foot of her bed, she stepped back, taking in the way her reflection gazed back with clear eyes and a self-assured smile. The sight filled her with a profound sense of pride and fulfillment. She had taken control of her narrative, claiming her own image as beautiful, strong, and worthy. She found herself standing there, rooted and grounded in her own power, savoring the warmth of her own strength radiating back at her.

Later, as she lay down beneath her covers. Jihyo felt a gentle warmth spread through her, a pride she hadn’t known until now. She no longer avoided her reflection or let insecurities cloud her view of herself. For the first time, she faced it head-on, proud of the strength and beauty that had been there all along. What she saw went far beyond appearances; she saw a confidence, a power, and a deep, abiding love for herself, whole and complete.

As the moonlight cast a soft, ethereal glow on the mirror beside her bed, her heart filled with gratitude, her mind resting in calm acceptance. She no longer questioned her worth or doubted her beauty. Her journey had led her here, to a place where she could finally see herself clearly.

And as her eyes fluttered closed, a gentle smile softened her lips, her heart quietly affirming the truth she had come to know:

She is truly and undeniably beautiful.

#kpop fanfic #kpop fanfiction #kpop smut #girl group smut #reader insert #male reader #kinkvember #kinkvember 2024 #twice #twice smut #park jihyo #jihyo #twice jihyo #park jihyo smut #jihyo smut #jihyo x reader

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ozarkthedog · 1 month ago

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𝐊𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐀𝐜𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬

summary: Declan introduces you to a friend.

pairing: Declan O’Hara x afab!reader / Rupert Campbell Black

warnings: 18+ mdni. filth. unspecified age gap. oral sex (m). Declan calls the shots. fingering. edging. no m/m. slight anal play. dirty talk. squirting. rough sex. Rupert pushing the boundaries aka he’s a menace. cuckhold of sorts. male masturbation. cream pie. light, barely there after care. ep 8 spoilers. w.c: 2.4k

author’s note: i'm a Declan girlie but I had to write something feat. Rupert.

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋅ 𝐅𝐢𝐜 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐬 ⋅ 𝐑𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

Soft golden rays bleed through the aged windows of the O'Hara estate. Its owner, Declan, sits comfortably on a worn chair in the middle of his study. Books and papers litter the room, even on the small sofa adjacent to the chair. As the fireplace crackles, the bright orange flames warm your skin as you kneel naked between your employer's thighs.

Declan groans as he feeds you his cock. His thighs widen, as much as his unzipped trousers will allow, on the tattered chair, giving you more room to swallow him down. His heart beats steadily under his lush brown sweater as you suckle his cock while looking up at him under your lashes.

Declan enjoyed times like these when the house was empty, and he got you all to himself. With Maud gone, leaving everything to Taggie was unfair, so he caved and hired a housekeeper. Little did he realize he'd fall head over heels for you.

You both took your time dancing around one another like nervous teenagers at a school dance. Harmless flirting and late-night conversations over the meals you'd cook for him led to Declan taking matters into his own hands.

He was used to control. He enjoyed it, really. The power felt comfortable, and he had no issue wielding it.

Declan was still on edge one day after a trifling day at Coriniuim. His usual soak and cig in the tub wasn't helping. The radio was blasting ear-aching songs, and the water was getting too cold too fast, but that all changed when you walked in on him with an armful of fresh towels.

He took a chance, one that could've ended with him locked up, but you didn't run. You followed his dubious commands and let him exert his dominance, allowing him to reign over you.

Since then, you two have been inseparable.

"Ah, right on time," Declan notes, looking at the clock perched on the mantle in his study as the large front door creaks open.

Declan mentioned inviting a friend over earlier in the day, but you didn't think he meant now.

The sight of your wide doe eyes makes his gut fervently twist. He's always appreciated someone yearning after what was his, especially an individual so well-loved by the women of Rutshire.

"Don' stop, Love," Declan instructs. His Irish accent dips low as he curls a solid hand around your head when you start to draw back. Your wary, garbled sounds vibrate Declan's cock eliciting a hiss from his lips. He sends you a pensive look and keeps you locked as the steps draw near. "You know I like people ta watch, but I wan' to try somethin' new."

Your heart lodges in your throat. Declan had divulged this kink not long after the two of you began dating. It was harmless fun flirting with other men while Declan observed from the shadows like a deviant; the journalist grew feral until he could no longer hold himself back, scurrying off with you in his arms, leaving the poor target in a stupor.

No one could ever come close to Declan; you never want them to.

"I seem to have come at a rather inconvenient time, have I not?" A pondering English baritone fills the room.

Rupert Campbell Black.

With arms crossed, the affluent man leans on the rustic doorframe. He catches your uneasy gaze with a cheeky smile, prompting a wildfire in your belly.

Declan shakes his head, his thick mustache ticking excitedly, "Not at all. Come in."

You try to move again, but Declan doesn't budge an inch. Your brows knot in confusion as your hands fly to cover your exposed bits as best you can.

"Say hello, ta Rupert, Swee'heart," Declan instructs, his dark chestnut eyes alight with devilry.

Your gaze trails from the man's supple leather loafers and pressed lined slacks to the sepia colored dress shirt that exposes a svelte chest as the top two buttons are undone. Rupert oozes high society and overt confidence, the kind of man you'd go dumb even looking at.

"My, my, where has Declan been hiding you?" Rupert croons. His azure orbs fixate with dark intrigue at your naked, shivering form.

As you greet Declan's neighbor, a slight garbled noise barely registers to the men. Tauntingly, Rupert leans over and puts a hand behind his ear, "Sorry, Angel. What was that?"

Your belly flips, and butterflies flutter carelessly in the wake of being so degraded. Still, your cunt produces a wave of arousal and clenches around nothing.

Knowing he doesn't have much patience, you chance another look at Declan and wish you hadn't. His white teeth bared, and his lips pulled back into a light sneer, like a wolf facing down prey, waiting for you to heed his command.

Declan bites back a moan at the hedonic sensation of you stringing together a messy greeting for the affluent man.

Rupert snickers. "Aren't you cute."

"Thatta' girl." He praises before thrusting his length into your throat and cutting off your air.

He waits for a beat, relishing in the watery glaze that coats your eyes and how your chest heaves. Fidgety hands dig into his darkened slacks, knocking the loose ends of his belt. Drool spills down your chin and settles at the base of his cock.

"Ya know ya waited too long ta give Rupert a warm welcome." He fumes, his expression twisting lightly with displeasure.

With a soft growl, Declan eases his grip. You fall back on your heels, a blight, coughing up spittle and trying to suck down fresh air at the same time.

"Might I say, you've got a real treasure here," Rupert leers down at your messy face and spit-soaked breasts that make your nipples shine in the light. "Lovely to meet your acquaintance."

"Though' you migh' like a taste." Declan offers, looking up at Rupert like you weren't perched at their feet, anxiously awaiting their next move.

"Would I ever." A Cheshire grin tugs at Rupert's lips. He makes a show of folding his button-down sleeves over his muscular forearms as he stalks around you.

Declan beckons you with the tilt of his head, "C'mere, Love. I ain't done wit' your mouth."

You sniffle before taking your place between his knees once more. Declan can sense your worry as Rupert traces a finger down your spine while he crouches behind you. "Don' worry abou' him. He won' do anythin' out of line."

Declan taps his bulbous crown against your swollen lips, drawing your attention away from the blue-eyed beau. His sturdy thighs are a protective shield, enveloping you like a fortress from harm.

As curious fingers tickle your sticky thighs, your lips part with a gasp, allowing Declan to thrust into your warm, wet mouth.

"Jesus Christ, she's soaked." Rupert husks as he softly skims your glistening folds. Your cunt throbs from his unfamiliar touch, coursing a frightening spark of arousal up your spine.

"She's not 'ad much experience." Declan hisses as his crown breaches the tight confines of your throat. Your hand tugs at the thick base that's peppered with dark curls, fingers barely overlapping, pumping in time with his languid thrusts across your tongue.

"You don't say." The Englishman trails off, no doubt thinking of all the crude ways he could defile you.

As you start a slow rhythm, bouncing your head up and down Declan's cock, making the older man unashamedly moan, Rupert swipes his fingers across your seam and gathers all your shiny slick, drawing it up to your clit before lazily circling the tender bud.

Bright lights erupt under your eyelids. Blood rushes south, pooling in your core, heightening your suffocating lust as your body bends to his will.

"Ah ah, Angel." Rupert tsks, grabbing hold of your wriggling hips. His grasp keeps you stock still, unable to evade his voracious touch.

The pads of Declan's fingers press into your scalp as a soft warning. "Be good ta Rupert."

Being pushed and pulled between the two older men was agony of the luscious kind. You only knew of Declan's touch, the succulent highs and lows. The amorous sublime.

A gentle hand glides over your ass before massaging the plump cheek. Your frantic cries are a mumbled mess as you're pushed higher and higher into the pleasurable abyss from Rupert's caress.

He winds two fingers into your core, cursing from your tightness, and splays his dexterous digits along your walls. His thumb lands square on your clit, swiping back and forth with prowess. "So sweet and responsive. Such a good girl." he curls his fingers along your walls, drawing pathetic noises from your chest.

Your body rolls like waves, back and forth between the two men. Rupert's teeth sink into the tender skin of your ass before a gentle tongue soothes the marks and trails down the valley of your cheeks, causing you to choke around Declan's cock.

A wad of spit lands directly on your rosebud just before a wicked tongue ravishes the tight, untouched hole.

Your belly drops at his vulgar touch. No one ever touched you there before. A heavy wave of arousal slips from your cunt as you fight the urgent need for release. Rupert moans hungrily as he laps the rim of your ass.

Your incessant wriggling alerts Declan to Rupert's perverted actions.

"What'd I say, ya daft cunt?" Declan fumes. His mustache twitches as he shoots daggers at the man posed behind you.

Rupert swirls his tongue one final time before leaving your rosebud with a loud pop. "Sorry, chap. I forgot you haven't filled all her holes yet." The tug of his lips says otherwise.

Declan mumbles under his breath and leans back in his chair, focusing on you. "What'a fuckin' sight," he grunts, yanking your tear-coated face off his girth. His large hand completely cups the side of your face, making you feel like a doll with glossy, swollen lips as he stares at you like a man possessed.

Rupert twists his wrist, and your eyes grow wide as saucers. The need to come moves to the forefront of your mind. Declan can tell you're fighting, doing everything you can to hold back as you're slowly dragged to the edge.

Your jaw goes slack, and eyelids flutter; you're willing to endure any repercussions for coming without approval, but then Declan stamps your orgasm out just as quickly as it started.

"No, no, no. Don' be greedy," he tsks, shoving your dumbstruck face back down onto his length.

With Declan's cock stretching your lips and drooling pre cum over your taste buds and Rupert curling his fingers into the spongy spot behind your clit, your nerves scream for release.

The insides of your thighs are soaked, slick from want and a need held so close yet so far away. A soft cry falls from your spit-stained lips as Declan snatches your head off his cock and curves a large hand under your chin, holding you like a precious piece of art.

His opaque orbs sweep across your face, wild and feral; he's on the edge of breaking but holds steady like the stubborn man he is.

"Come on, Declan, let the girl come," Rupert implores to the stoic man holding captive your utmost pleasure.

The corner of Declan's lips tilts. He knows what'll happen. He can see it in your face, how truly gone you are, how nearly close the dam is to breaking.

"Go on, show 'im what he's missin', Swee'heart." Declan encourages, finally allowing you the taste you've wanted all this time.

Your body writhes in their combined hold with unkempt ecstasy as a ravenous cry fills the large study. You come like a geyser, locking like a vice around Rupert's fingers, forcing a curse from his lips as you coat his wrist and trousers with your creamy release.

"Jesus-" Rupert moans, dark and depraved, watching with rabid fascination as your core pulses in time to the beat of his heart.

Declan gathers you into his arms, away from the still man, propping your knees on either side of his thighs. "Sit on the couch and watch," he orders a dumbstruck Rupert before easing you down on his swollen cock.

A whimper catches in your throat from the obscene stretch as his girth widens your channel for the first time that day. Declan grabs your ass and steadily bounces you on his length, helping you rise and fall since your legs have turned to jelly.

"Gone so dumb, ya can' even move," Declan mocks. Coarse whiskers chafe your skin as he nibbles your chin, pouring filthy praises against your jaw, "Still so tight. Maybe two cocks'll do the trick," he drives his girth into your exhausted body. "Wan' your pretty cunt gapin' fa' me."

The seam of his brown sweater grazes your clit on every thrust; the fibers are soft yet overstimulating, your body boils, on the verge of combusting, and there's nothing you can do.

