#all they have is routine insults during the another crisis

[lafoget]

ok ok the more i think about what kind of grand finale to gotham war would suit me, the more i want prodigal son 2.0. bruce goes off to heal his mind BC HE REALLY NEEDS A VACATION maybe with selina while tim and damian become batman & robin duo and eiko stays in town as catwoman

[bitch-for-a-rainbow]

So there's a blanddcheadcanons post that says that "Kara is the mortal avatar of Rao" and I really don't like it, especially in the context of SG 3x04 (The Faithful). At best, as was pointed out to me by a friend with whom I discussed this post, the House of El is likely blessed and somewhat sponsored by Rao, which probably doesn't do much but produce Krypton's greatest heroes, given what the word "El" **means** in Kryptonian. I'm interested in your thoughts on this (pls post your answer).

    I reject the headcannon solely because if it were true it would mean Coville was right and I fucking hate that bitch.

     In all seriousness, though, this is an idea I've seen a lot and I'm not a huge fan of. I don't know much about Raoism beyond what appears in the show and that which can be inferred off of the show. One thing I would point out though is that El in Kryptonian (while obviously being intended to mean God by the original comic writers) can mean Sun or Stars, and since the Kryptonians in the show are, as far as I can tell, monotheistic, and worshipped only one particular star, the El family is not necessarily named God. It would, however, signify their enormous prestige on Krypton and contribute to the famous El pride (or rather, arrogance). I’m not sure it would necessarily have to mean anything more than that-- that the Els are a respected house who have produced a variety of successful politicians, civil servants, and scientists. And (this time reaching a little bit) that they are perhaps so old and respected that their house name was once a title. 

      There is a certain allure to the theory, for sure. Kara is a paragon character. She always, always does what she thinks is right, regardless of the cost, personal or global, and regardless of what other people might think of it. She has a very direct moral compass, and there are only a handful of times when she doesn’t follow it, all of which involve saving Lena. Ship who you want, but it is notable that Kara routinely prioritzes Lena’s life over that of others given the rarity of that happening otherwise. She never even considered breaking Rick Thompson’s father out of prison when he kidnapped Alex, and all he’d committed was bank robbery. Kara has lines she does not cross (though murder is clearly not one of them). She is a character that has seen some of the worst that sentient life is capable of, has seen more death and suffering than most people could imagine, and she came out of it with an all-encompassing desire to protect others. She lives to give people hope. Plus, the humor of having Kara-- the one person most offended by the idea of being an Avatar of Rao-- turn out to be an Avatar of Rao is great.

       But, I would also say that having Kara want to do good because she is the avatar of a benevolent god is reductive and not particularly true to her character. It is true that helping and protecting people is a large part of the core of who Kara is. But there is a difference between altruism and the self-destructive, bordering of suicidal desperation to save absolutely everyone that Kara practices. And to anyone who doubts the suicidal bit, I direct you to the season 1 finale where Kara literally goes on a goodbye tour because she thinks if she goes out to fight Non she’ll die. She still goes because she has hope, but that hope is that she can at least save Earth with her life. She doesn’t fight because she is certain in the ultimate victory of good and justice. She does it because she more afraid to lose another family than she is to die. Kara doesn’t become Supergirl and risk her own life because she believes in good, she does it because she can’t stand to listen to people suffer-- because she has suffered. To use Alex’s words in 1x13 “You fight everyday to keep people from struggling like you have.” Notably also in 1x13, Kara wakes up from the Black Mercy and her first words are “Who did this to me?” and then she goes after Non in what could arguably be described as a homicidal rage-- a rage that is fueled entirely for personal reasons, not the greater good of Earth (though that comes as an added benefit), which is.... not very befitting the avatar of a benevolent god. 

     A major part of season 1 is Kara dealing with grief and rage. She nearly breaks a guy's arm in episode 6 because he screamed at her for damaging his car, to hell with the children he'd almost hit with it. In season 3's Midvale flashbacks we see her first put both hands through a lunch table, then attack Jake when she suspects him for Kenny's death. She gets better at controlling it as the seasons progress, but during Crisis she very nearly melts Lex. Also not particularly godly of her. 

     Then there is the fact that so much of who Kara is is shaped by fear: fear of the government, fear of humanity, fear of abandonment, and fear of herself. In her civilian life, Kara is, for the most part, unnoticeable. She's polite, soft-spoken, doesn't wear a lot of bold colors or styles, and is often a pushover. As shown by her encounter with Red Kryptonite, Kara would not dress or speak the same way to people without the pressure of hiding her identity (though much of her dialogue is purely the loss of her "don't be an asshole" filter, some of it is stuff she had every right to say before and just didn't). I have always found that episode to be very interesting purely for the fact that Kara doesn't actually seem to be seeking harm on others so much as seeking their attention. Her argument with Alex is almost entirely about how much she hates having to hide and pretend to be less than she is. Kara drops Cat off the balcony and then catches her. She attacks the police when they point weapons at her but doesn't kill or even hurt them that badly, instead of destroying the car they're using as shelter. Red-K removed her inhibitions, made her angrier, yes, but if her goal was to actually hurt people, she could have done so-- would have done so, and with great ease. She goes to a public bar and uses super strength to smash bottles by flicking peanuts. Why do that at a crowded bar? Why not just flick potato chips at the windows in her own apartment?

      This is Kara at her absolute worst-- but does she seek out the DEO agents who shot her out of the sky? Does she go after Maxwell Lord or Non? No. She tries to make people pay attention to her. Her most shameful and hideous desire is for people to give her respect. (Admittedly, respect gained through fear, but still.). Kara's a nice person-- much, much nicer than average-- but a lot of that "nice" is just her avoiding conflict to avoid attention.

      Kara is a good person. Kara inspires people. But that is because Kara gets up every day and chooses to be good and to inspire. It's one of the reasons I enjoy Non as a villain so much-- he and Astra are Kara's narrative foils. They also remember Krypton and grieve its loss. They also were trapped in the Phantom Zone. But where Kara had the Danvers to convince her that some good people existed and would risk themselves just to help others, Non and Astra had Alura sentencing them to eternal suffering rather than helping them save their planet (through the means they thought necessary) and then landed on Earth and found it headed on the same path as the planet they'd just lost. Kara had people to help her grieve. Non and Astra were surrounded by misery. They lost hope. Kara discovered it.

     Kara is the Paragon of Hope because she has been hopeless. Because she has suffered so much, seen so much, and because she chooses to believe in a better future. She didn't have hope her first time in the Phantom Zone. She didn't even have hope for a while on earth. From what we can gather, Kara's choice to start actually believing in the future was a gradual shift that occurred sometime after Kenny's death and has lasted her ever since. For Kara, hope is learned. She chose to hope and she won't let it go, and to assign that incredible victory off to her being a God is an insult to her growth and to her character. 

   Now I personally thought “The Faithful” handled this concept very well. 3x04 is one of my favorite episodes of television in general, let alone in Supergirl. Season 3 is my second favorite season, and that says a lot for its good episodes when the bad of season 3 is so, so very bad (To say nothing of the episode to episode production value, we have the waste of Argo, Mon El’s return as obviously he’s grown he has a beard Mon El, and whatever the hell was going on with Kryptonian genetic engineering eclipse causing witches). To this day I don’t know why Kara had magic dreams. The show did nothing to explain it and I can’t imagine up a reason. 

     But “The Faithful” works because it highlights the whole paragon part of who Kara is. When you realize that every person in the room of Coville’s cult is a person she has personally saved-- that hits hard. Especially since only a fraction of the people she’s saved would ever set foot inside that building with the totally not-creepy, entirely wholesome way they deliver the invitations. (“Your daughter is special. She has been chosen. As have you.”) It works because it focuses on how the average human must view Kara, the ones who don’t see her argue with her sister over potstickers and crush her phone when she gets mad. It works because of how desperately hard Kara tries to be a human. It works because the writers know that we, the audience, do not see Kara as anything but a regular person with irregular abilities: a kind and remarkably devoted person, but not a god. 

[imasimpforstevengrant]

His (Part one)

Edit by the wonderful 💕💕💕 joker_jessica295

Instagram: @joker_jessica295

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Special thanks to @neon-umbrella-for-stella (thank you so much for the ideas!) and @darkshadow90 for the tips on certain scenes 💕💕

• Author’s note¹: Another Arthur/Harley smut. Yes. It took me more than seven months to write it, based one a suggestion from a reader on a different take.

• A/N ²: 447 FOLLOWERS? WHEN tHE HELL DID I GET SO MANY?! THANK YOU SO MUCH OMG

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Summary: A piece more centered in Harleen and her feelings towards Arthur,  Flashbacks to the first meeting and kiss. More sex comes after their first night together as they open up about each other. Meanwhile, a clown has stirred Gotham City by murdering three young Wayne employees, awakening a popular fascination which not even Harleen won’t escape from. She doesn’t know this (wrongly) crowned hero is closer than she thinks.

Warnings: insecurity, self-hatred, swearing, darker Arthur ahead (possessive, lusty, crossing boundaries), age gap, strong sexual themes, sexual humor, oral sex (male receiving), fluff, breast oral stimulation, dirty talk, mild praise kink, possessive, unprotected sex.

WC: +9.946 (IT’S LONG I KNOW… I hope you don’t get bored!)

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November would mark one year since she got to Bronx Apartment after finishing her studies in Gotham’s University, obtaining a degree as a psychologist. Harleen was blessed with an exceptional intuition and a brilliant memory, this preventing her to burn her eyes away studying day and night for exams.

Once finished, she got a job as a therapist in social services. It had been hard to get but Harleen used her charm to convince the man she was ardently committed to social causes. A few smiles to the old, drooling creep during interviews and she got what she wanted. But with the unemployment rate increasing in the city, Harleen knew crisis couldn’t be avoided with a charming smile. Resenting her situation but with no other option, Harleen obtained a job as a bartender in shifts, most of them at night.

She was a frequent target of blatant ogling and indecent comments from men of all ages to which Harleen always replied with sarcasm that either scared them off or ended up with men insulting her under their breath. The first two months in the building were boring and gloomy, until she saw him.

Harleen had seen him a few times. He always seemed so mad, so drawn within himself and yet there was something oddly attractive about him. If not beautiful, it was certainly intriguing. He was the neighbor the other residents warned her about: the laughing guy from the eighth floor. Some told her he was ugly, deranged and creepy. Harleen got her first impression of him during a day off: she went for a drink when the mail boxes, surrounded by a small cage, were checked by the mysterious man.

There he was. The guy was wearing the usual yellow hoodie, navy blue pants, brown vest and a white polka-dotted shirt. Shoes were worn as much as his outfit, hair slicked back, gaze focused on the box that seemed eternally empty. She then noticed the frown that hardened his features, reinforcing the idea that he was always angry, while asking herself some questions about him. Who was he? What did he do for a living? Was he married? Did he have children? He looked old enough to have them.

What was his name?

She would have never imagined she’d figured it out months later. It was one particular night she went out to a party just to return home a little drunk. A catchy song refused to leave her mouth, while dancing in a lively way were enough to get the attention of the loner. He returned from getting his medicines. Hunched pace tracing his way back home, Arthur saw the young recently graduated young lady dancing shamelessly in the hall. She wore a short red dress and her lips shone in crimson gloss.

The image of her hair flowing, creating a blue and pink spectrum of colors turned out to be so unusual and beautiful that immediately sent involuntary visions of her in sexual situations. He hated the idea of her being out of his reach but felt a modest share of satisfaction just by seeing her. This became a common practice on his routine, with Harleen being completely unaware of it. She only saw her mysterious neighbor a few times from then, probably because he had to work. A lot, from what she could tell.

It was Thursday in the evening when she returned from the theater. Harleen was thankful she was on the taxi when the rain started. It was a small luxury she could gift herself after working so hard. She thought her day couldn’t get better when back home when she’d finally get what she wanted for so long.

Once in the elevator bag, in hand, she saw him. The door opening revealed the crestfallen individual, always withdrawn in his thoughts. That would explain why he almost jumped out in shock when he saw her, as if she was some kind of ghost. Harleen finally found the courage to grin and speak up.

“Hi”. One kind greet was enough to freeze him. At the same time, Arthur stared at her, examining the funny hairstyle that embellished her. Simple but pretty: a white sweater and jeans with short boots and a blue bag hanging from her left arm. Buns held her hair, blue the left one, pink the other one. A few platinum locks fell over her neck.

“Hi”, he finally replied. Doubt made his vocal chords tremble. His stare betrayed everything he felt for her, showing even how surprised he was for a woman like her to talk to him. He did his best to return the grin, his lips curving into a sneaky, playful one. Something inside Harleen trembled. Of all the reactions she expected, this was certainly an unexpected surprise. It was like a powerful bolt whipping her body. The odd attractiveness of her older neighbor caught her off guard. She did not expect him to actually have… charm.

There was something that tainted his unique beauty, however. She couldn’t help but stare in silent horror at the small bruise on his eye and a dry trace of blood on the bottom lip. His deep silence and mirthless look on his eyes despite the smile carved a deep wound in Harleen’s soul. He looked so destroyed and yet he managed to be polite enough to reply. She now paid attention to the adorable dimples embellishing his smile. The only thing she could do was smile back, not imagining the magnitude of the feelings she would unleash on him.

The bell rang. Harleen suddenly felt bad to leave for her flat, desiring just a few more seconds to appreciate his features. But she wasn’t willing to lose and her generosity gifted him an awkward but cute hand gesture, which Arthur took a long time to respond to. The absolute amazement in his eyes turned out to be an unexpectedly pleasant shock. That smile… so distant from the serious expression that usually carved his features, lost inside his thoughts.

Once in her flat, Harleen was incapable to stop thinking about him. And that wasn’t the only problem. Thoughts replayed the charming smile over and over again and became particularly intrusive while undressing to take a hot shower. She wanted to know more about him by being subtle, to increase the thrill this stranger had caused to her.

Probably the premise of “opposites attract” took a special meaning for the two of them, causing an authentic interest over the loner’s magnetism, not imagining how much of a surprise he’d turn out to be. What Harleen would have never thought was that the loner was also immensely interested in her…

Through fleeting glimpses of a yellow hoodie, she learned she had a secret admirer (this being a soft epithet for what it was actually an stalker).

Harleen became aware of it after noticing there was always a tall, thin man lurking in the shadows of the buildings in front of the playground she was always in during nighttime. It also happened while she was jogging or hanging on a rope to avoid any further danger lately. The latter was more interesting for him, given she could notice him better: still, predacious, not missing any second of watching her involved in such graceful moves, like floating in the air.

Harleen was sly, of course. She knew she was gorgeous. And the notion of being unreachable was highlighted by adding more sensual moves in this effective way to attract him, assuming the unpleasant cost of being constantly catcalled by other men. But of course her efforts paid off: the long expected meeting would occur on September. She actually expected another day to play innocent and let him stare at her instead of an actual interaction. A few pedestrians passed by, following a series of unpleasant whistling and blatant sexual commentaries.

But she couldn’t care less now, noticing it took him longer for him to show himself up through the dim lights in comparison to other days.

Harleen kept doing her job, however, repeating and extending the same moves to maintain her anxiety at bay. This resulted in more pirouettes so she could catch the familiar glimpse of the yellow hoodie near the darkened corner he usually stopped by to stare. The exercise turned out to be so pleasant that almost made her forget her initial goal, her focus now being to make a risky but stylish twirl.

There were no whistles or any indecent comments this time. Just a soft chuckle that evidently showed his amazement at the pirouette broke the deaf car honks, far screams from angry people that shattered the already silent place. Her swinging form immediately got down while trying not to lose the composure, calling him.

But far from what she expected, the man reacted horrified just to run away. She wasn’t going to give up, quickly jogging towards the fence that separated them.

“Hey!” she extended one hand, clawing herself with the other one. The hooded shadow stood there, panicking. He couldn’t bring himself to disappear in the dark, which made him look like a malevolent spirit.

“Come back!” she yelled, waving her hand incessantly to convince him to return, daring him to answer for such tenebrous and creepy attraction for her. It seemed her call paid off, since the man had no intentions to keep running, choosing to walk his uncertainty away through disoriented circles. He suddenly stopped walking, standing completely still now. Harleen rose an eyebrow, honestly expecting what he would do now. 

That man had issues for sure.

The idea soon morphed into a fact. Once she saw him coming closer to her to finally face her, she found herself unable to hold back a gasp to discover it was precisely her handsome but distant neighbor she had seen so many times and the reason why she had let him cross the line. She liked intense emotions, and something told her this man could give her a good thrill. The loner, for his part, turned around and almost tripped once realizing the short proximity between them.

It was certainly shocking to see an apparently cold, aloof individual who never talked with such searing lust in his eyes. Her hands now clawed at the fence, her icy blue eyes stared at him, feeling a shiver down her spine while she their glare revealed more things about him, one being his complete bewitch (or more like aroused) hearing his breath becoming more and more shortened.  But there was also a glimpse of guilt, lips twitching as if he was repressing a word or even a kiss, she’d dared to say.

The darkness highlighted the odd yet irresistible attractiveness that stole her heart, tracing a smile on her lips. He set his eyes down her body, ending the visual enjoyment focusing on the striking, extravagant mane that reached the upper part of her hips.

“You’ve been enjoying my show, have you?”, she went straight to the point.

A reply came out ringing in a remorseful, broken whisper:

“Yeah”

His name was Arthur. Harleen couldn’t be happier to finally know it, repeating it while taking her time to savor it.

Arthur Fleck.

Nothing prepared her to witness the very thing he was known for, however: the pained, cursed laugh that now resounded through the air.

At first she thought it was genuine but the horrifying shameful look warned her about his desperate attempt to stop and to breathe. The cackles were frustrating and, worse yet, exhausting to the point it made him lose balance while trying his best to look for something inside his pocket. She climbed up the fence to finally make direct contact with him. That seemed to shock him enough to distract his features in a more skeptical expression at the first time someone showing him kindness rather than giving him the usual disgusted stare.

A plastic, worn out card explaining his condition came from his pocket. The fit diminished to painful hiccups to tired sobs, relieved by a few reassuring words to make the stranger stay. It followed with a small talk about Thomas Wayne, unemployment in Gotham City and revealing each other’s “do for a living” but the topic of conversation seemed off. She could tell Arthur wasn’t used to social interaction, noticing how much it took him to find a tone and words to reply coherently. He never lost a sight of her, never taking his gaze off her as she spoke. The blonde felt actual amazement on the intense lust she had awakened on him, motivating her to test him, to see what things he would do to her in a more intimate place.

They arrived to the building. Harleen led her guest to her humble flat. Arthur was fascinated by the pink neon lights that banished the darkness to plunge his senses in a pleasurable, dreamlike numbness. They continued talking. Her flirty attitude and smiles made Arthur feel he was living the best night of his life. The loner was too lost in her bicoloured mane. A small smirk traced his lips, forming those dimples she secretly admired so much.

“It looks like cotton candy”, his mutter rang through her mind, resounding like a small demeanor confessed with relief. The sweet compliment was rewarded, subsequently, with a short, noisy kiss on his forehead. The action quickly makes him recoil for a few seconds, as her memory remembered, just to feel confident enough now to unleash a furious, hungry kiss on her lips. This violent outburst of passion had her lips against his dry, cracked lips, shocking her at first to eventually surrender and responding to the kiss. His inexperience was clear from the beginning but she had more of a convincing proof that the vehemence of the touch starved was, sometimes, more arousing than the dexterity of an experienced lover.

The sound of their lips breaking the caress made the sexual tension even more unbearable. He apologized; covering his mouth like punishing himself for behaving like a deranged creep but Harleen was just too impressed and lost after the spontaneous gesture, praising him for his passion instead of screaming at him. She had already accepted she’d never yearn for another lips except his.

It wasn’t easy for him, however. His rigid posture put in evidence his shame at the (obvious) first intimate contact he held with an actual person. With her head tilting tenderly, Harleen put a rebel curl behind his ear. He shrugged, stepping back, maybe processing the word she chose to describe him. As if that wasn’t enough, Arthur was too self-absorbed in his visible fascination over her chest. There was more than mere lust in his gaze over his disturbing fixation on her bosom, a far cry for the abandonment and yearning for intimacy but being too afraid to show it. Harleen fought the persistent (and reckless, utterly reckless, she had to recognize) urge to grab his hand and let them knead her soft forms, getting him to know her more personally.

Instead, Harleen took his hands on hers, caressing them tenderly. A defeated sigh, at last, made him regain composure. His whisper sounded broken but clear, much to her joy.

“Can you please...?” Arthur wasn’t able to even to complete the plea as the blonde closed her eyes slowly as her face broke distance with his to once again experiment the clouding, soaring euphoria their careless closeness brought with it. The party clown had a hard time processing the warm and maddening sensation of her lips on his, convincing himself that this was no hallucination. They took their time, finding the perfect angle to get a better caress from each other: Harleen had the initiative throwing her arms to his neck, causing the loner to respond by locking his arms around her waist.

Intimacy became too overwhelming when her tongue tried to play with his. The lovers laughed the nervousness off as the kiss finished momentarily to recover from the numbness. But he went back to devouring her to memorize every little sensation, growing more and more confident, tilting his head now to obtain a better taste of her mouth. It proved to be too much for him, however. She sadly felt him distancing from the embrace, most probably because his old fashioned ways deemed improper to sleep with a woman he just had met.

She felt so many things that fateful night misting her senses to verbalize her thoughts. But one thing was for sure:

She would burn Gotham to see him smile. 

*-*-*

It was 09:33 am according to the green bluish digits on the old clock, light drizzle falling over Gotham City. A disheveled, yawing Harleen woke up by herself. Laziness held her muscles still until her stomach made clear that breakfast was a must.

She put on black shorts and a grey, long sleeved-shirt, combing her hair to then make a couple pretty braids that fell over her torso. The combination of pink and electric blue was pleasant to the sight, as the mirror revealed. Soon after the observation, she contemplated the empty space left by her lover: Arthur Fleck. She closed her eyes.

That name sounded (or more like tasted) so different now. The memory of this lonely, sad man turned into a sex crazed lunatic still shocked her, as her facial expressions brought out. The fierce passion he had just loved her with turned out to be hard to be believed considering how deprived he was of human contact.

It wasn't just the thrill of surprise but the tenderness of his vulnerability, an aspect whose contrast between despite looking twice as older than her and being a late bloomer just highlighted their affair: Arthur was so different in intimacy, letting go of that repression that harmed his soul since he understood his needs as a man. She smiled, still thinking about what they had done. The thought led her to look for him while her vision became sharper, slowly overcoming the persistent need to go back to sleep.

When she stepped outside her room, a chuckle reverberated through the air, making her come to her senses. Eyes blinking, a pleasant feel of lightheadedness befogging her mind as the silence was broken by a familiar voice.

“Knock, knock”. Harleen was still too sleepy to catch a clear glimpse of the loner behind her who, in turn, locked her form as if she was a prey.

"Huh?" she hummed, confused. But there was no verbal response from him. Arthur reacted kissing her neck with ferocious passion, holding her figure possessively, absorbing her scent. The blonde made an instinctive futile attempt to free herself to recover from the scare the sudden grasp had caused on her. A breathy whisper in her ear dissuaded any intention to undo the embrace.

“You’re supposed to ask who's there”

Harleen turned around, her long blond hair tickling his face. He wasn't gone but by God, she was thankful for that. Arthur undid the hug, directing his hands to her face to press kisses on it repeatedly.

"Mr. Fleck--" the blonde murmured, "I thought you were back on the business making people smile". Arthur smirked. A high pitched giggle left his mouth. He now directed his fingers to feel those attention drawn to her gorgeous, full pink lips.

"I am right now" the loner leaned his forehead against hers. Now that her vision was slightly clearer, she noticed Arthur had left her flat for a moment, given he was wearing a red sweater he didn't bring before. The loner then proceeded to take a black wand off his sleeve, offering it to her. Harleen giggled and took it, deciding to play his game. The object lost its rigid shape, causing Arthur to laugh at her disappointed reaction. He demonstrated his aptitudes as a party clown taking back the wand just for it to regain rigidity once on his hand. He whistled, adding a funny sound as he shook it against his other hand, checking its stiffness.

"What are you doing?" Harleen seemed completely taken by the action, her smile encouraging him to finally offer her the aforementioned wand as a bunch of flowers while humming a song. A tender, excited scream made him chuckle as her hands stopped shaking to hold carefully the gift. It had plenty of feathers of different colors but she loved the simplicity of it.

"Thank you" she placed them in the table, along a small pot of flowers.

Harleen stared at him, tenderly. All Arthur could do was smile, holding her hands briefly on his to then slide one up her arm to reach her face. She suppressed a gasp, which seemed to change the course of the original touch in thought, as his hand recoiled for a moment to return with more intensity to her face.

"We had one hell of a good fuck, Mr. Fleck" Harleen whispered, intertwining her fingers with his. Arthur burst out laughing as her swearing manners still made a great impact against his older ways. But he liked her honesty, nonetheless.

"I think we woke up the whole building" Harleen laughed.

“I don’t see the problem with that”.

“I never said it was“, Arthur replied, cocky. A deep intake of breath then happened, “You know I—“he stammered, nervous. With a cute giggle, the blonde slid down her hands through the soft fabric of his half buttoned shirt that left a glimpse of his chest, invigorating him to keep on. Arthur stared at her, not a word from his mouth, enticingly.

“I-- was just wondering-- what else we can do", he kept on after seconds passed by, trying to catch her mouth with his, nuzzling her face, “’because-- I told my mother I had a call—“, he continued, “from work… so I'd stay away from my apartment for a while. I need some—“he took another deep breath, trying to find the courage to look at her in the eye to pronounce his intentions.

“I need some space, Harleen…” Arthur stared up and down at her figure, hands sliding up the collarbone to rub her shoulders, persuading her to be an accomplice of this reprehensible deed, "but not alone”. The words, though flawed in pronunciation, were perfect to keep her gaze lost as if Arthur had cast a spell on her.

“I plan to have you all for myself today and I'm--" he closed his eyes, hiding his face in her neck, sniffing her hair while trying to voice his intentions despite the nervousness that made him stammer, "I'm eager to know you more personally".

Harleen was actually shocked with what she just heard. A mixture of utter tenderness and searing lust made her blood boil. Did he lie to his own mom to spend more time with her?

"Well with the riots out there, bar is closed for a couple of days so consider it your lucky day” her voice chirped in joy. His eyes shone with modest but genuine happiness at the good news. Then he smiled, flaunting those crooked teeth Harleen loved so much.

The blonde felt she was about to kneel and unzip his pants to give him the reward he deserved for such gesture when her stomach claimed for some food, impeding the spontaneous sexual fantasy to become real, earning a disapproving look on his face. It took them time to regain calmness, as their laborious breaths tried to cool down the fire inside them.

“Why are you doing that?” his tone of voice revealed impatience, leading her to express the idea to have some good meal before any intimacy could take place, causing his displeased expression to turn into a wide smirk.

“Great!” Arthur chuckled, granting her some personal space.

They made their way to the kitchen. Arthur took a sit while waiting, taking a cigarette to light it. Harleen quickly prepared the table, taking the electric kettle to fill it with water to pour it on the coffee machine, putting bread on the toaster and turning the radio on in hopes to increase the domestic bliss. The smoke filled the room but she couldn't care less. The news announced a cold, rainy week while announcing a new episode of the Murray Franklin’s show presenting a famous actor as a guest next week given the release of the film he recently starred in the next week. The announcement ended with a shortened version of the groovy organ of Frank Sinatra’s anthem “That’s Life” which Arthur hummed along. But as soon as the theme song ended on a fade out, he silenced himself to hear, much to his annoyance according to the tired, throaty groan that followed the happy hum, a reporter pronouncing the news related to the continuation of the garbage strike.

Both stood completely silent as the report that exposed most of Gotham's slums to insalubrities. The fear of the possibility to catch a severe disease was reinforced by the citizens who claimed to have seen the rat population increase. The piece of news changed to the Mayoral election, which seemed difficult given the riots and general dissatisfaction of Gotham citizens with unemployment rate and apparent authority's indifference in the matter. The note ended with Thomas Wayne promising order and prosperity if elected. More announcements followed, but the lovers didn’t pay any attention to it. His great displeasure caused Harleen to turn off the device.

"I just can't understand how my mother thinks he's gonna help us" his hand took the cigarette back to his mouth, adding that just because she worked for him more than thirty years ago did not mean he had the obligation to run in aid for her. Arthur rolled his eyes, making clear his profound dislike for people like him and the insufferable infatuation Penny felt for him.  

“I’ve told her so many times she doesn’t have to worry about money. Everyone is telling me my stand ups are ready to make it on the big clubs”.

Harleen nodded, enthusiastic at the possibility of Arthur getting a name for himself in the stage.

“I’m not the man of the house for nothing”.

Harleen took the toasted bread and coffee kettle to the table.

“Man of the house, huh?”

“Yes, since I can remember. But even I need a break” he took another long drag, his lost look causing a deep sorrow on Harleen.

She lamented the prolonged solitude that caused him to pronounce such wounded words, hoping (maybe in an unconscious way to cope with stress) to get out the pain it caused him. The blonde extended her hand towards his, in a sweet attempt to cure or, at least, relieve his pain.

His absent gaze combined with the smile caused Harleen to feel a shiver down her spine. She laughed nervously to later pour the coffee in his mug to fill her own later. He didn’t laugh, staring at her and rubbing his forehead with his thumb. This dark glint promised her so many things, and few of them were good. He wasn’t afraid anymore to hide his intentions from her, seeing the affection was mutual. She could also see a spark of pride, engulfing his mind in another deep state of absent thoughtfulness. He pronounced no words, looking now at the recently poured coffee, whose steam slowly diminished to long twirls to nearly invisible white lines. She slowly and carefully extended her hand to his arm to convince him to leave the cigarette aside just to grab the large plate full of breads.

“Aren’t you a cute, little pleaser?”

The tender name immediately washed the worry away from her face while a reddish hue colored her cheeks. Arthur finally gave it a bite, cigarette finally left on the ashtray. The crunchy sound gave Harleen almost a cathartic relief. Whenever the chance to nurture him showed up she didn’t think twice to do it. He left the half eaten piece of bread aside to divert his attention to her.

“You wanna hear a joke?” the playful tone of voice and mischievous smirk made his face adopt such a devilishly appeal Harleen was unable to resist.

“Yes!” she said it as if that could convince him to have one more toast. 

“Why are poor people so confused?” his grin drew those adorable dimples in his face again.

“I don’t know” a frisky look gleamed in her eyes. 

“Because they don’t have any cents” he answered, before his voice exploded in a loud cackle. Harleen laughed at the simplicity of it. He was actually a funny guy, if only life could have been more generous to him. Bless his soul for making people laugh in such hard times.