A low moan catches your attention, dragging you from your frenzied state. As you turn your head to find the strange noise, you see Rupert with his swollen cock in his hand, barely out of his trousers. His cock weeps, the bulbous tip pulsing red, while he sucks your juices off his glistening fingers like a man starved for days.

His animalistic gaze bores into where you and Declan connect. You can imagine how obscene it is. Declan's sticky balls thwap immorally against your ass. Sticky sounds bounce off the walls as he draws more slick from your core, staining the base of his cock in a creamy ring.

Rupert's eyes flit to yours. You silently mouth his name, playing with the man who's used the women of Rutshire like a kid with infinite toys. The subtle action pushes the posh man over the edge.

Biting his knuckles, Rupert spills over his other set with a ragged string of grunts. The image sets off a chain reaction. You follow suit, crying as you come around Declan's cock, and dragging your other half with you. Declan's thick brows furrow, groaning his ecstasy as he fills you with ropes of white.

The three of you gradually come down from the hedonistic scene. Your hearts beat to their natural rhythm as the birds outside sing a dusk setting song.

"T'was lovely to meet you, Angel," Rupert flirts, cleaning his cock with a handkerchief before tucking himself into his trousers. "Hope to see you again real soon."

"Fuck off, Rupert," Declan quips, jutting his chin toward the door.

Rupert sends you a wink before rounding the couch and exits with the fattest smile you've ever seen.

Declan mumbles under his breath and curls his arms around you. He tucks your head under his chin, letting you unwind comfortably before the crackling fire.

"Was that okay, Swee'heart?" Declan's asks with softened eyes.

With a satisfied sigh, you snuggle deeper into his hold, seeking the warmth and protective embrace he can only give. "More than."

feel free to scream at me -> 💌

reblogs & comments are extremely appreciated! follow @ozzieslibrary for new fic updates!

#declan o’hara #rupert campbell black #rivals #rivals 2024 #declan o'hara x reader #declan o'hara x you #rupert campbell black x you #rupert campbell black x reader #aiden turner #alex hassell

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bubsmiraculousau · 4 months ago

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These r my first brainstorm pages for the ot5 civillian miraculous designs! Some of their styles I imagine would shift throughout the hypothetical series, esp Adrien and Marinette.

Adrien dresses like a little businessman, preppy in the most direct sense of the word, was taught to dress well to leave a good impression. Gabriel believes that every man should just wear a suit all the time, so Adrien's sweaters and khakis are a compromise. He basically only wears neutrals.

Marinette dresses in mainly pink, but dabbles in other colors as well. I think she would always have some kind of comfortable fabric on, and customizes her clothing with embroidery and things like that. I think she also just likes all the rainbow colors too.

Chloe is a true y2k girlie, Megan Fox's character's outfits from confessions of a teenage drama queen is her vibe. Blue, yellow, brown/beige, b&w, are her main look.

Ngl I have no idea what to do with Nino he just dresses like a guy. I think he's the most comfortable in looser clothing. I try to incorporate green into his outfits to tie into the turtle miraculous and him being friends with Adrien. His in-show design literally has like every color in it probably to tie all the characters into each other but it kills me to draw that lol. I'm much better with designing women's clothes...

Alya has tumblr girl style. She loves a black graphic tee and takes black and white pictures of her converse. She basically dresses like the girls I thought were so cool in middle school. Like c'mon she has a blog and Balayage hair, what other style would she be? (Also random fact but when I heard of 'twee' style I thought it just meant all Tumblr girl style not just the peter pan collar stuff lol) I think people call it Tumblr grunge as well? idk

I have a different updated lineup of the civilian classmates and I might make individual posts describing their vibe, background, inspiration, and style because fashion is very important w my characters lol. xx

#miraculous #miraculous au #miraculous fanart #miraculous fandom #miraculous ladybug #miraculoustalesofladybugandcatnoir #ml ladybug #adrien agreste #miraculous ladybug fanart #fanart #ml fanart #ml fandom #miraculous lb #marinette dupain cheng #chloe bourgeois #nino lahiffe #alya cesaire #bubsmiraculousau

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awrkive · 3 months ago

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drabble where tlp jk first met miss oc pls 🥹 thinking about him having an instant crush cos shes so pretty while studying med in the law lib 😞

summary: in which jk meets oc for the first time w/c: 1.5k

note: the timeline is second week of first year med school. first time jk sees oc and immediately harbors an instant crush 🤧🫠 also if u see an error pls ignore im sleepy bye enj lmao

[11:20am] jjaman: here at the law lib 2nd floor

That’s the last text Jungkook sees on his phone from his friend, Jimin – a third year law student in the same grad school he’s enrolled in. Jimin and him have been close friends since birth, their families having been acquainted years before they were born.

Anyway, it’s only been two weeks since the term started – some of his professors have not even shown their faces yet, so he has all the leisure time to grab some lunch with his bestfriend because admittedly, he doesn’t know anybody yet in his own building. Jungkook met some familiar people from undergrad, but ultimately, med school is fresh and as cliche as it sounds – seems like a whole new world.

When he enters the law library, nothing of significance really catches his attention. He’s already visited the med library which is located at the left wing and the two are not really that different except that there are a bunch of casebooks everywhere he lands his eyes on.

As soon as he arrives at the second floor, he roams his eyes around to hopefully catch a sight of Jimin immediately (as Jungkook’s stomach has been craving for some big lunch, and he wants to eat expeditiously), but it is to his slight disappointment that he does not see a blond short guy around the area.

Nonetheless, Jungkook continues to wander around, spotting the wayfinder that says “Individual Study Area”. The cubicles are lined up against the glass wall, and across it are couches that he brings himself forward to to sit on.

When he settles himself on the leather, he goes for his phone, about to turn it on to text Jimin he’s already here. But then a sudden slight noise catches his attention; a pen falling from one of the cubicles.

Jungkook looks up from his device, looking at the source of the soft clattering sound. He catches the sight of a woman in a brown cashmere sweater with her hair pulled up, clipped in a maroon claw.

When you put your pen back to your table, Jungkook nearly stumbles over his seat when he sees your face.

He never believed in love at first sight. Thinks it’s way too… superficial. A romanticized myth to sell books and movies or whatever. He doesn’t subscribe to the notion of falling in love with a mere face – because frankly, that’s just not realistic.

But he begins to doubt that as he strays his eyes away from you when he catches himself staring longer than necessary.

Look, he’s seen pretty faces before. Had countless encounters with them. He’s used to the beauty of women and he’s young and hormonal enough to acknowledge when someone is gorgeous.

And you are definitely gorgeous. The kind of beauty that takes away someone’s breath because it’s so serene that it almost feels like you don’t belong in the same world because of the peacefulness and angelic grace that your face have – and that’s just merely your face.

Jungkook wonders what you sound like.

He shamelessly thinks this as he lets his gaze fall back to the random book on the table sitting across the couch, his heart lapsing a mile per second, totally not normal – and he tries to scold himself for it. It’s not your first time seeing a pretty woman. Jesus, get it together.

But it’s definitely the first time he’s seen you.

When another few seconds passed, Jungkook can’t help but look at your direction again. He catches you in the middle of you putting your elbow on the desk, leaning to the side of the cubicle, your body angled towards his direction. Your movements are lax as you flip through the pages of your book – something that looks familiar to him. When he gets a better look of the material, it is to his surprise, Netter’s ever famous Atlas of Human Anatomy.

That’s definitely the same book that his Anatomy professor assigned his class to buy through email.

With that information, Jungkook looks at you curiously, now wondering if you’re a med student or in law. It doesn’t make sense. Why would you be at the law library when you have your own medical sciences library around the university? Or… do law students learn about Anatomy, too, for… he doesn’t know – shit and giggles, probably?

Too deep in his thoughts, Jungkook doesn’t notice his staring that when you cock your head to the side, he feels his heart drop when your eyes meet his.

He quickly looks away, busying himself with his phone, cursing on the inside.

Shit. You must’ve thought he’s some creepy guy. Surely, he must’ve made you uncomfortable.

Panicking, he turns on his phone only to see two text messages from Jimin that were sent a few minutes ago.

[11:25am] jjaman: conference room 209 btw, near the resting zone

[11:30am] jjaman: where are you?

When Jungkook checks the time, it’s 11:35am.

“Shit,” he hisses under his breath, typing out a quick reply to Jimin.

[11:36am] Jungkook: individual study area. couch. but im standing up. wru?

[11:37am] jjaman: thought u got lost lol going there atm

Jungkook quickly stands up from the couch, slinging his backpack over one shoulder and pointedly avoids looking in your direction lest you’re looking at him currently for being weird just now.

He wouldn’t say he’s bad with women. They usually – thankfully – like the way he looks enough, and he’s not so bad at talking to them either.

But right now, he remembers the awkward Jungkook of high school and first few years of undergrad. The guy who’s way too in his head who got anxious at the prospect of talking to a woman. Especially to the pretty ones.

“There you are.”

He feels a light slap to his shoulder, and when he looks behind, it’s Jimin. With his blond hair and his bright smile.

“H-hey,” Jungkook clears his throat subtly. “You have any ideas for lunch?”

Jimin, obviously, oblivious to the dilemma that his best friend is having inside his head at the moment, chuckles at his words.

“Sure. Let’s go, I’ll drive us both to a nice bistro.”

They’re a few steps in ahead when Jungkook suddenly feels a slight feather-light touch to his shoulder.

When he turns around, he almost clutches his heart at the sight of you again.

“You left this at the couch earlier,” you say, lifting the hand that carries his brown leather wallet. And Jungkook knows he should be concerned about that – but hell, the way he was just thinking about what you probably sound like… it’s so much better to hear it himself, and so close like this.

“O-oh.” Jungkook doesn’t think he stammered or anything, just quickly takes his wallet from you and shyly turns his body towards Jimin so he avoids your eyes.

“It’s yours, right?” You smile.

And Jungkook thinks it’s over before he nods.

He knows he has an instant crush.

“Damn. Hey, be careful with your stuff next time,” Jimin butts in, nudging Jungkook a little. Then he looks at you with a soft expression, “Thanks, miss.”

You shake your head and with a small smile that feels too dashing for Jungkook’s own good, you say, “No worries. I’ll get back there.”

When Jimin nudges Jungkook again, he realizes he hasn’t thanked you at all.

With a surely flushed look, he turns to you and awkwardly say, “Thanks.”

“Sure.”

Then you turn on your heels and walk away.

Jungkook casts one last glance at the cubicles, seeing you already having your back on him and getting back to studying.

As Jungkook and Jimin walk out of the building, Jimin points out, “What the hell are you so red for?”

Jungkook feels extremely called out when Jimin says that.

“It’s hot.”

“The law lib is famous for its extreme AC. Don’t lie.” Jimin rolls his eyes.

Scoffing, it’s now Jungkook’s turn to nudge Jimin.

“I’m telling you the truth.”

Jimin arches a brow at him, stares at him for a brief longer. When seconds passes, he finally stops interrogating Jungkook with his looks.

“Alright, fine.”

“Psh.”

Jungkook’s heart is still pounding, though.

The encounter was so fleeting, so random. But as Jungkook completely departs from the library, he can’t help but think about the girl he’s just seen. He felt something he hadn’t in a long time, maybe ever— an instant, overwhelming crush. His mind is flooded with your image, the serenity of your presence, the way you looked at him for just that split second and the way you noticed his wallet and gave it back to him.

And though he knows he's too shy to ever approach you again, the memory of you lingers, leaving him wondering what might have been.

#😩😩#jk with a huge huge crush 😭😭😭#fic: tlp #tlp drabbles

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meirmakesstuff · 1 year ago

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If you're thinking of attending a synagogue service as a way to support your local Jewish community but don't know how:

I'm writing this on 10/13/23, but this applies to any occasion when the Jewish community might be in a state of fear or sadness, or when you might be moved to show support for your local Jewish community by showing up. The main comment I've gotten from people who want to do this is that they don't know how to begin, so here's a quick guide for how to actually do that if you've never been to or interacted with a synagogue before.

How to choose a synagogue

How to ask first

What to wear and bring

When you get there

Additional notes

How to choose a synagogue

Depending on where you live, googling "synagogue [zip code]" may get you a lot or very few hits. Look at the synagogue's website for hints.

If you see the words "messianic" or "yeshua" that's not a real synagogue, that's predatory Christians hoping to be mistaken for Jews. Supporting them does not support your local Jewish community.