Harleen was too lost in his joyful expression beyond if the joke was funny or not. His green eyes shone with a special light in the rare moments he could be in tune with his surroundings. It was as magical as seeing a shooting star. How she wished to take away the pain from him just to see his beautiful smile more often.

Throwing a smoking puff to the air, Arthur leaned in as if to tell her a secret.

“This is the first time someone is so nice to me", the loner confessed, shaking his head. He looked so lost, eyes following the smoke elevating in a single line undone by the move to breathe in the last remains of the cigarette. His personal battle against his warped perception of reality still gnawed his trust on her. A tender pout formed in her lips.

“You’re the first person who doesn’t feel uncomfortable around me” he muttered.

Her thoughts drifted to a greater, sadder horror: to make a difference in such a dark, mirthless man’s life just for being kind barely managed to even imagine the inhuman hardships he had been through during all his life. She lowered her head, trying to resist the actual pain in her chest. How a sentence that was so heartbreaking could also be so beautiful?

“I’m sorry, Arthur”. Her eyebrows arch in a sad expression that seemed to make him reconnect with reality.

“For what?” he frowned, confused. She tightened her eyelids, trying not to embarrass herself in front of him with such an explosive display of emotions, silencing her sobs the best way she could allow herself.  

“Everything” Harleen finished. His instinct ordered him to show distrust, unconsciously trying to find any trace of lies. Nobody ever had apologized or even shed a tear for him. As he realized her care was genuine, his mind replayed the phrase over and over again while trying to process these intense, new feelings blooming in his heart over the typical, negative thoughts ghosting around his mind.

“Oh, no.  No, no, no, no, no. Don’t do that” Arthur reacted panicked, “please…” his fingers dried the watery creeks, “don’t make that face to me. I’m here to put a smile on your face”.

He inhaled deeply, before continuing:

“You know… a famous comedian used to say… uh –“ his troubled mind tried to remember the name but then opted to articulate a coherent word to elude anything that could ridicule him –‘a day without a smile is a wasted day’.

A soft hum left her mouth, though a far shadow of sadness still haunted the tender quote.

“You know what I like about you, Arthur?”

“Yeah?” he was genuinely intrigued to know.

“You could even put the fun in a funeral”

His wide and evil grin, made her put a loose lock of hair behind her ear as a result of an involuntary move to cope with the nervousness.

“Fun in a funeral?” he repeated, a loud and moved hum sounding like a purr, staring at her while a chuckle shook his shoulders, “How sweet”.

How didn’t he realize how attractive he actually was? She asked herself surprised.

“Come here” Arthur patted his thigh loud enough for her to listen to it for her to reply. After drying the creeks coming from her reddened eyes, Harleen calmly got up from the chair. Arthur took distance from the table to allow her a comfortable sit. His fingers held her cheeks to create a smile despite her watery eyes.

Harleen blinked, and a tear escaped. Arthur brushed it away once it ran over her face. He thought she looked pretty when she cried, though. She gave him a sad smile and soon found solace in his face, ruffling the fluffy hair to distract her mind from any unhappy thought. Arthur closed his eyes, slowly caressing her thighs in sensual payback for her little attentions.

Once their foreheads found each    other, the blonde muttered:

“How’s that feel?”

“Feels… good” he hummed against her mouth. His lungs inhaled deep before adding:

“I thought I felt better when I was locked in the hospital”.

Harleen widened her eyes in surprise, taking a short distance from him, not knowing if it was another self deprecating joke or the truth, given the defeated tone the sentence was pronounced in.

“What?” but a castdown look was all she needed to figure out the sadness such place caused on him. It wasn’t a secret Arkham was a human dump, considering it held Gotham’s most demented and dangerous criminals and unfortunate souls who couldn’t go anywhere else. Harleen’s eyes widen in a horrified expression.

“Arthur” her hand caressed his cheek, worried about the lightness he seemed to take his life, she tenderly tilted her head, “why were you locked up in that place?”

His tone of voice revealed his annoyance mentioning that place. He shamelessly nuzzled her right breast, trying to avoid the subject:

“Who knows, maybe I lost it or tried to kill myself...I just didn't want to feel so bad”. Arthur gazed up to her. He had never been more honest in his life.

Her horrified reaction to be told being locked up, bashing his head against the wall almost everyday just reminded him how much worse was to have a significant other who made him feel alone. Months surrounded by people in white outfits, convincing him to take the pills to make him, at least, presentable to the world and also deprived of any loving contact from Penny’s part under the excuse of fright caused by doctor or anything related to hospitals. It reminded him how pathetic his life was. Sometimes he forgot how much forgiving he was with his mother’s recklessness concerning his own wellbeing.  

Her kiss on his forehead, however, seemed to bring him back to reality. Arthur felt he had awakened of a bad dream, but found himself amazed as he noticed he wasn’t alone with a blanket on while an alarm buzzed, as it was his usual routine. The loner stared at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. Her blue eyes, dilated pupils, body full given in to him. The loner blinked, eyes half closed, fighting the dissociation.

“Arthur” she called him. He looked dizzy. The blonde felt a pulsing heat making a place between her legs when the loner held her waist to lift her figure in order for it to adopt a riding position. She gasped, clawing to his shoulder once her figure obtains the desired position.

“What is it?” she whispered. But there was nothing except for a dead silence. Maybe it was another relapse of a dissociative episode, which made his mind to distract so any negative thought would fade. He panted, hiding his face against the silky platinum braid falling over her breast. The blonde didn’t move an inch, anxiously expecting to know what he would do now. He was so hard to read most of the times, leaving so many doubts and thoughts capable to drift anyone off sanity. Maybe he just didn’t want to talk. Maybe he just wanted to bond through touches.

Harleen felt a shiver once his mouth kissed the covered breast, playfully nuzzling with the erect nipple highlighted by the thin fabric. Blood boiled, as if her body demanded immediately to respond to such attentions.

She could tell Arthur was immensely pleased at her receptiveness concerning sex. His breath shortened, fighting the lightheadedness their suggestive position caused on him, loving how her body rode his hips, like a thrilling prelude before any intimate encounter could take place.

An impish, seductive smile must have given him the hint to keep on but he was way too shocked at first to react immediately. Harleen tugged on the shirt for it to loosen enough in order to offer him a privileged view of her bare breast, awaiting his mouth to finish what it just started, setting aside a few obstructing locks. Arthur’s jaw dropped, a line traced by pleasure soon contorted his lips. She hummed softly, admiring the sight of the loner hungrily lapping his tongue over the pink areola.

“You’re such a surprise for a late bloomer” the blonde leaves a beautiful, mischievous expression take over her face. Arthur detached his lips from her to ask:

“You calling me ‘old’, Harleen?”

“No!” she rushed to explain herself. The sassy tone of the question eased down any thought of annoyance, “I just—”

“I may look old, but I’m a fast learner” he cut her off, mouth back on the sensitive part. Harleen threw her head back, not showing any sign of opposition while Arthur clumsily undid the garment to leave her topless. This only ignited the fire inside of him, hanging on to her waist to sink his head between her breasts, rejoicing in the softness of her skin as his arms imprison her body. The elation wasn’t strong enough yet to stun her muscles entirely, gaining a little strength to make paused (or more like patient) undulatory moves against his body. His eyelashes flutter, causing tickles up her chest.

"I want you to put more than just a smile on my face" she caught his bottom lip to devour his mouth hungrily. He consented the kiss but didn’t respond to it, not even bothering to close his eyes.

"And what would that be, Harleen?" he looked genuinely puzzled, intense hue of green piercing her soul. She combed his hair back, sliding her hands down to hold his face in them. Arthur felt like a youngling in love for the first time. And having her covered intimacy grinding the growing bulge swept away all rational thoughts, making him listen to his needs as a man for the first time without overthinking ruining it.

Harleen supported on his shoulders, intensifying the sinful friction. Arthur groaned, relaxing when she generously offered his body another warm rub that was close to send him to heaven. On his face a deep feel of pride and complacency traces his lines given the arousing effects he had on her. Shuddered and impressed gasps left their mouths, until her voice sounds again:

“You’re so hard. That’s a very good thing” a secretive whisper kept him enchanted, her flirtatious glare invites him to get up. Arthur frowned but let himself guide by her when the steps were directed towards the wall, where Harleen didn't hesitate to corner him with famished kisses, feeling his chest underneath the red shirt.

The blonde slowly undid his shirt to obtain a proper look of his upper body to worship with her mouth, starting with the neck, nuzzling a few curls out of the way to brush her lips against the curve lining down his collarbone.

His whole form shrugged, writhing and panting. The dubious nature of this situation  slowly dissipated to allow him to enjoy the treatment her mouth gifted now to the notorious prominence coming from his neck, not missing any inch of skin with her lips.

It didn’t take long for his pants to turn into needy groans as soon as his chest was blessed with kisses, then his abdomen, the blonde was careful to not overwhelm him, holding on a few seconds before continuing to reach her goal: Mouth waters at the sight of his the rigid manhood covered by his pants, giving it a tiny nibble.

The mood was immediately killed when Arthur jolted in shock when he finally realized what she was going to do.

The irruption visibly took her by surprise, facial expressions changing from excitement to disappointment.

“Did I…?” she stammered, shrugging in fear, “did I do something wrong?”

He sighed, sliding his hand on his hair in a nervous reflex. Harleen then remembered this was new for him, despite how much enthusiastic he was. How much violence had he faced during all his life, she would never know.

Arthur cleared his throat, inhaling deeply, still processing all those hands on his body with the sole purpose to pleasure him.

“No, no”, he rushed. His voice quavers, afraid a laughing fit could ruin a intimate moment he had longed for so much with a girl, trying to put his mind in order, “This is the first time someone does this to me... and that feels like a good thing to begin…”

A bright smile returned to her face when one hand held up her chin while the other one caressed her cheek in a tender approval of what she was going to perform on him.

“You want this…” she seductively stared up to him, while her hands unbuttoned his pants, obtaining what she just craved: the underwear contains the hardened member, which she frees with a quick fumble on the clothing.

Arthur stared at his private spectacle in hypnotized ecstasy, still trembling.

“Yes…” he hissed, “oh yes, I do”.

Harleen took a few seconds to admire the twitching, aching arousal held in her hand. She smiled as her eyes were up to look at him.

“Then feed me some candy, Arthur Fleck..." his jaw dropped, felt his legs tremble, lust slowly dissipating any other thought. Being addressed by his full name, certainly had an impact on him. The enticing image of a partially undressed Harleen between his legs surely made him forgot how vulnerable he was before her by exposing his almost completely bare body.

However there was not verbal response from Harleen’s part. Her firm hand caressed his erected intimacy for a delightful prolusion, keeping her lover completely in a trance, causing his nervous hands to grab in a contained, almost angry fistful of hair. Nothing prepared him for the next.

Her tongue, of course, did its wonders. First a few, paused licks to the tip while giving him sensual, playful looks to then leave wet traces down that soon derived to long, hungrier licks sent the loner in a desperate, ecstatic state.

“Godfuckingdamni--!” was all he could be capable of articulate, before any feeble attempt to form a word distorted into desirous gasps and screams, Harleen rejoices at his reactions. To be the first woman to see him free from inhibitions, given in to his instincts, shaking away his polite, silent manners felt like a privilege.

“Keep doing that” his demand was desperate, dealing with it by uncoiling a few locks.  A wide smirk approved her tongue to explore and taste more of him, feasting now on the tip to absorb it, so he could become more familiar with her mouth. The explicit image gave him the confidence to stop repressing his desires for the sake of decency.

Her greed to have a different taste of him made her take turns between moistening the full erect manhood to partially engulf it later.

He now couldn’t even stand still, writhing like a dying animal, incapable now to look at her in the eye, believing the mere sight would make him unleash his climax, hands held on to his thighs, climbing up to his hips, looking to elicit more sounds out of his throat.

His chest heavily went up and down while Harleen kept on her voluptuous routine: first oiling him with her tongue to then make the tip disappear in her mouth.

His closed eyes, completely given in with an overjoyed expression on his face moved her to cause a greater gratification on him. She waited for the right moment to make Arthur look at her so he could cherish what she had in store for him. For a more dramatic reaction, she choose to disconnect her mouth from him, the sound of her lips detaching from the tip had him about to pass out.

“You’ll love this” were the only words she said. No further explanations. Her tongue gifted him another paused, devoted lick. It worked to make the full intake more enjoyable for him. Arthur’s body rears up violently. Raspy, loud groans and moans elicited by the tease tore the air.

Harleen placed her hands on his hips, helping herself to feel more of him between her lips, staring up to him as she received his swollen, overstimulated masculinity.

Arthur gathered enough oxygen to talk to her.

“Harleen—“ his eyes widened in awe, focusing on not passing out. His chest shook violently still recovering from the initial shock, “you nev-- you never cease to amaze me”.

She let a sweetly sinful smile trace around him, bobbing her head in a faster pace, muffled moans struggling to come out as she savored the stiffened sex with voracious appetite.

“That’s it… that��s better” he hissed, lip twitching, completely bewitched by the scene, “you’re such a good fucking girl for me”.

A happy hum vibrated through his skin.

“Am I, mister Fleck?” her squeaky voice in false innocence  crowned an scene so obscenely explicit with a comic touch.

"Yeah… Like that... Just--" he gently slammed his back against the wall. Further vocal expressions of elation came from his mouth, trying to appease the urge to scream his lungs out for whole fucking Gotham to hear him. A shiver ran down his spine. It was so difficult to keep eyes open in that  moment but the need to set his sight on her triumphed over any sense of exhaustion. His worn out hand slid down to hold her nape to obey the instinct to thrust into her mouth, just to better cope with the wet, narrow warmth Harleen welcomed his manliness with.

The blonde placed her hands over his hips, executing a very subtle move to contribute to deepen the intrusion that maddened Arthur so much. The slowness of this action made her push him away to then bring him back into her over and over again, gradually increasing the rhythm that turned the party clown into a noisy, urging mess. The rapturing and breathtaking routine of her mouth colliding with his unrelenting length sparked a merciless shiver that weakened his thighs, a stunning reminder of the glorious pinnacle he was about to reach.

“Stop”, his tortured plea was unexpected.

The mesmerizing image of a joyful Harleen with him appearing and disappearing from her lips right below him at incessant speed was more than he could take without going insane. The situation was getting out of his hands when Harleen also gave it firm caresses and long, rushed licks.

“Please”, he whined, voice too weak, covering his mouth in order to quieten the moans, “oh, God--Stop!”

His command finally made Harleen react, seeing it was actually too much. It took him a moment to catch his breath and recover his strength to pronounce about his intentions.

“Arthur? Is everything okay?” she muttered.

“Take that off” his instincts took over his mind, leaning to get her up and direct his hands towards her shorts, lowering them. She doesn’t oppose, unable to respond verbally, having the feeling the behest was actually told to himself. It didn’t matter anymore. She smiled as she saw the impatient hands lining her curves, fingers clutching at the cloth to whisper, “I like it how it looks but I want it off”.

Harleen eyes the action in fervid silence while he couldn’t stop staring down at her fascinating nudity, directing one hand in a sinuous move to part her intimacy to delicately rummage the silky smooth folds he wanted so much to be wrapped around.

Harleen jolted, lolling her head back,  amazed vocal expression resounded in his ears. Her eyes gleamed with resolution about his intentions, and a shivering gasp follows the brash action. A vocal expression of mischievous complicity comes from her.

“I see… you want to fill up the tank?” she chirped with a frisky giggle.

Arthur nodded in impatient muteness, while crashing his lips on hers in such a reckless way their feet ended up nearly tripping on the way to the couch. At the same time, he got rid of his underwear, undoing her braids, bicolored mane perfectly lining her curves now.

A firm push to throw her to the couch was just the beginning. She almost landed completely on her back, if it weren’t for her arms avoiding it.

“Easy, clown man!” her expression turned out to be so funny for the loner to let a cackle loose. From her angle, Arthur looked so frighteningly dominant. It embellished his figure like a statue, his disheveled hair highlighting the hungry and desperate expression which his carnal urges claim to be sated.

The magnificent preface maintains him from a considerable distance from her, surrounding the blonde like a prey, unable to decide what to do to her first. 

Harleen makes the first move. to fulfill her purpose, she held her legs with a provocative glare, limbs hardly exposed her undressed figure to him. The wavy moves made Arthur crawl his way to her like a starving beast.

Her receptive reaction to the kiss motivated his hands to roam over her thighs, directing them up to the knee to untangle her legs, eventually.

A devilish smile approves the suggestive image of her  pressing now his waist, sensing they were so close yet so far of each other. He devoured her mouth avidly at the same time his sense of newfound dominance urged him to place himself above her.

Harleen slid her hands up his battered back, breaking the kiss to hold and scratch his scalp to mumble:

“I want you deep inside me”.

Arthur hid his face on her neck, wallowing in the gentleness of her touches. She clings to his arms, abandoning all defenses, letting him know she was totally his to possess.

His biceps accentuate by supporting himself. Long, brow curls fell over the curve of his neck, eyes on her when his hips moved even closer to her. Harleen diverted her attention to it, but she immediately crumpled her lungs for air as Arthur teased the burning folds with the tip, becoming familiar with the part he was going to invade soon.

“More… more, oh, please” her lewd smile, cute little hums and whines mixed with his own shortened breath and surprised but satisfied groans made them forget about the world for a short while. Arthur constantly rubbed his manhood against her moistened entrance, exulting at the furious grunts the sweet torture elicited.

In exchange, she pressed her legs as a slight punishment for such daring move. But she was loving every second of it. Her eyes appreciated the paused caress between their bodies.

Seconds passed when his prolonged absence began to cause her actual pain, wrapping her legs around his hips. He let his hands fell beside her head, to plant a last kiss before proceeding.

"Knock knock" he muttered against her lips.

"Who's there?" She replied with anxious anticipation.

"It’s the mailman, miss. I’ve got an special delivery. It can hardly wait for you to see it"

She widened her eyes in surprise before his boldness to even joke in a moment too intimate as this but ended up exploding in loud cackles that left her breathless. Her reaction caused an expression of fascinated disbelief to take over his face. Both laughed it off shortly to resume were they left off.

His stare, predacious and craving, petrified Harleen.

Once his bare sex perfectly fit her hot, silky intimacy, Harleen  threw her head on the pink velvety pillow, dramatically panting as her body focuses on adhering to this desired invader. His name leaves her mouth as a desperate prayer, as if he was her only saviour, much to his delight.   

"You like that, don't you?" he hissed while giving her body another brutal thrust so she could feel him inside her as intensely as possible.

“Yes!” Harleen replied, not giving a fuck if it sounded indecent, “Arthur, I want all of it, please! Please!”

“All of it?” he smirked, reinforcing his invasion, obtaining louder screams from Harleen, doing her best to deal with the urging length in, searing walls flexing around him.

“Allofit…” but it was unintelligible for him. Arthur was too busy indulging in a deeper intrusion, eyes closed for a better focus. His thrusts were taken over by an animalistic despair, not hesitating to harden the pace even more as the eventual natural need for release set aside any sense of self control.

Nothing could take the wide smile off her.

“You are so good at this, mister Fleck…” the playful praise sounded more like a helpless little whimper, arousing Arthur in ways he would have never imagined. It lead him to lean into her, but she quickly took advantage of it by captivating his form, legs pressing his hips to deepen the intrusion even more.

Arthur threw his head back, stopping for a moment to process the pleasure the abrupt move had caused on him. Harleen contemplated in silent joy how his arms had taken a more muscular shape, gifting him an evil, yet charming smile when she held his face with both hands to pepper it with kisses, holding to his back as if her life depends on it, body ready and eager to obtain more of him.

He slowly made his way out of her just to violently slam back in, causing soft sobs that ended in more desperate praises, which played an important part during the act.

“Keep fucking me like that… I beg you” he closed his eyes, ecstatic, lips parted.

“I will” he gasped.

As soon as she moans his name, Arthur sensed his last sense of self control disappear. He could feel her nails in the skin of his back, which doubled the joy of another brutal thrust into her, exhausted groans leaving his throat. Harleen squirmed while dealing with the intense pleasure his unmerciful pace caused on her.

“Arthurarthurarthurarthurarthur” the blonde called him before losing her own sense of reality, the last coherent word before a lovely, mellifluous mixture of moans, groans, grunts and sobs seized her lips.

Him.

It was all about him, she realized. She swore everything had lost into oblivion. There was nothing except the throbbing welcome her tight walls granted to his twitching gristle.

In that moment she finally comprehended his impact on her life, remembering all the good moments they had shared, everything that led them to this moment, so close to end the act with thunderous moans.

She wasn’t afraid to accept this man had become her entire life since she had lied eyes on him, the first and last person she thought about every time she woke up and certainly the reason why sudden smiles traced her lips during work.  

However, her body warned them about the proximity of the peak when the pulsing grip around him intensified, interrupting the happy daydreaming about him, returning her to the raw reality she was protagonist of.   

The gorgeous moaning mess he had done from her had encouraged the loner to fasten the rhythm, loving to bring her to the brink, frantic spasms whipping his nerves while her moans echoed louder and louder. Her features showed an agonizing expression, lips partly open but unable to utter anything, mind fogged by lightheadedness.

“Arthur, I can’t— I—” the violent, feverish orgasm caught her unprepared: a blaring, euphoric cry served as the glorious conclusion of their union.

Arthur found the strength to distance himself from her, far too weak to resist the temptation to earn a good vision of her naked body in that moment. Harleen was still numb, hair covering her face like a curtain, blue strands all over her chest, contrasting with her pale skin. He followed the long mane down, eyeing her quivering figure, so full of him. He stopped to stare at their sexes still caught in a sore and reddened embrace.

The loner eventually surrendered with a powerful groan, exploding inside of her. He exhaled in stunned relief and sexual bliss. His eyes behold such beauty so full of him, retaining him even when her moans indicate that it was too much for her to bear. This let an even wilder side of him to appear when pushing slightly deeper, thinking it would go unnoticed, but she was too immersed in her thoughts about the man who lied over her. The stillness helped her to put her mind in order, dimensioning this feelings blooming in her heart.

It was hard to stare at each other at this point, but she slowly turned her head to see him despite the blue mane hinders a proper sight of him. Sunlight shone brightly on his face, curls tousled, from what she could see. It was like a little light of happiness shining at last. For the others, he was a deranged creep, but in that moment, Harleen felt he was the most beautiful man she had ever met in her life.

The blurred image eventually became sharper when his face came closer to hers, oozing his seed inside Harleen through his spurred flesh. It felt like hours passed by.

Small beads of sweat formed on his forehead, his open mouthed  expression was of pure astonishment and fascination. The slender fingers set aside her hair, touching her lips, probably to kiss her again.

But nothing happened. Instead, Arthur decided to break the contact, paying attention to the zone in question.

With slow vehemence, he was finally gone.

The action left a thin, niveous line dripping from the tip, leaking from her in small creeks in a beautiful way their bodies demanded to reconnect each other.

“Fuck” he muttered, grinning. Despite the exhaustion, Harleen mimicked it. They couldn’t say anything else, for words were unnecessary. He wouldn’t know it, but Harleen had already accepted a great truth about him.

She was madly in love with Arthur Fleck. _______________________________________

Weeks passed. It was raining in a cold Thursday on Gotham City when Harleen returned home from work. The garbage strike was worsening, rioters looting any store they could and the mayoral candidate being the focus of criticism and repudiation of people. The reason behind it? She would find it out soon.

A taxi honking distracted from her quest for an answer but that didn’t stop her for too long. She heard people talking about nowadays and what Thomas Wayne had said about people in Gotham after something horrible had happened in the filthy subway. The macabre part awakened her curiosity. Was there something she didn’t know about? She looked for a kiosk at the end of the every block to see if there were papers about the aforementioned topic.

It was near a telephone cabin when Harleen finally found what she was looking for… but she didn’t know where to start. Just a headline in bold was enough to freeze her:

KILLER CLOWN ON THE LOOSE

LATEST NEWS ON THE MURDERS

[swifty-fox]

dude! more history rants, that was great!! I honestly probably learned more in that than I ever have in a history class

dude! Learning about history is SO much better when the person you’re listening to has a genuine passion for it! My Russian prof used to take his shoes off and bang on the table to prove his point, he would imitate historical figures down to the Russian accent (with great skill he lived in the USSR through the entire nineties which if you know anything about nineties Russia that is a FEAT. His wife to be at the time ((now a german history prof at my college)) was offered a ride in a helicopter by the Russian mob. She declined) 

Russian history is also just such a rich and dramatic and WILD history. Theres so many things to focus on like an entire semester was spent JUST studying the revolution and that was only an introductory course

Anyways since I’m here and can rant lets talk about two fun things! Lenins  name and his family as well as Vasily Grossmans greatest and most controversial works!

So Vladimir Lenin is a pretty iconic name. A pretty cool name in fact! Really rolls off the tongue and strikes FEAR into enemies hearts.

Did ya know it’s not his fuckin name? Nope! the guy straight up chose a new last name for himself! This former law student (oh yeah he wasn't even a politician no wonder the fucko didn't know how to run a country) was actually born Vladimir Ulyanov! 

but why the name change? Ulyanov is still pretty easy to say, still pretty memorable. Rolls of the tongue so on and so forth.

this, ladies, gentlemen, and everything in between and beyond, is because of Lenins older brother Aleksandr Ulyanov! 

(this guy has better hair than i could ever hope to, thanks diluted slav genes) 

now sweet Aleks here was also four years Vladimirs Senior and was also a revolutionary! (seems like it ran in the family) 

Not only was he a revolutionary but he was a MASSIVELY FAMOUS ONE and kinda helped set the ENTIRE downfall of the soviet union in motion long before the revolution was even a whisper of a thought. 

How you ask? well uh.

he tried to kill Tsar Nikolas II’s dad. 

yes, that Tsar Nikolas who later was overthrown and was executed by firing squad. Sorry the Romanovs are all very very dead we found all their bodies the animated movie was very wrong. 

Anyways, sweet kolya’s father was Tsar Alexander III and he was known throughout the land as the Peacemaker! 

(also yes they're both called Aleksandr. Russians only have like. Ten names to choose from)

wow sounds like he must be a great guy with a nickname like that huh? Why would anyone wanna kill him! Sadly, the nickname is only because Russia entered no wars under his rule. He was in fact, a huge bastard. Outside of being physically and emotionally abusive to his family (he would often berate Nikolai for being weak which definitely led to some of his issues with his authority and pride being questioned later on...) he was incredibly reactionary and heavy handed when it came to ruling. he opposed ANY movement that might minimize his authority as emperor. He was famous for executing a LOT of anti-imperialist terrorists.

he also looked like this

not to insult bulldogs but this guy sure looks like one. 

Anyways, Aleksandr Ulyanov helps devise a plot wherein he and a bunch of other revolutionaries will ride by Tsar Alek’s carriage and chuck a bomb through his window and then boom no more emperor. basically, it was the 1887 version of a drive by shooting. 

Naturally, it failed, otherwise we wouldn’t be talking about this! Anyways, All the conspirators were captured and sentenced to death. (5 were later pardoned none of which were Lenins brother.) They were all hanged.

Although Lenin was involved in politics before this to some degree, this action really radicalized him and really got the ball rolling for the eventual Soviet Union. Talk about butterfly effect. 

Alright time for history lesson part TWO!! Lets talk about Vasily Grossman and his work In The Town of Berdichev! Though more technically I will be talking more about the film adaptation titled Commissar(1967). 

quick background time! Vasily Grossman was born to a Jewish family and due to prosecution (of both Jewish people and Ukrainians) at the time was forced to conceal his heritage. He actually studied to be a chemist at first and was quite successful until he transitioned later in life to being a writer and reporter! His accounts of the Ukrainian famine are the some of the most detailed accounts as well as the most controversial (to the Russian state) he also was a war reporter for WWII and intensively documented the ethnic cleansing going on. Understandably.

he was strongly supported by Maksim Gorky! (yes that Maksim Gorky, famous writer, and the man who helped develop the entire soviet education system that kinda was just brainwashing and propaganda. Reportedly later in life he considered that to be one of his greatest regrets((he was also a massive homophobe too because same sex relationships were actually legal for a while there in russia!))

Long story short, Vasya believed strongly in several things. he believed in the human spirit, he believed in supporting his Jewish brethren, he believed strongly in mother Russia and the communist party. But more than that he believed that those who do not learn from our mistakes are doomed to repeat them. 

Thus came about his work. I’ll post a quick plot summary here from Wikipedia of the movie. it’s a really good film honestly I highly recommend it. 

“During the Russian Civil War (1918–1922), a female commissar of the Red Army cavalry Klavdia Vavilova (Nonna Mordyukova) finds herself pregnant. Until her child is born, she is forced to stay with the family of a poor Jewish blacksmith Yefim Magazannik (Rolan Bykov), his wife, mother-in-law, and six children. At first, both the Magazannik family and "Madame Vavilova", as they call her, are not enthusiastic about living under one roof, but soon they share their rationed food, make her civilian clothes, and help her with the delivery of her newborn son. Vavilova seemingly embraces motherhood, civilian life, and new friends.Meanwhile, the frontline advances closer to the town and the Jews expect a pogrom by the White Army as the Red Army retreats. Vavilova attempts to console them with a Communist dream: "One day people will work in peace and harmony", but the dream is interrupted with a vision of the fate of the Jews in the coming world war. She rushes to the front to rejoin her army regiment, leaving her newborn behind.“

- White army was the anti-soviet army during the revolution. Red Army was the soviets. Pogroms were targeted areas of ethnic cleansing against Jewish peoples, namely they were villages or towns that were wiped out. 

this film was banned for something like forty years for anti-soviet sentiment. But why? it seems pretty damn pro-soviet doesn't it? 

Well firstly lets talk about how oppressive the soviet regime was by this point! In 1967 Russia was in the dying throes of Stalins regime. Yes he had died a little over a decade earlier but the government was still very much being run by his ideals. All independent newspapers were banned. EVERYTHING every single piece of art, literature, news, commercial, WHATEVER, had to be state approved. And by god was it hard to get things approved. Grossman routinely wrote of his frustrations and struggles of getting anything published because if a Russain character was portrayed as anything but a happy go lucky communist then it would be censored. Grossman first ran into this issue when he was reporting on the iron and coal mines in siberia. the conditions were terrible but Grossman had to lie and say everything was fine. It let to a real crisis of ideals for him.

The first red mark against this movie is that well, it focuses on a woman. It’s an incredibly feminist movie, with the idea of motherhood and duty and the strength of a woman being just as much if not more than a man. (for reference a Commissar is like an army Officer) 

Secondly, she abandons her post! to have a child! In communist Russia NOTHING comes before your duty to the motherland. But again she eventually realizes that the call of her country is stronger than the call of this simple maternal life and she does go on to fight so why is this a problem?

Well ultimately, it boils down to the final scene. 

"One day people will work in peace and harmony" she says. An entirely pro-soviet message. But then it is instantly contradicted by footage of the holocaust. This is a visual representation fo Grossman saying that although the communist ideal is strong in the soviet union that they are being blinded by false enemies, prejudices and will find themselves committing such atrocities (of course they already are but again he DID still support the Soviet State) Basically it was a warning to the Soviet Party! Learn from the mistakes that were made and gentle themselves!

And this, this was a criticism of the Soviet party! And thus, it was shelved for nearly twenty years.

It finally was shown again in the late 80′s  

Grossman, after attempting to publish his magnum opus, Life and Fate, had his flat raided by the KGB and all his notes, manuscripts, letters, books, publications, and pretty much his life's work were confiscated. Grossman died in the mid 1960′s of stomach cancer not knowing if any of his writings or best works would ever be seen or published again. 

Thankfully they were found and published and his massively important legacy lives on in the people who know about him. But his story is a very bittersweet one indeed. 

you can watch the full movie here with English captions! 

(tw: imagery of holocaust, some anti-semitism (if i recall) some children without any clothes bathing if i recall (its not weird but I know it was shocking for me to see at first))

(maybe I’ll talk about the TRUE story of Rasputin another time...) 

[noxacclaro]

How to recognize domestic abuse and react

10% of people are in an abusive relationship. 20 to 40% of women have been raped. 60 to 80% of people have been sexually harassed at one point in their live.

TALK ABOUT IT. IT SAVE LIFES. AVOIDING THE SUBJECT GIVE MORE POWER TO ABUSERS.

Because life is not about physically functioning, but about not having to fear what the next day will bring, and feeling respected and respecting others.

I've found this article on mayoclinic.org. I've modified it to fit all genders (since it was mainly talking about men abused) and add others things, but otherwise it's still mostly the same.

"Abusive relationships always involve an imbalance of power and control. An abuser uses intimidating, hurtful words and behaviors to control his or her partner.

It might not be easy to recognize domestic violence against men. Early in the relationship, your partner might seem attentive, generous and protective in ways that later turn out to be controlling and frightening. Initially, the abuse might appear as isolated incidents. Your partner might apologize and promise not to abuse you again.

You might be experiencing domestic violence if your partner:

Calls you names, insults you or puts you down

Prevents you from going to work or school

Stops you from seeing family members or friends -its called isolation and it stop you from getting help. It's really really dangerous if you let it be

Tries to control how you spend money, where you go or what you wear

Acts jealous or possessive or constantly accuses you of being unfaithful

Gets angry when drinking alcohol or using drugs

Threatens you with violence or a weapon

Hits, kicks, shoves, slaps, chokes or otherwise hurts you, your children or your pets

Forces you to have sex or engage in sexual acts against your will

Blames you for his or her violent behavior or tells you that you deserve it

If you're gay, bisexual or transgender, you might also be experiencing domestic violence if you're in a relationship with someone who:

Threatens to tell friends, family, colleagues or community members your sexual orientation or gender identity

Tells you that authorities won't help a gay, bisexual or transgender person

Tells you that leaving the relationship means you're admitting that gay, bisexual or transgender relationships are deviant

Justifies abuse by telling you that you're not "really" gay, bisexual or transgender

Says that men are naturally violent"

Don't listen. Nobody have a say on who is in your bed. What is happening in your bedroom stay in your bedroom. It's private. If the person/s is/are in age and consenting it's nobody's fucking business. Even your family's or your friend's.

"Don't take the blame

You may not be sure whether you're the victim or the abuser. It's common for survivors of domestic violence to act out verbally or physically against the abuser, yelling, pushing or hitting him or her during conflicts. The abuser may use such incidents to manipulate you, describing them as proof that you are the abusive partner.

You may have developed unhealthy behaviors. Many survivors do. That doesn't mean you are at fault for the abuse.

If you're having trouble identifying what's happening, take a step back and look at larger patterns in your relationship. Then, review the signs of domestic violence. In an abusive relationship, the person who routinely uses these behaviors is the abuser. The person on the receiving end is being abused."

Being abused do not make you weak. It mean that someone, one day, decided to not respect your consent, your statue of a living being and make your life hell. If you want to, you can get your life back. It will not be the same, you'll have changed, but you'll do. And you'll be happy.

"Even if you're still not sure, seek help. Intimate partner violence causes physical and emotional damage — no matter who is at fault.

Children and abuse

Domestic violence affects children, even if they're just witnesses. If you have children, remember that exposure to domestic violence puts them at risk of developmental problems, psychiatric disorders, problems at school, aggressive behavior and low self-esteem. You might worry that seeking help could further endanger you and your children, or that it might break up your family. Fathers [and mothers] might fear that abusive partners will try to take their children away from them. However, getting help is the best way to protect your children — and yourself."

Don't leave your children. Even to put yourself in security. Take them with you. If you bring the affair to the court, you'll be depicted as hysterical and dangerous to your kids. It's and error to absolutely not do.

"Break the cycle

If you're in an abusive situation, you might recognize this pattern:

Your abuser threatens violence.

Your abuser strikes you.

Your abuser apologizes, promises to change and offers gifts."

The cycle repeats itself. It will not stop, and it will go worse. No-one, even the worse of the criminal, deserves it. Even if the abuser show remorse, it will. not. last. It's either a psychological pathology (and the abuser can only heal far from the victim with a medical team) or it's of pure want to hurt and control. Either way, if you stay, it will only. go. worse.

"Typically the violence becomes more frequent and severe over time.

Domestic violence can leave you depressed, anxious and at increased risk of problems with alcohol or drugs. Because men are traditionally thought to be physically stronger than women, you might be less likely to report domestic violence in your heterosexual relationship due to embarrassment. You might also worry that the significance of the abuse will be minimized because you're a man. Similarly, a man being abused by another man might be reluctant to talk about the problem because of how it reflects on his masculinity or because it exposes his sexual orientation.

If you seek help, you also might confront a shortage of resources for male victims of domestic violence. Health care providers and other contacts might not think to ask if your injuries were caused by domestic violence, making it harder to open up about abuse. You might fear that if you talk to someone about the abuse, you'll be accused of wrongdoing yourself. Remember, though, if you're being abused, you aren't to blame — and help is available.

Start by telling someone about the abuse, whether it's a friend, relative, health care provider or other close contact. At first, you might find it hard to talk about the abuse. However, you'll also likely feel relief and receive much-needed support.

Create a safety plan

Leaving an abuser can be dangerous. Consider taking these precautions.

Call a domestic violence hotline for advice. Make the call at a safe time — when the abuser isn't around — or from a friend's house or other safe location.

Pack an emergency bag that includes items you'll need when you leave, such as extra clothes and keys. Leave the bag in a safe place. Keep important personal papers, money and prescription medications handy so that you can take them with you on short notice.

Know exactly where you'll go and how you'll get there."

If you've been isolated from your old friends and from you family, even if they're mad at you, go to them. If you explain, if they loved you once, they'll take care of you and help you get back your life.

"Protect your communication and location

An abuser can use technology to monitor your telephone and online communication and to track your physical location. If you're concerned for your safety, seek help. To maintain your privacy:

Use phones cautiously. Your abuser might intercept calls and listen to your conversations. He or she might use caller ID, check your cellphone or search your phone billing records to see your complete call and texting history.

Use your home computer cautiously. Your abuser might use spyware to monitor your emails and the websites you visit. Consider using a computer at work, at the library or at a friend's house to seek help.

Remove GPS devices from your vehicle. Your abuser might use a GPS device to pinpoint your location.

Frequently change your email password. Choose passwords that would be impossible for your abuser to guess.

Clear your viewing history." If you want to avoid attracting the attention of your abuser, clear only the things they would see as incriminating.

"Where to seek help

In an emergency, call 911 — or your local emergency number or law enforcement agency." The 911 is an international emergency number. You can use it anywhere in the world and have someone at the other end. "The following resources also can help:

Someone you trust. Turn to a friend, relative, neighbor, co-worker, or religious or spiritual adviser for support.

National Domestic Violence Hotline: 800-799-SAFE (800-799-7233). The hotline provides crisis intervention and referrals to resources.

Your health care provider. Doctors and nurses will treat injuries and can refer you to other local resources.

A counseling or mental health center. Counseling and support groups for people in abusive relationships are available in most communities.

A local court. Your district court can help you obtain a restraining order that legally mandates the abuser to stay away from you or face arrest. Local advocates may be available to help guide you through the process.

Domestic violence against [people] can have devastating effects. Although you may not be able to stop your partner's abusive behavior, you can seek help. Remember, no one deserves to be abused."

[Again]

TALK ABOUT IT. IT SAVE LIFES. AVOIDING THE SUBJECT GIVE MORE POWER TO ABUSERS.

Because life is not about physically functioning, but about not having to fear what the next day will bring, and feeling respected and respecting others.

[kootenaygoon]

So,

Until I moved to the Kootenays in 2014, I’d never been politically engaged enough to be able to make an informed vote at the municipal level. Politically I had UVic-style leftward leanings, but that didn’t mean I understood the implications of the sort of decisions a city’s mayor and council would make. What did I know about bylaws? Or taxes? I thought it was stupid that we had to buy stickers to put on our garbage bags, but beyond that I didn’t have any pressing concerns about how they were running things down at Nelson city hall. 

With the election coming up, I knew I had to wrap my head around the various issues in the city and how they related to the people we were voting into power. The mental health crisis was going to be a talking point, I knew from Police Chief Wayne Holland, and there was talk the dog bylaw might finally be overturned. The most interesting element to me was weed legalization and its implications. The hottest topic was affordable housing. When Calvin assigned me to interview all of the city council and mayoral candidates, at first I felt daunted by the scope of the project — more than 10 interviews and thousands of words over the course of a few weeks. I realized pretty quick, though, it was my opportunity to deep-dive into this shit. 

If I was going to be a real journalist, I would have to get into politics.

Greg was on the city hall beat at that point, and anytime Tamara, Calvin or I had a question about the election or the people involved, it was him we went to. Some of the candidates Greg knew from growing up in the area, others from covering them in previous elections, but there was nobody he couldn’t give us a multi-year rundown on. He would swivel in his chair and gesticulate with one scholarly finger in the air, opining in his radio announcer voice. The longer I worked alongside him the more I admired his encyclopedic knowledge, how relentless he was about pursuing the truth, sometimes scouring through old archives to better understand a crime that happened 100 years before he was born and other times harassing clerks to get damning documents on criminals still working their way through the court system. He was the Star’s greatest asset, and everybody understood that.

One afternoon I sat in the newsroom with Greg and talked about the elections of the past and how they influenced the one coming up. He told me Phil McMillan, the compassion club director, had run for mayor on a cannabis slate around ten years previous. And a local actor named Richard Rowberry had campaigned as the ghost of Nelson’s first mayor, John “Truth” Houston. One former mayor he spoke about with affection was Dave Elliot, who was remembered mostly in town for stopping an expansion of the local Walmart. The executives were in back-room negotiations to double the store’s size into the next lot when Elliot broke confidentiality and raised the alarm with the community. Ultimately he purchased the neighbouring land, along with a number of other Nelson families, just to stop the deal from going ahead. The property had been sitting vacant ever since — a visual testament to the Kootenay spirit of opposing development. A number of projects had tried to get off the ground there, including a condo complex, but the math just didn’t seem to be right. It was prime lakeside property, fenced off, the yard full of abandoned machines, broken concrete and waist-high grass. 

Depending on who you asked, it was this move that got ultimately got Elliot ousted. Some felt he over-stepped. The right-wing types felt he was too hippy dippy, and wanted someone who would champion the small businesses on Baker Street with more diligence. Dooley was a reliably conservative city councillor at this point, and ended up taking the big seat in 2005. By the time I showed up in the Kootenays he was the longest serving Nelson mayor in history. 

According to Greg, Dooley was hyper-popular and heavily favoured to win. But there were murmurings in the community about dissatisfaction. He seemed like a perfect Irish gentleman to me, polite and amiable, but apparently some felt he was a a bully in the council chambers — as evidenced by the signs stapled to telephone poles around town that read ‘Bully for Mayor’. That being said, he had a number of impressive accomplishments under his belt and had proven himself adept at finding new revenue streams for the community, whether it was from the provincial and federal governments or from organizations like the Columbia Basin Trust. Many credited his contribution for making the new skate park possible. No matter what anyone said, they couldn’t question that he loved his community deeply, and wanted to create a better future for its residents.

*

Then there were the cops.

“What are they going to do about that cop that punched the woman? That’s what I want to know,” Paisley asked one evening, while I was watching TV. She had come up with a plan, along with her new burlesque friends, to hold a topless protest outside the NPD station. 

She carefully poured vegan muffin batter in to a baking sheet.

“I can’t believe we’ve got a proven woman-puncher just working away at the police station like nothing happened. That fucker needs to be fired.”

“He still might be. Depends on how things go with the trial.”

“What’s left to know? Didn’t he admit doing it?”

That situation was an ongoing black eye for the NPD, and they were also under scrutiny because they were requesting a $300,000 boost to their budget. Another smouldering question was how they would deal with the end of cannabis prohibition. They were still busting people routinely, whether it was for grow-ops or possession, and residents wanted to know when that would change. The new mayor would be head of the Nelson Police Board, giving them power over Holland and his force, so this was an opportunity for pot advocates to land an ally in a strategic spot. Dooley was openly hostile to cannabis, and had gone on record a few years previous vehemently opposing an anti-violence initiative related to pot decriminalization, so he clearly wasn’t the right champion. That’s why a new provincial organization called Sensible BC, represented by pot activist Dana Larsen, announced its intentions to get involved in an attempt to eject him. 

They wanted someone pot-friendly running the province’s weed capital.

One afternoon I met the local Sensible BC representative, Herb Couch, who was perfectly named for his position. He wanted to see less money wasted policing cannabis, and announced his intention to quiz each candidate on their stance and instruct his followers to vote accordingly. Couch had the backing of Phil McMillan and over 1000 dispensary members, so his influence wouldn’t be insignificant. He was a chill, soft-spoken former high school teacher sporting a signature cowboy hat and a vibrant orange shirt. Relentless about his activism, to the point of annoying some, he’d also been a vocal advocate for the preservation of Red Sands Beach. 

I liked him right away.

“Sharon wants to know why we’re writing so many stories about pot,” Calvin said, after the interview with Couch ran. “I don’t think she’s a fan of this Herb character.”

“So many stories? We’ve just done the one.”

“Well, and it’s come up as a topic in some of the other stories about the election. The candidate profiles, a few of them had whole sections about their views on weed.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“She says this isn’t even a relevant municipal issue. Legalization is a federal issue.”

“Right, but it has municipal implications.”

“Like what?”

“Well, like it will affect the police budget. How’s that not relevant?”

“Let’s just cool if with all the weed stuff, okay? People want to know about their taxes, about affordable housing, about all kinds of other stuff. This whole election can’t just be about marijuana.”

*

The moment Severyn announced his candidacy, the campaigning got ugly. Late-night vandals drove all around multiple neighbourhoods to collect his lawn signs, which featured cartoon moustaches, and dump them outside of town. He showed up at the Star office distraught, frustrated that his comrades in the police department weren’t doing more to figure out who the culprits were. (“You know how much those things cost? And that comes right out of my pocket,” Severyn lamented.) He made totally inappropriate accusations about Dooley, yelling in our foyer, and the rhetoric continued to devolve from there. It was clear to even the casual observer that the two men absolutely hated each other. 

Dooley was furious that Severyn would even consider running against him, and more furious that the political dunce seemed to have hundreds of voters’ worth of support. He took it as a personal insult. During campaign events Dooley barely contained his frustration. I watched him repeatedly lose his cool.

Into this mix came Deb Kozak. Sporting a tidy grey bob and a simple pearl necklace, she had a sing-song friendliness to her voice and a fierce determination in her eyes. She’d been on council with Dooley and, though she wouldn’t say it directly, clearly had issues with his leadership. Observers believed she would’ve never been able to take Dooley on in a two-way race, but with Severyn as a wild card she stood a chance to take a strategic majority. If successful, she would be the first female elected mayor in history — a feat fellow councillor Donna Macdonald had tried and failed to accomplish twice. Deb had a maternal energy, and a general optimism about bringing people together and accomplishing positive things. It was a hopeful time in politics, with Obama in power down in the U.S., and I believed things were trending upwards. Culturally we were evolving, and our leadership reflected that, right down to the municipal level. By the end of our first interview it was clear she had my vote, whether I could admit it openly or not. 

She seemed audacious.

“One thing I’ve learned as a councillor, and even before that, is I’m good at conversation. And I’m good at welcoming even difficult conversations. We have a diverse community, and sometimes that leads to conflict. I think you work through those things, and you make better decisions when all those groups are pulled together, or at least have an opportunity to share what they think about the future,” she said.

Kozak had arrived in Nelson in the 80s, just after David Thompson University and the Kootenay Forest Products plant shut down. The economic downturn was in full swing, and she’d been inspired by the ambitious moves made by the council at the time. They set out to give the downtown core a makeover, making it more attractive to tourists.

“It was a very frightening time. But it was at that time that the council of the day took a bold step forward to rejuvenate Baker. They said ‘we’re going to rip off all the old clapboards off these beautiful buildings and we’re going to go for it,” she said.

She wanted to be similarly ambitious. 

“I bring to the table experience, passion, heart and mind. What I have to offer is almost fearless exploration of who we can be.”

The Kootenay Goon

[jbuffyangel]

Mid Life Crisis: Arrow 6x20 Review (Shifting Allegiances)

“Shifting Allegiances” is a step up from “The Dragon.” A small step, but a step none the less. I’m coping with back to back bad episodes by viewing them as the filler stepping stones to 6x21-6x23 that they are. Who’s with me?

We’ll make this short & hopefully painless. Let’s dig in…

Diggle and The Noobs

I will stop calling the Noobs the Noobs when they stop acting link dinkleheads. This is not that episode.  

Rene is back and it makes me sad because I did not miss him at all. Curtis and Dinah can say what they want, but it’s not a “hero’s welcome” when the hero tried to kill another hero with an axe.  

Annnd… then a bunch of stuff happens. Listen, I tried to pay attention. Really I did. I just couldn’t because I was so bored. 

The Noobs go up against The Quadrant, but all that matters is a Quadrant flunkie has a rocket launcher and it’s nifty. I have all the Buffy feels.

Rene has some form of PTSD and is now afraid to go into the field because he might die. I guess? Is this PTSD from Oliver kicking him in the chest? Listen up Hoss, you went all Jack Torrance on Oliver. 

Actually, I think Jack may have been more reasonable. There’s a very linear cause and effect line to draw. So, here’s some tips:

1.    Don’t swing an axe at Oliver.

2.    Then Oliver won’t kick you in the chest.

3.    Thus avoiding accidental near death experiences.

 Follow this simple three step process and you’ll be fine Rene. 

I don’t know why it didn’t occur to Rene before this that he could die in the field, but I can assure him it won’t be at Oliver’s hand – as long as Rene PUTS DOWN THE FUCKING AXE. I am a little bitter. I doubt that will be fading.

Diggle spends the majority of the episode saving the Noobs’ ass, so really nothing has changed by switching from Team Arrow to A.R.G.U.S. Can we please talk about that uniform? I’ve seen flight attendants with better uniforms than that. How is this “suit” any better than SPARTAN? For god sake Diggle, you switched from Kevlar leather to polyester. The fashion alone points to what a colossal error this is.

Diggle also apologizes to the Noobs. Just insert all my screaming about Felicity apologizing to Curtis in my 6x19 review here. 

Of course, the Noobs say absolutely NOTHING in return because they are the most petulant toddlers to ever exist. Where is Super Nanny when you need her?!!!

I don’t mind that Diggle and Felicity apologize. They are the bigger people. They always have been. This is not a shock or out of character. They were the bigger and better people weeks ago when they apologized with Oliver and tried to squash this beef.  OTA has always been on the high road.

However, I do mind that the Noobs haven’t apologized in return yet.  No one apologizes to John for messing with his chip and putting his life in danger. So, the Noobs can suck it. SO. MUCH. SUCK. IT.

There’s a significantly pregnant pause from Rene after John’s apology. It’s the perfect time to apologize and he just… doesn’t. Yet, this pause highlights how necessary it is for Rene to apologize even more and how awful it is he hasn’t. It feels intentional because the same thing happened with Curtis when Felicity apologized.

So, my only conclusion is the Noobs haven’t apologized yet because their spiral into toddlerdom is a 23-episode arc and they will remove head from ass by the finale. Or at least that’s my hope. 

The other possibility is the Arrow writers have forgotten how apologies work and someone will need to reintroduce them to the rules we all learned in kindergarten. The massive pregnant pause does offer a glimmer this is not the case though.

Diggle decides he’s going to trust the Noobs (the same people who messed with his chip and put his life in danger) more than Oliver Queen, his best friend and brother of six years. 

You know what? Imma gonna cut Diggle some slack because Diggle is not Diggle right now. This version of John Diggle is having a midlife crisis. 

His boy is all done and grow’d up.  This has sent John into a tailspin. He is asking the questions we all ask when we inevitably hit the midpoint of life. What is the meaning of all of this? What is my purpose? WHO AM I?

Has Oliver gone to Diggle for advice this season? I honestly can’t think of one time. In fact, Oliver has been giving Diggle advice. We’ve all had the major case of the wiggins from Oliver’s whole and healed routine. We’re more annoyed with John than Oliver right now. This season is just really unnerving.

Sure, Oliver finally married Felicity – something Diggle told him to do three years ago. So, John can chalk that up to Oliver finally doing what he’s told. But I bet John was banking on some colossal fuck ups parenting William, but Oliver went to FELICITY for that.

Diggle, as first wife, graciously steps aside for the second wife. Then, Oliver gives him the Green Arrow mantle and suddenly John has a new lease on life. The nagging question of “How am I needed?” is answered with a new purpose. Rather than raising the Green Arrow, Diggle will be the Green Arrow. But then Oliver asks for the hood back and Diggle is back to square one. Those questions come rushing back.

So I’m equating this break up with Team Arrow and his alliance with the Noobs to Diggle buying a sports car. At least he didn’t lose his mind completely and cheat on Lyla. Although, technically speaking Oliver is his second wife (Lyla is one and three), so we could make the argument that’s exactly what Diggle did in “Shifting Allegiances.”

Never mind Diggle still has a son to raise. Never mind he’s a crucial and integral member of Team Arrow as Spartan. Never mind Oliver Queen will always need John (even if he needs him in a different way now.) These are all details Diggle can’t see right now because he’s taking a big swig from the Crazy Jar. It happens to the best of us. My dad bought a really big boat. My mother bought a new house. I’m almost 37.  When I round 40 I’ll probably buy some obscenely expensive jewelry because sparkly things make me happy. We all cope with our inevitable and looming demise, and the meaning of life questions that come with it, differently. For Diggle, it’s breaking up with his bromance partner and wearing really bad polyester.

Oliver Queen

Oliver is still on his “I work alone” mantra. He tries to get Anatoly’s position back in the Bratva… I think? I am mostly annoyed Oliver went to Russia without Felicity and we were cheated yet again from a Russian rendezvous love scene.

Anatoly doesn’t want the Bratva anymore, which then begs the question then why is he still mad at Oliver? Nobody is really here for logic though right? Right.

When Anatoly asks about Oliver’s friends he responds

Source: @olivergifs​

See, this is what I love about Oliver Queen. John Diggle dumps him and life ceases to have meaning – friendship wise. What about Felicity or Lance? Hell, I’ll even toss in William! Nope. Oliver has no friends. Not without John.

Anatoly kidnaps Oliver and brings him to Diaz, except Oliver wants to get kidnapped so it’s not really kidnapping. Dragon agrees to leave Star City if Oliver can kick his ass. I am happy to report Arrow has not completely lost their damn mind. Oliver promptly kicks Dragon’s ass. However, Oliver is still a bowl full of rainbows and gives Ricardo the chance to yield before snapping his neck. Season 1 Oliver did have his good points.  Ricardo pulls a knife out and stabs Oliver. 

I can accept the only way Ricardo Diaz can win a fight with Oliver Queen is by cheating. What I cannot accept is Oliver “I was trained by Slade, Shado, Maseo, The Bratva and Ra's Al Ghul" Queen didn't see it coming.

Source: @olivergifs​

He did THANK GOD. The point was to show Anatoly which man has honor.  It’s Oliver.

Whatever. Oliver could prove the same point by drinking Diaz under the table with Russian vodka. It’d be a whole lot more fun and less messy. Well… more fun at least.

Source: @olivergifs​

Anyways, enough of the filler. Diaz decides to speed up Oliver’s court date and we’re off to the races. Literally, the only thing keeping me holding on during this episode is we will see THIS FACE next week.

Source:  the-scarlet-archer

Bl*ck S*ren

Arrow continually telling me Diaz is the biggest bad we've ever faced and is all the evil that evil can be every five minutes doesn't equate to the character actually BEING those things.

Bl*ck S*ren’s behavior towards Diaz shines a glaring light on this issue. BS is a meta human. She can scream until a person’s blood vessels pop. We’ve seen her do it several times. So all of this “Diaz is so cruel. He burned a man,” is a bunch of bullshit and really insulting to Bl*ck S*ren.

LL fans were ready to tear the writers apart when Felicity knocked BS on her ass with one punch. *excuse to use this gif again*

But DIAZ they are okay with? I have yet to see Diaz do anything that would put him in the same league as Merlyn, Slade, Ra’s Al Ghul, Damien Darhk and Prometheus. Honestly, what does it say about BS that she’s afraid of him? Nothing good my friends! If Diaz is Arrow’s lamest Big Bad then this fear shtick automatically makes BS even lamer than Diaz. That’s just maths.

Sadly, BS is the ball in the ping pong game between Diaz and Lance. Either Diaz is teaching her how to villain or Lance is teaching BS how to be low level human.  She can pretend she’s the toughest baddie in town, but BS basically sits around waiting for a man to tell her what to do. No thanks. I’d like to order a strong female character with a side of agency, please.

This is also the reason why her “redemption” is feeling unearned. BS flip flops back and forth so many times it’s hard to believe she’s truly invested in good or evil.  She’s just hitching her ride to the man who fits her mood.

I’ve probably said this before, but I would have preferred that the writers go balls to the wall with BS and make her the season’s Big Bad versus the season’s Big Bad’s girlfriend. It just feels like a lot of untapped potential. It’d be a hell of a lot more interesting for Team Arrow to fight with the woman wearing their friend’s face, but is intent on destroying the city. Rather than watch this substandard goon clunking around and BS kowtowing to him. THY NAME IS AGENCY.

At least Lance grew a pair for half a second this episode. More evidence he’s going to die. I guess we’re supposed to infer Bl*ck S*ren’s fear while Diaz pawed her like a kitty in front of Lance, but the whole scene is just off putting. The idea of these two people snogging gives me no joy, but I was never under the impression BS was banging this bag of dicks because she was scared of him. When did we get to sex under duress? I feel like we missed a step. Ugh. I’m trying to logic my way through this and there’s just no point. 

The one thing I can always count on in any version of L*urel L*nce’s character are the inconsistencies. I wear them like a warm blanket.

Stray Thoughts

Amell was really wearing that black coat.

The blood really brings out his eyes. Pretty. Source: @olivergifs

“Where in the ever loving fuck is Felicity?” – Me 15 minutes into the episode.

Disclaimer: Any gifs on the blog are not mine. If you would like a gif removed from my reviews, please message me. 6x20 gifs credited.

[directorslounge]

DIRECTORS LOUNGE AT MITTE MEDIA FESTIVAL

IN THE OTHER SIDE, BY HER SIDE

Program I: Friday, April 20, 5:00 pm – 7:00 pm at  Z-Bar

Ao lado dela, do lado de lá (In the other side, by her side) curated by Elaine Tedesco is a proposal coming from Brazil, that presents contemporary videos of women artists.

The program shows a whole of interests: the city, urban issues, the arts circuit, performance, social problems, speeches and their forms, feminism, audiovisual language, memory, selfimage, daydreaming, etc. For these artists the video is, each with its poetics, one of the media adopted to create their artwork, but not the only one.

The urban space that seems to be the background to most of the videos presented is much more than that, it is the Vortex of these artists’ productions - here as the spinning movement between the urban experience and the personal imaginary space that creates “other places”. In the routine of large metropolises, public spaces become, increasingly, places of passage, and the borders between public and private gradually become more blurred. It should not be forgotten, however, that these spaces of passage have long since become, in a special way, private spaces, among many others, for the homeless, the street sellers, or the performers. In the other side, by her side is organized in four interpenetrating axes: videos that are vectors of other works; daily records; videoperformances; and fictions. complete DL at Mitte Media Festival program here

DL at Mitte Media Festival: In the other side, by her side

Tula Anagnostopoulos - The red carpet, 2017 Rochelle Costi “Negócios à parte”, 2017 Lucia Koch - Yamanaka-san, 2010 Marina Camargo - Brasil, extrativismo (Brazil. Extractivism), 2017 Sandra Becker - Roundtrip , 2017 Marion Velasco - INSTANT BAND, pero esto no es Música. Espanha, 2015/Brasil, 2016 Andressa Cantergiani - Como matar um artista (How to kill one artist), 2017 Viviane Gueller - Camburi (Série Interlúdio) (Interlude series), 2016 Deni Corsino - Faixacorpo, 2017 Lu Rabello - Selfie, 2017 Amanda Teixeira - Changing Rooms, 2017 Dani Amorim - Através (Over), 2017 Natalia Schul - Em pedaços (In slices), 2017 Camila Leichter - Ensaio a pedra (The stone essay), 06 December 2015 - 16 August 2016 Ananda Aliardi - O que tocamos, o que nos toca (What we touch, what touches us), 2017 Daniela Távora and Itapa Rodrigues - Quem vai ser o rato do século XXI (Who will be the mouse of the 21st century), 2017 Ana Paula Pollock  - Crise (Crisis), 2017 Samy Sfoggia  - Aféfé Ikú, 2017

About the videos:

AMANDA TEIXEIRA Changing Rooms,  4'45" (2017) Looking for a place to live in Munich I wrote for more than 100 landlords, I received eight answers, and I visited 3 apartments. How can a house become a home?