Check for the words "Orthodox," "Conservative," "Reconstructing Judaism," or "Reform" to help know what to expect. If you would be distressed to encounter segregated seating by binary gender, that's a reason you might avoid an Orthodox synagogue. The word "Conservative" in this context does not refer to political opinions, it's the name of a denomination just like Orthodox, Reconstructing, and Reform--what's being conserved in Conservative Judaism is liturgical traditions and religious observances. In fact, in most of these settings, to a lesser or greater extent depending on your specific location, you are likely to find the majority of people leaning generally to the left of your local average, politically. Which isn't to say there won't be outliers, that's just the typical makeup. In terms of service length, a Reform synagogue service is likely the shortest. It will also likely contain the most English during the service. No mainstream denomination of Judaism practices proselytizing. You should not fear that anyone will actively try to convert you.

On the synagogue website they should list start times for Friday night and Saturday morning services. That will help you choose a service you might be able to attend. I'll add notes on the differences and what to expect from either later on.

How to ask first

Not all communities will find an unexpected visitor to be a safe situation, no matter how good your intentions may be. Before you show up at a synagogue, check the website for the email addresses for the rabbi and either the president or "info" or something similar. Here's a model script for you to use:

Hi Rabbi [Lastname], I'm not Jewish but was looking for ways to show support to our local Jewish community and wondered if it would be appropriate to attend a service this coming [Friday/Saturday] as a way of showing my local Jewish community that you are not alone. If that would not be appreciated, is there another gesture an individual could make that would help this community feel supported? Otherwise, what do I need to know in order to be respectful to your community while attending a service? Sincerely, [your name]

You can also ask about accessibility questions you might have in the same email.

In a larger city or a place that has recieved threats of violence recently, they may be more cautious, but a synagogue in a small city or suburban area may simply say that anyone is welcome to show up to any service.

What to wear and bring

If the rabbi or synagogue office emails back with clothing guidelines, follow them. If not, bet on business casual as a dress code: for a masculine presentation, slacks, a button-down shirt with or without a tie, and a blazer or sweater, and for a feminine presentation slacks or a skirt knee length or longer, with a top that covers the shoulders. for Orthodox and some Conservative synagogues, wear long or three-quarter sleeves. In an Orthodox synagogue, women typically wear dresses and skirts rather than pants. I would advise avoiding wearing a visible cross while attending a service of any Jewish denomination.

You don't need to bring anything in particular with you. Be sure to place your cell phone on silent and double-check that any alarms are turned off. In Orthodox and many other synagogues, people may avoid carrying wallets with them, but no one should be offended that you have yours with you as a visitor.

This should go without saying but do not bring any kind of weapon with you. In a large city with high security needs your bag may be searched or you may be asked to show ID before entering. It is very likely that you will see a uniformed police officer or armed security guard. Synagogues in large cities might have dramatically increased their security presence this week. A visitor who is being respectful to the community is not what they're looking for.

Jewish people attending the service may bring prayer shawls or kippot (singular: kipa, also called yarmulkes) to wear. A visitor is not expected to have these. Most synagogues have baskets of kippot available at the entrance for guests. In Orthodox communities, men should wear one while in the building and women should not. In Conservative communities men should wear one and others may decide to wear one or not. In any other community you may but are not expected to wear a kipa. There will likely also be a rack of prayer shawls at the door, but non-Jews are not expected to wear these.

When you get there

Someone may make a point of approaching you early on. Please don't be embarrassed to tell them that you're not Jewish. Some synagogues will make a point on Saturday morning of assigning an "honor," that is, a role in the service, to Jewish newcomers. If someone approaches you to offer you an honor or asks you a question you don't understand, you can say "Thank you, I'm not Jewish, I'm visiting to show support for the community." Alternately, someone may simply approach you to welcome you and help you get situated.

If not, feel free to find yourself a seat.

In an Orthodox synagogue, in which the seating will be segregated by gender, there will be a curtain or screen between the men's and women's sections. The women's section may be side-by-side with the men's, behind it, or above it in a balcony. A synagogue with a balcony should either have an elevator or a small section of the lower level set apart from the men's section for Disabled women's seating.

In any other denomination, seating is not segregated by gender. In that case there is no wrong part of the general seating area that is wrong to sit in.

There are differing norms in different communities about how much talking is appropriate during services, so go along with what you see around you. Since you will likely not know the songs and much of what happens will be in Hebrew, you may lose your place in the book. If you're not able to find the page, feel free to read something that interests you in the book or look around the room. No one would judge you as a guest for not already knowing the service. Feel free to chime in if you hear everyone saying "amen" in unison or if you catch on to a song, but don't feel pressured to do anything but be present.

There will be times during the service where people will sit, stand, bow, or make other motions. If you are not able to stand, or if you are able to stand but not safely or comfortably or for a long time, please know that it's perfectly okay to remain seated for your own safety. Otherwise, sit and stand when the people around you sit and stand, and don't feel that you have to bow or keep up with other motions.

The service will likely end with blessings over wine and bread. This is not like the Christian eucharist, it's just food, with blessings of gratitude. These blessings may be recited as the last part of the service or in a room where snacks will be laid out. Again follow people's lead on when it's the right time to start taking snacks.

During the snack period people may approach you and introduce themselves. Now is a good time to tell them that you're here to show support to the community, but don't directly mention any specific occurrence unless someone brings it up first. If people are talking about Israel or current events, listen without contributing opinions unless they ask directly. Don't try to be funny or clever about it: this is not the time to tell everyone your super great idea for how to fix everything in the Middle East by putting the pope in charge or launching it to the moon or having it annexed by Aotearoa. The Jews are tired. You're here to listen. People may say things you disagree with. It's okay. You don't have to fix anyone's opinion right now. You don't even have to come back. If someone is making you uncomfortable, excuse yourself, get a second helping of cake, and say hi to someone different. This is a good time to say hello to the service leaders if you haven't met them before the service began. You can compliment the sermon or singing, or just say "I'm glad I came, I hope I was able to help this community feel supported."

Additional notes

Almost every synagogue occasionally has non-members and non-Jewish guests take part in community activities. An exception is very small communities in places where outsiders are generally hostile. It's not weird to be present in Jewish spaces as a non-Jew unless the people in that community make it weird. If so, you don't owe them anything and you don't have to come back. Every community is different, and I've been to synagogues I wouldn't choose to return to. As a general rule though, you will almost certainly be welcomed and asked about yourself. Feel free to share a little about the conversations that led to you wanting to show up for your local Jewish community, since people will likely be curious, but also remember to ask lots of questions yourself. As a general rule, Jews love to explain ourselves, so please do ask questions about the things you see and experience in the synagogue.

Topics to avoid unless someone directly asks you:

What you personally believe about God

Your personal feelings about Israel

How you would solve the situation if you were in charge

your past experience of Christianity

Jesus, in any context

Violence of any kind

What you think this community, its rabbi, Jews in general, or the Israeli government could be doing better.

Most of these are simply a matter of that there's a time and place for everything, and a Jewish service at a time of stress and sadness is not the time for these particular topics. If you feel a strong urge to talk about these topics without being asked, find a different location and group of people to do that with. The best way to be successful at showing support is to genuinely listen.

If you are a non-Jew interested in doing this and have follow-up questions, or if you are Jewish and feel I left out important details, please go ahead. I'm also happy to talk by PM if you need help figuring out a specific synagogue website. I'm not interested in doxxing anyone.

#meir makes stuff #jewish #shabbat #antisemitism

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perotovar · 1 year ago

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into the beat of the night (ch 1) "transmission"

gif by me, moodboard by the lovely @sp00kymulderr ♥

pairing: frankie morales/nb!oc (they/them) rating: T (for now) chapter warnings: discussions of sexuality/gender (frankie doesn't understand some things and may use language that would be harmful, but it's not intentional), limited knowledge of the military, goth stereotypes abound, mentions of drug addiction/recovery, swearing, cute shit word count: 2.7k dividers by @saradika

for notifications, follow @oakslibrary and turn on alerts ♥

series summary: frankie morales thought he had himself figured out by now. he liked both men and women, had dated both in the past. but when someone that challenges what he thinks that means comes into his life, in an unlikely place, he truly learns who he is, and more importantly, who he loves.

series masterlist

a/n - i can't thank y'all enough for giving my fic a chance! i'm really nervous about posting it since i haven't properly written anything in years, but i've had some lovely cheerleaders (@scenaaario - who is also my lovely beta, i want to kiss you on the mouth for making this fic sound like i wanted it to ♥♥ - @undercoverpena @mrsquill and @kedsandtubesocks i love you guys ♥) along the way that gave me the motivation to post this little story. comments and reblogs are super appreciated! i'd love to hear what y'all think <3

In 1994, the U.S. adopted “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” as the official federal policy on military service by lesbian, gay and bisexual individuals. It was officially repealed in 2011. Seventeen years. For seventeen years, LGBTQ folks, Frankie included, had to hide. At least, he felt he needed to.

He knew he was bisexual when he and his childhood best friend Mateo were in their sophomore year of high school. Frankie and all the other boys started to hit puberty the year before and things were changing: facial hair was slowly growing, voices were dropping. Mateo started to develop a little faster than Frankie did. Frankie really liked how Mateo was developing. It was a little weird, because they’d been best friends since they were still wearing underoos, but Frankie started to feel things whenever he hung out with Mateo. Things he normally only felt whenever Alana in third period flipped her hair over her shoulder, or whenever Charlotte in fifth period stretched before she started writing and her sweater pulled over her chest a little too much.

Frankie didn’t know what to do with this information or these feelings. He didn’t have a word for any of it, so he just never said anything. He had a couple girlfriends throughout high school, and to anyone who cared to think on it, would see that Frankie was like any other straight, high school boy.

In 1994, Francisco Morales joined the military. He was nineteen. It was never his plan growing up to join, but his dad always wanted him to. When he didn’t have his own plan after high school, he figured it was a safe bet since he had family in the service. While there, he worked his way up in the ranks and eventually met his brothers: Santiago, Benny, Will, and Tom. They would die for each other, had signed up to do so, in fact. He’d grown closest to Santiago, and it was the first time since he was 15 that he got those feelings again. He pushed them to the side, though, because that’s when she came into his life. He didn’t need those feelings getting in the way.

Frankie’s bisexuality really only came into his life a couple of times. His first girlfriend in the military, Layla, was also bisexual and that’s when he learned what the word was and that it also applied to him. She only ever told him since Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was in full swing. Of course he kept her secret, because she also kept his.

The only one of his group of brothers that didn’t know about his sexuality was Tom. He didn’t feel comfortable enough to tell him, and the others agreed it was best to keep it quiet. Santiago was the first one to know, then Will, and finally Benny. Ben was Ben about it when he found out. He immediately hugged Frankie and excitedly suggested they go to a gay bar instead of their usual hang out. It made Frankie laugh and Will smacked Ben on the back of the head. (They did end up going to a couple of gay bars from time to time. Frankie only went home with a guy once and the guys gave him a lot of shit for it, asking for details. Santiago gave him a smile and patted him on the back and said, “I’m glad you’re finally here, hermano.”)

Frankie had one man he’d consider a “boyfriend” in his life. After he left the military and after DADT was repealed, he went on a bit of a binge. He started hooking up with people more often, despite his introverted nature. He was always careful, safe, and eventually kept to one man for a couple years, before an especially messy breakup. They were both pilots in the military, but were based in different states; Frankie in Florida, and Jackson in Kentucky. They bonded quickly after meeting at a nightclub in Nashville. Neither one of them remembers why they were there, but they made it a point to see each other frequently, each of them taking turns flying out to see the other.

The breakup happened after Jackson found Frankie’s stash for the last time. The military affected everyone differently. For Frankie, his coke addiction is what got him through the sleepless nights. Jackson had found Frankie one too many times leaned over the back of a toilet and snorting god knows what. Jackson had his own problems with drugs and felt that Frankie ignored them in search of his next fix. Addiction had completely taken over Frankie’s life for the better part of five years. Frankie hated Jackson for leaving him when he most needed him, and lashed out, accusing Jackson of only ever wanting to fuck. That broke Jackson, as he thought about how deeply he loved Frankie. Gay marriage was legalized a year later, and had things panned out differently, they might still be together. He doesn’t blame Jackson for leaving anymore.

Frankie’s daughter, Marisol, changed everything. She was the love of his life, and he would do anything for her. After going back to his days of sleeping around after Jackson left, he met Maya. He kept telling her that he would get clean and go to therapy while she was pregnant, but not until he held his little Marisol in his arms for the first time did he commit to both. He and Maya never planned on being together officially, and decided co-parenting would be their best option.