ANDRESSA CANTERGIANI Como matar um artista (How to kill one artist), 8′ (2017) From the questions how to kill one artist, how to kill the public and how to kill the work, I perform one action in the middle of the traffic in Porto Alegre, Brazil and Berlin. The video intent a urban analogy about the differences and connections involving the two cities and the artist attitude in relation to authorship and participation in the art system. ANA PAULA CUNHA CRISE (CRISIS), 3'13" (2017) Living a crisis and experiencing a pulsion that creates new signs from a encounter. Crisis is the chaos of the becoming-world: it paints pink upon pink in order to become itself imperceptible in constant contemporary vigilance.

ANANDA ALIARDI O que tocamos, o que nos toca (What we touch, what touches us), 3'57″ (2017) Ineluctable, but it is the split that separates within us what we feel from what touches us: insult is also impulse. The video brings reproductions and reactions to what women instrumentalists hear from men about their competences.

CAMILA LEICHTER Ensaio a pedra (The stone essay),  8'17″ (06 December 2015 - 16 August 2016) Synopsis: I found in Samuel Beckett's Molloy (1947) one language proposition about a image thought to be transformed into action: before the unspeakable of experience, suck the same four stones in succession.

DANI AMORIM Através (Over), 4'7″ (2017) Over it is a reflection about the self-identity and how we offer ourselves be seen by the other. A visual metaphor of resisting and allowing look through our surface, into the real self, without shields.

DANIELA TÁVORA and ITAPA RODRIGUES Quem vai ser o rato do século XXI (Who will be the mouse of the 21st century), 2'53″ (2017) "A white horse, without ensiles and without reins, graze in the middle of a road, whoever who rides the animal will be taken to a garden of paradise, and when he comes down, his feet will be crossed by thorns hidden in the grass"; The record was held at Vila Cruzeiro in Porto Alegre, Brazil, a neighborhood that has become a endless construction site, since the city hall began to open a new avenue where the houses of the first residents remained.

DENI CORSINO Faixacorpo, 1'45″ (2017) Faixacorpo associetes urban space issues and the performance attitude in order to raise a critical view about the contemporary city, full of buildings and big avenues that doesn't have restores spaces for the citzens. Moving with my own security strip, I can choose my path, to stay, to live, to be present and to occupy the urban space.

LU RABELLO Selfie, 3’19 ‘’ (2017) Selfie in cross point and comments about the work.

LUCIA KOCH Yamanaka-san, 5'45″ (2010) Synopsis: In a kimonos fabric store, a saleswoman displays some fabrics, demonstrating their qualities, their weight, trim, color and luster, volumes and folds. But in these fabrics there are no figures of birds or flowers, no pattern printed. They seems too simple, except for the colors bending over each other. The continuous gradient transition "breaks" as the saleswoman moves the fabrics. She also seems to be exploring this material, trying to discover her possibilities to sensitize the customer. The video was made for the Wave project (Choja Machi, Aichi Trienale, 2010, Nagoya, Japan).

MARINA CAMARGO Brasil, extrativismo (Brazil. Extractivism), 10'14" (2017) The action of erase a Brazil school map is recorded on video. The title of the map gives the name to the work, while, at the same time, along with the gesture of erasing these regions of the map it refers to one important ecological issue related to the current public policies of the country.

MARION VELASCO INSTANT BAND, pero esto no es Música. Espanha, 2015/Brasil, 9´36″, 2016. Performance by Marion Velasco (BRA) in collaboration with Seth Rossano (MEX) on bass and Carlos Llavata (ESP) on clarinet. Images by Marion Velasco and Verónica Hernández Menchara (MEX), sound capture by Miguel Molina Alarcón (ESP). INSTANT BAND deals with the snapshot, the immediate, the transient, the passing. The format refers to the street music, to the instant bands that, in general, are configured and present themselves in the urban space for an audience, also, dynamic. Throwing glass bottles at the collector for recycling is a noisy and everyday action on the streets of Spanish cities, but by mixing it live, with an amplified electric bass and a clarinet, the action has become a sound performance and a transgression. INSTANT BAND, but this is not Music is a sound performance, collaborative, remote and therefore oriented to audio and video

NATALIA SCHUL Em pedaços (In slices), 2'48" (2017) She moves broken mirrors that show fragments of her face and the front of her body to the fixed camera that only captures the back and the vision provided by the mirror's reflexes.

ROCHELLE COSTI "Negócios à parte" , 10'03" (2017) The video "Negócios à parte" was held for the recent exhibition Avenida Paulista no Masp, São Paulo. In a survey of about 8 months, the artist traveled the avenue dozens of times, recording invisibility through characters detached from the corporatist profile of the region and small incidental and ephemeral events. Renato Firmino, painter, scavenger and resident of the avenue participate as a conductor of the video and make a partnership with the artist. In the exhibition, his car serves as space for the projection of the video. Soundtrack: Sara Não Tem Nome.

SAMY SFOGGIA Aféfé Ikú, 01′38″, p&b (2017) Video Art pos Dadaist, tupi or not tupi.

SANDRA BECKER Roundtrip, 2'53″ (2017) The Video is a search of life. Where do we go to and what are we looking for?It is shot in New York and in Berlin using both cities as reference in the art world where artists are searching their way to got to. The elevator is used to show the up and downs artists are facing trying to finance their projects.

TULA ANAGNOSTOPOULOS The red carpet, 2" (2017) The video “The Red Carpet"; problematizes the relationship between audience and artist during a walk through the red carpet. During a walk through the red carpet, the red carpet stretched out to the ground indicates a way forward. It is a remarkable path to walk, with slow or rapid steps, to walk under the eyes of a public desirous to see the stars - mainly actors and actresses. (When you are part of the convenient group of anonymous people who for one reason or another are out of focus, the trajectory is a moment of suspension: neither reality nor illusion.) Look at all sides at once: when you are inside and / or when you’re out? This video was made in collaboration with Tecna PUC / RS, Kolor360º during the 45th Gramado Film Festival, Brazil.

VIVIANE GUELLER Camburi (Série Interlúdio) (Interlude series), 01'54″ (2016) The Interlude series is constitutes from situations of suspension in daily life. In a interference of the sound over the image, the Camburi video traces the experience from the displacement and the waiting as poetic exercise.

[kuriquinn]

Gal Friday [4/?]

First Chapter & Disclaimer

Beta: None right now. I’ll get to it.

AN: As mentioned in previous post, most people sent me asks about Gal Friday, so I decided to post that tonight :) The conclusion of Scion will be up tomorrow.

The lunch meeting with Hyūga Neji takes longer than expected. Some sort of internal crisis is going on with the latter’s company, and he needed to call in a favour. And of course, Neji is just as averse to asking for help as Sasuke is, so it took an entire meal of discussing stock options and comparing quarterly earnings before he cut to the chase and broached the subject.

Sasuke, naturally, made him stew for a minute or so, before agreeing, if only because he respects the other man. He also trusts him to a certain extent, at least in financial matters.

Neji has better business acumen than the entire Hyūga clan and company put together, yet might be passed over because of the family’s archaic inheritance laws. His cousin Hinata is technically supposed to inherit everything, being the oldest child of the family, but she has little talent when it comes to business. The whole reason for her being offered a position with the Uchiha family was to help her ease into things, but honestly, he thinks she’ll peak at the level of secretary.

Nothing against her character, she’s loyal and competent. But that’s about it.

Running a business requires a certain level of mettle and cool headedness that she doesn’t have.

And, of course, the ability to talk to people without fainting…

As he returns to his office, Sasuke glances at his watch, groaning when he sees that it’s only three o’clock. He’s meant to meet with Hatake Kakashi in an hour, but the man is constantly late, he likely won’t arrive until five.

Kakashi has been his mentor since Sasuke started working at the company after school as a teenager, and he has served as the right-hand man to both of Sasuke’s predecessors—his cousin Obito and, of course, his older brother Itachi. Kakashi even acted as Interim CEO before Sasuke took the reins, so it’s not as if Sasuke can simply cancel the meeting on him.

Maybe there’s something I can get started on for tomorrow, he thinks as he passes Sakura’s empty desk. He assumes she’s gone home or whatever she does after work. Didn’t she say something about night school?

He wonders at her ability to keep on top of everything during the day and then also be studying at night; he was consistently first in all of his post-secondary courses, but he hadn’t almost every second of it. When it wasn’t tedious, it was boring, and he slept through most of his MBA.

He somehow doubts Sakura will do the same, and then frowns at himself a second later for the direction of his thoughts. He gives his head a shake and tells himself it doesn’t matter as long as she shows up on time tomorrow for work, and doesn’t forget about the Oto files he asked her to get from Legal—

He pauses, catching sight of something on the immaculately organizes surface of her desk. A dozen neatly stacked grey folders, and printed summary on top.

“The Oto files,” he murmurs, bemused, picking one up, flipping it open, and then putting it back down on her desk with a scowl. “How the hell does she…?”

“Sasuke, stop loitering and get in here,” a voice interrupts his thoughts, and he won’t admit it, but he jumps.

Sitting in his office, Kakashi is watching him with amusement. Which makes no sense, because he shouldn’t be here for at least another two hours. And yet, he’s leaning back in a chair, straightening the white surgical mask across his face.

Kakashi is always sick with some cold or flu, thanks to his kids, so he always wears a mask around the office; Sasuke doesn’t think he’s ever seen him without it.  

“Did someone die?” Sasuke asks, stepping warily into his office. “Or is someone holding your family hostage?”

“What? No.”

“Then why are you here?” Sasuke asks. “You’re never on time.”

“Very funny,” his mentor grumbles, sounding put out and a little insulted. “I’m allowed to care about the direction of the company and want to use our time wisely.”

Sasuke ruminates on this, then narrows his eyes and says. “What’s she got on you?”

“Spoilers for the latest Icha Icha novel,” Kakashi admits gloomily.

Sasuke snorts, because at this point he’s not longer even surprised. Sakura did say she would ensure everyone adhered to her schedule and somehow—whether through coercion or some kind of witchcraft—she’s done just that.

Still, the fact that something so mundane is what snared Kakashi in the end is a bit pathetic.

“You are a pitiful portrait of a man and I feel ashamed just being in the same room as you,” he informs him.

“Then let’s do this fast so that I can go home and stop subjecting you to my questionable morals.”

うちは

“Ever hear the saying ‘to ere is human, but to really screw up you need some kind of technological entity’?” Kakashi asks around five hours later, breaking the silence and making Sasuke look up, bleary-eyed.

“No.”

“Yeah, me neither. And this wouldn’t be one of those cases,” the white-haired man sighs and leans back.

There are dozens of papers spread out between himself and Kakashi, both of their laptops open as they iron out budget allocations for the various branches of the company, evaluate resource demands across the departments, and offer last minute input on the company’s latest advertisement campaign.  

There is a sound like rattling from the doorway, and when they both glance up, Sasuke is surprised to see Sakura standing there, wheeling in one of the fancy tea carts they use during board meetings or when courting clients. On it is an assortment of sushi and shashimi, as well as a pot of tea.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, surprised. He thought she went home hours ago.

“Well, classes don’t start until next week,” she says, and he realises he said this out loud. “I’ve been in the file room all afternoon—and I’d love to meet the people who set up your system. Let me tell you, the Antikythera mechanism was probably easier to operate.”

Kakashi snorts. “You mean someone with your blackmail talents also has to file?”

“I know I make awesome look effortless, but there is a bit of prep,” Sakura sniffs, tossing her hair. Then she grins at them both and gestures to the cart. “But lucky for you two, the restaurant two blocks down does deliveries. So not too much effort.”

“I’m not hungry,” Sasuke says, turning back to his spreadsheets. “Eating slows me down.”

He pretends he doesn’t notice the way his stomach growls to belie that statement.

“That’s the beauty of finger food. You can eat it while you work,” Sakura says, and then points at several pieces of omusubi . “I even made sure to get your favourite. Tomatoes, and everything.”

He scowls at her. “If you’ve been talking to my mother again—”

“She’s talked to your mother?” Kakashi asks, only just changing his guffaw of amusement to a cough when Sasuke shoots him an annoyed glare.

“Ino, actually,” Sakura chirps. “She says you get cranky when you get hungry. And I figure, if what I’ve seen so far isn’t cranky, I don’t ever want to actually see cranky, so really, feeding you is probably a public service.”

She grins proudly, one hand on her hip. Kakashi raises an eyebrow, indicating that Sasuke that the metaphorical ball is now in his court.

He considers for a moment and shakes his head stubbornly. “Not now. We’re working.”

Kakashi sighs.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Sakura rolls her eyes. “It’s scientifically proven that working on an empty stomach increases your tendency to make mistakes.”

“That doesn’t happen to me.”

“Really? So that zero you left off the cost estimate for the Sarutobi Account was on purpose?” she asks, pointing at one of the papers to Sasuke’s left. “I didn’t realise your company had forty-five million yen just lying around.”

Sasuke’s eyes widen incrementally, but he refrains from snatching the paper to see if she’s right; Kakashi does that, though, picking it up and scanning through it. His face pales a little.

“She’s right,” he says. “We’ll have to reclacluate this before sending the official numbers out.” He smiles at Sakura beneath his match. “You’ve got a pretty good eye for a personal assistant. Are you sure you want to spend all your time with this one? I’m sure I can find someone more pleasant for you to work with.”

Sakura opens her mouth to speak, but Sasuke cuts her off. “We’ll eat now.”

He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want to make a major mistake in the company over a stupid matter of pride. But Kakashi observes him carefully as he reaches for a plate of food, spitefully taking all the tomatoes he can see.

Somewhat spitefully, Sasuke begin to eat, relaxing a little bit because, well, he was actually hungry

He notices eyes on him and glances up, Kakashi’s eyes comically wide, while Sakura is watching him with amusement and something oddly like exasperation.

“What?” he demands.

“Were you absent in playschool when they went over manners?” she chides him. “I just saved you a fortune and brought you dinner. Anything you want to say?”

She crosses her arms and looks at him in challenge. He notices for the first time that she has rather muscular forearms, which seems somewhat at odds with her otherwise delicate-looking self. And her knuckles are callused the way his were when he still trained routinely in martial arts. He wonders if she still practices—

“Sasuke-kun,” she prompts, soft but at the same time a prompt that demands an answer.

Kakashi’s mouth may be invisible to him, but from the way his eyes focus on Sasuke’s like lasers, he’s probably repeating the words ‘Sasuke-kun’ with incredulous mocking.

“Tch!” Sasuke frowns at her, and then says, “Thank you.”

And then looks away from her, a clear dismissal, as he takes another bite of food. Kakashi is gaping at him now, but he ignores that, too.

Still, he can’t help glancing back at her out of the corner of his eye.

Her challenging expression changes, and she beams with genuine warmth. “You’re welcome!”

Sasuke feels like he was just physically punched in the gut and as he breathes in sharply, inhales a large glob of sticky rice.

He begins to choke.

“Sasuke?!”

“Sasuke-kun!”

Sakura is already reaching for him, perhaps to clap him on the back, but he waves her off.

“It’s fine,” he says tightly. “Go home.”

“Alright,” she says slowly, hanging back. She offers him a last worried once-over, and then smiles. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Then flounces away.

Sasuke watches her go, not entirely sure what just happened, but fairly certain that something did.

He is brought back to himself with the sound of quiet chuckling.

“What?” he snaps at Kakashi.

“Nothing,” the older man says, in a voice that is miles from innocent. “I just suspect things are going to get very interesting around here.”

Sasuke scowls. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Hm…I don’t feel like telling,” Kakashi drawls. “More fun to watch you figure it out yourself.”

“I can fire you.”

“No, you can’t.”

つづく

I’m going to start getting plotty with this story after this chapter. I’ve finally got some ideas, it’s just going to take a while to outline. But I figure more stunned/clueless Sasuke can tide you over for a little while at least.

As always, reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated! Also, if you are in a supportive mood, you can find my tip jar here.

クリ

[kimvtae]

Foul Play (M)

Summary: Everyone loves a good rivalry, and the students at your university are no exception. Unluckily for you, the rivalry of the decade is between yourself and a furiously irritating Park Jimin. A top gymnast and a basketball star shouldn’t cross paths, but Jimin makes his way into your heart before you can put a stop to it. Word Count: 24.314 Genre: college au, basketball player Jimin, sports university A/N: A while ago @workofteaguk was doubting my lane while simultaneously having a crisis over Jimin. So naturally, retaliation was in order. This is all @minsvga‘s fault for encouraging me to run with this idea.

Elitism brings out the worst in people. Feelings of superiority run unchecked where talent and hard work meet to flourish and thrive, where young athletes spend their days training their bodies to the limits, pushing themselves harder to reach the ultimate dream: to receive validation and know that the years they’ve spent sacrificing sleep and jobs and romance for medals, winning seasons, and future professions has been worth it.

And as any good athlete knows, elitism leads to rivalry. Rivalries between teammates, between neighboring schools, or, most notably, a rivalry between Seoul Sports University’s top gymnast and one of the best point guards to grace the basketball court. And when rivalry and hatred reach such a level, it attracts attention from outsiders, from those who find amusement from such bitter hatred between two young people. Two young people who share common goals and similar training regimes, who for all intents and purposes should be close, but cannot stand the sight of one another.

This is a feeling that you know intimately.

In your third year of university, you’re well on your way to a life of success. Gymnastics has been your drive and your passion since you first stumbled into a gym before beginning elementary school, since you first begged your mom to sign you up for classes. After winning your first national medal at twelve, you’ve medaled at World Championships and competed in the 2016 Olympics. And though you hadn’t medaled, you were on track to return in 2020, determined to reap a gold.

You don’t take kindly to distractions. This is something your friends know well. Taehyung has been on the receiving end of one of your shoes thrown at his face when he accidentally disrupted a late practice one too many times. You don’t take kindly to distractions; Taehyung knows this, yet he continuously brings them up because unfortunately, Taehyung was friends with the worst person on the planet.

“Did you see the shirt Jimin was wearing today?” Taehyung asks during a break halfway through practice.

Taehyung was the first friend you’d made at university. When you’d started almost three years ago, a nervous freshman from a city too far away, Taehyung had befriended you immediately, inviting you out for dinner with his group and bringing you in so effortlessly it was as if you had been there all along. Hyeri was sitting on the bleachers along with Sooyoung and a few other members of the gymnastics team, taking full advantage of one of the only breaks they’re allowed.

“Why do I care again?” You ask, half-heartedly trying to flip your water bottle.

“Because it was mine? That blue Gucci shirt you got me for my birthday-?”

You hold your water bottle tightly. “He was wearing that shirt?”

Taehyung nods. “Dunno why. He doesn’t even wear Gucci. That’s my thing.”

“You should have ripped it off him.”

“Oh yeah?” Taehyung grins, laying flat on his back so he can stare up at you with a grin. “Kind of like what you want to do with all of his clothes?”

You aim a kick at Taehyung’s shin, soft enough not to hurt him but still forcefully enough to make a point. He laughs it off, rolling to his knees and ducking the water bottle you chuck at his head. Ruffling your hair with his hand as he passes, Taehyung easily swings himself onto the balance beam.

Park Jimin was quite possible the best worst distraction you had ever encountered. He was arrogant and cocky, overconfident and proud, easily spotted across campus by his trademark giggle of a laugh, known well among the sororities for his ability to go from the sweetest boy, ever kind in front of professors, to a “wild child,” as some cheerleaders liked to say. He was adored at the university, and it had been his parents that had donated the funds for the new library wing- not just a library, but a library wing. Everyday you passed his name in that building, and everyday you resisted the urge to yank that plaque off the wall.

Rumors have flown, of course, since the very first moment you silently swore Jimin as your enemy. Classmates and teammates alike all have their own theories: you and Jimin dated and he cheated on you, or you cheated on him. He’d kissed your sister- you didn’t even have a sister- he’d insulted you and your sport so severely, or one of you had questioned the other’s worthiness to attend the university. Talent wasn’t the only thing that got you into this university. A generous check supplied by the best name was the only way to ensure a student stayed even if their grades began to slip.

Money talks and money buries secrets, but money can’t hide furious distaste and dislike, which is as far as your relationship with Park Jimin will ever go.

Rolling onto your back, you push yourself into a handstand and then back to your feet, urging the rest of the university’s top gymnasts to return to training. There are groans and some weak complaints, but everyone is here for the same reasons and under the same conditions. Practice continues, and by the end you and Taehyung are mock judging each other’s floor routines.

By the time practice ends, long after the sun has been dispelled from the sky, you and Taehyung are locking up the gym. The head coach, who wasn’t even your official Olympics coach, trusted you and Taehyung the most on the team. There were no official captains on a team like this, but unofficially, all of the other gymnasts looked to the two of you for advice and guidance. Your shoulder was wrapped in ice, Taehyung’s hood pulled far over his head as he carried your bag and his, refusing to give it back even after you finished locking up.

“I want an ice bath,” you say as the two of you walk the halls of the building.

“Why didn’t you take one?”

“Tired.”

“I feel.”

“Taetae!” A new voice echoes through the nearly empty hall. It would have startled you if you didn’t know exactly who it was, and if you didn’t hate the person it belonged to. Jimin stands just inside the front doors, leaning against the wall with a backpack at his feet. The lighting is weak and fluorescent, throws the angles of Jimin’s face into sharp relief as you and Taehyung approach. Taehyung’s hand is on your shoulder. All the exits in this monster arena and Jimin chose this one. “Did you forget about our plans?”

“Nope,” Taehyung says, popping the consonant with his lips. “But Y/N’s better company than your weeb ass.”

“Says the man who was crying into his Shingeki pillow last-”

“Shut up!”

You roll your eyes. “You’re both idiots. How’s that?”

Jimin lets his head loll back, exposing the long column of his neck as he moves it to look at you instead. A ghost of a grin plays on his lips before he’s smiling widely, condescendingly. “Princess! I almost didn’t see you surrounded by that awful dark cloud you’re so fond of.”

“Don’t call me that,” you say, walking with intent to pass Jimin, to leave him standing like an idiot in the foyer of an arena he had no business to be in. “I’ll see you at practice in the morning, Tae-”

But Jimin doesn’t share your intent, his arm reaching out to catch your waist before you can leave and, and forces you to a halt just before the door. Your hands are curled into fists at your sides and Taehyung still has your bag so you can’t think to swing it at Jimin, who was currently smirking at you, face angled to stare down at you. Taehyung makes a noise of concern.

“You know, princess,” Jimin’s saying, keeping his voice low to create the illusion of separation between the two of you and Taehyung. To create an image of a secret meeting, away from prying eyes and the lure of money and where Jimin would have to whisper into your ear for you to hear. “I’ve been thinking. You gymnasts are pretty bendy, right? Maybe you could show me the proper way to stretch? Say tonight, in my room?”

You shove yourself out of Jimin’s hold, glaring fiercely at him and willing the embarrassed flush away from your cheeks. There wasn’t even an audience- what the fuck was Jimin playing at? “In your fucking dreams, Park.”

Jimin grins the sweet smile he uses to keep himself out of trouble. Briefly, you wonder if he practices the look in the mirror. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll dream of you stretched real nicely.”

Taehyung makes a face. “Chim… why.”

“Can I leave now?” You ask, not waiting for an answer before you reach to take your bag from Taehyung.

Jimin backs away from the door with an exaggerated flourish, sweeping his arms to the side and completing the gestire with a little bow. When he stands back up, he winks at you again. “Only because I love watching your ass when you leave.”

“Go to hell, Park.”

“Only if you’re there waiting for me, princess.”

Rivalries, you have concluded over the course of the last two years, are ultimately annoying and stupid. There’s nothing flustering or exhilarating about hating someone so severely and for so long. You don’t go to bed in the middle of the night with confused flutters in your stomach while you run through any interactions with him; you go to sleep thinking over your routines and their strengths and weaknesses. You don’t wake up with him on your mind; you wake up bleary eyed and slightly nauseous, grabbing an energy bar before morning practice.

Your routine is simple and it works. Wake up early for practice. Attend classes until the early afternoon. Afternoon practice. Followed by homework and then dinner, either alone in your room, or with Taehyung and a few of your other friends. Evening practice. Sleep. Repeat the next day.

There’s no room for romance or a boy, especially with the trials for the Olympics coming up in two years and midterms looming over your head. You had no time for a boy, especially one as infuriating and terrible as Park Jimin.

“Biochem can lick my hairy ass,” Taehyung announces loudly, joining you at one of the mess hall tables. It was finally too cold to eat outside, something Jung Hoseok, a prodigal baseball pitcher, complained about often.

Hoseok pulls a wounded face. “Don’t talk about your ass while I’m eating, Taehyung.”

“You’d kill for a chance to lick my ass.”

“You fucking wish.”

You flick Taehyung’s forehead, distracting him enough to steer the conversation away from licking asses and back towards the topic of classes. In such a high-ranking university, majors are spoken of almost as often as sports regimes.

Sneaking one of Taehyung’s fries, you say with your mouth full, “Then why are you a science major?”

“A childhood love of the stars,” Taehyung says, staring morosely at his burger. His cheat day consisted of several burgers for lunch and ice cream after practice. “A childhood dream systematically being broken down by the oppressive forces of our society.”

“Fuck, oppa,” Hyeri says. “At least wait until we’re four shots in before you begin insulting the man.”

Hoseok tips back the remainder of his protein shake. “I thought your childhood dream was to rep Korea in the Olympics.”

“That, too.”

Conversation falls away to the quiet sounds of eating and discussions of the parties behind held this weekend, which dorms would have the best alcohol. When meals are so strategically planned, every moment counts. Which is why the distraction coming from the opposite side of this mess hall in the form of two boys dribbling a basketball was entirely unwelcome, yet not entirely unexpected.

Jeon Jeongguk, a center who’d managed to skip a grade solely because of his basketball abilities, was deftly dribbling said basketball through a gaggle of giggling cheerleaders. He treats them like the cones that sometimes line the practice courts, weaving around each girl, spinning and practicing his footwork before passing the ball to Jimin. He passes it over the heads of the students sitting at the longest table in the room, who were laughing and cheering as Jimin begins his own exhibition.

Where Jeongguk’s moves had been more powerful and a little careless at times, Jimin’s moves were intense and precise. His feet move quickly enough to break the ankles of anyone who stands up to try and block his movements. Jimin turns, holding the ball in both hands while his eyes scan the entire room, and then he chucks the basketball in your direction.

A scream catches in your throat, arms over your head and body curled to absorb the shock of the impact that never comes. You wait five, ten seconds before gingerly lifting your head, the basketball suspended in front of you, caught in Taehyung’s hand.

“See Tae?” Jeongguk yells, one arm in the air in a cheer. “Told you your hands were big enough for basketball!”

But the rest of the room is silent, bated breath held behind clenched teeth and obvious glances thrown at both you and Jimin. And it doesn’t disappoint.

Slamming your hands on the table, you stand with a glare in your eyes fierce enough to light the devil himself on fire. Unfortunately for you, Jimin does not catch on fire. No, instead he’s smiling at you, arms crossed on his chest, beaming at you in a way that is not dissimilar to a sunflower opening up to the warmth of a new day. The silence in the room stretches on, and even Jeongguk lets his arms down as the storm continues to brew.

When you speak, the words are liquid lava burning through your throat. “What… the fuck is wrong with you, Park?”

Jimin laughs, unperturbed by the volume or venom of your voice. “What’s the matter, Y/N? Poor ball handling skills? I can help you with that, you know, and in no time you’ll be handling my balls like a pro.”

It’s difficult to speak over the chuckles and howls that reverberate through the room. “Why are you so infuriating?”

“Why are you so tense?” Jimin fires back, not missing a beat. The room is stuffy and uncomfortable, too many people waiting on the edge of their seats, glancing between you and Jimin with poorly concealed expressions of giddy anticipation. “Aren’t you supposed to be loose to be a good gymnast?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be tall to be a good basketball player?”

“Don’t you worry about my length, princess.”

Your cheeks burn with anger and the beginnings of what is definitely not embarrassment, no way in hell would you give Jimin that satisfaction. Jeongguk’s expression falls into one of genuine shock, looks at Jimin’s crotch area and then back at you, but you refuse to look away from Jimin’s face. Fingers curling against your palms, nails biting into the skin and you register Taehyung’s hand on your elbow, a warning and support rolled into one but you don’t heed it.

Grabbing the basketball from Taehyung’s hand, you throw it as hard as you can at Jimin. You don’t have the proper aim but you have the strength enough to startle Jimin, his cocky smile replaced by something you can’t read, something you don’t want to read.

The midday air is blessedly cool on your skin as you push through the doors to the outside. The leaves haven’t yet begun to change, but the promise of fall and a biting winter are waiting in the wings. Footsteps echo behind you, and you pull your athletic jacket tighter around your body.

“Go away, Tae.”

Taehyung drapes your backpack onto your shoulders, easily matching your pace as you walk the familiar path toward the elite gymnasts arena. He’s missing his jacket, you notice as he speaks. “Nope. Someone’s gotta spot you when you try to bench double your weight.”

That makes you smile, worming your arm around Taehyung’s waist as the two of you walk. You had maybe an hour until your next set of classes was set to begin, and as your favorite gym, the one you’ve drunkenly declared to be your burial ground more than once, comes into view, you ask a well-worn question again, “How can you be friends with him, Taehyung?”

He shrugs, but you see the way his sigh catches between his lips. “He’s really not a bad guy, Y/N. You two just got off on the wrong foot, babe- No; don’t make that face at me. Jimin’s been my closest friend since I moved to Seoul. You just…”

“I just what?” You prompt, seeing how Taehyung hesitates outside the doors to the gym.

“I don’t want to say you bring out the worst in him,” Taehyung says. “Because there really isn’t any bad in him, but maybe it’s the competitive nature? You’re both top athletes in your respective sports, there’s going to be tension-”

“You’re right, Tae,” you say, swiping your card through inside. The student receptionist smiles kindly, recognizing you from your frequent visits. “But you sound like the Headmaster. I don’t hate Jimin because he’s competition to my Olympic Gold; I hate him because he’s a pompous asshole who can’t keep his mouth shut. If he left me alone and stopped making unnecessary comments, we wouldn’t have any issues.”

Taehyung waits outside the women’s locker room, likely changing his shorts right in the hallway since it was empty inside the building. “Somehow, babe,” he says, once you’ve slammed your book bag into a locker. “I highly doubt that.”

Exiting the locker room, you search Taehyung’s face for answers, but he’d been in acting classes since he was a child, and it’s always been difficult for you to read him when he didn’t want to be read. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, nothing. Are you coming to Minjae’s party tonight?”

Still peeved about Jimin, you allow Taehyung’s obvious and poorly executed change of subject to go untested. The lower weight room was empty, most students choosing to spend the short break after lunch in their sport’s gyms over anywhere else. You’re thankful for this; thankful for the silence even after Taehyung commandeers the room’s aux cord and puts on his playlist while you’re lining up weights. Taehyung had been your spot for so long you couldn’t imagine anyone else taking that spot.

“Do I have to?”

“No morning practice tomorrow, babe. Good chance to see your other friends again, too.”

You settle on the bench, stretching your arms before you. “You just want me to get drunk enough to agree to skinny dipping, don’t you?”

Taehyung grins widely, square smile shining in the poor lighting of the room. “Am I that obvious, Y/N?”

Parties at a school tailored to elite athletes are remarkably similar to parties at regular university. Or so Taehyung, who swears to have crashed a university party before he turned fifteen, claims. There was an unspoken agreement between the students and faculty that over a hundred hours a week of intense workouts deserved a couple hours a week to unwind. So long as no one burned a house down, no one died, and the buildings were cleaned up the next morning, administrators turned a convenient blind eye.

You haven’t been to many parties, choosing instead to spend your weekends in the practice room. You loved the other gymnasts at the school, but really, some time alone to work on your weaknesses and practice your new, hidden moves was always enticing.

As it was, you found yourself across campus at one of the apartment suites- Minjae’s, Taehyung had said. The party already seemed to be in full swing by the time you showed up- you went through a few routines before stopping by, go figure- the windows all but rattling in their frames from the heavy bass of the loud music. People were lounging on the front lawn and laughing around a makeshift fire pit that looked like a terrible idea. You’re handed a cup of jungle juice immediately upon entering the house and it’s a bad idea but you accept it, swallowing half before making it through the entry hallway.

It takes a little while to find Taehyung, surrounded by his innumerable friends and laughing loudly in the middle of the room. Kim Seokjin, who still volunteered on campus, and Min Yoongi and Kim Namjoon, two assistant coaches, were here tonight, sitting squished on one of the couches with Taehyung. You find yourself smiling; you hadn’t seen them in a while. And luckily for you, you’re two shots in and starting your second cup of jungle juice, so the sight of Jimin hanging all over your best friend doesn’t make you want to vomit straightaway. But the night was still young.

Taehyung disentangles himself from Jimin and Jeongguk, weaving through the people in the living room to get to your side. He engulfs you in a hug, tripping over his own two feet before pulling back.

He plants a noisy kiss to the top of your head, shouting to be heard over the music. “You came!”

You laugh, gently pushing him away so he wasn’t clinging to you, but he stays close. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

“Sometimes you bail.”

Taehyung pouts, and you know he’s toeing the line between being comfortably tipsy and offering his pants to the first girl here who complains about being cold. With no strings attached. Taehyung’s lost plenty of pairs of jeans just giving them to strangers at parties. Across the room, Jeongguk’s laughing at something Jimin’s saying, the rest of the circle of people are chuckling, too, and you hurriedly swallow another huge sip of your drink.

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” You say, smoothing your hands through Taehyung’s hair. It’s styled up with a bandana today, matching the bandanas Jeongguk, Jimin, and a few other people were sporting. “What do you want to do?”

Taehyung’s eyes shine. “Skinny dipping?”

“In your fucking dreams.”

Instead, Taehyung takes your hand in his and leads you out the back door. There’s no reprieve from the music while outside, but it’s a little cooler and you’re able to breathe deeper. On the lawn, people dance around properly setup bonfires and string up extra lanterns in the lower branches of the trees. There’s screaming and drunken spats over whose turn it is to go down the slide, but you decide that it’s nice. The deck is where you decide to stay, propping your forearms on the railing and drinking slowly as Taehyung wobbles to your side. Behind you, an intense game of beer pong is underway, two girls cheering as they get the boys opposite them to drink another cup.

It’s nice, until your cup is empty and the back door’s swinging open as Jeongguk and Jimin wrestle their way through it. They aren’t even at the school for wrestling, what the fuck. They nearly tumble down the deck stairs before Jimin manages to regain enough balance to keep the two of them from crashing into the ground. Not to be outdone, Jeongguk does a backflip, much to the joy of a small group of girls by the pool.

Taehyung sighs. “They’re so…”

“Annoying?”

“Not the word I was going for,” Taehyung says, his voice stable. “But sure, babe.”

The beer pong game comes to an end and a cute boy with a too eager smile gets you another drink, smile dropping into a frown when all you do is pat him on the cheek in thanks. You’re not drunk enough to entertain strangers, and you don’t plan on reaching that point tonight. Or ever, for as long as you’re enrolled in this school.

“Princess!”

You sigh, knocking back the rest of your drink. Any earlier buzz was wearing off, and you were definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent not intoxicated enough to deal with-

“Jimin.” Sitting cross-legged on the deck, you’d lost Taehyung a good hour or so ago but hadn’t bothered going back into the stuffy house. Vision the tiniest bit hazy, you glance up in the direction of Jimin’s voice, can’t make out his face in the backlight of the moon until he’s kneeling in front of you. “Go away. Beer goggles don’t flatter you.”

“You don’t like beer,” Jimin points out, taking your cup and finishing it off. He ignores your scowl and tosses the cup over the railing to be forgotten. His brown hair’s pushed off his forehead tonight, like Taehyung’s, but seeing Taehyung’s forehead had never made you lightheaded- nope, that was definitely the jungle juice, and not Jimin’s soft features, the beautiful smile and soft eyes that you’d seen harden in determination, full lips that you’ve seen scowl, smile, smirk, and laugh-

“I am drunk,” you say. An excuse. You refuse to acknowledge what you were excusing.

Jimin snorts. “No shit. How drunk we talking? Nearly sober and looking for an excuse to pretend to pass out on me, or the room is flashing and you’re about to vomit?”

“Why?”

“Let’s play a game, princess.”

“Let’s not.”

“Beer pong. One on one. If I win, princess, you give me a kiss.”

Making a face at the notion, you say, “If I win, you do a Jell-O shot off Taehyung’s ass.”

Jimin balks. “Where do you come up with this shit?”

Quite a few people assemble around the beer pong table to watch the university’s favorite enemies duke it out over a few cups of shitty, warm beer. You’re not completely steady on your feet, but Jimin doesn’t appear to be perfectly sober either. Still, you chug a girl’s water bottle in a quick attempt to make yourself more alert. Heaven forbid you lose and face Jimin’s terms.

Yoongi and Taehyung make their way through the crowd to stand on either side of you, Yoongi giving you a quick hug for a greeting. Jeongguk and Hoseok stand next to Jimin, Jeongguk enthusiastically rubbing Jimin’s shoulders in what looks like a boxer’s pep talk. Taehyung grabs one of the Ping-Pong balls from the center of the table, checks over each cup, and then hands you the ball.

Things progress from there. Your first shot hits and Jimin drinks. Jimin’s first shot hits, and you drink. Jimin misses, you hit. You drink, Jimin hits. Both of you miss. The small crowd is thankfully pretty silent, mostly watching and waiting for the real event to start. And it doesn’t disappoint.

“You throw like my grandmother,” you say when Jimin misses his second shot in a row. There are more than the usual standard numbers of cups on the table. Go big or go home, Jeongguk always says.

Jimin holds the ball by his mouth to aim. “This beer is almost as bitter as you, princess.”

“Stand up straight, Jiminie, I almost can’t see you over the edge of the table.”

“Drink up, princess. Lord knows you need it.”

“Do you have horrible aim in everything you do?”

Jimin’s hit lands. You drink, wincing at the taste. Beer is nasty enough, but drinking warm beer and definitely a little grass from when the Ping-Pong ball falls on the ground is an experience you never want again. Before taking your next shot, Hoseok asks if either of you want to rearrange the cups. You have him put Jimin’s last four cups into a diamond. Jimin has your three cups lined up long ways.

“Is it fun living with a stick all the way up you ass?” Jimin shoots back before drinking when your next hit lands.

“Is it hard playing basketball with your tiny hands?”

Jimin’s next hit lands, and the gravity of your situation is settling in. He has three cups and you have two. Despite both of you being a little wobbly from the beer, you know Jimin’s aim is better. He’s spent almost two decades shooting a basketball into a net. He could easily make two shots in a row.

The crowd was getting into it now, murmuring quietly as Taehyung retrieves the ball. Your hit lands, and Jimin grumbles quietly as he lifts the cup and holds it steady with two hands. Before he can drink it, Yoongi slips his arm behind your shoulders, placing another Ping-Pong ball between your fingers and holding your elbow steady. He’s taking aim, shaking his head at the questioning sound you make, then he tugs gently on your hand and shoots the ball.

It lands in the cup Jimin’s bringing to his lips, some warm beer sloshing over the rim and splashing his nose. His mouth falls open, mirroring Jeongguk and Hoseok’s expressions. Yoongi settles his arm comfortably around your shoulders, as if he hadn’t just helped you win.

“Death cup, my friend,” Yoongi says, grinning broadly. “Y/N wins.”

“Hyung! That’s cheating!”

Yoongi laughs, allowing Taehyung to take you into his arms for a hug. “Find proof, Jimin. But for now, which flavor Jell-O do you prefer?”

“I was going to win,” Jimin says, while you’re standing at the side of the table. He takes a spot next to you, frowning at Taehyung’s theatrics. Taehyung’s climbing onto the beer pong table, giggling a little as he fumbles with the zipper of his pants. “I was going to get my kiss.”

You pat his shoulder. “Keep dreaming, Park.”

“I will, princess. You know I will.”

Jeongguk slaps Taehyung’s ass once Taehyung’s rolled onto his stomach, bare ass waiting for both the shot and Jimin’s mouth. Yoongi brings out a blue shot. Jimin sighs, resigned, downs a sophomore’s tequila shot before taking the shot off Taehyung’s skin. You glance across the table at Hoseok throwing you a thumb up to tell you he got everything on video.

“Jiminie, my angel, if you liked my ass so much you could have just asked,” Taehyung’s saying, laughing as Jimin pretends to gag over the railing.

Jimin scowls, takes the beer Yoongi offers him as if to chase the taste of Taehyung out of his mouth. The sight makes you laugh. “You are so lucky you have a nice ass, Taetae. And you- Y/N!” Jimin points right at you as you’re escaping back into the house to find a soft bed to fall asleep in. He’s grinning, and so are you. “You are so damn lucky you’re cute.”

Music pumps through the speakers of the gym, punctuated only by heavy breaths and unsteady gasps as they’re punched out of your chest. The song ends, and you crawl to the corner of the mat, body heavy and unyielding as you force yourself to stand again. Count to three, throw your arms up and smile at the judging table. No lyrics in the music. Count to two. Begin performance.

Floor was your best apparatus. At the Olympics you’d come in fourth in floor, the other events a few farther down to bother remembering as more than motivation to improve. The uneven bars were fun, the beam your greatest frienemy, the horse easy to you after years of launching yourself over it, but floor had always been your secret favorite. It was your opportunity to throw your best tricks, throw your body in unimaginable ways, to create new moves and flips and spins to knock the breath out of anyone who watches.

You were practicing for a showcase set to occur in a few weeks between the school’s gymnasts. You would be mock competing against the girls on the team, mostly for show, but also as a chance for the coaches and administrators of the school to see what was working, what was worth their money, and to see the things that needed to improve. The boys would do the same thing a day later.

Each flip you take knocks your center of gravity just out of line enough to throw the next trick, years of training resulting in nearly flawless landings. But nearly wasn’t good enough.

The song comes to an end again, starting up while you stay on the floor on your knees. You hadn’t landed the final trick of the pass. Punching the mat, you try to recall every move you made, try to pinpoint the exact second where something had been off so you can fix it in your next run-through. Your water is on the bleachers; your shirt rucked up off your stomach as you force yourself to catch your breath.

“Heads up, princess.”

Your head snaps up in time for you to intercept the water bottle Jimin throws your way. You chug it quickly, staring curiously at Jimin as the song continues to filter from the speakers. The room is empty save for you- and now Jimin- the rest of the gymnasts having finished practice a few hours ago.

You finish the water, rolling it off of the mat. Jimin’s standing by the main exit, his body shrouded in shadows due to the dim lights you prefer to practice with. You can’t make out his expression, but can tell he’s leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “What are you doing here, Park?”

“Don’t forget to drink water, yeah? It’s cold now, but that’s really dangerous in the summer.”

“I-Yeah, I know. How did you get in here? The arenas are always locked.”

“I have my secrets, princess.”

“Jimin-”

“Take better care of yourself. I saw you skip lunch a couple weeks ago.”

“Jimin-!”

In the poor lighting you can see Jimin slip back out of room, the door shutting with a soft click behind him. Your track starts up again. You don’t push yourself to stand, your weary muscles screaming for a break and a reprieve from the challenging routines you always put it through, and this time you listen. Your breathing evens and the song starts again and again and again, but you let yourself rest.

The door clicks open again, and you’re more than half expecting Jimin to come barging back into the room. Instead, it’s Taehyung, scanning the room hurriedly before his eyes land on your form.

“Are you hurt?”

“What?” You blink lethargically; surprised to see Taehyung’s already kneeling in front of you. “I-No, I’m not hurt, Tae. Taking a break.”

Taehyung quirks an eyebrow, amused. “The almighty Y/N’s taking a break? Find me my journal, dear, this one’s for the history books.”

You laugh, reaching into Taehyung’s backpack for one of the extra water bottles you know he keeps there. “Fuck off, man. Even the almighty get tired.”

“True.” Taehyung helps you to your feet; switches off your music while you’re pulling on a pair of sweats over your spandex. “Does this mean your done for the night?”

“Unless I want to lift,” you shrug. “Spot me?”

“Of course! But only after we’re finished.”

Taehyung’s bouncing on his heels, trademark grin in place as you eye him warily. “And what exactly are we doing?”

“You’ll see. Go shower, though. You smell, babe.”

A quick shower and an even quicker blow dry of your hair later finds you following Taehyung out of the arena, gym bags slung over your shoulders. The holidays were just around the corner, the air freezing and biting through the layers of your extra sweatshirt and jacket. Taehyung doesn’t seem to mind, smiling and chattering through the frigid wind as he leads you up the path to the main buildings of the campus. Most were dark and locked up for the night, and seeing how it was the middle of the week there wouldn’t be any parties around. There are a few lights on in some of the athletic buildings, and you make a note to visit one of the trainers to get a quick look at your shoulder- uncharacteristically sore- before it can progress to anything else.

To your surprise, Taehyung leads you right past the main buildings. He follows one path the entire time, winding around statues and stepping purposefully onto the last crunchy leaves of the season. If your extra loud silence was bothering him, he doesn’t say anything about it. Taehyung knew you well enough not to take any offense to your quiet spells. Passing the mess hall, Taehyung turns sharply, and you recognize exactly where he’s taking you.

“No,” you say, coming to a stop. “No way.”

“Babe, come on!” Taehyung urges, backpedaling to wrap his nimble fingers around your wrist and- curse his super strength- all but drag you to continue walking toward the elite basketball courts. “Opening game! They brought in last year’s national champions and there are scouts in the crowd. I want to support my best friend.”

“So support him on your own.” You try to struggle against Taehyung’s hold, but really it’s no use, and as he continues to pull you along you can hear the buzzer in the basketball building, preliminary cheers, and the robotic voice of the loudspeaker.

Taehyung doesn’t bother replying, flashing his student ID at the professor waiting by the doors and leading you into the building. You had been here once, early last year when Jeongguk, then a brand new transfer student, had gotten sick and Taehyung had raced here in the middle of lunch with you to help him. You had followed, both because you knew half of Jeongguk’s ailment was probably the stress and nerves of transferring somewhere and living under the constant pressure of being the best, of running toward becoming better and constantly winning. You were the one who’d driven Taehyung’s car to get both of them to Jeongguk’s suite.

“See any empty spots?” Taehyung asks once he’s got you inside the actual gym. On the court, both the home basketball team and the competitors were warming up, throwing easy baskets and practicing their dribbling.

“My bed.”

“Up there by the top? Perfect idea, Y/N.”

With a hand around your wrist, Taehyung leads you up the bleachers and deep into the crowd of people. You’re not surprised in the slightest that the gymnasium- close to an arena, really- was nearly full for the opening game of the season. Basketball was one of the highest-ranking sports at the university, along with other sports such as baseball, hockey, softball, and gymnastics, and students at the university were fond of supporting each other.

The players jog up and down the court, shooting easy layups and trying three point shots from half court. Truthfully, your knowledge of basketball extended to the few words you picked up whenever Taehyung had a game on in the background of his apartment. You knew enough to know you didn’t give a shit and really didn’t want to be here.

“Tae,” you say, as the timer for warm ups runs out. Jimin tries to shoot a three from the opposite end of the court and misses, but the crowd claps and cheers for him nonetheless, eating up the sheepish grin and blush he tries to hide with his hands.

“Babe.”

“Can I have your hat?” Without waiting for an answer you grab the beanie from Taehyung’s head and fit it snuggly on your own.

“Oh-fuck! Hat hair, Y/N!”

“You look fine, Taehyung.”

“Why are you even hiding-”

The lights dim at the sound of another buzzer, some flashing lights scanning the crowd and floor of the court as the cheerleaders make a human tunnel at the entrance to the home locker room. The opposing team- the national champions, as Taehyung had explained- are introduced to moderate applause, but the second the commentator mentions the home team, the screams and applause become deafening.

The lightshow increases, the cheerleaders dancing and doing cheering for each player introduced. And as the boys, maybe a third of whom you’ve had any semblance of a conversation with, are introduced they form a huddle, do handshakes or beat their chests, the crowd going absolutely wild. Jeongguk is introduced to an increase in girlish screams from across the room, Taehyung himself standing up to cheer. He tries to get you to stand up as well as the last few players are introduced, but truthfully you’d rather saw off one of your toes.

“And, last but not least,” the commentator is saying. “Co-captain point guard, number nine- Park Jimin!”

Jimin comes jogging out, waving both at the fans in the bleachers and the volunteer students doing stats on the sidelines. He and Jeongguk jump to bump their shoulders together, and Jimin’s immediately drawn into the huddle in the middle of the court. His eyes quickly scan the room, pausing pointedly, before he’s swept up, and for a second you’re afraid he’s seen Taehyung, and by extension you, but then Jimin’s looking away and Taehyung’s sitting back down and you let out the breath trapped in your lungs.

“They do know this isn’t the NBA, right?”

Taehyung snorts, nudging you lightly. “Don’t tell them that.”

And the game begins.

The tallest boy on the university’s team gets the first possession before passing it to Jimin, who dribbles slowly and calls out plays, and the game progresses as any good basketball game does. After going back and forth for the first quarter, the obvious talent and power difference becomes more noticeable between the university and high school teams. Jimin’s plays are too difficult for you to follow from so high up, and you can’t imagine how difficult they are to predict for the players on the court. At one point he fakes a pass to Mingyu only to pass the ball between a defender’s legs to Jeongguk, who dunks backwards with one hand.

Even you feel the brutality of the plays.

Still, you curb the lingering wisps of excitement brewing low in your stomach. The game is good, you’ll admit to that. Jimin makes a few threes, Jeongguk shows off too much, and they exercise the impressive plays they’ve likely been practicing since getting to campus this past summer.

During a timeout in the fourth quarter, the university leading by almost forty points, Taehyung doesn’t seem to hear you asking a quick question about how the game works, his eyes focused on the #7 on the back of Jeongguk’s jersey. Jeongguk had been tripped while driving toward the net on the last play, prompting the coach to take a timeout just to make sure he was okay. He seemed fine, had even finished the play with a layup, but you recognize Taehyung’s holding his breath until the buzzer goes off and Jeongguk’s part of the lineup jogging back onto the court. The boy who tripped him wasn’t in the lineup.

“Tae.”

“Yeah.”

“Since when are you a fan of basketball?”

Taehyung shrugs, stuffing both his hands in his hoodie pocket. “M’not really a fan, babe. But I love my friends.”

The crowd gets even louder in the last five minutes, the visiting team all but destroyed as Jeongguk and Jimin continue to team up for impossibly fast, impossibly impressive plays. Coupled with the support and shooters they had around the court, the team could be unstoppable this year.

In the last twenty seconds, Jimin has possession of the ball almost three feet behind the three-point line. He could hold the ball for all twenty seconds and the team would still win, but that wouldn’t be good enough for Park Jimin. Instead, Jimin dribbles the ball and crosses it twice between his legs, faking left and then faking left again before darting right, the boy defending him dropping onto his ass from the ankle break. Then Jimin takes a step back to get into proper form, raises his arms and shoots a perfect three as the buzzer to end the game echoes throughout the room.

Jimin turns, his eyes falling directly on you. The roar of the crowd is background noise as Jimin winks and raises his hand impossibly slowly to point at you just before the rest of his team swarms him into a huge group hug.

You sink in your seat as everyone around you jumps to their feet to cheer. Taehyung’s laughing, propping two fingers into his mouth to whistle loudly and you can’t see Jimin through the mess of legs but you can clearly recall the way he had looked at you, dark eyes alight with fire and determination and pride, sweaty hair clinging to his forehead. The way his devastatingly impressive arms had tensed when he’d pointed at you, expression fierce but hiding a hint of tenderness you’d only witnessed from Jimin on a few occasions. How he hadn’t looked away from you until his view was blocked.

Taehyung glances down at you, unnecessarily saying with a giant grin on his face, “Hey, Y/N. That was for you.”

“Got your summer plans yet?”

“The fuck, dude? Holidays haven’t passed yet.”

“Yeah,” Jimin says, twirling one of his pens over his fingers. “But my old man just texted me about Greece for the summer. Where the fuck is Greece, anyway?”

Jeongguk says, “Huh. Actually my mom sent me tickets to Hawaii. Apparently there’s a NBA summer session there next year. She told me to make a friend that knows English so I won’t be as awkward when I get there.”

Jimin snorts. “I like her already.”

“Fuck off, man.”

“What about you, princess?” Jimin whisper-shouts to you, where you’re seated a decent three rows below him, Jeongguk, and a few other members of the basketball and hockey teams. It wasn’t your first choice of seats, but after being kicked out of class twice while sitting next to Jimin (an unfortunate effect of being late on the first day,) you’d taken what you could get. “Any plans for the summer?”

“Piss off, Park.” You don’t bother turning around, tuning out Jimin’s soft laughter and trying to focus on the prose outline your professor was writing on the board. You hadn’t had time to read the novel she was discussing due to your double practices, and you needed to pay attention to pass any upcoming quiz.

“Princess.” You don’t answer. Jimin tries again, and again you stay mute, the pattern repeating until he hisses, “Princess!”

“What?” You snap, consciously trying to keep your voice down as you turn in your chair to face the bane of your existence. Around you, a few classmates snickered. Hoseok watched warily from his seat across the room. “What do you want?”

“Come to Greece with me.” Jimin says, lips pulled into a grin around his words. “We can ride the Gondolas beneath the stars.”

Jeongguk throws his pencil at Jimin’s face, laughing behind his hand. “Gondolas are Italian, dumbass.”

“How would you even know, asshat?”

“I’m very well-read.”

“Whatever. There are plenty of things my princess and I can do under the stars.”

“I hope you drown out there, Park.” You mutter, refocusing on the lecture.

Jimin makes an exaggeratedly wounded noise. “Wouldn’t even come save me in a cute bathing suit?”

“Never.”

“Miss L/N, mister Park. I’m not dealing with this today.” Your professor says, slamming down her marker onto her podium. “You students begin semester break tomorrow, couldn’t you have held back until then?”

“Professor Son,” you say quickly, “Jimin was-”

But she wasn’t hearing it. “I don’t care what you or Jimin were doing. Out of my class. Now.”

Your cheeks burn as you collect all of your things into your book bag, ignoring Hoseok’s concerned expression and the strange way Jeongguk is staring at you, but most of all ignoring how quickly Jimin seems to be packing up as well. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even have a comment for the professor as he tosses his books and pens into his backpack.

You barely make it out of the hall before footsteps echo behind you, and an annoying voice is saying, “Princess, wait up!”

Jimin falls into step with you easily. You don’t know if he’s got another class or practice after this, but it doesn’t seem to be a concern of his as he walks next to you. You were on your way to the sciences building to wait for Taehyung so you could ask him to spot you, and the last thing you wanted was for Jimin to accompany you for any portion of that time.

“Go the fuck away, Park.”

“Maybe I need to go this way,” Jimin says, brushing off your violent tone with practiced ease. He stretches his arms above his head as you walk through the door, follows you through and into the cold afternoon. “You doing anything tonight?”

You shiver a little in the breeze, cursing yourself for not listening to Hyeri and bringing an extra jacket. “It’s none of your business if I am, Jimin.”

“End of semester party is at Yugeom’s place off campus. His parents are in America for the holidays and you should stop by.”

“I’ve already hit my party quota for the year, but thanks.”

“Come on, princess, I know you can do better than one party.”

Jimin jogs a little to get in front of you, matching your steps until you stop trying to get around him and face him apathetically, arms crossed over your chest. “No.”

“Come on! Hyeri and Soojung will be there, and I know a bunch of the gymnasts are coming by. Plus the entire hockey team, which should entice you because I hear people all the time talking about how hot they are-which is not a lie, by the way.” Jimin’s grinning, speaking with such animated deftness that you find yourself rooted to the spot. “Baseball team will be there, so Hoseok-hyung will be able to make you the deadliest drink. I’d say you don’t have to see me, but we both know you can’t resist my charms.”

Jimin shoots finger guns at you, and you roll your eyes, annoyed at yourself for the smile you can feel urging itself into creation on your lips. “I’ll think about it. For five seconds.”

“I’m not taking no for an answer,” Jimin says. He reaches to his neck to unwind the black and red checkered scarf and drapes it over your shoulders, flipping the end into your face. “Try not to catch a cold, yeah? I like my girls nice and germ free.”

“You’re so fucking weird, Park.”

“See you at nine, princess.”

By the time you show up at Yugeom’s ridiculously large estate, most guests are drunk enough not to bother you. It’s freezing outside, no one daring to brave the cold even for aesthetic fire pit photos, instead choosing to let the expansive spread of liquor keep them warm. Most people are luckily too intoxicated to make a scene when you arrive- or so you’d thought, until it’s Jeon Jeongguk opening the door and throwing himself into your arms.

“Noona!” Jeongguk cries, the word sounding more like one consonant than anything else. Jeongguk wobbles a little on his feet, leaning his weight against your smaller body. You haven’t even gotten in the house yet, nor have you and Jeongguk had a conversation for longer than a few minutes. There was no way in hell were you on drunken Jeon watch for the night. “He owes me five dollars.”

“Who does, Jeongguk?” You ask, setting yourself up to play the game at least for a little while. You manage to urge Jeongguk back into the house, even if he was clinging onto you a little desperately.

“Jiminie. H’bet me you wouldn’t show.”

“Asshole.”

“There you are, Jeongguk!” Namjoon rounds the corner into the front hall, cheeks a little flushed and hair looking worse for wear. People are watching from the second floor and the adjacent piano room, not one offering to take Jeongguk from you. “Where’d you find him, Y/N?”

You nudge Jeongguk’s side and tug at his arms around your neck until he’s dislodged enough for Namjoon to get one of Jeongguk’s arms around his shoulders. “He answered the door.”

“Idiot,” Namjoon says fondly. Jeongguk’s snuggling against Namjoon’s neck and giggling quietly to himself. “Still thinks he’s got the drinking tolerance of a god. Y/N, what’s your poison?”

“Uh, I-”

“I believe that’s my specialty.” Hoseok’s voice rings through the proximity before he and Jimin are pushing through the few people in the foyer, Hoseok holding a red cup high in the air. He kisses the top of your head before handing you the cup and you take a long, thankful drink. It’s not unbearably fruity; just enough to almost hide the taste of hard liquor. Hoseok says pointedly, “I think I remember your preference from freshman year, but tell me if you want something else.”

“Liquor is liquor,” you say with a smile. Hoseok snorts. “But it is good. Thank you.”

Namjoon takes Jeongguk’s loud exclamation for more gin as the opportunity to try and wrangle Jeongguk toward a couch, Hoseok following with a promise to mix another drink for Jeongguk, much to Namjoon’s chagrin. That leaves you alone in the entryway with Jimin, who’s smiling at you so softly, his lips barely quirked that you’re quickly drinking half of your drink.

“I’m glad you came,” Jimin says, hooking his right arm through your left. “Although I have to pay Jeonggukie now.”

“Yeah, I heard you bet on me. Ass.” you say as Jimin leads you further into the house. It was crowded, but not unbearably so. You chalk that up to the fact that Yugeom’s house was probably four times as big as the apartments on campus, which were already huge.

“I know my ass is great, princess, but please try to keep it in your pants.”

“Bite me.”

“With pleasure.”

Jimin steers you into the kitchen for refills and mixes you a drink that absolutely pales in comparison to what Hoseok’s given you. You tell Jimin as such and he violently rolls his eyes, downs two shots right then and there with a comment about needing them if he was going to put up with you all evening. By the time he actually leads you to where the rest of his friends are, Jeongguk’s laying across Yugeom’s lap, Hyeri’s flirting with a boy against the wall, and Taehyung’s sitting upside down on one of the couches.

“Babe!” Taehyung says when you take a seat next to him. “Didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”

“Anything to cost Park some money.”

“I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

There’s music playing, some fast-paced remix of a popular American song, but the volume isn’t overpowering, enough to allow several different conversations to flow simultaneously. Taehyung talks about practice and puppies and Jimin’s sitting on the floor by your legs, altogether too damn distracting in a tank top. Who the hell wears a tank top in December?

Another drink’s placed in your hands and eventually Taehyung rights himself on the couch. Yugeom leaves after a while to pretend to be a good host. Jeongguk whines about losing his pillow before managing to lift his head, eyes scanning the room before falling onto you and Taehyung. He stands on shaky legs, crossing the room with incredible determination and incredibly slowly before dropping himself onto Taehyung’s lap. Taehyung links his hands around Jeongguk’s waist as Jeongguk shuffles and grumbles to make himself comfortable, his back to Taehyung’s chest and head tipped back on Taehyung’s shoulder.

“You mess,” Taehyung says, moving one hand to ruffle Jeongguk’s hair. “Who let you drink this much?”

“It’s all Hoseok-hyungie’s fault,” Jeongguk slurs. He lets his fingers run through Taehyung’s hair, laughing to himself as he styles it poorly.

“What a mean hyung, huh?” Taehyung jokes, ignoring Hoseok’s mock outrage from across the room. He catches your gaze, eyes full of confusion, and shrugs as best he can around Jeongguk’s frame. “He gets touchy when he’s wasted.”

“And you know this how-?”

But you don’t get an answer as Yugeom returns to the room, brandishing an empty wine bottle above his head like a trophy. “Game time!” He settles the bottle on the ground, gestures for everyone to get into a circle. It takes a minute for Taehyung to get Jeongguk off his lap and sitting up almost on his own on the floor. “Truth or dare or drink. Drink means you don’t answer or do a dare.

Hoseok snorts around his cup and nudges his shoulder with yours. “Well, we know what Y/N here will choose all night.”