He’d been clean and sober for two years by the time Santi told him about the Colombia job. He hadn’t flown, or been allowed to in that time, and was pretty content to never do so again. Every time he got in the pilot’s seat, it would take him to terrible places. But Santi was his best friend, so he took the job. He relapsed when he got home, after Tom. He never blamed Santi for it. He gave Frankie a choice, and where he could’ve said no, he didn’t.

Which brings him to where he is now, two years after Colombia. He’d crossed the street and stood in line for the entrance. He hadn’t been to this nightclub in a while. He looked up at the sign for the club, and raised an eyebrow. The Night Owl. That… isn’t what it was called last time. Was it sold? Apparently, it had recently undergone a rebranding, with new owners, and a slightly… different clientele.

The best way he could describe it now was that it was a goth club. Frankie had never personally been to this sort of club, not really being a fan of the music or subculture, but never had a negative opinion either. He stuck out like a sore thumb when he entered, the bouncer giving him a once over and chuckling, but letting him in anyway.

He made his way over to the bar and had a seat, taking in his surroundings and started people watching. He planned on going out tonight, and possibly go home with someone. A club is a club, so he decided to stick around and see what all the fuss was about.

The walls shook with the heavy bass and beats of the music. It wasn’t like anything he’d heard before. His nostrils filled with the scent of clove cigarettes and hairspray. Everywhere he looked, someone completely decked out in teased hair and black clothing caught his attention. He smiled softly at all the variations in people’s style, wondering how long it took for all of them to get ready in the morning.

The bartender, a large man with heavy eye makeup and a lot of chains and spikes, came up to him and smirked. He felt a presence behind him and when Frankie finally faced forward again, he startled a little, not expecting such an imposing figure to be giving him a staredown.

“What’ll you be havin’, stripes?”

“Stripes?”

The bartender, who had a patch sewed onto his denim vest that read “Viper”, rolled his eyes and gestured vaguely to Frankie’s whole self. “You mean to tell me you’re not military?”

Frankie blinked a couple times and huffed a laugh. “Ex-military, yeah. Is that… okay?”

Viper gave him a long look, eyes slightly narrowed, and pointed to one of the many tattoos on his arm, up high on his shoulder. It was an old one, a little faded, but Frankie recognized it as the stripes given to Sergeant Majors. “I left after this. Got injured,” he said.

“Sorry to hear that.”

Viper shrugged and reached under the bar, cleaning a glass. “I’m not. So what’re you havin’?”

Frankie thought about it for a second. “I’ll probably regret this, but surprise me.”

An amused look crossed Viper’s features, but he nodded and started mixing a drink for him. Frankie noticed all the ingredients used; lager beer, hard cider, and some kind of syrup. He raised a brow and picked up the glass as Viper slid it across the bar for him. Frankie gave him a look as if to say, ‘Is this safe?’ despite having just watched Viper make it. The bartender chuckled and just gestured for him to give it a try.

Frankie took a deep breath and gulped down a drink. A little foam was stuck to his mustache when he lowered the glass from his face. “Not bad. What is it?” Frankie asked.

“Snakebite. Kind of a staple around here,” Viper hummed, cleaning a different glass.

Frankie chuckled at the name. Of course that’s what it was called.

Viper was pulled away when a pretty girl with big, teased hair and dark makeup came up to the bar. Frankie took the opportunity to look around the place again.

The music was best described as “dark” and “broody”, unsurprisingly, with slow tempos and even lower vocals. Everyone on the dancefloor was slowly swaying back and forth and, once in a while, would move their arms in ethereal shapes.

Frankie remembered seeing one of the younger teachers at Marisol’s daycare wearing a t-shirt with a band logo that looked like a bundle of sticks. He tried figuring out what it said once, but was too afraid to ask, so he still doesn’t know. He doesn’t think she’d be at this kind of club.

“You’re new. Bit like a zoo your first time here, I bet.”

Frankie startled, putting his hand over his heart and turned to look at who was talking. Someone had sat next to him and was grinning, taking a sip from their own drink; something dark red and a little cloudy. He blinked a couple times and took in their features; big green eyes rimmed with dark lines, two different nose piercings, and black lipstick. Their hair was long and straight, dark, and with the right side in front of their ear shaved completely. He couldn’t quite figure out if who he was talking to was male or female, the androgyny of their look very clear.

“Uhh, hello?” They waved their hand, full of rings and black nail polish, in front of his face and chuckled quietly. “Oh! Maybe–” They cut themselves off and started making a bunch of symbols and shapes with their fingers and hands.

Frankie blinked and started laughing softly. “I’m not deaf! Sorry,” he grinned. “You just startled me, that's all.”

“Oh!” The stranger laughed, too, putting a hand on his right knee in a friendly gesture. He looked down at the hand and smiled, his heart skipping a beat. Even if he didn’t know very much about them, he couldn’t deny it; they were very pretty.

He removed his cap and ran his fingers through the unruly curls for a second before putting the hat back on. “Sorry,” he repeated, shaking his head slightly. “Yeah, it’s my first time here. I didn’t realize the club had changed owners.”

“It did?” They asked, tilting their head to the left slightly.

“Yeah, it was a– Uh, last time I was here, it was a… different kind of club,” Frankie mumbled.

The stranger’s eyes twinkled mischievously, the smirk still present on their lips. “What kind of club? Are you secretly into some really heavy BDSM type stuff?” They wiggled their eyebrows.

Frankie had started taking a drink of his Snakebite again and nearly choked on it at the stranger’s teasing. He coughed a couple times, a wide grin on his face. “No! Nothing like that,” he chuckled.

The stranger snapped their ring-clad fingers like they were hoping he’d say otherwise and slumped their shoulders in disappointment. “Damn…”

Frankie’s cheeks warmed at the insinuation, but laughed, convinced they were just joking with him. He cleared his throat and continued, “Y-Yeah, uh, I wasn’t expecting this kind of… group, when I came by. Although, the name of the place probably should’ve warned me.”

“What kind of group?” The stranger grinned, watching his handsome features change from thoughtful to concerned.

Frankie panicked, worried he’d somehow offended them, and cleared his throat again. “N-Not that there’s anything wrong with– Um! I don’t, actually… know,” he tapered off, looking down as he scratched the back of his neck nervously.

The stranger snorted and waved him off. “I’m fucking with you,” they laughed. “I know what you mean. When I heard a new club opened up closer to my apartment, I got pretty excited. No more hour-long drives to the nearest one, y’know?”

Frankie nodded, their low, smooth voice captivating him the longer they spoke.

“Oh! Meant to say this before, but my name’s River,” they smiled and held their hand out to him to shake.

“Frankie,” he answered, holding his own hand out to return the gesture. But River beat him to it, and gripped his long, thick fingers in their own hand and kissed the back of his softly.

Frankie blushed like mad, eyes widening slightly. No one had ever kissed his hand before. He kept his eyes downcast, his hand still securely in River’s grasp.

River tilted their head, brows furrowed in concern before letting go of his hand. “Sorry, was that–?”

“No! N-No, um…” Frankie smiled shyly, tugging at a loose curl behind his ear. “It was fine– Nice, actually.”

River grinned as if they had clocked him immediately. “Well, Frankie, it was very nice meeting you. Will I see you here again?” They asked, looking him up and down.

Frankie found himself nodding before he could say or do anything else. “Y-Yeah, absolutely. Um, how–?”

“My song just came on, and I simply must dance to it. Later,” River winked, stood, and leaned over to kiss Frankie’s cheek as they slipped something into the front pocket of his flannel shirt.

River was gone before Frankie could ask anything else, his eyes following after them as they reached the dancefloor. He watched them dance for a few minutes before he was brought out of it by someone clearing their throat behind him. He spun around and saw Viper, the bartender, leaning toward him and giving him a look.

“You gonna pay for these drinks?” He grumbled, motioning toward Frankie’s Snakebite and whatever River was drinking.

He followed Viper’s tattooed finger and cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. Sorry,” he mumbled, pulling his wallet out and putting a couple bills on the bar. Viper nodded in thanks and Frankie took that as his cue to leave.

As he stood, he looked toward the dancefloor again in the hopes of seeing River one last time. When he didn’t, he tried to shake himself off and made his way toward the entrance. The bouncer gave him a look and Frankie just shrugged as he exited the club. The cool night air hit his still-warm cheeks, making him feel like he came back to reality.

“Oh, right,” he mumbled to himself and reached into his front pocket and pulled out a little scrap of paper. A phone number with two cute little devil horns drawn on either side and a little, ‘text me?’ written down beneath it.

Frankie smiled to himself and rubbed the ink on the paper with his thumb.

#frankie morales #triple frontier #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales fic #frankie morales fluff #triple frontier fanfiction #triple frontier fic #triple frontier fluff #pedro pascal characters #oaksfics

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mxlissaliss · 8 months ago

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Gleam Reaper (RoR Hades x Fem!Reader)

⚠️ TWs/CWs: Mentions of drugs , harassment , dead bodies , implied suicide and manipulation ⚠️

Words: 4,4K

Part: 1/3

Notes: Reader here is far from a saint. Here lays a twisted woman with too much power and little to no supervision. It's okay, Hades loves y'all anyway and is all in for the chaos.

Also, it's a kind of platonic-ish relationship at the moment. Might need to see how I lead it to a romantic halt in the near future. First time writing something like this btw, hope you like it if it even reaches anyone :P

***

Red lights, obnoxious music, sweaty people and drugs; that's the perfect recipe for either a great party, or a disaster. And in most cases, it's both.

When you are the God of the Underworld, you grow familiar with the many ways mortal lives end, especially young ones. Tragic to most, any other Tuesday to Hades. After all, eons of experience can toughen anyone's heart and make even the most appalling situation just an everyday occurrence, and a party like the one he had just sneaked in was full of these fateful events.

As he loved to say, death was always around the clock, which was a literal sentence when it came to his job. He leaned against a wall with his arms folded over his chest, an amused expression on his otherwise stoic face. The place was a complete mess, and it was easy to see.

Right next to him lied a deceased young man on the cold floor, eyes and mouth open dismally. The poor lad drank some spiked booze from a nearby table, and it seemed that he was quite the lightweight. Or perhaps he had already done drugs prior to that incident and ended up overdosing. Either way, he took note of that corpse as the first one of many to claim that night.

‘Hm, I wonder how they can talk to each other when I can barely hear my own inner monologue? It's absolutely deafening in here.’ Hades thought as the DJ turned up the music to a further level, and he swore that the speakers were about to catch on fire.

Though, more distracting than the ear-splitting tune in the background was that most of the women around would stop dancing to occasionally throw suggestive glances at him, a kind of visual language that Hades knew pretty well. No God could ever be a stranger to seduction, and he was well aware of the effects his divine appearance had on mortals; his tall stature and broad shoulders caught everyone's attention the second he stepped into the place. He was the highest individual in the room, a quality that only added more charm to his already handsome features. Perfectly chiseled chest and torso that paired up heavenly with the black, tight sweater he was wearing to appear more human-like in his attire, those well-defined arms and athletic legs that couldn't be completely hidden under his gray pants, a sharp jawline, snow-white skin that looked so soft yet untouchable, that godforsaken greek profile and moist, rosy lips. Breathtaking.

But his never-ending beauty was only enhanced by his silvery, wavy hair that looked somewhat messy despite being nearly styled. It moved graciously with each step he took, his slim fingers running through it every so often to brush it away from his forehead as his deep violet eyes searched carefully for his next victim. Oh, how divine he was, and he knew it.

“Help, someone…” The desperate cries of a young woman could be heard from the nearest bathroom, and his sharp ears caught the pitiful plea with ease even through the loud noise. The door was cracked open, and he could catch a glimpse of what looked like your local high school bullies cornering a younger couple with ease.

What a sad sight, humans really seem to not know better sometimes… Aha, there it was! All he had to do was turn his head to the opposite direction and he saw it, yet another dead person on the floor. Well, almost dead. It was a woman convulsing mercilessly on the ground as a group of panicked people tried stop the seizure by holding her limbs still. What a stupid thing to do. They were just making it worse and more agonizing for the poor lady. But it was not Hades' place to intervene, and even if he wanted to, he would not. When death knocks on your door, there is only so much any God other than Thanatos can do.

Besides, the more people that died, the more souls his domain would possess. So he smirked slightly to himself and turned back, walking away to the opposite direction. That summed up two deaths already. The night was looking good so far, and it was only starting.

But even after countless minutes of searching, he couldn't find the person he was looking for; the “Gleam Reaper”, as he liked to call you, since you were like a precious jewel shining among the dark grip of death. A gorgeous, gorgeous woman usually dressed in stylish black clothes, with fancy and neatly polished nails, always preying on mean mortals in the brink of death. You were once a human that died at a party when a group of browbeaters took advantage of your vulnerability, and then things got out of hand. A mess of a party, just like the one the King of the Underworld had just attended to with the purpose of finding you.

He had the honor of meeting you once your soul made it to Helheim. From what he could grasp, you were not the nicest person to walk on Earth and had earned a first-class flight straight to Tartarus, plan that he was about to execute. But you were awfully calm and accepting of the situation, and for someone that had just learned that their final destination would be the worst place to be in the Realm of the Damned, your peace and quiet was nothing short of intriguing to Hades.

———

“Y/n S/n, eh? Aren't you afraid of the Tartarus?” He asked in an icy tone that served well to hide his amusement. The God came off as uninterested and aloof. Nevertheless, the glimpse of curiosity in his eyes did not go unnoticed by your own sharp ones, something that you used to your favor.

“I regret nothing.” Was all you said.

And surprisingly, that was all you needed to say. You knew it when he kneeled down to cup your face with his thumb and index finger, gently pressing them deeper into your cheeks with the kind of glare you'd only see on someone that has pretentious meanings. “You have so many things to regret, yet I sense no mockery or dishonesty in your tone… Interesting.”

You scoffed, almost offended by his preying eyes upon you. It made you feel like a piece of meat under a lion's nose, and yet, that wasn't even close to enough to make you back off. “I am not afraid of you, God of the Underworld. You do what you want with me, I do not care.”

For the second time, the King of the Underworld was thrilled by your bold attitude. You were either the bravest girl to ever speak with him, or the most foolish and naive little thing he had ever seen. Whatever, that didn't matter at all. You were fascinating, to the point in which your constant way of glaring daggers at him seemed more like a ludicrous attempt of forcing him to let go of you than a move to save your already deceased existence.

And he loved it. He knew that Persephone, Thanatos and the other deities of his realm would love you and your snark.

“So that's how it is, very well. Welcome to the Underworld, Y/n. From now on, I'll make sure that you live as freely and comfortably as possible in the cold embrace of the dead.”

———

Those were some simpler times… Well, not really. It was barely twelve years ago, a pitiful amount of time in the life of an entity that has lived longer than any other among his kin. But back to reality, he shook his head in frustration and kept searching for you.

‘Where is that stubborn lady? We always bump into each other accidentally in the Underworld, yet I can't seem to find her when I actually need something from her…’ He thought again, looking over people's heads endlessly but to no avail, much to his dismay. A swamp of people would have been an appropriate term to describe his surroundings. No matter how hard he tried to set his eyes on different corners, doors or gateways, dancing drunkards were always in the middle to block his gaze, unintentionally.

Now he was starting to get irritated about the amount of individuals cramping the room. And worse of all, he couldn't feel your presence anywhere close to him.

Why did he even need to talk to the Gleam Reaper? Even after a decade of knowing each other, you had never been close enough for him to be so persistent about his urges to see you. He didn't bear romantic intentions, that much he knew, for he already loved Persephone dearly… So, what was this strange craving for amity?

Right, that was it. He wanted a friend, that's why he came here in the first place. And in an opportunity, he made his way through the people to find a not-so-crowded space in the room and slumped down on a couch, paying no mind (or, at the very least, trying) to the annoying couple next to him that couldn't keep their hands to themselves. How inconsiderate, but first, he needed to sort out his thoughts to clear his head.

It's not like you loved to wreak havoc everywhere you went. Hades himself designated you as a deity of chaos at parties specifically, and he knew the reason why; you just liked to be troublesome whenever there were bad people in misfortune around you. Bullies, tormentors, stalkers, harassers… All of them were on your death list, leading it. Similar to what happened to you in your final moments, your Grim Reaper self always lured the lads in and then showed your true colors, by making them end their own lives with their own shaky hands as you watched their lives fade away, keeping them secured in your embrace as your slim fingers stroked their hair. He still couldn't tell if you really enjoyed their misery, or if you just pitied them.

The latter sounded more accurate to him. Perhaps that's why you only went after those whose days were already counted. No point in torturing a healthy and innocent individual when you could “free” a tortured soul from their torment, and you did it because said souls also tortured others. You hated those that would cause pain to others just to deal with their own.

Even though you were pretty much doing the same thing you despised the most now as a deity, you told yourself that you were their karma. That was your twisted mindset, and he was all in for it.

And so he remembered his brief encounter with Poseidon earlier that day. Time to daydream again…

———

The Tyrant of the Seas was never fond of those pesky mortals that Gods were supposed to watch over. Those creatures were ungrateful, worthless and useless, just as much as they were unhinged. The mere thought of humans made him feel sick.

And yet, there he was, listening to his eldest brother rambling about the possibility of hiring a mortal, the lowest form of life, as an assistant to reduce the workload. Hades was never one to complain about his duties nor his struggles. As the eldest, he'd always thought that it was his duty to shoulder everything on his own to keep his siblings safe, and his domain was no exception. No burden could ever be heavy enough for him not to carry alone.

Except for boredom, that is. Though, it was more of a consequence than mere mental strain. Persephone had recently made her trip back to Mount Olympus to reunite with her mother, and while Hades was well aware that the following six months were going to be just the same as the others, a strange feeling of restlessness was keeping him awake at night.

Actually, it had gotten him so distracted lately that he had been trying to read the same book for over two weeks now, stuck in the same page. A task that would usually take him two days or three at most.

“Utterly unnecessary.” Said Poseidon in his characteristic monotonous tone, cold blue eyes piercing straight into Hades'. What his brother had just proposed came off as both ridiculous and undignified, and he'd rather be struck by lightning than agreeing with him. Physical defeat would be way less humiliating, he thought.

“I might need a companion. Not a lover, for I already have my wife, but perhaps a friend to pass the time with me while I am at my office to make the silence more tolerable.” Hades spoke back immediately, already having anticipated his younger brother's protests. He was unamused at his reaction, and yet, somewhat disappointed by his disapproval.

The younger God didn't respond to the suggestion, remaining stone-faced as his eyes were set on his brother's. Typical Poseidon.

Hades sighed, leaning back on his throne before speaking again, “An assistant would be a pleasant addition to my everyday routine, don't you think?” Asked the King of the Underworld with a tinge of intrigue, trying to gauge a better response from Poseidon this time. “Someone to sign the less important papers for me, or deliver the weekly letters when I can't do it myself.”

“You can do it yourself. You must do it yourself. You mustn't rely on anyone else,” Poseidon said sternly, showing the slightest bit of frustration at the God of the Underworld's insistence. “You are a God, and Gods do not rely on others.”

“This is not a matter about reliance, brother.”

Well, no more words were said for the next twelve minutes, which gave Hades the impression that their brief exchange had ended abruptly with no hopes to be resumed. The albino twirled a strand of his smooth, silky hair around his index finger as a reflex, deep in thought and possibly unaware of his elegant fashion.

Sure, he understood Poseidon's point, at least for the most part; Gods have always been self-sufficient and naturally independent. Hades himself had been working alone in the Underworld for as long as his immortal mind could remember, assisted only by his wife during the span of months that she spent with him in the realm of the death. He's never had enough trouble to seek for help from anyone. Not when he was younger, not during the Titanomachy, and definitely not on his daily tasks since then.

So, why was he suddenly so adamant about hiring an assistant for the mere purpose of companionship? It didn't make sense to him, let alone to Poseidon.

On the other hand, he couldn't just ignore the feeling any longer, constantly nagging at the back of his mind. What was it, even? Was the routine he'd been keeping for eons finally catching up to his wit? Hades couldn't even recall the last time he had longed to do something exciting, other than contacting Beelzebub whenever he needed something from the Lord of the Flies. And the more he tried to find a reason, the more confusing it became. It was frustrating, that much he could figure out by himself.

And the awkward silence in the throne room was doing little to quell his impatience, so eventually, the God of the Underworld added something out of ennui.

“I'll go for a human, preferably deceased. That way I won't have to drag anyone down to the Underworld, as it'd be a hass-“ But Hades was interrupted by Poseidon standing up hastily, not even turning back to bid farewell. Surprised much? No, not really, Hades was expecting that, but he hoped that the Sea God would at least listen to the entire proposal. How arid.

Though there was no point in complaining, anyway.

—————

Ah, what a pleasant talk during some wholesome quality time with his little brother. Just remembering the way Poseidon's knuckles grope harder the edges of the throne's armrests at the mere mention of a human made Hades chuckle to himself. The Tyrant of the Seas could be quite comical without wanting to, but he'd never say it aloud if he wanted to make it out in one piece.

Perhaps the younger God was right, no? Even if he made friends with the Gleam Reaper, nothing would guarantee that those feelings would go away. Maybe time would tell…

‘Time to get out of here. Leaving my domain for a whim like this was an inadequate move on my reco- … Now, just what in the old world is this?’

Just when the King of the Underworld was about to take his leave, a familiar item rolled up to his feet; a pill, and not just any pill, but a psychedelic capsule. What an intriguing sight, Hades thought, so he got off of the couch and crouched down to carefully examine it, trying to see where it came from.

Judging by the nearby people's reactions and stares, it came from the balcony next to him. The glass doors were covered with wine colored tulle curtains, which distorted the view of the folks outside that were surely enjoying themselves among their own “privacy”. But one thing he was certain of is that the ergoline in his hands came from there, specifically, from the small opening on the left door.

And that was all he needed to know.

“Gotcha.” Spoke aloud the Undead God, smirking at nothing in particular as he rose to his feet and brushed off his knees, ready to head off the balcony. Being away from the music would help a ton.

He stored the pill in his pocket and opened the door fully to the terrace, breathing in the fresh air which felt heavenly. The smell of sweat and puke was clogging his nostrils back inside and he didn't even realize it until the fresh breeze cleared up his nose, allowing him not only to think a bit better, but also admire the scenery before him.

Glass railing that supported the kissing ladies leaning against it, marble flooring that looked spotless, elegant benches made of the same sturdy material, and a breathtaking garden filled with extensive fields of Lavenders. The calming scent of the flowers reached him through the cold, gentle wind of the night, relaxing him further. It was a welcome relief from the mess happening in the party.

It was actually ironic, having thrown a party that turned into pure chaos claiming soul after soul while being right next to a Lavender meadow. That sort of duality was appealing to him. Such was life, he thought.

“Care to explain what are you doing here, King?”

That voice, that tone, those hints of sweet notes in the speech…

He had found you. Or rather, you found him first.

“The Gleam Reaper herself, what a pleasant surprise. I was looking for you, Y/n.” Hades said, smiling softly as he turned to around to look at you closely. “I knew I would find you here.”

“Oh, really? How come?” You smiled back at him, e/c eyes staring into his very soul. For a clever woman like you, Hades had always been a mystery that remained yet to solve. His mind was like a chess board, or rather, a painfully complex puzzle that always seemed to be missing a piece just when you thought you've got it figured out.

And in more ways than one, that was exciting for your deviant heart.

“A crowded room with red lights, funky music and drugs, filled with dumb women, sad girls, high school junkies and men that are desperate for feminine touch…” Hades began smugly, making you laugh.

“… The perfect recipe for disaster.” And you continued, just like the first time you two met after you had turned into a Grim Reaper, a being that collects the souls of those who have perished to take them to the Underworld, to him. Those exact words marked your first ever interaction as immortal beings, and it felt like a breath of fresh air to know that he still remembered them to the letter.

As the sentence ended, the both of you shared a soft sigh, enjoying the comfortable silence that followed for the next five minutes, just gazing over the Lavender garden. Of course, until the Undead God voiced his intentions.

“You know, over the years, I have given you a kind of freedom that others could only wish for. You are a Grim Reaper, yet I have allowed you to be selective with your victims and even the times when you wish to work, and the others, when you just want to slack off. But I've let you rejoice in such privileges because I find you interesting and deserving of my special treatment… So, I came here to ask something of you, Y/n.”

“Then speak, and do it quickly so I can go back to minding my business.” Your tone shifted almost dramatically. One moment you were all in for a good laugh, then your intonation became serious and your words clever. That's just how things worked around the God of the Underworld.

“Alright, I'll go straight to the point.” He said, running a hand through his hair, “I want you to come visit me in my palace, specifically, my office. I've been longing for a companion for quite a while now, and I can't think of anyone else better than you to fit that role.” By the end of the proposal, the albino's violet eyes took on an almost empty look, one that you knew was not idle in the slightest. “What do you say, Gleam Reaper?”

“…” You didn't respond for the first few seconds, seemingly unfazed by his request. But that was okay, he was used to Poseidon and other Gods doing just that every time so he was willing to be patient.