“Nope!” Yugeom laughs, tossing back the rest of his beer. “If you choose to drink you can’t drink on your next immediate turn. It’ll keep things interesting.”

“I am not drunk enough for this,” you murmur, seated comfortably between Taehyung and Hoseok on the floor. Even Namjoon, Yoongi, and Seokjin were a part of the circle, sitting among classmates and sports peers, Jimin across the circle from you next to Yoongi.

Yugeom takes the first spin, and it lands on Taehyung, He makes a big show of thinking up a dare before finally saying, “Dare you to kiss Y/N.”

“Easy,” Taehyung waves a hand in the air. He scoots closer to you, frames your cheeks with two big hands and plants a wet kiss to your forehead.

He spins, Yoongi drinks. Yoongi spins and Namjoon’s telling about his first crush. Jeongguk gets dared to take his shirt off and you swear a few girls in the room sigh when he stretches his arms above his head and sighs about the cool relief of one less piece of clothing. Taehyung only accepts dares, once shucking his pants off and giving them to Jimin for the night, another time drinking a horrible concoction of beer and fruity vodka and Monster that Taeyong mixed for him, and a third time being dared to jump in the pool outside. When he comes back in, two towels wrapped around his body and cursing quietly at everyone in the room, the bottle lands on you.

“Truth,” you say after a second of hesitation. Don’t want to be using your drink pass too soon.

Johnny, a prodigal skater from out of the country, glances around the circle before deciding on something. “Ever think about Jimin when you’re doing the dirty with someone else?”

A few people whistle, a low murmur of laughter rumbles around the room. You resist the urge to roll your eyes, not looking at Jimin as you answer, “I don’t even think about Jimin when he’s in the room.”

“Ouch, princess.”

The game continues. Jimin gets dared to kiss Hoseok, Yoongi is dared to hold Seokjin’s hand for the remainder of the game, at one point Jeongguk crawls over to Taehyung and rests his head in Taehyung’s lap and you’re pretty sure he’s fallen asleep. The music is still loud and a round of shots are brought out by a giggling softball player, and you’re laughing and pleasantly tipsy, enjoying the night far more than you thought you would.

When the bottle lands on you again you don’t hesitate to drink, but then Hoseok takes your cup with a laugh. “You drank last time, sweetheart.”

“Y/N, I dare you…” Yoongi says slowly, fingers still linked with Seokjin’s.

“I never chose dare-”

“I dare you to kiss Jimin.”

A hush falls over the room, people staring between you and Jimin with bated breath. Except for Yoongi, who’s smirking his most infuriating smirk, and Taehyung who’s laughing into his hand, being careful not to jostle a sleeping Jeongguk from his lap.

And you’re just drunk enough to say,

“Fine.”

Jimin’s expression falls into one of genuine surprise, the look mirroring the ones on Yoongi and Hoseok’s faces, and to varying degrees the rest of the students, who look far more shocked than anything else. You stand on unsteady feet, fighting back the flush of your cheeks, (it’s the alcohol, okay?) as you walk to the other side of the circle.

“Wait, Y/N, for real?” Yoongi asks, as you hand him your empty cup.

You shrug. “Why the hell not? He’s got a perfectly good forehead-”

“Hell no,” Yugyeom says. He’s relocated, sitting next to Taehyung and pointing his cup at you. “This could be legendary. A kiss between you two? More historic than Jeongguk passing his maths class last semester.”

Poor Jeongguk’s too tired to answer, but even if he had you wouldn’t have heard him over the shouts of agreement Yugeom’s statement earned. People offering ideas of seven minutes in heaven, of setting a timer, whether or not there should be tongue, until Yoongi waves his hand and the murmurs cease. You’re thankful for all of five seconds until you see the smile Yoongi’s sporting.

“Y/N,” Yoongi says. “Your dare is to kiss Jimin on his gross mouth for thirty seconds. Make it realistic.”

“Oh, do it by the pool,” Seokin suggests, politely ignoring the murderous glare you send his way. “Far more romantic that way.”

“Excellent idea, hyung.”

Stairs are a little too much for you at the moment, but luckily Hoseok was there to offer his hand as you follow Jimin out the backdoor and down the stairs. The backyard was expansive and well kept, just as gorgeous as the rest of the house, and the pool was no exception either. It spanned the length of half of the backyard, fairy lights hanging on the fence surrounding it and multicolored lights inside the water. It would be far more beautiful if you weren’t sharing this moment with him.

Hoseok lets Jimin take your hand after he’s settled on the side of the pool, jeans rolled up to his thighs and feet dangling in the water, and fuck does the water do wonders for his thighs, which were already wonderful and thick and you can’t blame the girls who write those things about Park Jimin’s thighs in the bathroom stalls because holy shit-

“Watch your step, princess.”

Holy shit you are drunk.

“Aren’t you cold?” Is the first genius thing you ask, crossing your legs beneath you to sit down.

“Nah, the water’s heated.”

You fold your hands in your lap, hyperaware of your friends settling in lawn chairs close behind you and Jimin. The pool lights reflect softly against Jimin’s face, tossing his features into gentle relief, his eyes shining as he watches you carefully. You can’t look into his eyes too long, and blame the way your head is spinning and your heart is beating too fast, too loud, on all of your drinks tonight.

“So. Uhm. How long do we have to do this?” You ask, when the silence stretches and you manage to glance at Jimin again. He’s still staring at you, a tender sparkle in his eyes that does nothing for the wildfire claiming the land of your chest.

“Thirty seconds of my gross mouth.” Jimin tucks the loose hairs framing your face behind your ears and lets his hand fall warm and heavy onto your neck. Your shiver has nothing to do with the frigid night air.

“Jimin, what are you doing?”

“Making it realistic, Y/N.” He pauses. “How drunk are you?”

“Not drunk enough.”

“We never are, are we?” Jimin murmurs, tracing the pad of his thumb across your bottom lip, his eyes unreadable now. “Better put on a show, yeah?”

The moon is bright and your friends are loud, Jimin’s hand too warm on your neck but at the same time just warm enough to make it comfortable. You let Jimin tip your head back slightly as he moves in closer, parted lips on track to yours and the loud pounding buzz of your head settles into something softer, something kinder the closer Jimin gets. Your eyes fall shut, anticipation holding your breath hostage-

Jimin’s lips never come.

Instead, something touches your shoulder with enough force to knock you off balance and send you sprawling into the pool, spluttering and choking on the chlorine you accidentally swallow while trying to regain your bearings. Jimin’s in the water too, gasping loudly and shaking his wet hair out of his eyes, spitting choice curses at Jeongguk, who’s laughing so hard at the edge of the pool that he can’t stand.

“Jeon Jeongguk, you absolute shithead!”

And, unfortunately, you’re not much of a swimmer. While other kids spent their summers learning the best tricks at the local pools to show off to their friends, you learned how to flip your body twice in the air, and your decent swimming skills sprint out of your head in lieu of how drunk you are. Almost frantically you reach for Jimin’s shirt, floating a little in the water, and use the leverage to pull yourself close to Jimin, arms wrapping around his neck and legs too tight around his waist.

Jimin’s eyes are wide with surprise when you glance at him, but he forgoes yelling at Jeongguk to loop his arms around your waist, one hand stroking your side soothingly.

“Hey, hey.” Jimin whispers, only loudly enough for you to hear. “You’re okay, Y/N. You’re okay. I got you.” When you shake your head, Jimin squeezes you tighter. “You’re fine, I promise. Look, I can stand here, see?”

You voice is shaky when you find it. “Didn’t realize this was the shallow end.”

Jimin smiles softly, urges your arms to loosen around his neck the slightest bit. “There’s the Y/N I know and love.”

On the grass, Jeongguk is still giggling through Seokjin and Namjoon’s reprimands, trying to look serious and apologetic. He even apologizes to you and Jimin, but Yugeom and Taehyung are supporting him and really; drunk or sober you wouldn’t expect anything else from Jeongguk.

But Jimin’s eyes are still shining, cheeks wet from the water and glowing from the pool lights. He’s smiling, but it’s soft and sweet and nothing like the pull of sneers on his lips that you’re familiar with. Because this is unfamiliar territory. The pull on your chest, the skipping heartbeat, and the way you can’t look away from Jimin’s wet lips or his gentle eyes are all too much. He’s too much. It’s too much.

“Jimin? Can we get out now?”

Jimin nods. “Come on, princess. I got you.”

And he does, carrying you out of the pool and toward the pool house, where he manages to find dozens of fluffy beach towels. You wrap yourself in the biggest one; almost long enough to trip over as you and Jimin walk back to the house. The water, which had blessedly been heated, was enough to sober you up the tiniest bit, and now you just wanted to go the hell home.

Taehyung, bless him, already anticipates this. He intercepts you at the back door, steering you to an empty spot on the couch. The party had died down in the last hour or so, people falling asleep on couches or leading dates to the bedrooms upstairs. One of the televisions is on in the room, and old movie playing as a few people watch. You lost Jimin in the last few minutes, unable to find him in the small crowd of people in the room.

“I already called an Uber,” Taehyung says. “Should be here in a few minutes.”

The ride home is short, only a few blocks before Taehyung’s leading you to your suite with a steady hand on your hip and your arm around his shoulders. The lights are off in the main room, either your roommates are asleep or still out celebrating the end of this semester’s classes. He tugs off your shoes once you’ve collapsed on your bed, pushes you onto your side to take your jacket off when you pout and refuse to do so.

“I hate Jeongguk.”

“Shh, he’s harmless.” Taehyung whispers, setting a glass of water on your bedside table. “Want me to stay the night?”

“I hate Jimin, too.”

“Yeah?” Taehyung asks, kicking his shoes to the floor. His weight is warm and welcome in your bed, helping the lingering shivers from your involuntary swim. “Then why’re you smiling so wide?”

“Oh, am I smiling?” But the tug is there, an unknown force pulling your lips into a soft smile. You bite your lip, but the damage is done, Taehyung chuckling in your ear as he gathers you into his arms, the last thing you see before falling asleep being Jimin’s sweet, soft look while he’s leaning in with want and intent to kiss you.

“Thank you for coming in today, miss L/N.”

“Of course.” You bow politely to the headmaster and sit in the chair opposite her desk. As she prepares two cups of tea, you think back to the last few weeks, trying to remember if you’d done anything to warrant being summoned. Classes had resumed two weeks ago and you hadn’t skipped any, you had permission to use the gymnastics arenas as late as you did, and you hadn’t argued with Jimin since Yugeom’s party.

Headmaster Shin hands you one of the cups of tea before sitting behind her desk, appraising you quietly. She’s a kind woman, her face weary and stretched from years of guiding young students. For a moment, you wish Jimin were sitting in the chair next to you, wishing the two of you were in trouble for some trivial spat, because the air is too heavy in the room and your heart is sinking into the vicinity of your toes. The tea tastes sour on your tongue.

“How was the gymnastics exhibition last month?”

You shift a little in your chair, heart somersaulting in your chest and lips turned down in confusion. It was never protocol for the athletes to discuss results with the administration; usually the coaches did that. “It went well. Our team is really strong and I placed first amongst the gymnasts here.”

She nods knowingly, as if she had expected the answer. That’s good to hear, but I’m afraid I don’t have good news this afternoon, Y/N,” headmaster Shin sighs. “I assume you haven’t been watching the news?”

“No,” you say, stomach twisting uncomfortably. “I’ve been busy with classwork and training.”

She smiles kindly, but the gesture settles like a rock in your throat. “I wouldn’t expect any less from you. Pardon my asking, but have you spoken to your father recently?”

“Not since the holidays.” You’d gone home for two days to see your dad before the New Year, and saw more of his maids and butlers than of him.

“Okay, well. There’s really no way for me to say this gently, Y/N. Your father was arrested three mornings ago.”

“Arrested?” Cold terror spreads to the tips of your fingers. It doesn’t make any sense. Your father was a successful CEO, what could he have possibly done to be arrested? You really didn’t know much about his job, only that he made enough to afford to send you to your gymnastics lessons and eventually to university even after your mother’s death eight years ago. “For-for what?”

“A ponzi scheme,” she says quietly. “The authorities aren’t sure yet how deep it runs, but he’s been funneling the funds for at least seven years. It took an entire undercover operation to bring the news to light.”

“What does this mean for me?” You can’t help but ask, nervously picking at a loose thread on your sweats. “What happened to his money?”

“There never was any money, Y/N. He was using investor’s funds to support his lifestyle for more than three years. Sweetheart, there’s no money to continue paying your tuition.”

Tears sting the corners of your eyes, hot tastes of betrayal and desperation. Gymnastics was all you knew, all you’ve done for more than half of your life. You couldn’t leave- without your father or your home where could you go? “When should I leave by?”

Her expression morphs into genuine concern and surprise, and it’s motherly and saccharine, the sudden taste of longing wringing your neck. “No, no. Y/N, I couldn’t possibly live with myself if we kicked you out. You’re one of the brightest young gymnasts the sport has ever seen. Losing you is out of the question.”

“But I can’t pay-”

“We have scholarships, dear. And with your grades and reputation in the gymnastics world, you would have been at the top of the list for one if your father hadn’t paid. You’ll have to move from the suites to a dorm, but I think the tradeoff is fair, don’t you?” She pulls a file from her desk drawer, sorting through the papers inside as she continues, “As long as you keep your grades up, you should be fine. But there is one more thing. In order to maintain your scholarship, you need to rank in the top qualifications of your sport at any level. I think you know what that means for you, Y/N.”

After signing the papers and being reassigned your new dorm, a room across campus from the suite you’d been living in, Headmaster Shin sends you off with a promise to help you through the transition, and another promise that she would be available to speak with whenever you need.

The campus is freezing as you cross it, cheeks stinging because you’d been in too much of a rush this morning to make the meeting, the red checkered scarf taunting you from where it hangs on the back of your desk chair. It’ll need to be packed. Maybe you should sell some of your old clothes and textbooks.

You weren’t being asked to leave, but the sting and shame of what your father had done feels like a red warning sign blaring above your head, warning the students walking between classes not to get too close, this glass is fragile to the touch and will shatter with the use of the wrong words.

And as you face your belongings in the room that is no longer yours, your fingers itch for someone specific, someone who will look at you like you’re a precious gem that too much force may impair. Someone who looks at you like you are everything to them.

You don’t reach out.

Jimin is no stranger to late night practices. Since he’d decided as a child to pursue basketball, he’d pushed his limits and his coaches to the end of their wits, demanding to stay an hour, and then three, and then five past the end of practice. And that dedication hadn’t changed during high school and into university, in fact, he’s only practiced even later into the night. Most nights, he leaves the basketball arena close to two in the morning, all of the lights off and only the whir of the air conditioning to accompany him. He’s gotten good at locking up.

Tonight is no exception. The rest of the team had finished up around nine, but as tomorrow was Saturday, Jimin had stayed to practice more. Jeongguk had stayed too so they could practice more of their tricks together until Jeongguk had remembered he’d promised to have dinner with someone, and had bolted from the court so quickly Jimin’s shirt had been ruffled from the breeze.

It’s pushing three in the morning when Jimin finally calls it quits, sitting in the middle of the court to catch his breath. He’s been trying to extend his threes, dividing his time between shooting and lifting in the gym on the second floor. He wants to nail a full court shot before he graduates.

After a quick shower and a change into warmer clothes, Jimin slings his gym bag over his shoulders and digs his keys from the pockets. The heating isn’t nearly as loud as the air, which is a little unnerving, Jimin decides as he’s locking up the front door.

And if Jimin staying on the basketball courts was a given, then someone using the gymnastics arena after midnight was also expected. But never in the last two years of leaving around this time has Jimin seen a light on in the gymnastics building, but there it is. He stops walking, staring at the window where he could see the light as if that would tell him who was in there. His suite was still a few blocks away, but he was a little curious to see the reason for why you were practicing so late in the night.

“Y/N?” Jimin calls cautiously, immediately suspicious when the front door gives beneath his hand. It’s never unlocked.

There’s no answer, and truthfully Jimin hadn’t expected one. There’s no music echoing through the halls, no sound of any of the apparatuses being used and Jimin thinks it must be that someone had forgotten to turn off the lights before leaving for the night. He checks the bathrooms and the locker rooms, but there’s still no sign of anyone.

In the main room he sees a figure on the balance beam, sitting silently and facing away from the door. Jimin recognizes the silhouette.

“Princess. Why’re you here so late?”

Your voice is colder than Jimin ever remembers. “Go away, Jimin.”

There’s a heavy sort of fog encompassing your voice, the same kind of fog and smoke that fill your lungs when reality becomes too overbearing and escape becomes critical. Jimin recognizes the tone of your voice, and his entire body tenses.

“Y/N…”

“Go away.”

Jimin drops his bag at the door, approaching you with steady steps that were a direct contrast to the tumult of his heart and chest. On the floor below your feet is a plastic bag, and upon further inspection Jimin finds three bottles of Whiskey, one of which was empty. And he finds the fourth bottle held carelessly between your fingers, the line of liquor swishing somewhere around the label.

Your head hangs, legs swinging unsteadily beneath you, as one hand stays cured around the beam to provide the semblance of balance. Hair falling raggedly by your cheeks, Jimin sees the flush sitting high in your cheeks. He knows what you look like sober or pleasantly drunk at a party, but he’s never seen you like this. Your entire body sways, eyes red when Jimin catches a glimpse of them, and his heart breaks in his chest. What the hell could have happened to you in the last few weeks? How the hell could he have missed any obvious signs whenever he’d seen you?

“Y/N, tell me what’s going on.”

You bring the bottle to your lips for another drink, coughing a little at the burn. “Thought I told you to leave.”

Placing his hands on either side of your thighs for added support, the action does not reassure him when you don’t try to halt his progress. Even drunk at parties you’d maintained your distaste for him, but now, with your words slurred and your head wobbling before Jimin’s eyes, you don’t put up any resistance.

“Hey, come on,” Jimin tries, speaking quietly and searching your eyes for any signs of sobriety. “Let’s get down, yeah? It’s safer on the floor.”

“There’s no such thing as safety.”

Jimin frowns. “What are you talking about?” He takes the bottle from your hands mid-sip, shushing you gently when you work yourself up to complain. Reaching for the bottle upsets your balance but Jimin is there to take your hands, to link his fingers with yours and help you to the floor. Your knees buckle precariously before you manage to stand properly, staring up at Jimin with wet eyes searching his for something Jimin doesn’t know.

“There’s no safety in what we do, Jimin.” You pause to take a deep, unsteady breath, putting more effort into properly pronouncing your words. “You know that as well as I do.”

“What is this about, Y/N? Why are you here alone, where’s Taehyung?”

“Leave me alone, Jimin.”

“No, Y/N- is this about medaling?” His heart is thumping too erratically against his chest, a small seed of fear planting itself in his fingertips. How long had you been here alone? “Did you not place last competition? You know you’re amazing at this, one bad performance doesn’t-”

“Of course I placed, Jimin,” you snap, brief lucidity striking a match in your eyes. “What does it matter if there’s no one waiting for you at the end of the podium?”

“Y/N, please,” Jimin begs. “Please, let’s get you back to your place-”

Your hands, warm and calloused, snake between your chest and Jimin’s to grasp clumsily at Jimin’s cheeks. You’re staring very seriously up at Jimin before the expression slips and your lip is quivering, your fingers shaking slightly against Jimin’s jaw. Your thumbs stroke along his jawline, eyes guarded but Jimin is no stranger to sadness, and he sees the dullness to your gaze- not all of which can be blamed on the whiskey.

“You’re here.”

Jimin nods uncertainly. “Yeah, Y/N. Yeah, I’m here.”

“You’re always here.”

“Y/N, I’ll always-”

With a severe lack of coordination, you tug on Jimin’s face while pushing yourself onto your toes and swallowing Jimin’s noise of surprise as you cover his lips with yours, kissing him fiercely.

It’s everything Jimin ever imagined his first kiss with you to be, if Jimin had imagined kissing you to entail wet cheeks and ragged, sloppy breathing, desperation laced into the action. Jimin whimpers at the first touch of your mouth, surprising rendering him punch drunk and immobile as your lips move furiously over his, pulling back only to breath in unsteadily and kiss him again. Wet cheeks and heavy inhales, you push both of your hands into Jimin’s hair, pulling his head to a better angle to allow you to fall flat on your feet.

And Jimin reciprocates; of course he does. He’s dreamed of this moment, pleasant secret dreams that he keeps under strict lock and key within his heart and conscience, hiding his blush whenever he was caught daydreaming about you and playing it off as preparation for whatever basketball game was next, and not as what it truly was. Thoughts of how soft your lips must feel when not turned into a scowl at Jimin’s expense. How he’s dreamed of the moment he would get to do this- to cup your cheeks with his own hands, to open his mouth to your tongue, licking along the roof of his mouth and taking every little thing Jimin was willing to offer you. Which was a lot, if he was being honest.

But Jimin never thought he’d be wiping away your tears as you deepen the kiss, surging against his body until he nearly trips over his own feet while you’re backing him up until his back collides with the nearest hard surface- the bleachers, of course. You pull back enough to breathe again, kissing Jimin once again before he can try to get a word in.

One of your hands curls around the back of Jimin’s neck, fingers weaving through the fine hairs there. He shivers at your touch, stroking your cheeks as your other hand grasps the back of his shirt, holding him tightly, desperately. And you taste of whiskey, the bitter tang of liquor and fear, unnamed worry and guilt on the tip of your tongue. Jimin thinks he can taste the panic on the backs of your teeth. But then your hands are sneaking down the front of Jimin’s shirt, fingers catching momentarily on the waistband of his jeans before moving to his belt, intentions clear in the way you fumble to loosen it and forcibly catch one of his thighs between both of yours.

Jimin takes advantage of the brief lapse in attention that you give the kiss to break it fully, holding you by the shoulders when you try to kiss him again. His heart, taped together in the last few seconds, shatters painfully at the pitiful whine you let out, your lashes shining with tears as you look up at Jimin, lip caught between your teeth to stave off the trembling.

“Wait, wait-”

Your hand is halfway down Jimin’s pants and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t half hard at the mere thought of doing this with you, of you harboring any desire to perform risqué actions with him, but this wasn’t right.

He wanted things done properly with you. Always you.

“Not like this, Y/N,” Jimin whispers, his voice sounding incredibly loud in the nearly empty room. “You’ll regret it in the morning.”

“Jimin-” Your breath catches on a sob.

“You’ll regret it in the morning, baby. I know you will.”

Sounding incredibly small and astronomically resigned you choke out on a broken exhale, “You don’t want me, either?”

The absolute devastation in your voice floors Jimin. The haunted, empty look in your eye will haunt him for far longer than this moment will last; Jimin knows this for certain, yet he can’t bring himself to look away. He can’t bring himself to look away from your cheeks, flushed from the liquor and from the crying, your lips quivering faintly in a pitiful attempt to hold back the onslaught of tears waiting to fall. Your eyes, normally alight with fire and passion, so bright and breathtaking that it took much of Jimin’s will to hold his gaze with yours, were dull. And it unnerved him to no end.

And Jimin would give you anything; his heart and soul, he’d pick the burning stars from the sky if it were what you wanted. Hell he’d even give you his fucking body if it meant wiping the desolate look from your features. You should never look that sad, should never be plagued by the demons inside that cut your soul and lead you to forget about how perfect and beautiful you were- you have always been. And Jimin doesn’t care about the school or anyone’s expectations, doesn’t give a shit about rivalries or hatred, he only cares about you, and making sure your stunning features never twist in isolated grief again. He only cares about the worries he carries himself, or what anyone thinks or of any kinds of rumors, Jimin only wants you to be okay.

You sway dangerously on your feet, weight barely supported by Jimin’s hands on your shoulders. When your shoulders begin to shake and you let the whiskey fall from your fingers to clatter onto the floor, Jimin’s heart breaks that much more.

“Don’t,” Jimin takes a deep breath, gathering the nerves he’d been trying to collect for years. “Don’t ever say that, Y/N. I’ve wanted you- fuck, I always want you. Please don’t ever doubt that you’re wanted. Tae-Taehyung loves you to death, Y/N; you know so many people adore you. Please don’t ever think you’re not wanted.”

“Jimin-”

“Shh, please just listen. I know you probably won’t remember this in the morning, but I care so deeply for you, Y/N. Whatever it is that’s bothering you tonight will pass, and if you need someone there to hold your hand through it, then I have two that are always open for you. Y/N, I- Y/N?”

Jimin gets no response from you, your body tipping forward until your head presses against Jimin’s stomach and he panics for a second, thinking he grossly miscalculated how much you had to drink that night until your breathing begins to settle, shoulder relaxing in fatigue. Your weight falls entirely onto Jimin and he curses quietly, struggling to gather all of the bottles into the bag to be thrown away before curling your arm around his shoulders and his beneath your knees, picking up your deadweight body.

He only hopes his roommates are already asleep, as you never told him where you lived on campus. And, above all, Jimin can only hope the morning that comes soon is kinder to you than this foul evening.

Jeon Jeongguk is no cook. Absolutely not. He’s an expert at weaving through defenders twice his size and finding new ways to dunk a basketball, but hand him a knife and a pot water and Jeongguk runs scared. But that doesn’t mean he can’t be adept at premade pancake batter. He loves it. The mix is already done and he only has to shape them- sometimes like snowmen- and Seokjin is so offended by it that he makes lunches for Jeongguk every week. It’s a win-win.

Of course, the ease in which pancakes can be made often results in far too many being cooked. Too many times have Jeongguk’s taken a plate stacked across the hall to Bambam’s suite just to get rid of some. And he’s starting to think that’s exactly what he’ll have to do today, too.

Jeongguk adjust his Snapback, folding his bangs beneath the cap between flipping pancakes. Grease from the pan with the sausages jumps to sting his forearms. Don’t cook shirtless, dumbass, Seokjin always says. Well Seokjin isn’t here and Jeongguk got laid last night and can do anything he wants, thank you very much.

He’s debating whether or not to wake up the others before all of the pancakes are done when someone enters the kitchen from the direction of Jimin’s room, someone Jeongguk had never, in all of his long and wise nineteen years, expected to see anywhere near this building.

“Y/N?” Jeongguk asks, burning a pancake in how long he stares at you. Your hair is a mess, eyes bleary and red, looking almost as if you’d been asleep for three days as you look around the room, confused.

“Where am I?”

Jeongguk winces at the hoarseness to your voice, like sandpaper over bricks and stone. He leans away from the stove to the fridge, grabbing an unopened water bottle and tossing it to you. You thank him quietly, drinking long and deep from the bottle.

“Jesus,” Jeongguk murmurs, and opens the oven to plate the pancakes. He pours more batter onto the pan. “How much did you drink?”

You’re not looking at him when Jeongguk chances a glance back. “I don’t remember, honestly.”

“Oh.”

Jeongguk purses his lips, wondering if he should be waking up Taehyung to take you home. If you weren’t even sure who’d brought you here, there was a good chance Taehyung was didn’t know either. Or Jimin had explained everything to Taehyung, which seems to Jeongguk to be the most likely explanation. But if you were here there was an obvious reason, and Jimin never slept in for too long, probably already in the gym. He should be back to explain soon enough.

“Jimin will explain everything, I’m sure. How’s the hangover?”

“Brutal.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Jeongguk. You live here?”

“Nope,” Jeongguk says, pulling a plate from the cabinet. He plates the pancakes and a few sausages, turning to face you. “And neither do you. Want a pancake? It’s my secret hangover recipe.”

Jeongguk’s relieved to see the tiny smile pull at your lips. “Pancakes are a hangover recipe?”

“No, but the awful smoothie you get on the side is.” Jeongguk grins. “Tae-hyung gave the recipe to me last year. I choked. It wasn’t hot.”

The front door opens, Jimin walking in with his hoodie pulled over his head and headphones in his ears. He pauses in the doorway, looking between Jeongguk and you with wide, knowing eyes. But his gaze lingers on you, something soft and vulnerable, riddled with concern that Jeongguk expected from him when it came to you. Jimin wasn’t as good an actor as he thought.

“Morning Jimin,” Jeongguk says. “Pancake?”

“How many times am I going to come home to you in my kitchen, Guk?” Jimin asks, shaking his head. There’s no malice in his voice. Jimin’s far too fond a person to be bitter about Jeongguk spending his time around the suite.

“Taehyung-hyung’s still asleep and I’m bored.”

“That’s always your excuse. How long have you been here?”

“Um,” you say quietly, staring at a spot on the wall between Jimin and Jeongguk. Something smells like it’s burning and Jeongguk curses, remembering the J-shaped pancake he had put on the burner. “I should probably get going.”

Jimin startles back into awareness. “Y/N-”

“I-uh, you were the one to bring me back? This is your place?” Over his shoulder, Jeongguk sees Jimin nod. Huh. Jeongguk must have already been asleep in Taehyung’s bed when Jimin got back. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

Jeongguk tries really hard not to watch as you make for the front door, as Jimin sidesteps to keep you from leaving just yet. Jimin’s hand reach for your arms before settling on your shoulders, his eyes searching your face for something Jeongguk may never understand. A long, unbearably fond moment passes before Jimin leans in to press a feather light kiss to your forehead.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” Jimin whispers. “But I’m here to listen. You know that, right?”

Quieter than Jeongguk’s ever heard you speak, you say with a nod, “I’m realizing.”

“I’ll tell Tae, okay? He’ll be over soon. Take it easy today until you feel better.”

You nod, saying a gentle goodbye to both Jimin and Jeongguk before pulling your jacket’s hood- Jimin’s varsity warm up from high school, Jeongguk realizes- over your head and ducking out the front door.

“Hyung,” Jeongguk says quietly, a few minutes after you’d left.

Jimin tries to laugh it off. “What trouble are you in? I don’t like when you call me that.”

“Jimin-hyung.” Jeongguk turns off the oven, taking all the finished pancakes and placing the platter on the stove. Time to wake up the suite, it would seem. “You… You should go after what you want y’know. Carpe diem, motherfucker.”

Jimin chuckles, and Jeongguk lets Jimin ruffle his hair on their way to the table to eat. “Don’t quit your day job, Guk.”

Jeongguk rolls his eyes. Jimin is still stealing glances at the front door. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah. I do.”

“Tae!”

Taehyung ducks into the arena to escape the cold afternoon, holding the door open for Jimin as he jogs to catch up. It’s wonderfully warm inside the building, and Jimin lets Taehyung ruffle his hair as they’re walking to the locker rooms.

“What’s up? Don’t you have practice?”

“We ended early,” Jimin says, which isn’t completely a lie. He’d been a little too antsy to speak with Taehyung all day and hadn’t had the focus to go for another two hours of conditioning. The underclassmen were happy about it. The upperclassmen had stared at Jimin as if he was crazy.