Still, something about his sudden petition seemed off to you. Why would the King of the Underworld, Ruler of Helheim and the Dead, the very Dark God himself want a friend? Because you could see right through him, and whatever kind of “help me with my paperwork” crap he was most likely going to come off with didn't even stun you in the slightest. If anything, it was confusing.

“Two questions. First, why? And second, why me?” You finally answer, leaning back against the mirror-like railing with a raised eyebrow.

Hades simply shrugged, probably just as confused about his own request as you were, “First, I have been feeling quite lonely lately, dwelling in my endless work with only the company of my cockatoo, and occasionally Cerberus when he's not guarding my palace.” He explained, now twirling the same strand of silvery hair in that characteristic manner of his, which you interpreted as him being deep in thought.

“And second?” You asked again, both curious and impatient.

“I think that your presence would be soothing, but if you ask me why, exactly, I might not be able to tell you just yet. I'd rather not think of it as hope, but intuition instead, so to say, a hunch.”

“A hunch? The cunning God of the Underworld is relying on a hunch, of all reasonable excuses to seek for a friend?” Even though you tried not to, an inevitable cackle escaped your pretty lips. Now that was just too humorous to be true. Oh, but you knew that he was being serious, and that was easily the funniest part. “Fine, I'll think about it later. It sounded more like an entreaty than a request, given how humbly you asked for it.”

“I'll take that as a yes, then.” He said with a self-satisfied expression, before turning back to walk toward the doors. It was time to leave for good.

But before he did, Hades stopped in his tracks, not bothering to look back at you. “Before I go, tell me, where are they? I know for a fact that you weren't here just enjoying some alone time and a cigarette.”

“Aha, you witty God.” Just like him, you just shrugged, seeing yourself in the reflection of the doors and using that to raise a hand and point a finger to a certain direction. Hades followed with his eyes through the reflection on the glass and his gaze landed on a not so far away spot; the roof of a small house next to the building they were in, made out of red tiles that looked quite old.

And then, he saw it.

A pile of dead bodies put one on top of the other, almost threatening to slip off of the tiles and fall down grotesquely, much to the disgrace of any passerby underneath. He recognized them almost immediately, they were the ones harassing a couple in the bathroom just half an hour ago. The last bits of humanity in him felt uneasy at the sight of those people tormenting the poor lovers that just wanted to leave, but Hades was way more focused on finding you than questioning his own moral compass.

Now, their flesh was already rotting even though they had died less than an hour ago, something that he knew was only possible because of your wicked abilities and will.

And the more he stared at the scene, the more details he found, and one of those was the fact that every single corpse was holding a needle in their right hand, already used and broken needles.

So that was your doing, he must have known.

“You still prey on broken individuals that wish to find inner peace by making others miserable. They have always been your favorite kind of soul, haven't they, Gleam Reaper?”

No more words were needed, for he just waved a hand to bid farewell and walked past the doors and out of the balcony. You didn't expect any less from him, whatsoever. That's why he came here, because he knew exactly what you would be doing.

You could only watch him walk away and disappear between the crowd, and scowl lightly at his whole drama of having been searching for you when he could have easily found you among mere mortals. Still, you grinned widely knowing that your next visit to the Underworld was going to be quite intriguing. You'd never turn down such a plea, and it was exhilarating.

Then, your eyes moved back to your “masterpiece” of remains and smiled, answering his tacitly rhetorical question with opaque eyes. “What can I say, it makes me feel like home.”

With that, you knew your job was done for the night. Therefore, time to leave as well.

You could only wait in anticipation for your next meeting, and whatever it may bring to the table. Hopefully something worth your precious time.

#hades x reader #record of ragnarok #ror hades #shuumatsu no valkyrie #record of ragnarok x reader

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too-antigonish · 6 months ago

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The Great S7 Rewrite: 14 July 2024 Update

So here's a brief summary of where we're at so far plus new ideas:

Bone of Contention #1: Opera Rules

So far:

Keep and maybe even go a little crazy with Opera Rules

Possibly feature more of the opera written for S7

Possibly include opera theme towpath murders

NEW:

@oeuvrinarydurian

Throwing this out here because so many of these options are potentially hysterical. https://tropedia.fandom.com/wiki/Opera

I will also suggest looking at TV Tropes Opera page. I’d also recommend checking out the various tvtropes pages for individual operas by title.

Bone of Contention #2: Ludo and Violetta?

So far:

Give them an evil plan that actually makes logical sense

And also make them people that Morse would actually want to be friends/lovers with

Consider extent to which Violetta is “Unattainable Fantasy Woman”

Make Ludo a music journalist, etc.

NEW:

Keeping Ludo and Violetta

@oeuvrinarydurian

Violetta works better as a character if we turn her more aggressively into a black widow, who is fully on board with whatever overall plan the two of them have

Could work fine in Operaville if the various lures Ludo throws out include Violetta and her magical vajayjay.

Part of the fun and engagement is finding a way to make them work. I think it is cheating if we get rid of everything we hate.

I’m leaning towards making them much more loathsome and true operatic villains.

@fanficrocks

Agrees we should keep Ludo and Violetta but ramp up their villainy… not necessarily in an overt way

Making them on the surface believable as friend and paramour respectively for Morse; but beneath, they are fully invested in their villainy

@astridcontramundum

Agrees that they could both be villains.

That’s what she did with them in her “After-comers” AU.

Violetta was actually more of the mastermind in that story, because Ludo tended to give the game away with his theatrics 😂

Specific Ideas for Ludo and Violetta

Fanfic

Loves Ludo as music columnist covering the premiere of a new opera in Venice for the first meeting/supposedly short affair between Violetta and Morse.

Maybe Ludo attends pretending to be a single man because that is the only way he stands a chance at a real coup - an interview with the prima Donna starring as the female lead in the opera (she is well known for brushing off all other women, esp younger & prettier)

Astrid

Likes the ideas we have for how Ludo, Violetta and Morse meet! (I do think we need to keep them—we need a damsel and a villain.

The trouble for me in S7 was that Violetta’s storyline made no sense. If she was really afraid, it seemed she had ample time alone in which she could tell Morse the truth.

And I didn’t mind Ludo as a villain—I had too much fun having Ludo and Bixby go head-to-head in my AU, I think. 😂)

Ludo’s Outfits

Astrid

…Ludo tended to give the game away with his theatrics 😂

Durian

…not to mention his outfits.

mystifying sweater vest and patterned shirt combination that’s burnt into my brain that I find incredibly upsetting. It’s so horrible, even by 70s standards, and I can’t quite figure out what the point of it is thematically . Do you know the one I mean? It’s godawful. I think it’s what he’s wearing when Morse goes over for “dinner“ and Violetta is there. I think M’s wearing his Emo Black Turtle.

Ludo’s outfits, one after the other, just get worse and worse and worse. We have to put together an outfit montage of stills for our storyboard as we craft our villain s/l. Perhaps we can all drop some LSD. Whoever was dressing him clearly was taking psychedelic drugs.

Antigonish

We *must* now include Ludo and Violetta's increasingly obnoxious outfits as a sign of their escalating villainy. Emo black turtleneck Morse should be oblivious and baffled by their fashion choices.

Durian

Elton John's fashion evolution

Bone of Contention #3: Towpath Storyline

So far:

Streamline very cluttered storyline

Focus mostly on is the murderer Carl or is it not Carl

Possibly make them opera related so it is universe within universe for towpath killings. Deranged fan? Thwarted performer? Gives more scope for Thursday/Morse conflict.

Make conflict between Morse and Thursday believable by providing adequate motivation—possibly Morse’s increasingly reckless behavior and lack of care for his safety

While there was a reconciliation at the end of S6, Morse would have still been carrying resentment about having been pushed aside

NEW:

Morse/Thursday Conflict

Astrid

And as for the Morse/Thursday conflict—since Morse is having this affair, and since the case is veering towards the operatic, perhaps Morse gets reckless, putting himself inti danger?

Thursday might think of how he had just gone off to Wicklesham Quarry alone and feel angry that Morse has learned nothing from S6.

Fanfic

Likes the idea of Morse rushing into danger in a parallel with the S6 finale. It is sort of what he did at the very end of Zenana, but if it happens earlier like the middle of Oracle, it would give us a very solid reason for their increasingly acrimonious relationship

Bone of Contention #4: The Episodic Storylines

Raga:

Fanfic

Simplify to story of intra-family tension resulting in the killing of an employee who is also a friend and thus has opinions on the matter.

Move the actual killing to a street corner or alleyway so that the political backdrop (hate-fueled campaign, race-based attack on the Asian teenager) works as an effective red herring

Then leaves the gay wrestlers story to be woven in - potentially as a second red herring overlapping with the first one of race hate (as several of the wrestlers in the group were persons of color).

Loves Thursday’s disparaging parallel between wrestling and opera, and can see how that will really rile Morse

Astrid

Glad you like the wrestlers! I was thinking maybe their falling out could be over who was getting the starring role? Over who would get to play the lead “face?”

Between the wrestlers, and the family drama (love you all’s ideas for them!) and the Ludo/Morse/Violetta storyline, we could have a theme of jealousy and thwarted love and temptation running throughout all of the layers, linking them all together. And tying in to the opera, too, framing it all into one?

Antigonish

If we make the family Bengali, they would work with the idea of incorporating the political tensions in the lead-up to Bangladesh's independence in '71.

Durian

I love what everybody’s throwing out as far as Raga.

I think we could get rid of the poker and debt storylines as well and completely concentrate on some iteration of intra-family political divisions .

If we’ve got to have a murder about money, we can come up with a better reason… Maybe funding some kind of Pro-Bangladeshi political or social cause?

Zenana:

Fanfic

The only bit in the entire episode that has anything at all to do with the title is the Lady Matilda’s college theme… limiting it to women only, and the women looking after their own (so to speak) when they trap, or more accurately try to inflict vigilante justice on, the copycat towpath killer

Durian

I am fully on board with jettisoning the Lady Matilda‘s storyline. It’s awkward.

Overall S7 Themes

Astrid

That quote from Ludo* would be great to use too! I had forgotten he said that...that also brings all of the cast of characters together.

*Ludo sums it up—while also perhaps referring to his crimes—by saying to Morse, “Life, death, rich, poor. It's all a roll of the dice, Morse. There's no reason to any of it. You're not responsible. Some people are just unlucky.”

OK. Next up: a strategy for actually getting this done.

#itv endeavour #endeavour morse #the s7 rewrite #endeavour: oracle #endeavour: raga #endeavour: zenana #endeavour: series 7

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justinspoliticalcorner · 5 months ago

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Alex Bollinger at LGBTQ Nation:

A Republican candidate for Missouri secretary of state is now using slurs on social media to talk about LGBTQ+ people. Candidate Valentina Gomez is among the many conservatives outraged at the Olympics for allowing Algerian boxer Imane Khelif to participate, even though she is a cis woman who has, according to the International Olympic Committee (IOC), met the eligibility requirements for the 2024 Olympic games. This year’s strict eligibility rules have prevented any trans woman from participating in the Olympics.

“These fa***ts should get their own fa***t category because before if a man hit a woman, it used to land him in jail. Now, it gets you a gold medal at the Olympics,” Gomez said, wearing an Olympic sweater. “Let me remind you: there’s no such thing as a chick with a d**k,” she concluded. “Keep women’s sports female.” Khelif was assigned female at birth and identifies as a woman, making her cisgender. She was treated as a girl in her rural community when she was growing up, and it’s unlikely that a trans child in rural Algeria would have been raised as a gender that didn’t match their outward appearance.

But many on the right have latched on to a statement last year from International Boxing Association (IBA) president Umar Kremlev, who said that DNA tests had “proved they had XY chromosomes and were thus excluded” from competing at IBA events. He also said that countries were recruiting cis men to compete in women’s sports. There is no evidence of that. Kremlev has long been criticized as an ally of Russian leader Vladimir Putin, using the IBA to extend Russian soft power. Putin has been using its anti-LGBTQ+ policies to differentiate Russia from Ukraine and the West, which he believes support LGBTQ+ rights because of U.S. brainwashing.

[...] Unlike the IBA, the IOC is permitting Khelif to compete but isn’t commenting on the results of gender testing, genetics, or the hormone levels of individual competitors other than to say that they meet the IOC’s eligibility rules. The IOC pulled recognition of the IBA last year due to a lack of financial transparency, which means that the IBA–unlike other individual sports organizations–has “no involvement in either the qualification for or the organization of” boxing at the 2024 Olympics.

With the Missouri primary elections coming this Tuesday, Secretary of State candidate Valentina Gomez continues her anti-LGBTQ+ hatred campaign by disparaging the LGBTQ+ community as “f***ots” in response to cis women Imane Khelif’s victories at the Olympics.