“Nice,” Taehyung says. They pass the side entrance with the loose lock Taehyung had told him about during their first year, a door he had found one afternoon when he’d been locked out of the building. “Come to watch your best friend put on tight spandex?”

“Not this time, dude. Where’s Y/N? She skipped this week, bro, and you know she never skips.”

Taehyung doesn’t answer at first, dropping his bag onto the bench between the lockers with a heavy thump. He sighs, looking wearier than Jimin thinks he’s ever seen. He twists his fingers into the hem of his sweatshirt. “She’s in her room, Chim.”

“Is she sick?”

“No-”

“Where’s her suite?”

“What? Jimin, no-”

“Is she okay, Taehyung?” The firmness of Jimin’s voice must catch Taehyung off guard because he startles, looking up to meet Jimin’s gaze. “What the hell is going on? Why was she drinking so much?”

Taehyung stares at a piece of peeling paint on the wall opposite Jimin’s shoulder, glaring at it as if the discoloration could provide the answers he’s searching for. Finally, he says, “I shouldn’t be the one to tell you.”

“Tell me what, Tae?” Jimin’s glad the locker room is empty right now, no one around to spread unnecessary rumors.

“Just-here.” Taehyung pushes a key into Jimin’s palm, immediately looking like he’s regretting the action. “South Court, room 218. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Jimin doesn’t do anything stupid, if sprinting across campus in the cold to get to South Court doesn’t count as stupid. There are no suites around here; Jimin knows this is the area of the dorms, the only two buildings on campus that have dorms. He follows Taehyung’s directions to the second building, taking the stairs up to the second floor instead of the elevator when he sees the line.

The hallways aren’t immaculately kept, Jimin sees as he wanders down them to find the right room. The walls are pristinely kempt, the lights flattering and warm, but Jimin can see, just from experience, that a little less money was put into this building. The correct room comes halfway down the hall and with his fist raised to the door Jimin pauses, lips turned down in thought. The worst you can do is kick him out.

“Y/N?” Jimin whispers, pushing open your door. There are boxes stacked in one corner, two lamps in the middle of the room, the light from one illuminating the two beds inside the room. The blinds are drawn and for a moment Jimin thinks you’re not in, but then he sees the lump buried under a few blankets on one of the beds.

The sight of you, looking so small when Jimin’s so used to you forcing yourself past your tallest height to square off against him, makes Jimin’s stomach churn uncomfortably. He closes the door gently behind him.

“Go away, Taehyung,” you say, voice barely audible from where Jimin figures you’re buried under your blankets.

“Not Taehyung,” Jimin murmurs, not missing the way your body tenses. “Sorry.”

Jimin carefully, but not without a few moments of an internal battle, eases himself onto the edge of your bed beneath your comforter, lying behind you. He can’t see you under any of the blankets, but he reaches out to where he thinks your shoulders are, and drapes his arm over you.

“Jimin,” you breathe. “Why are you here?”

“You haven’t shown up to class.”

“So? Are you stalking me now?”

“Y/N, can we not. Please? I was damn worried about you, okay?”

Though you don’t face him, you do lower the blanket away from your head, your hair flying in a few different directions. Jimin takes a chance and scoots closer to you. “Worried.”

“Yeah.” He pauses. “Wanna talk?”

“No.”

“Have you been here all day?”

“…No.”

Jimin laughs quietly, gaze focused on your back for any kinds of clues. “Let me guess. You’ve only left this room to lift. At least tell me you brought Taehyung with you.”

“I did.”

“Good.” Jimin squeezes your shoulder. “There was cake in the cafeteria this afternoon, did Taehyung get you any?”

“Jimin, what are you doing?”

“Remember the day we met?”

“Jimin.”

Jimin sighs, tapping a beat onto your shoulder with his finger. He wonders if you remember anything he told you that night. “Distracting you. Remember the day we me?”

You make a noise in the back of your throat. “You threw a basketball at me the day of orientation. My father was so furious that he almost didn’t let me come to this school.”

“I didn’t throw it,” Jimin says, lips curving up at the memory. He can picture that day, too hot and stuffy, his chest aching with excitement at having been accepted to his first choice school. “A senior on the team was showing off. I was just the first person to get to you.”

Jimin can picture the frown on your lips, the little furrow between your brows whenever you were confused. A few seconds pass, and you wiggle the littlest bit closer to Jimin. “You didn’t throw it?”

“Nope.”

“My father was ready to murder you, though.”

“And I was so star struck by seeing such a pretty girl that I forgot to tell him it wasn’t me.”

By now, you’re close enough for Jimin to comfortably rest his arm over your waist, hesitating with his other arm before you raise your head in silent invitation and Jimin lays it on your pillow, your head a pleasant weight on the crook of his arm. He can see your face properly now, cheeks a little flushed and eyes rimmed red, but otherwise there was no sign of what had transpired a few nights ago.

“But why didn’t you say anything?”

“It never came up.”

“That’s a shitty excuse.”

“Yeah. Well. Maybe I liked that hating me granted me your attention.”

You snort. “Another shitty excuse.” Jimin doesn’t say anything, sensing from the minute tensing of your shoulders that you’re not quite done yet. And there are so many things Jimin would give you, but the time you need would always be on top. “Have you been watching the news lately?”

Jimin shakes his head, forgetting for a second that you couldn’t see. “Not really. There aren’t any televisions on the court.”

“Right. Well, my father was arrested a couple weeks ago.”

“Arrested?” Jimin asks, and your behavior that night suddenly makes sense. If you were close to your father, then hearing about him being sent to jail could have pushed you over an edge. “For what? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“A ponzy scheme. I didn’t ask for any details when the cops called for my statement, but apparently it was running for almost five years and he scammed almost all of his clients.”

“Shit, Y/N, I’m sorry. I can’t imagine-”

“I mean, I’m not very close to him,” you say, and Jimin frowns in confusion. “I’ve only seen him a few times a year since my mom died. Mostly for holidays.”

“Y/N, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Jimin. Really. She passed years ago before my first meet, but I have her stuff in my closet at home. My father’s partners didn’t like seeing it in his room.”

“Fuck, Y/N-”

“Jimin, I may have to leave the school.”

He has no immediate response for that, throat drying and words dying on his tongue. You’re quiet for a long few minutes before a sigh tumbles past your lips and then you’re turning, adjusting your body to lie on your side facing Jimin, and despite the tracks of dried tears on your cheeks, he can’t help but think you still look gorgeous. His arm is starting to go a little numb, but he pays it no mind.

You bite your lip, dropping your gaze from Jimin’s to stare at the bed between the two of you. Trailing his fingers from your hip to your shoulder, Jimin takes a chance and strokes his thumb over the apple of your cheek.

“My father paid the tuition with illegal money. I’m here on scholarship now, but if my national rankings slip from top ten or I don’t place in the upcoming qualifying rounds, I lose the money. Jimin, I could be kicked out.”

“How much do you need? I have a checkbook back in my room-”

“Jimin, no. Absolutely not,” you say sternly, eyes snapping back to his. He can’t pinpoint why he suggested it, but if he were more honest with himself he’d be able to answer that conundrum. He didn’t want to lose you. He wanted you here, wanted you at his side, for as long as possible. Forever, if possible. If you would have him. “How could I ask that of you?”

“Technically, you didn’t ask.”

“I got this, okay?” Jimin props his weight at your side with his elbow, watching the way your eyes harden into the resolve he knows so well. “I’m not ranked so highly for nothing. I can do this.” You pause, mouth shutting, and then one of your hands is on Jimin’s shoulder, tugging him until his body was hovering over yours and his heart was punching the inside of his chest so violently there was no way you couldn’t hear it. “There… there is one way you can help me. I think.”

“Anything.”

“Help me forget?”

Jimin’s stomach swirls, an odd combination of yearning and uncertainty. “Y/N. I don’t know, what if you regret it?”

“I won’t.” You say pointedly, curling both of your hands over Jimin’s shoulders. “Maybe then I would have, but Jimin- I. Please? I can’t keep thinking about this.”

Taking a deep breath, Jimin lets his eyes fall shut and lets himself gather his resolve. When he opens his eyes again, he somehow manages to look into yours without faltering. Jimin curves his hand to cup your cheek and says, “We’re doing it my way.”

“Okay,” you agree, a small smile on your lips. It’s the first one Jimin’s seen in too long. “Okay, sure. Yes.”

When Jimin finally kisses you, his heart sings a gorgeous melody that Jimin would be willing to spend his entire life memorizing. He knows it’s terribly cliché, to feel that kind of glowing warmth spreading through his chest- and he’s kissed plenty of people before- but he couldn’t deny there was something wonderful about getting to press his mouth to yours. Without the alcohol it’s a lot more coordinated, a lot more purposeful in the way you nip at Jimin’s bottom lip, the way you sigh as Jimin licks into your mouth.

Jimin could definitely get used to this, get used to the addictive feeling of your lips on his, to your taste on the back of his tongue. He’s wanted this for so long that now that he has it, now that he’s hovering over your body, hands on either side of your head to keep him propped above you, he’s absolutely against the idea of it stopping.

So he takes it slow. Jimin takes it as slowly as he’s always wanted to, as slowly as he wishes his first kiss with you was. But firsts are never perfect, and if Jimin could have this slow drag of his tongue against yours for the rest of his days, he’d sign the contract faster than it could be written.

“Jimin,” you whisper, as Jimin pulls his lips away. He can’t stay away for long, though, dipping back down to press his mouth to yours again, again, once more. You’re giggling quietly when you thread your fingers through Jimin’s hair, stroking the finer strands on the back of his neck. “Jimin, get on with it.”

“Ah, ah,” Jimin teases, pressing his lips to your jaw, slowly and sweetly. “We’re doing this my way, remember, princess?”

Your eyelids flutter, and Jimin’s heart nosedives at the sight. “Don’t use that name here, Park.”

“We’ll see about that, baby girl.”

You laugh gently, more an exhale of air than anything else, and Jimin returns to his task of kissing along your jaw. For good measure he kisses at your nose and cheeks as well, before nibbling at a spot behind your ear that has you moaning quietly. He makes a note of that.

For now, though, Jimin drags his lips and tongue down to your neck, kissing slowly and gently. And he takes off your clothes in much the same way, with gentle hands and practiced, unhurried movements, pressing leisurely kisses to every inch of skin he uncovers and reveling in the little moans you let out at each wet kiss he leaves. Jimin unbuttons your shirt as slowly as possible, never removing his lips from your smooth skin as he kisses along your chest and stomach.

Your hands are in Jimin’s hair still, your head thrown back against the pillow as he moves down your body. Eventually Jimin gets to the waistband of your sweats and kisses along the line of your stomach and ignoring the way you dig your heel into his back in an attempt to get him to move faster. He doesn’t, instead taking time to suck a particularly dark hickey onto the skin of your hipbone before deciding to take the time to give the other the same treatment.

Once he has your pants off Jimin has to take a moment to breathe. He never thought he’d have you like this, splayed out and panting before him in bed, your wild hair framing your face gorgeously. Jimin tugs your panties off, trying not to appear as overwhelmed as he actually is. He’s half hard already in his jeans, but he ignores himself in favor of moving his lips along your leg, starting from one ankle and kissing up to your inner thigh, immensely pleased by the way you shiver lightly under his ministrations. Jimin does the same thing with your other leg, holding it carefully, reverently, away from the bed with a gentle hand closed around your ankle before he’s kissing the skin there, biting a few times at your thigh and loving each of your quiet giggles. Your cheeks are flushes, chest heaving a little, and Jimin knows there’s nowhere on Earth more beautiful than this moment right here. It’s the moment an inspiring artist would kill for, a moment Jimin never wants to end.

When Jimin touches his tongue to your center, you gasp out his name and he’s instantly infatuated with the sound. Still, he takes his time, coaxing you carefully through the pleasure. Your hands are back in his hair, holding him close as Jimin slowly thrusts his tongue into your tight heat, letting his hands roam along all of your skin that he can reach. If he’s considered you his angel for so long, then his only mission for today is to get you to see it, too.

Your orgasm takes Jimin by surprise, and you come with shaky legs around Jimin’s shoulders and your lips blessing his name. He keeps moving his tongue within you until he hears you let out a gentle whimper and he pulls back, pressing kiss after kiss after kiss to each of your thighs, to your hips, to your chest and the valley between your breasts.

“Jimin,” you whine, tugging lightly at Jimin’s hair. He allows you to pull him back up the length of your body, falling into a messy kiss that was more his lips hovering centimeters from yours, breathing your air as you struggle to catch your breath.

Jimin cards his fingers through your sweaty hair, pushing the strands away from your flushed face. Jimin’s seen your face dusted pink from embarrassment and alcohol, but he thinks this, the flush of ecstasy sitting so nicely on your cheeks, is his favorite.

Jimin says, “You’re so beautiful,” and watches the flush deepen on your cheeks, watches the way you cover your eyes with both hands. He adjusts himself to kneel over your body, one leg on either side of your hips, and takes your hands in both of his. “I mean it, Y/N. You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever had the pleasure of being with.”

“So, there are prettier people out of your league?”

Jimin snorts. “I’m going to pretend that was a ‘thank you.’”

Before you get a chance to reply Jimin kisses you again, whispering the question on the tip of his tongue to your lips. Once he gets the okay, Jimin strokes his fingers along the skin of your stomach, letting his tongue slip into your mouth at the same time. One finger in and you’re squirming against him, hands clutching his shoulders tightly.

“Baby?” Jimin stops, pulling back slightly. “Are you okay? We can stop, if you don’t want to-”

“No, Jimin,” you say hurriedly. “No, Jimin, it’s fine. It’s just… it’s just been a while, is all.”

Jimin kisses your temple with utmost care. “Relax, Y/N. I’ll take care of you, okay?”

Two fingers inside you and Jimin’s scissoring them, searching for your sensitive spot as he kisses your neck, biting your pulse point and gently thrusting both fingers into you. You sigh beneath him, eyes closed in pleasure, and Jimin can’t help but kiss your eyelids, lips soft as a butterfly’s touch on his nose during the first days of spring. At three fingers you’re panting against his lips, asking with fingers tight in his hair and nails digging into his shoulders for more.

“Jimin…” You cut yourself off with a moan as Jimin crooks his fingers and hits that spot inside you again. “Dammit, Jimin take your pants off. I need you inside of me.”

Jimin laughs quietly, taking care to stretch you just a little longer. The last thing he wants to do is hurt you. “And who would I be if I said no?” He briefly rolls away from you- but not without sticking his fingers into his mouth and licking your taste clean off of them, sure he could get addicted to your taste in no time- to hurriedly chuck his sweatshirt and undershirt off. He fumbles a little with his pants, getting a bit too excited in his haste to get rid of the offending clothes, but sighing in relief when the pressure’s taken off of his aching cock. He pauses before returning to you. “Condom?”

“Um…” You glance around the room, as if by checking each of the boxes on the floor you could see which one had what you needed. “There might be some in the top drawer of the dresser?”

Jimin’s ass is cold as he crosses the room, not thinking to cover up as he searches your dresser, rifling through the few shirts and spare socks within to find what he’s looking for. Thankfully, he finds a few condom packets in the drawer, and he grabs one before hurrying back to the bed and jumping in with you. You’re laughing as the bed rocks, arms curling welcomingly around Jimin’s shoulders as he takes his place above you again.

His hips stutter at the touch of his hand as Jimin rolls the condom over his cock, hard and red and desperate to feel you around him. He lines himself up at your entrance, pausing to rest his forehead against yours and glance into your pleasure hazy eyes. “You’re sure about this?”

“I already agreed, Jimin. Stop asking and fuck me already.”

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

Jimin pushes into you slowly, winding his fingers into the sheets by your head as his entire body tenses, the warm, wet heat sending his thoughts spiraling. It takes everything he has not to snap his hips harshly against yours, but to gradually let his hips rest flush against yours, eyes wide and searching, never leaving the molten heat of yours. He hardly blinks as he bottoms out, watching your expression for any sign of discomfort.

You sigh contently, humming gently as Jimin stays buried in your heat, and truly, Jimin thinks he’s going to go crazy. You’re so tight around him, feel absolutely perfect around his cock, and he lets you know as much, mumbling the words against your temple.

“You can move, Jimin,” you say, giggling a little at Jimin’s words.

He does, squeezing your hip gently with his free hand as he pulls almost all the way out of you and thrusts in again. His pace is unhurried, almost lethargic, as he grinds against you. He’s in no rush, content to live in this moment and feel every inch of you. Jimin doesn’t want this to end, wants to stay in this tiny piece of a perfect forever in which he can always have this, always have your perfume clouding his thoughts and sending him higher, always have your nails nearly drawing blood from the skin of his back, always have your lips dripping his name like a prayer.

Each of your moans is a lovely song to Jimin’s ears, spurring him on to touch you more, to move his lips along the sensitive parts of your skin, biting lightly at your earlobe and delighting in the shiver that wracks your smaller body, in the sound that slips from your lips. Jimin’s pace remains slow and deliberate, intending to drag this out for as long as possible, for you to feel everything he’s feeling, too.

“Ah- Jimin, aren’t you going to fuck me like you mean it?” The words hold no venom, a low, breathy murmur against Jimin’s ear.

“I do mean it, baby girl. I mean everything.”

Jimin hopes you understand that he means what he’s said over the last few days.

He can feel his release creeping up on him, a soft whisper in the back of his mind beckoning his follow. Jimin allows himself to speed up slightly, his thrusts getting sloppy as pleasure crowds every corner of his mind, as he loses some focus to kissing you again.

“Baby,” Jimin gasps. You keen at a particularly harsh thrust, and for a moment Jimin loses his train of thought again. “Baby, are you close?”

“Yes, ah, Jimin. Touch me, please-”

Jimin trails his fingers down your stomach until he reaches your clit, deliberately stroking the sensitive nerves until you’re all but shaking beneath him, arms tight around his shoulders to keep him close, and Jimin kisses you through your orgasm, teeth clashing in the heat of the moment. And when you tighten around him, Jimin can’t help but follow you over the edge, his thrusts losing rhythm as he comes, groaning your name against your shoulder.

He strokes your hair until your shaking subsides and your arms loosen enough for him to pull back and glance at you, face glowing softly with pleasure. Pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, Jimin slips out of you gently, tying the condom and throwing it into the trash he spots on the other side of the room. He falters when he sees there’s no kitchen in this room, but recovers quickly to grab a water bottle from your desk, tossing it to you.

Jimin pulls on his jeans quietly, but when he reaches for his sweatshirt you hold a hand out expectantly. He frowns, confused, until you tug the sweatshirt from his hands and pull it over your own body.

He thinks you look gorgeous like this, hair mussed and cheeks flushed, drowning a little in the fabric of his sweatshirt. It’s one of his favorites, from the last year he played baseball in high school before fully dedicating himself to basketball. But he’d give it to you in a heartbeat if it meant you looked so cute in it all the time.

He finds his t-shirt wrinkled on the side of the bed. You roll onto your side, watching him with an expression Jimin can’t read. “You can stay if you want.”

Jimin startles, both at your voice in the quiet of the night and at your suggestion. “Do you want me to stay?”

It’s subtle, but Jimin thinks the blush on your cheeks deepens. “If you want to. I mean, if you have somewhere else to be then don’t let me keep you, but if you don’t… Just. I don’t know, Jimin.”

“I’ll stay if you want.”

In the ensuring silence, Jimin pulls back your sheets and replaces them with the comforter bunched at the bottom of the bed, slipping in beside you without a word. He hesitates for a long few minutes, wanting nothing more than to take you into his arm and cuddle the shit out of you- he’d be a goddam liar if he said he hasn’t thought of doing it before- but he holds back.

Because in the dark of your room, sheltered from the rest of the world, there is no label for what the two of you have, and you offering to share your bed could be nothing more than a courteous gesture. Jimin holds his breath for the longest time, trying to will the longing out of his system, but his resolve breaks when you reach blindly for his arm over the covers and drag it to drape over your own body. So Jimin shuffles closer, presses his nose against the nape of your neck and allows his longing to grow unhinged by any kinds of dark thoughts, and bites back everything that he wants to say.

The gymnastics arena is really fucking cold. Jimin had never noticed this before, but he finds himself pulling his sports jacket tighter around his chest as he walks through the familiar halls. It’s after hours again, Jimin had just finished up at one of his basketball games- setting a school record for three’s, he may add. Jeongguk wasn’t happy about his lack of lobs but hey, what could he do?- and had come by to check on Taehyung.

At least, that’s the story Jimin would stick with if anyone asked why he was in the gymnastics gym more often nowadays. His best friend is a gymnast, the lie would easily roll off his tongue, can’t he show a little support? But it’s late enough now that even Taehyung, secretly gunning for the next Olympics, has left already.

There’s only one person who’d be in the gym this late, and Jimin spots you easily. Although there are two rooms with all apparatuses in the arena, you always tend to stick to the one furthest from the most convenient doors. Jimin wouldn’t expect anything else, really, smiling a little as he pauses in the doorway. You’re alone in the room, having discarded your shirt some time ago. You were working on the bars this time, throwing tricks that scared the ever loving shit out of Jimin. He liked to be close to the ground, thank you very much. And no, Jeongguk, it’s not because of his height.

Jimin watches as you go through what he assumes to be your routine, flipping once to change your direction on the lower bar before flinging your body onto the higher bar, and Jimin’s truly in awe. He loves to watch you, has loved watching your routines since he first starting coming to competitions his first year for Taehyung. There was something about the way you moved that captivated Jimin, left him breathless and inspired. Watching you flip and jump, throw tricks that little girls dream of doing themselves, Jimin can’t help but grin.

The song playing reaches its crescendo just as you twirl three times on one of the bars, throwing yourself into your dismount of a double back with a twist, landing almost perfectly. Jimin hardly notices the little stumble, but you curse loudly, eyeing the uneven bars as if to go through the routine again.

Jimin clears his throat, stepping further into the room and into the weak light of the entrance area. You reach for a towel, wiping the sweat from your neck and face, and wiping the chalk from your palms, throwing a hand up to wave in acknowledgment. “Princess.”

“Hey, Jimin.”

He drops his sports bag but continues to make his way toward you. There are water bottles scattered on the floor and one of Taehyung’s socks- Jimin hates that he recognizes it- littered on the floor, along with your shirt and sweats a few meters away from your bag. If Jimin had to guess, he’d say you’d been here upwards of three hours alone.

“Good practice?” Jimin asks when he reaches where you stand. Wordlessly, you hold out your hand and let Jimin unwrap the tape from your wrist.

“Okay practice.”

“Something wrong?”

You sigh, furiously blowing the loose bangs away from your eyes. Jimin wants to reach out and stroke them away himself, but he refrains. “I can’t land my double back full twist.”

“Didn’t you just land that?”

“That was a half twist. And I couldn’t even land that properly.”

Jimin bites back his comment to take a break; know that it won’t make any difference. “You’re doing fine, Y/N. You can’t overwork yourself like this.”

You’re silent for a few minutes, eyes trained on Jimin’s fingers as he unwraps your other wrist and lets his thumb move slowly across your skin. “I have to, Jimin. If I don’t place-”

“If you don’t place you’ll figure it out,” Jimin can’t help but say. “But if you tire yourself out, you won’t even have a chance. Please tell me you at least ate dinner.”

“It’s a good thing you stopped by,” you say, dodging Jimin’s inquiry. “I know my grades aren’t as important right now, but I didn’t do very well on a history exam. I was actually about to text you.”

Jimin wrinkles his nose, ignoring the odd feeling of an undercut finding home in his stomach. “You’re covered in sweat and chalk.”

“So? This place has locker rooms.”

You keep your fingers linked with Jimin’s as the two of you collect your things, shoving them in the nearest bag and the second Jimin has the door closed behind the two of you in the locker room, he’s dropping everything to crowd you against the nearest wall and cover your lips with his.

Kissing you, even weeks after the first, is still absolutely exhilarating. You steal the breath right out of Jimin’s lungs, and you aren’t even aware when you do it. Jimin kisses you like a starved man, aware that he’s bordering a little on desperate but not caring in the slightest when you laugh against his lips, tangling fingers into his hair and kissing him back with just as much fervor. Wedging a leg between both of yours, Jimin breaks the kiss to breathe and to give himself an opportunity to move his lips to your neck, being careful not to get too excited and leave any marks.

Your hands are everywhere. One second they’re in Jimin’s hair, then dipping under the hem of his shirt to run cold hands over the small of his back, the cold touch doing nothing to stave off the fire brewing in the pit of Jimin’s stomach.

“What about the sweat and chalk?” You ask against Jimin’s lips, hands back in his hair.

“Right. Let’s go.”

The shower is warm and slippery, even with the sandals he has to wear. Jimin isn’t keen on getting a foot fungus, thank you very much. Jimin isn’t the biggest fan of shower sex, but he’s game for anything involving you, especially when that involves watching the way water streams down your naked body, skin glowing softly and wet hair gathered over your shoulder. He’d already showered earlier, but he doesn’t hesitate to take your shampoo into his hands and lather the foam into your hair. At the press of his fingers to your temple you moan softly, head held under the spray of the water.

He isn’t sure who moves first, but as you turn around and grin at Jimin under the flow of the shower head, your lips are suddenly on his. Jimin backs you against the wall, kissing you fiercely, and wasting no time in trailing his hand down the length of your body.

“Mm, get the lube,” You say quietly, biting on Jimin’s lower lip when he pulls back.

“Hm?”

“Makes it easier, trust me. It’s in my gym bag.”

It’s fucking freezing for the thirty seconds it takes Jimin to locate the lube from yours and a condom from his own bag, but that only makes the steam of the shower more inviting when he returns. Jimin hitches one of your legs over his hip, working one and then two slicked up fingers into your core with relative ease. You grip his shoulders tightly, panting into the junction of his neck and shoulder, every sound you make drives him absolutely insane.

Three fingers in and you’re writhing in his hold, begging with broken gasps and pleas of his name to hurry up. Jimin’s hands shake a little as he rolls the condom onto his cock, curved hard and red against his lower abdomen, and your back arches as Jimin guides himself inside you.

The tiled walls are cold against Jimin’s hands, your hips rocking against Jimin’s as the two of you move against each other. Jimin grips your thighs and lifts you to wrap your legs around his waist so he has the leverage to fuck into you better, his hips snapping against you at a furious pace. Your hands cup Jimin’s face to kiss him again, more often than not breaking the kiss to cry out, his name falling from your lips so beautifully that Jimin thinks he’d do anything to be able to hear that sound forever.

When you come, you rake your nails down Jimin’s back and he hisses through the sting, as he fucks you through the aftershocks. Without catching your breath you kiss Jimin again, whispering against his lips,

“Come, Jimin.”

He coms with a loud groan of your name, the sound echoing around the near empty locker room. Jimin shudders as he lets you down, both of you trying to catch your breath beneath the lukewarm stream of water.

“That test really hit hard, huh?” Jimin asks quietly, grimacing as he pulls the condom off.

“Ah… yeah.” You pull Jimin back under the water for a brief rinse off, kissing his lips quickly. “Good thing I have your bomb ass dick game to make up for it, right?”

Jimin laughs, guiding you out of the shower with an arm around your waist. The towels in the closet are fluffy and warm, and Jimin relishes in the little giggles you let out as Jimin aggressively dries your hair with an extra towel. It’s cute. It’s so damn cute and Jimin can’t help his wide smile. He wants to kiss your nose, but he knows that would be crossing one of the invisible lines previously set up. Sex was a stress reliever. He’d had the sex with you, and now both of you were relieved.

“Your place or mine?” Jimin asks, wondering if he’d cleaned up enough for round two on his bed or if he’d get to fuck you against the wall again.

“Oh, uhm. Actually I was planning on just going to bed, Jimin.” You squeeze Jimin’s hand in standing at the threshold of the front door, offering a tired smile, and in the moonlight Jimin can better see the dark marks beneath your eyes. It hurts him to see, but he knows you won’t let him tell you to sleep more. “But, I’ll see you in class tomorrow, okay?”

“Hey, Y/N?” Jimin blurts, still standing by the front door. “Everything’s going to work out fine. You know that, right?”

In the dark, Jimin can’t read your expression when you turn to face him, walking backwards for a few meters. “Goodnight, Jimin.”

The next two months pass like that.

Sometimes Jimin makes the trek to the gymnastics arena after practice, walking the familiar path in the waning moonlight and spending a few indulgent minutes watching the way your body moves as you perform. Or you’ll attend one of his games, sitting high on the bleachers sandwiched between Taehyung and either Hoseok or Namjoon- how Taehyung gets Namjoon to attend basketball games is forever a mystery to Jimin- before Jimin leads you to the locker room. Or you lead him back to the dorms. They’re not picky.

And it eats at Jimin.

He’ll never admit to it, never admit that every time Jimin kisses you breathless he’s secretly hoping for it to mean a little more. He’s secretly hoping that when you drop to your knees, using your tongue to tease him beyond coherent thought that it’ll mean something more. He wants everything with you.

Jimin wants to hold your hand in class; wants to switch seats with someone so he can rest his head against your shoulder as he’s falling asleep. It’s the height of the season and he’s tired. Sue him. Jimin wants to meet you outside of your classroom and swaddle you in his oversize jackets, maybe even share one jacket because dramas always make that look cute as fuck. It hurts him every time you remind him not to leave marks, every time you only touch him after a particularly tough day, or when you can’t land a move. He wants you to seek him out for more than sex, but he’s addicted to the taste of your lips and the way you gasp his name, too obsessed with the picturesque image of your sinful body curving beneath his that Jimin keeps coming back. Keeps falling into you again and again, even when his heart aches as he gets dressed to leave in the middle of the night. Cuddling was for weekends.

“You’re being an idiot,” Taehyung says one day during lunch. You’re training again, skipping lunch and Jimin’s debating whether to pack up the rest of his food and bring it to you or not.

They’re sitting together at one of the tables in the dining room with a few other friends, Jeongguk balancing a basketball on one fingers as Taehyung looks on with a fond smile. Jeongguk’s obviously showing off for Taehyung, but he’s still trying to be subtle about it. As if Jimin didn’t walk in on the two of them cuddling every other morning. It was gross. And it’s what Jimin wanted with you.

“Yeah, hyung,” Jeongguk pipes up through a mouthful of fries. Hoseok steals a few as Jeongguk divides his attention between spinning the basketball and talking. “Didn’t I tell you to carpe the fuck out of the diem?”

Jimin groans. “What does that even mean?”