Hope you enjoy getting crushed Tuesday at the polls, you vile Andrew Tate fangirl and anti-LGBTQ+ extremist!

#Valentina Gomez #2024 Missouri Elections #2024 Elections #Missouri #Homophobia #2024 Summer Olympics #2024 Paris Olympics #Anti LGBTQ+ Extremism #LGBTQ+#Imane Khelif #IOC #International Boxing Association #Umar Kremlev

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theblackfemininesociety · 1 year ago

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Pearls have stood the test of time as a symbol of grace, femininity, and classic style. As women in the Black Feminine Society, embracing the allure of pearls allows us to pay homage to the elegance of our heritage while embracing our own unique sense of style. So, celebrate your individuality, adorn yourself with pearls, and radiate confidence and refinement wherever you go!

An opportunity to try this is coming up! ITS HOLIDAY SEASON 🎄🎊💗 Pearls can add a touch of elegance and sophistication to your Christmas or New Year's Eve looks:

(Ex. A Pearl-Embellished Sweater: Opt for a cozy sweater with pearl embellishments. It can be a classic white sweater with a few scattered pearls or a statement piece with a pearl-encrusted neckline. Pair it with tailored trousers or a skirt for a chic holiday look.)

The key is to keep the focus on the pearls without overwhelming the rest of your outfit. Choose one or two statement pearl pieces and let them shine.

Remember, the history, elegance, and versatility of pearls make them the perfect accessory for any occasion. Wear them proudly, and embrace the timeless allure they bring to your outfits.

— The Black Feminine Society 💋

#pearls #black women in luxury #classy black women #black women in femininity #feminine energy #black luxury #outfit inspo #style tips

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glittering-moonlillie · 2 years ago

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fluff/comfort with Damian comforting reader who's just feeling a bit insecure and down :(((

Damian Wayne x Insecure! Reader Drabble!

Warning: TW for depression, hints of anxiety. Mentions of blood

Word Count: 1087

“Beloved…it’s alright.” Damian, the love of your life, your rock, had whispered softly in your ear. He had never been one for comforting, never been the type to take off his black veil and become vulnerable, but with his arms so delectably tight around your torso, you knew he was trying.

“I…Darling, I love you more than anything,” His voice was a faint stutter, as if you could break with his regular voice alone. With how you were feeling right now though, you probably might.

Recently you felt like a burden. Like the piece of trash that everyone is too lazy to pick up and too insignificant for rodents to consume. It was the indifference, not the hatred, that was poisoning you slowly, causing you to drown in sorrow. You loved Damian, you truly did, but you were beginning to wonder if he viewed you to be overcompensating for your lack of…well…anything.

What did Damain see in you? You were a cockroach compared to the hundreds of supermodel status women (and men) who threw themselves at his feet, worshiping him like a God, hoping and praying for a scrap of his kindness. You didn’t even have spectacular intellect nor an inclination towards athleticism, not even a quirky personality. You were just…you.

This build up of emotion began to build up more and more until your bottle just…exploded. The water dripped out of your eyes and rolled down your cheeks until it fell down to the floor, evaporating just as quickly as it appeared - almost as if it didn’t exist in the first place. More and more, everything just seemed to spiral out of your fingertips, out of your grasp.

Damian found you in the corner of your shared room, curled up in the corner and stifling the noises of your misery. It concerned him greatly but he had never been the greatest communicator with those sorts of things.

You had flinched when you heard the soft pat of his footsteps against the navy carpeting, somehow thinking that he would lash out and break up with you for being so pathetic. You couldn’t bring yourself to blame him if he did, and the blackest parts of your heart almost wished for it, to find some sort of answer for the ache.

But he hadn’t.

One second you were cold and alone, abandoned, and the next second you were in the warmth of his arms; you were found. Your eyes drifted towards his hands, the same hands that were once bloodied with the necessity to be enough. They were much bigger than yours and could easily snap any bone in your body like a fine pencil, and yet you felt no disgust or terror. Just comfort. Just warmth.

Damian shifted you onto his lap so you faced him, his eyes staring at you with an untamed and unbridled passion. You once again wondered what he saw in you, what significant trait made him stare at you as if you were the pale moonlight keeping his world illuminated. As if you hung up the stars, as if you were the sole individual who breathed color into the monotone world.

His lips parted once, twice, but failed to voice anything. His firm touches remained, however, but it wasn’t enough.

You just wanted to hear him

You want to know why he chose you; why he still chooses to be with you.

“Habibti…it pains me to see you in distress…” He mumbled, pressing a chaste kiss along the line of your jaw. “I know I don’t say it much but I absolutely adore you. You mean the world to me, the universe even.”

Your knuckles were a pale white as you gripped onto his now damp silk sweater, wrinkling and ruining it. “B-but why? What do you see in me?”

Damian shifted again, uncomfortable no doubt. His eyes narrowed, jaw clenching as if biting back a scathing comment. You closed your eyes to prepare for the worst, that he had decided to leave you for being overly clingy and desperate. You knew in the end that it would come down to this exact moment right from the beginning; the cracks you desperately tried to glue together would crumble in your hands, leaving you deep in the black hole with no escape. You continued to wait with bated breath to hear his response, feeling the way his fingers danced along your skin with a steady rhythm, committing it to memory out of fear it would be the last one you have with him.

“What do I see in you? Beloved, have you looked in a mirror recently?” He tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his intense gaze. His eyebrows scrunched together, reminding you of the soft mornings where he held you as the sun awoke from its slumber. “When I look at you, I see the most beautiful girl in existence. I see a girl with ambition, someone who is able to look past my…transgressions and hold me accountable.”

His lips brushed against your temple as he continued to gently speak. “Above all, you are kind. You are genuine. You are the shining light in my life, my one and only.”

He pulled away, hands resting against your shoulders. “I love you more than a flower’s will to bloom. I love you more than time knows how to handle. Does this make sense, my love?”

The question, of course, was rhetorical because he quickly pressed his lips to yours before you could muster an answer. The tears rolling down your cheeks were wiped away softly, his hands like feathers against your shaking skin.

“So…so you don’t despise me for having these thoughts…?” You asked, sniffling.

“Of course not, that’s absurd!” His face contorted to one of bewilderment. “I could never hold contempt towards you, I love you too much.”

Damian lightly pushed you off his lap and laid you down on the bed. He rolled next to you, faces pressed so closely together, letting you cherish the small smile drawn on his face; Damian did not smile often, but when he did, it was confided with you.

Hands intertwined, Damian told you to focus on his breathing and his words. Slowly, the black tendrils that clung desperately to your consciousness slithered back into the dark cavern they came from. You listened closely to his heartbeat, amazed that it synchronized with yours. Damian cupped your face, bringing it to his one final time before allowing you to melt into a peaceful slumber.

I hope that whoever requested this is doing okay! It has been a while since I have succumb to those nasty black tendrils that feast on your heart and soul until nothing remains. My hope is that everyone who reads this is doing alright, and if not, feel free to reach out! I'm more than happy to help~!!

#Damian Wayne #Damian Wayne x Reader #Damian Wayne fluff #Drabbles #DC #comics #damian al ghul #Romance #Damian Wayne x Insecure! Reader #Depression #Damian al ghul x reader #Damian Wayne is trying

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cosmeticalchaosicle · 9 months ago

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JADE LEECH : HEADCANNONS { □ 🍄}

╰ ✦ ・🐙 ♡ˎˊ˗ ‐-----------------‐----------------------

Alright! Lets begin

Jade's identity

Jade Leech certainly a polite, quiet individual. Always seen smiling for whatever reason! Sometimes people just wanna know what runs through his head

Given Jade's little interactions between other students, I belive he'd definitely be Bisexual, with women preference. Yet he's not scared to mingle with the guys! He's more closeted, as he doesn't talk much about his sexuality, gender, or political view that deals with Identity. Now, I believe Jade would Identity as non binary , yet he enjoys neopronouns because of the variety of things he could be called. Yet, he particular won't use them often as he finds them nice to have.

Jade's style

Jade is definitely the type to have a cottage core aesthetic, he would most likely engage in a nature themed room if he had the choice. He'd have many fake vines, fairy lights . Basically his room would look like an enchanted forest. Filled with mamy unique flowers , plants, and artifacts he finds in the mountains. And he definitely had to make his own scent . Which smells like rain and flowers, and not all too strong. He'd invite floyd and azul into his room and ramble on about nature, and things he finds in the mountains if He'd feel comfy. Speaking of comfy, if he's not in business attire, this man loves sweaters. Especially the patterned ones. And he secretly will bleach leaf patterns into his jeans sometimes. . He owns both a dark green, and a black pair of converse. He also beaded his laces. And gets all his beautiful jewelry from thrift stores.

Jade's Music Taste

Given what I put down as jade's style , I believe he'd listen to music artists like Aurora , Madilyn Mei, Alan Walker, and Autumn J. Yet he has MANY different Playlists for different events. Sometimes on his trips to the mountains he'll put on some fantasy music, and indulge in the relaxing feeling. Usually whenever he listens to music, he begins tp daydream of a scenario fitting the song (haha uhm. That was self projection!!!!) . And will do the silly thing where he starts smiling for no reason like the happy little guy he is other than calming music, he'd really enjoy songs like Prom Queen (Molly Kate kestner) , No Friends (I forgot the artist) , Happier (marshmallow) and more. I also think he likes parodies of the song 'Paris' but he wouldn't fully enjoy the original (he loves the roblox version heheh)

Alright! I'll end it here, thanks for listening to my rambles~

#twisted wonderland #disney twst #octinavelle #twst #twst wonderland #anime and manga #jade leech #music #headcanon #twst headcanons #viralpost #blow it up

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sammymeraki · 3 months ago

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York Research Trip

On the third of October, we visited York Castle Museum in York to study and research modern history of fashion.

First, we travelled through the Victorian section. Social classes created were recognisable through a person's dress and clothing. For example, the rich wore inhumanly tight corsets, huge crinolines, and layers upon layers of fabrics sewn together to create a dress's skirt. The poor could not afford this.

We were given a preview of what life was like in the 19th century, with a recreation of a model street. Real and renewed posters were plastered to the walls and buildings. Some 'shops' were open to view, especially the sweet shop where you could buy real sweets, chocolates and fudge!

The next section was World War One and Two. Samples and objects from the wars were stood on display and we were able to experience part of what some events and places were like.

Fashion during the war changed greatly as many wore more wool based clothing and uniforms. If you were to wear a glamorous garment, it would have been seen as unpatriotic to your country as materials were rationed during these years. Many women volunteered as nurses behind the front lines, others became farmers and others factory workers. Those who worked in factories assembling bombs and other dangerous weapons using gun powder, had their hair dyed due to the gun powder. These jobs were dangerous, not as dangerous as fighting on the front line however.

The third and final section was the 1960s. This decade was all about love, peace, feminism and liberation with stars such as The Beatles and Cliff Richard taking their turn in the spotlight.

Clothes became alot more casual, flowing and free with styles such as straigh sweater dresses, mini dresses and skirts and straight skirts with front and back inverted pleats (called kick pleats). The daring short mini skirt was dubbed the Chelsea Look.

The second half of the trip we were tasked to go into three different shops to study their marketing techniques and economics. We visted a few stores but I individually wrote about: Dog & Bone; Molly Brown's; Urban Outfitters. The links to these posts can be found here:

https://www.tumblr.com/elizabethvictoriafashion/763889957062492160?source=share

https://www.tumblr.com/elizabethvictoriafashion/763587897739952128?source=share

https://www.tumblr.com/elizabethvictoriafashion/763890446145617920/economical-analysis-of-fashion-based-stores-urban?source=share

York was great fun and a perfect chance to discover new fashion based businesses and trends. The city was lovely and cosy.

#fashion #marketing #research #york #1960s #1960s fashion #1960s history #1960s style #1940s #1940s fashion #1940s style #world war 2 #world war ii #world war two #world war 1 #world war one #fashion history #feminism #museum

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haggishlyhagging · 3 months ago

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Like many be-passives, get-passives are useful when men want to deny their responsibility for or involvement in specific events, especially pregnancy. Unlike a be-passive, a get-passive describes pregnancy as though it were something women willed upon themselves without male participation. The following example from a 1976 episode of the television series Maude (brought to my attention by Susan J. Wolfe) indicates how the reflexivity inherent in the get-passive shifts responsibility to victims, a popular PUD tactic. The father of the pregnant woman made the statement.

"Why is marriage the first thing everybody thinks of when a girl gets herself knocked up?"

Because Maude was marketed as a "liberal" sitcom, this description was probably intended to show how "progressive" the male character was: just because a woman is pregnant doesn’t mean she has to marry the man responsible; she could raise the child by herself! Ironically, even a get-passive is preferable to the pseudo-active version we hear more often, "She got pregnant," in which the woman is the only individual responsible and makes it sound as though the fetus is something she bought on sale at a mall. Got in such statements means 'obtained', "She got a new sweater," "She got the flu," so we interpret "She got pregnant" as parallel to other sentences in which got signals purposeful action on the part of the woman.

-Julia Penelope, Speaking Freely: Unlearning the Lies of the Fathers’ Tongues

#Julia penelope #linguistics #patriarchy #english language #pregnancy

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sigritandtheelves · 2 years ago

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All Along, Like Fire (Part 4)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Explicit | 2.5k wds | MSR, AU

A/N: This one got a little spicy toward the end. One more part after this, I think.

—

March, 1995

They interviewed fifteen of the women on the first day—two individually, and then the third called together a whole group. “I know you,” the woman had said, looking hard at Scully’s features.

Together in one room, the women shared their experiences, shockingly similar to Scully’s own. They held up small vials, each containing a fleck of metal. Scully reached up to touch her own neck in horror.

“May we take a few of these? As evidence?” Mulder asked.

Several of the women nodded and offered up their tokens. Mulder took three. He would bring them to the Gunmen as soon as they were back in D.C.

“There’s something else,” one of the women said—Penny Northern, a redhead like Scully. His partner looked green, hadn’t said a word in several minutes, so Mulder encouraged the woman with a nod. “A few of us had children before we were taken… but none of us has been able to get pregnant since.” She looked at Scully’s ashen face apologetically. “Whatever they did to us, it seems to have taken our ability to conceive.”

Mulder looked around the room, and all of the women’s faces confirmed this. “Infertility? And you’ve… tried?” More nods.

A small woman with dark eyes spoke up. “My husband and I went in for fertility testing,” she said. “They found scar tissue around the ovaries. And Jane,” she tilted her chin at a freckled blonde, “she had the same results.”

Scully stood without warning. “Excuse me,” she said, and rushed out of the room.

Mulder watched her duck into a washroom down the hall. He turned back to the women. “Thank you,” he said. “This has been extremely helpful, and I promise we’re working to get to the bottom of it. If anyone asks…” he hesitated, unsure what degree of paranoia he wanted to reveal. “Maybe it’s best not to tell anyone we were here. We’re not sure who can be trusted right now.”

The women didn’t seem to find this surprising in the least. He moved to check on Scully in the bathroom, but one of the women’s voices stopped him—the dark haired woman who had called the others. “Mr. Mulder.” He turned to her. “One of our friends is very sick. Betsy Hagopian. Her name may be on your list?”

He checked. It was.

“She was the first to be taken and the first to remove her implant. She has cancer, and… and a few of the rest of us have shown symptoms.”

Now it was Mulder’s turn to go white. He was glad Scully hadn’t heard this on top of everything else—not yet.

“Thank you,” he said again, his voice rough with emotion.

—

Back at the motel, Scully turned around and offered her back to him, as she’d done once before, tilting her head down. Mulder parted her hair with his fingers to reveal the delicate skin of her neck. Right at the nape was a small red mark, hardly visible. He touched it, felt the tiny hard lump beneath the surface, then cupped his whole palm over the spot as if he could soothe away its implications.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s there.”

Scully drew in a shaky breath and turned to face him. “Cut it out of me.” At his panicked expression, she doubled down. “I need you to cut it out of me, Mulder. I don’t want that thing inside me.”

“Scully…”

She was shaking now, her eyes filling with tears. “What else did they take from me? What else can they take?”

Mulder swallowed hard. “Your health,” he told her. “Your life, maybe.”

“What?”

“The others… some of them who have removed the chip are getting sick.”

“What kind of sick?”

He wanted to hesitate, but she deserved the truth. “Cancer.”

It took a moment for the word to settle between them. Mulder watched a series of emotions cross her face: confusion, realization, anger, and finally a heartbreaking grief. Scully choked out a sob and the tears finally came. Mulder reached out, took hold of her elbow, and pulled her toward him. She came willingly, crashing into his chest and burying her face in his sweater. He held her to him and felt his own tears pushing at his eyes, reddening his nose.

“I’m so sorry, Scully,” he said into her hair. “I’m so sorry.”

She was shaking and he was gripping her like his swallowing arms could keep everything else in the world away from her. “I won’t take the implant out.” He could barely speak for the lump in his throat. “But you’re okay right now, Scully. You’re okay.”

Scully shook her head, not sure how he could think anything was okay.

Later, they sat side-by-side on the motel bed, dazed and drained. Anguish shifted toward anger, toward resolve and determination. Mulder watched his partner draw back into herself, erecting armor, pushing him back to a safe distance.

“I want to see the woman in the hospital,” Scully said. “Betsy. I want to read her charts.”

“Okay,” Mulder agreed.

“And we should keep going on the list.” She looked at him, eyes cold steel now—the same determination he’d seen after her abduction. “Some of the other women might remember more, or remember things differently.”

Mulder nodded.

“And you need to stay with Diana.”

It was like she’d punched him in the chest. “What?”

Scully turned, pulling one leg up onto the mattress to face him better. “She can’t know that we know, Mulder. We have to pretend like… like everything is normal. We’re back to work. We’re investigating cases like usual.”

“Scully—“

“If she thinks you’re onto her, what do you think will happen to our leads? Our evidence? Stay with her and maybe she’ll slip up. Play dumb and we might find something huge—maybe the people she’s working for.”

“So you want me to sleep with the enemy?”

Scully blushed at this and her posture retreated back even further. “Weren’t you already?”

Touché, he thought, but her words stung nonetheless. Mulder dropped his head in defeat. “How can I touch her, knowing what she did to you?”

His partner didn’t answer, but he knew she was right. It was the only way.

—

August, 1995

Scully could tell whenever Diana was in town by the kicked-dog look Mulder wore in the office. She felt terrible for him and his need to feign dopey-eyed love for someone he knew was working against them. Still, every time she thought of him with Diana, she felt queasy—not to mention furiously jealous. The feeling was unfair to Mulder, but she couldn’t help the rage that filtered through her blood, the snappiness in her voice when she knew Diana was in town and she imagined their life at home, farcical as it was: two pretenders, angling for each other’s secrets.

Meanwhile, she and Mulder marched through cases with their heads down and their hackles up. They confronted invisible elephants, circus murders, bugs carrying deadly pathogens, all while they hunted under the radar for answers. So far everything pointed to a shadowy government faction toying with stolen genetic material, rather than aliens. Medical rape for the sake of “science.” The implants were a technological wonder, but a human one as far as the Gunmen could tell. Of course the chips held no manufacturer’s stamp: another dead-end amongst many.

It was late summer and hot in the midwest. Corn was tall and everywhere, the sky a huge bowl above them, and their case seemed like a waste of time. The air conditioning in Mulder’s room crapped out on the second night, so he ducked out into the evening air to cool off among the cornstalks and screaming insects.

Scully was outside already, perched on the seat of a dilapidated swing set in the yellow dust—what passed for a playground in this place. Mulder looked surprised to see her.

“You okay?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Sure. You?”

“AC went kaput,” he said.

Scully nodded and gestured to the unoccupied swing beside her. “Pull up a seat.”

He smiled at her and took the swing, letting his feet kick at the dirt as hers did. They were quiet, half-swinging in companionable silence, listening to the bugs and watching the great dome of stars above them.

“Huge sky,” Mulder commented. “I always forget that about the midwest.”

“Mmm,” she hummed. She watched him looking up, contemplated the boyish wonder in his eyes that contrasted the way his shoulders had slumped in these past months. Playing both sides was draining him, sucking the joy out of him most days—except when they were on the road. When they climbed into airplane seats or slid into a rental car, he was himself again, sparkle-eyed and ready to sling crazy at her.

“I knew the case was bunk,” he said out of the blue.

Scully raised her eyebrows.

He turned his gaze from the sky to her face, and his expression was so earnest, so pained. “I needed to get away,” he confessed. “Diana was coming back, and I… I couldn’t face her again.” He shook his head and looked away.

Scully wasn’t sure what to say. They hadn’t spoken about Diana except in oblique references for months, because of course they hadn’t. But what could she say now to make anything better? She settled for, “I’m sorry,” because she really was. Much as she hated her own position, she knew Mulder’s was far worse. Neither of them was good at deceit.

He kicked at the ground again in awkward silence. She wanted to reach out to him, to hold him against her and tell him this wouldn’t be forever.

“I’m only free when I’m with you, Scully,” he whispered.

She felt a tightening in her chest—a zap of adrenaline and oxytocin. Was that really because of her, because of something special between them, or was it just circumstantial?

Scully decided she didn’t care. She stood from the swing and moved to stand in front of him—close, so that when he swung forward, his knees hugged her thighs. She held her hand out to him. He took it, laced his fingers with hers. The sparks were still there, like she knew they would be, pricking at every place his skin touched hers. It was the most intimate contact they’d had since she’d sobbed into his sweater five months before.

“We’re free here,” she said. “There’s nothing but us and the stars.”

“And the corn.” He smiled.

She stepped back and tugged him up off the swing. He came willingly. They walked back to her room, which was blessedly cool and lit only by the dim bedside lamp. Scully knew what she was doing, just as she knew how wrong it was—how wrong it was supposed to be, at least. But she was done feeling guilty about loving him. She ached for him, and he deserved something besides the forced performance of his relationship with Diana.

Mulder closed the door behind them.

“This is real,” she told him as he turned to face her. He nodded. Then he was kissing her like the whole world was on fire. His palms held her face. His lips tasted like salt and root beer. Her hands fingered the soft tufts of his hair.

“You’re everything,” he said into her mouth—words he’d said to her once before. Now she was beginning to understand. She licked his bottom lip and pressed a kiss to the mole on his cheek.

“There’s only us,” she whispered.

He nodded. “No one else.”

She pulled at his t-shirt and his fingers slipped under her tank to move across her back, up up, and then around to hold her breasts. His skin burned like she burned. She wanted to touch all of him. Nine months since they’d given in to this need and not a day had gone by that either of them hadn’t thought of it. She tugged at the buttons of his pants, and he pulled her sleep tank up and over her head.

Soon they were both naked and he was walking her backwards to the bed, still kissing her, still touching her everywhere. He nudged her to lay down, then lowered himself to taste her body. He was mouthing her nipples and she was trying not to scream. When he dropped a hand between her legs, she writhed against it in lunatic desperation for his touch.

“Jesus,” he groaned into her skin at how wet she was.

She whimpered and tugged him up to kiss him again, to reach between them and grasp the hot silk of his cock. “I need you,” she murmured into his mouth. They could go slow later, she decided.

Mulder obliged without hesitation, prodding her legs apart with his knee and settling his weight between them. She guided him down, against, into. When he buried himself in her, she almost sobbed with how good it was, how much she’d needed this confirmation—of what they could be, what they really were. This time was different, more deliberate, than their other hushed and guilty trysts. Tonight felt like a declaration, bold and without shame. He moved in her and she arched her hips. She held his face in her hands, locked eyes with him, and it was the closest she’d ever felt to anyone. They were, each of them, bared entirely to the other. Neither said the word love during the act, but it was in every touch, the subtext of every word they did say.

Afterward, they held each other for a long time, smiling with the joy of real connection and breathing each other in. Scully pressed kisses to the sparse hair of his chest and promised that they would find a way out of this. Mulder squeezed her and rolled so she covered him like a blanket. He moved his hands over her cooling skin.

“I won’t sleep with her again,” Mulder told the top of her head. “I can’t and I won’t. I have to end it.”

Scully lifted up to look at him. His eyes were dark with determination. “Okay,” she said. She couldn’t pretend it wasn’t exactly what she wanted to hear.

He kissed her again—a promise.

—

Two weeks later, all hell broke loose in a chain reaction meant to point bullets at them both. A hacker downloaded files from the D.O.D., and someone started poisoning Mulder with psychoactive drugs. Days later, his father was dead and he was locked in a burning boxcar, soon presumed dead himself. Scully was sanctioned and stripped of her badge. In just days, she’d lost everything that meant anything to her.

Scully didn’t believe in coincidences anymore. She touched the scar on the back fo her neck and wondered if the chip had betrayed them both. She couldn’t trust anyone, but she had printed files from the DAT tape and her belief that Mulder was still alive.

Instead of attending his father’s funeral, she got on a plane to New Mexico.

—

End Part 4 - Go to Part 5

#a thing i wrote #all along like fire #txf fanfic #msr #au #part 4

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