“It means.” Jeongguk tosses the ball lightly over the table to Taehyung, who eyes it warily. “Hyung. A blind man could see this isn’t what you want to have with Y/N. You love her. I don’t know if you put a name to it yet, hyung, but I know that’s what it is because I feel it, too. But if you keep dancing around her, if you keep tip toeing around your feelings, nothing is going to change and you’re going to stay miserable. You love Y/N. You have for so long, and honestly? It’s a little gross to watch. I don’t know how I haven’t punched myself for all the heart eyes I send at Taehyung-”

“Gukie,” Taehyung laughs, leaning across the table to smack the back of Jeongguk’s head. “You’re rambling.”

“Right,” Jeongguk coughs, turning to straddle the bench and properly face Jimin. “Go after what you want, hyung. Didn’t I tell you that before? If you want to be with Y/N- and be with her properly- then you need to tell her. Both of you are so emotionally distant sometimes that it’s painful to watch, so change it. What’s the worst that could happen, she rejects you? I’ll buy the ice cream. But you’ll never know if you don’t try.”

“Wh… Where did you learn to be wise?” Jimin kokes, trying to ease the tense atmosphere. Jeongguk just glare at him,

“She’s just as miserable,” Taehyung says, munching on a fry. “She’ll never admit to it, but I’ve missed out on so many of Jeonggukie’s cuddles over the last few weeks because she hats not having you in her bed. Y//N doesn’t say anything, but it’s written all over her face. She misses you when you’re not there, and no matter how tightly I hold her at night I know she wishes it were you.” He flicks a few fries at Jimin, whose chest has tightened so much he isn’t sure he’s breathing at all. Jimin never wanted to have this conversation and now he’s trapped in it, and knowing Taehyung, there’s no way Jimin’s getting out of it. “You better make this right, Jiminie. Because you’re my best friend, but if her heart hurts I will not hesitate to kick your ass.”

Jimin can’t help his smile. “That’s oddly reassuring, Taetae.”

It’s been said that things have to get worse before they can get better, and Jimin learns this to be true painfully quickly. He’s just gotten back from a game, headed toward your dorm after a quick text from you. Jimin was more used to fucking you in the locker room after a game, so he considered doing it in your bed this time to be something of a reprieve. His heart’s still a little heavy as he knocks on your door, but one look at your soft smile sets him a little at ease.

“Hey,” you greet, closing your eyes as Jimin cups your face in his hands to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Hey yourself, princess.”

It’s familiar and natural now, the way you curl your fingers into Jimin’s collar and drag him into your bedroom. Your room isn’t big enough to require much thought before Jimin gets you to your bed, hovering over you as he kisses your neck and chest. And you open up so well for him, taking his fingers easily as Jimin kisses you through the prep.

It’s familiar until it’s not.

And it’s not familiar because Jimin’s still thinking about his conversation with Taehyung and Jeongguk. He’s still thinking about the way his heart aches every time he looks at you, so full of love to give and just waiting for the okay to do so. It’s not familiar because Jimin’s kissing you too much, can’t get enough of your mouth against his. Jimin’s lips only leave your skin long enough to take in enough air to breathe, and even then he keeps his mouth close to you.

When you come, it’s with Jimin’s name on your lips and your nails biting into his back. It never takes long for Jimin to follow you over the edge, coaxed to finish by your soft fingers on his cheeks, your subdued words urging him along. You press a kiss to Jimin’s cheek, and Jimin’s fingers clench in your sheets.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

Jimin chokes the words out against the slick dip of your neck. He feels you stiffen beneath him, and is frightfully aware of the way he’s still buried inside you as your hands fall from Jimin’s shoulders. When he gathers the courage to raise his head, you’re staring up at him in alarm, eyes wide and terrified.

“Jimin?”

“I can’t do this anymore, Y/N.” Jimin pulls away, collecting his clothes with shaky hands. He’s yanking the fabric on with more force than necessary, but he needs something to do with his hands, needs a distraction, and this is the only one he’s got. He can’t look at you, instead staring at the night sky, void of any moonlight tonight. “I fucking… I want to hold your stupid hand. I want to kiss your face all over campus and take you on dates. I love you, Y/N, and I just really need you to know that. I can’t keep treating you like a FWBs when I want more.”

“Jimin-”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Jimin says hurriedly, even though every part of his soul wanted to hear what you had to say. “I just really needed you to know. Goodnight, Y/N. I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”

“Wait- wait, Jimin!” You scramble for a shirt, sitting up in bed and glancing frantically at Jimin, but he’s already halfway out the door, shutting it softly just as you repeat, “Jimin!”

The morning of the gymnastics championship is cold. It’s always cold, Jimin’s realizing, but there was always something there that made him feel warm inside. He’s hoping not to encounter that something today.

“Hey!” Taehyung spots Jimin the second he walks through the front door, weaving his way through parents and students to link his fingers with Jimin’s and drag him back to his place by the men’s locker room. Jeongguk’s leaning against the wall, smiling softly at Jimin. “Glad you could make it, man.”

“Wouldn’t miss this for anything,” Jimin says. “When do you go on?”

“I’ll be called for floor pretty soon, but there’s still a few minutes left for kisses.”

“Gross,” Jeongguk complains, halfheartedly shoving Taehyung’s face away from his. “Hyung, Taehyung saved us a couple spots in the bleachers with the others. Want to head there now?”

Jimin’s incredibly grateful that neither of them mentions the elephant in the room. After Jimin had stumbled back to his suite- a little intoxicated, but really, who needed to know?- Taehyung had called Jimin an idiot, and said that wasn’t what he’d suggested. But it was what had happened, and Jimin had thrown himself even harder into his training to try and punch the thought of you out of his head, to punch your phantom touch away from his body.

It’s been almost three weeks and Jimin misses you like crazy. He’s considered going back so many times, but he isn’t sure you’d even answer the door for him. Taehyung’s been spending most nights out of the suite, saying, nowhere you want to know about, Chim, as an answer whenever Jimin inquired to where he’d been.

“Let’s get food first, Jeongguk,” Jimin says, forcing his closed off throat to form the words. “I need to eat or I’ll die.”

Jeongguk nods understandingly. “I feel that, dude. I think they set up a churro booth-”

“Jimin!”

He freezes at the call of his name, immediately recognizing the tone. Taehyung smiles knowingly, and even Jeongguk looks a little excited but Jimin’s too tense to consider the meaning behind the expressions. He waits until the last possible moment to turn around, facing you, looking sheepish and nervous, sports jacket zipped up to your throat. The unsteadiness of your fingers unnerves Jimin to no end.

“H-Hey, Y/N.” Jimin messes with the short hairs at the back of his neck, unsure of what to say. He didn’t think he owed you anything, but the last thing he wanted to do was to leave and be denied sight of your pretty features. “What’s up-?”

“I love you, too.”

“You- what? You what?”

You laugh quietly, unsurely. “I love you, too, you idiot. You didn’t give me a chance to say it the other night.”

Jimin can’t tell who moves first, but then he’s close enough to take both of your hands in his, holding them tightly. Everyone in the room fades away to the back of Jimin’s mind, the world seeming to move in slow motion as he tries to process your words. When they finally make it through his surprise, Jimin chokes out a disbelieving laugh. Everything he’s wanted… could it be?

“You do? Really?”

“Of course,” you murmur, color reddening your cheeks as you alternate between looking at Jimin and avoiding his gaze altogether. “I don’t… I don’t know when, so please don’t ask me that question. But when you… when you called me out, it made me realize that I want all of that, too. I want your hands in mine, Jimin, and I want to take you out on dates, and other stupid, gross things.”

Jimin tugs you the slightest bit closer until his nose brushes softly against yours. “You love me?

”Yes, Jimin.“

“Oh my God.” Jimin can’t help the way he kisses you, really he can’t. Because it feels so different this time around. The kiss is slow and soft, unhurried in the way you move your mouth against Jimin’s and he loves it. He absolutely loves it, and never wants to stop kissing you. Lucky for him, now he never has to stop.

“Aw, babe, aren’t they cute,” Taehyung teases.

You break the kiss, smiling embarrassedly at Taehyung, who’s got his arms around Jeongguk’s waist and his chin hooked on Jeongguk’s shoulder- “for luck, Gukie,” Taehyung would always say, “daytime cuddles are for luck.” Jimin laughs, tucking you against his chest with an arm around your shoulders and a kiss to your forehead.

“They are cute,” Jeongguk agrees. “So cute I want to vomit.”

You snort. “You’re one to talk, Jeongguk.”

“You got me there.”

“Wait, Tae. Are you and Jeongguk-?”

“Hey,” Jimin says, cutting off whatever remark was sitting on the tip of your tongue. A robotic voice crackles over the loudspeaker, announcing that beam would be starting soon. Jimin’s been to enough of these things to know that it was the first event, and that usually the home players went first. Jimin strokes his thumb along your cheekbone just because he can. “When you win this thing tonight, let me take you on a proper date. Buy you a milkshake and everything. We can even share straws.”

You laugh adorably, hiding your face in Jimin’s shoulder. “That sounds perfect, Jimin.”

“Only the best for my princess.”

“See you after?”

“Absolutely. I’m gonna blow your damn mind with my boyfriend skills.”

Jimin gives you another long, lingering kiss before you pull away to warm up for your events. Taehyung jogs after you, legitimately sweeping you off your feet and spinning you through the doors into the gym. Jimin stays still for who knows how long, still grinning in the direction you’d disappeared to until Jeongguk all but drags him into the gym.

“Guess you finally carped that diem, huh?”

“Pretty sure you can’t conjugate that.”

“Whatever,” Jeongguk laughs, nudging Jimin’s shoulder with his own. “You know what I mean. Congratulations, hyung.”

“Oh, hush, you.” Jimin pauses. “But thank you.”

As Jimin watches you compete, watches you give your all for your spot at the school and your chance to continue pursuing your dreams, he falls even more in love with your determination. There’s still things he doesn’t know about you, but Jimin has so much time to learn everything. It doesn’t matter the rocky past the two of you share. None of that matters now that Jimin can finally call you his.

And as he watches you secure your spot, watches with bated breath and a too-tight grip on Jeongguk’s knee as you overtake third place to sneak into an impressive second, Jimin thinks his cheering is the loudest in the room.

You stand up from your floor routine, giving a quick wave to the judges before turning to the bleachers and locating Jimin with rapid accuracy to point at him, grinning in the same way Jimin always does to you.

He might have beaten a buzzer, but you’ve beaten impossible odds. And Jimin’s going to stand at your side for every odd that follows, because he knows support is one of the most important aspects to love, and he’d do anything to keep that radiant smile splitting your lips.

[newstfionline]

Grenfell Tower Fire Shows Double Standard at Work in One London District

By Katrin Bennhold, NY Times, Aug. 15, 2017

LONDON--The Ferraris were driving people batty in affluent South Kensington. Drivers revved their engines and ripped past Harrods. Residents were already irritated by the dust and noise from superrich neighbors building underground swimming pools and cinemas. Now came complaints about Middle Eastern “types” drag racing at night.

Up in North Kensington, a part of London that is home to some of Britain’s poorest residents, the complaints were more elemental. People were fighting plans to close a day care center, lease out a public library and demolish a community college. At one public housing project, Grenfell Tower, residents had complained about fire safety issues for years: power surges that blew up television sets and filled rooms with smoke, outdated fire extinguishers and the absence of a communal fire alarm.

The very different complaints from the opposite ends of Kensington received very different responses from the 50-member council representing the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. The Ferraris were debated in the council chamber. Fines of up to 1,000 pounds were imposed on revving engines. Underground construction projects were restricted.

The concerns in North Kensington, particularly those of Grenfell Tower residents, were mostly ignored. By last November, one resident, Edward Daffarn, was so frustrated that he predicted “only a serious fire” resulting in a “serious loss of life” would make the council pay attention. The councilor in charge of housing, Rock Feilding-Mellen, dismissed him as a “fantasist.”

Seven months later, as a deadly blaze engulfed the building in the early morning hours of June 14, Mr. Daffarn fled his apartment on the 16th floor. Stumbling through the smoke-filled landing, he was found by a fireman and guided to safety. But at least 80 of his neighbors died.

“This council does not represent the people of North Kensington,” Mr. Daffarn said.

Last year’s referendum on whether Britain should leave the European Union, known as Brexit, exposed the deep resentment of working-class Britons outside London toward the elites in the wealthy, cosmopolitan capital. But the charred remains of Grenfell Tower have become a shocking symbol of inequality at the heart of the capital itself. They have changed the national narrative.

If the Brexit vote was driven by a populist message that immigrants and Europe’s open borders were to blame for the nation’s malaise, the fire has brought back into focus how years of steep government cuts have disproportionately hit the poorest, amplifying the pain from stagnant wages after the financial crisis.

“These are volatile and uncertain times,” Alan Milburn, the chairman of the government’s Social Mobility Commission, said last month after warning that social and economic divisions were dangerously widening. “Whole tracts of Britain feel left behind,” he said. “The growing sense that we have become an us-versus-them society is deeply corrosive of our cohesion as a nation.”

Kensington and Chelsea is a microcosm of a divided Britain. The south is home to Kensington Palace Gardens, better known as Billionaires’ Row, one of the most expensive streets in the country. Roman Abramovich, the Russian billionaire, owns a mansion there reportedly worth £125 million ($163 million). And Kensington Palace is where Prince William and the Duchess of Cambridge will be raising their children.

To the north, Golborne ranks as one of the two poorest wards in London. Victorian-era diseases like tuberculosis and rickets have made a comeback. Life expectancy in parts of North Kensington is 20 years lower than in South Kensington.

In recent years, the council has spent millions of pounds subsidizing opera tickets and paying tax rebates to all except the poorest at a time when services for youths and toddlers were reduced, and free swimming classes for state-funded schools and older residents were canceled. The contempt directed at those raising concerns about fire safety at Grenfell Tower was not an exception, residents said, but the fire exposed the disconnect between an elitist council and poor residents in the north.

“They don’t know how the other side lives,” said Monica Press, a Labour councilor from North Kensington.

The council leader, Elizabeth Campbell, admitted last month that in her 11 years as a council member she had never set foot inside a high-rise housing project.

Ms. Campbell, who took over as leader after the Grenfell fire, has vowed to rebuild trust. But local residents said the social contract between those who govern and those they purport to represent is broken. Police officers investigating the fire have told survivors that there were “reasonable grounds to suspect” that the council and the organization managing its social housing might have committed corporate manslaughter.

On Tuesday, the head of the inquiry into the fire said it would examine the conduct of the local authorities but would not take into account the broader issues involving social housing, although Prime Minister Theresa May said she was “determined” to address those questions.

Niles Hailstones, whose youngest son attended school with several children who died in the fire, said, “How do you think our children feel seeing people not care about their mothers, fathers, grandparents, uncles, aunties?”

He added: “We watched the building burn down in front of our eyes.”

Today, the face of London is the Muslim son of a bus driver. Sadiq Khan, the city’s directly elected mayor, in many ways represents how the city sees itself: multicultural, liberal and socially mobile.

But much local governing authority is devolved to the councils that run London’s 32 boroughs, which can look very different from that.

Of the Kensington council’s 50 members, 46 are white and 37 are Conservatives. The cabinet, led by Ms. Campbell, is entirely white. One of her fellow councilors is Lady Catherine Faulks. Another is Mr. Feilding-Mellen, the stepson of the Earl of Wemyss and March. Another is Prof. Sir Anthony Coates, known locally as a man of letters--the letters being those he lists after his name to highlight his credentials.

Timothy Coleridge, one of several councilors who attended Eton, Britain’s most exclusive private school, has served on the council since 1986, as did his father before him. Two years ago, he received an email from a distressed resident.

Subject line: “Our borough is becoming a nightmare!!”

Sports cars were speeding in his Knightsbridge neighborhood, one of the most expensive in London, the resident complained. Limousines hogged parking spaces outside his home.

“The super car situation was ghastly during the last few summers, keeping us all awake in North Terrace,” the resident wrote on June 2, 2015, demanding urgent action.

Mr. Coleridge sympathized. “We totally agree with you, and our experiences as local residents matches yours,” he replied, 14 hours after receiving the complaint. Lawyers were put to work. The police were consulted. Five months later, a Public Space Restriction Order imposing steep fines had been passed.

Councilors representing the north of the borough acknowledged that in the lives of the rich, this was a legitimate concern. “But the alacrity with which they took it up was remarkable,” said Robert Atkinson, a Labour councilor.

Grenfell Tower residents were treated differently. The council kept deducting rent from a Grenfell survivor even after the fire, a mistake Lady Faulks called a “tiny” thing before backtracking. The council’s former leader, Nicholas Paget-Brown, defended the body’s decision not to install sprinklers, suggesting residents did not want them. And his deputy, Mr. Feilding-Mellen, a property developer, had insisted on keeping down the cost of the external cladding used in a £10 million renovation in 2014, according to a leaked email, resulting in the choice of what turned out to be highly flammable materials.

Mr. Feilding-Mellen declined to be interviewed.

With the national government pursuing policies of economic austerity, grants for local councils have been slashed by more than half since 2010. Yet the Kensington council routinely underspent its budget. It currently has £274 million in usable reserves--money that critics said should have been invested in the north.

And a £100 tax rebate, for those who paid council tax in full before the 2014 local elections, was met with broad approval.

Yet South Kensington has hardly been neglected. A recent enhancement of Exhibition Road outside the Victoria and Albert Museum featuring an inset granite diamond pattern cost nearly £30 million, with the council picking up roughly half the cost.

Mr. Coleridge, until recently in charge of the arts, oversaw a £5 million grant to Holland Park Opera to make opera tickets more accessible. “The seats are very good value,” he said, “only £60 to £65” ($78 to $84).

Daniel Moylan, another Conservative councilor, blames welfare policy for the fraught relations between North Kensington residents and the council. “Social housing embeds disempowerment,” he said. “I’m a big believer in private property.”

In the 1980s, Margaret Thatcher, as prime minister, introduced “Right to Buy”--allowing established tenants in social housing to buy their homes at a discount. But soaring house prices have put Right to Buy out of reach for most.

“If a flat costs £500,000, a £100,000 discount doesn’t make it affordable,” said Tony Auguste, a local campaigner who is disabled and relies on social housing. “It’s an insult, really.” A £500,000 apartment is equivalent to $650,000.

North Kensington Library, a stately Victorian building near Portobello market, is the rare place where children from the housing projects mix with those from Notting Hill Preparatory School and Chepstow House School, two private schools that cost more than £6,000 ($7,800) a term. But now the public library might have to move out so that one of the prep schools can move in.

Mr. Feilding-Mellen negotiated a deal to lease the building to Notting Hill Preparatory School, which is getting a year rent-free so it can refurbish the building.

The council says this arrangement is not unusual. Local critics say it is practically paying for the refurbishment. Mr. Feilding-Mellen’s twins are on the waiting list for the school.

Meanwhile, the council is spending over £18 million of public money on a new building in which the public section of the library will be limited to the ground floor, while students from Chepstow House will get their own access and separate floor.

Mr. Feilding-Mellen’s children are on the Chepstow House waiting list, too. At a council meeting on Oct. 19, 2016, he insisted that he did not have a conflict of interest, although he conceded that it might be “perceived” as such.

The library is just one flash point. Many North Kensington residents speak of “managed decline,” a strategy to allow public institutions and spaces to fall into disrepair and then create a case for redeveloping them with a commercial motive.

Social cleansing, they call it.

Two years ago, the Maxilla day care center near Grenfell Tower was closed. More recently, plans to demolish and relocate Kensington and Chelsea College, a vocational school, and build an apartment block that will include commercial housing were announced.

“This place is my success story,” Drei Mullings, a young black man, said of the college at a recent public meeting. His course enabled him to go to the University of Northampton, he said.

“We are market-led,” a college representative told the crowd.

“You should be community-led,” a woman shouted back.

Opposite the condemned college building, Wornington Green, once a public park, has already been turned into an apartment block. The whole street, once filled with social housing, is being redeveloped as “Portobello Square.”

Conservative councilors argue that they have done their best to protect public services and have invested over £70 million in North Kensington infrastructure in recent years, including the ill-fated renovation of Grenfell Tower. They refute any suggestion of social cleansing.

“Utterly not true,” Mr. Coleridge said. “Some people live in a dream world of conspiracy theories.”

The council is creating more social housing--just not much of it inside the borough. Certain new housing developments are supposed to include a quota of social housing--but private developers often dodge the requirement by paying the council a fee instead. The council struck deals to receive £33.4 million in such fees in the year through September 2016.

While the council has built only 336 new affordable housing units in the borough since 2011, instead of the 200 a year it had originally pledged, it has bought units in cheaper parts of London as alternatives.

In the south of the borough, by contrast, thousands of apartments are routinely empty, the second, third and fourth homes of members of the global elite. Until four years ago, second-home owners even got a discount on council tax.

Scores of Grenfell survivors have yet to be rehoused.

One night in May 2013, the light in Mr. Daffarn’s Grenfell Tower living room started flickering wildly. Soon his stereo stopped working and his television box blew up. Some of his neighbors reported sparks flying from their light fittings and smoke coming from their toasters.

The complaints were mostly ignored until three weeks later, when entire rooms were filling with smoke. Residents marched to the tenant management office, and the electrical wiring was eventually repaired.

Mr. Daffarn, a social worker who has lived in Grenfell Tower since 2001, has meticulously documented the grievances of residents in seven years of email correspondence with the council. Some 350 blog items he wrote with a fellow resident are being archived by the British Library.

“I wanted to create a resource for anyone, who in 30 years’ time wants to study how London ended up like this, with only rich people left,” he said.

But the Grenfell Tower fire has changed his motivation. “Now, it’s evidence,” Mr. Daffarn said, alluding to the criminal inquiry. He hopes the investigation will bring convictions and also document “the institutionalized contempt” for poor people.

[meapistrash]

For Lack of Better Words

AN: SO I finished editing that fic! And this is so inspired by a tumblr post I saw the other day about Jason confronting Damian about his fears after the kid was prone to Scarecrow’s fear toxin. I can’t find the link, if you can, plz message me it and I’ll add it to the post. 

I was planing on having Dick do the comforting at first, but then Jason seemed more appropriate at the end of the day. Quite Damian-centric.

Summary: Damian tries to hide from his problems, but when push comes to shove, Jason will have to find a way to help his little brother.

Prompt: “I know you’re afraid but we can’t hide in the closet forever” + “Please, don’t leave.”

“I know you’re afraid but we can’t hide in the closet forever.”

“…”

“Look I know I’m hypocritical, but talking might help.”

“…”

“I won’t tell them.”

Scarecrow’s fear toxin was, though admittedly ill purposed, a work of science to be admired and, well… feared. When Batman had first faced Scarecrow, it was told that the gas gave you hallucinations, visions that deeply discomforted you, to which Richard Grayson – the first Robin – knew well how it worked. Tim and Cassandra also knew, and had endured it to escape the influence of Mother. Jason had once, too, inhaled the gas, but he has grown too tough to give a crap by then.

Damian has never gotten it, despite being the youngest to ever taken the mantle of Robin. And it was good too, because it created a whole lot less problems for the Batman when Robin isn’t emotionally compromised (“Great parenting Bruce!”). Until recently, that is.

When Dick first came across it, Bruce had no idea of what to do. He was just starting out as Batman, not to mention even shorter as a guardian/parent. That alongside his emotional constipation only helped Dick so much afterwards. His little experience just wasn’t enough for the youngest, because Damian, unlike Dick, didn’t talk about it – he buried it deep, and stayed more silent than the telltale dorm mouse. Like father, like son.

It was all an accident that Robin had sniffed it. He was thrown back into a wall, air and his gas filter knocked out of his mouth and making him cough painfully whilst being prone to the toxin filled air. Less than five seconds later, Robin heard a shout from one of the other vigilante’s, which one he couldn’t remember or distinguish through the strange dizziness that was hitting him. His eyes were slightly blurry around the edge, but he could see someone approaching him. He had thought it was Red Robin, but then the red and black seem to swirl into each other, and the face he was staring at wasn’t at all Red Robin. It was contorted and stretched, like it was smashed and then twisted and skewered into the shape.

Obviously he tried to punch it in the face.

The gas filter forgotten in the moment, Robin attacked the figure, despite not knowing who or what he was fighting. He sent a flurry of punches and kicks, all of which, confusing and frustrating to him, was blocked. From the corner of his eyes more figures approach, each like the one in front of him – gruesome and malicious, with slight resemblance to his family, which enraged him to no end.

It was Red Hood that later managed to knock the boy out with the butt of his gun, and the ride home that came after was not the slightest comfortable for Robin, squirming under the seatbelt.

Alfred was absolutely frisky, sneering at everyone who walked pass, but softening immediately at the sight of the boy sleeping. The actual Alfred Pennyworth was less angry, but nonetheless cross and worried as the toxin worked its way through Damian. An irrational fear inside him reminded him of the battered body of the boy the first time he died, with the scary thought that the same boy might just drop dead after his thrashings. Alfred tucked the boy in that night, all while Damian groaned, thrashed and furrowed his brows in his sleep.

Damian woke up screaming at 2am that night, but no one ever found him was until 6am when he returned through the kitchen door, clothes drenched and feet muddy, with a few scrapes on his palm. Completely oblivious to the stares everyone gave him, Damian walked across the kitchen as if nothing has happened.

Everyone hardly saw him around since then, except during patrol. He wouldn’t come down for meals, and Alfred, ever so worried, would bring him food without request because he knew the boy probably won’t eat unless it was forced upon him. The first person ever managing to approach him was Cassandra when she snuck up on him. She tapped him on the chest, where his heart was, and gave him a hug.

“Talk to me.” If you need to, she told him.

But he was still, emotionless through the process, as if it was nothing more than a routine.

The worst part is when Tim realizes he was getting into less arguments than before – not that Red Robin wouldn’t mind his brother shutting his yap, but it seemed all too strange to not hear Damian insulting him when he slipped on the stairs or missed his coffee mug when pouring it in the morning.

“You’re avoiding us on purpose.”

“I have better things to do.”

“No, you don’t. You’re intentionally doing it. Avoiding conversations with us. You won’t even mock me anymore, Damian! That’s something wrong.”

“I realized how useless it was to scream at someone as hopeless as you.”

“Are we going to keep going in circles like this? You avoiding the issue?”

“There is no issue to talk about, Drake. Not everything is this complicated as you think it is.”

The boy stalked off then, and Tim was slightly infuriated at his attitude, but also noticed Damian never once looking at him in the eye. He would immediately stare away whenever he looked at Tim, his eyes were distant in each look, like he wasn’t even there - Tim couldn’t figure out what it was.

Jason also tried to confront the kid on the increased amount of injuries that he’s getting and the erratic behaviours that have never been seen before on the current Robin. He was jumping about, never asking for help or worse yet, getting himself into situations that he probably couldn’t get out with his life. Red Hood had to jump in at the last minute to shield the Robin from a bullet that could have been easily dodged.

“You didn’t have to take the bullet.”

“Something going on?”

“No.”

“You’re not focusing and I had to save your sorry butt. Doesn’t look like a ‘no’.”

“I was careless, and I should pay the cost for that myself. I don’t need your help, Hood!”

For a moment Red Hood was angry, until he realized the implications of those words - the kid felt that he was deserving of such a punishment. What exactly caused that thought, he did not know. Jason stared at Robin strangely, “Who are you and what have you done to the little demon?”

“Very funny, Hood,” Robin took off with his grapple, swinging off the roof with a slight limp that Jason didn’t notice until now. Jason followed suit, watching from behind as he saw Robin did a clumsy landing on the next roof, tumbling into a roll and hissed. He ran to the kid.

“Sit down.”

“What?”

“Sit down, I’m checking your injury.”

“What kind of non-sense are you-”

“The quicker I see to it, the earlier you’ll be home.”

There weren’t any blood or wounds that he could see.

“Boots off.”

“You are being such an idiot right now, Todd.”

“I could do this all day, kid,” Jason remarked.

Robin scowled at him and plopped back on the ground restraining himself from wincing. Jason cocked his head to the left, noticing the less than 2 seconds crease that appeared on Robin’s forehead caused by the slightest movement at his feet.

“Alright never mind I know what’s wrong.”

“You’re kidding me-”

Red Hood crouched in front of him, hands gesturing for something.

“What are you doing?” Robin asked skeptically.

“Get on. You’re not going swinging on anymore building until doctors say otherwise.”

Red Hood carried Robin back to the Batmobile that day, giving Batman a heads up on the boy’s situation before leaving – worried because knowing Bruce, he won’t figure out how to help the kid until it’s too late. He picked up the phone and texted Dick that night, just in case.

It was 2 days later when Jason finally came over, hearing that Dick won’t even be available until another two weeks because of a case. When he rang the doorbell, Bruce opened the door – which was an occurrence that rarely happened.

“To what do I owe the honour?”

“You look like you’re having a mid-life crisis,” Jason brushed pass him into the house.

Bruce looked at him tiredly, “Why is that?”

“The hair, the shirt,” he pointed. “I don’t know, maybe because it’s just how you always look?”

The older man absentmindedly rubbed under his eyes, “Long week.”

“Yeah, I can tell. ’m looking for Damian.”

“Figured. Just stormed upstairs.”

“'Stormed’?”

“I tried to talk to him,” Bruce reasoned and walked off, turning at the last second at the doorframe. “Didn’t work.”

Jason lightly walked upstairs and knocked on Damian’s door. Hearing no response, he tried to call for the kid. It was again that he got replied by silence, so he decided to check the kid was even there at all.

“Twerp, you in here?”

The closet door was open, inside, Jason found, was Damian, huddled in one corner, hugging his leg and completely silent. He held himself rigidly, knees pulled into his chest, hiding, in a sort of way. Jason sat down next to him, staring ahead into the wall on the other side of the room. It was two minutes later when Jason finally broke the silence.

“I know you’re afraid by we can’t hide in the closet forever,” he leaned over, rolling his feet on his heel.

No response, not even a twitch.

“Look I know I’m hypocritical, but talking might help.”

Damian looked down, eyes dripping with disappointment (in himself). His lips pressed against each other, contemplating.

“I won’t tell them.”

It was a while later that Damian finally responded, “I kept having dreams.”

“Of what?”

“You… Father. Grayson, Drake, Alfred, Cain… everyone…”

“What were we doing?”

A shiver brushed pass Damian by just the thought of it, and he winced, “You all died…”

Jason nodded, understanding. “You know I told you once that we won’t be lea-”

“I killed you,” Damian blurted out. “All of you.”

Jason stared at Damian, not with the fear that Damian had originally expected. He saw surprise, then sympathy, and then he saw disdain. He suddenly regretted telling Jason that in the first place.

“Sorry,” he said.

“No, don’t be,” Jason reached out to tap him on the shoulder, and Damian thought he saw a small moment of hesitation. He didn’t bring it up.

Jason was unable to really respond. He wanted to reach out and say ‘I know how you feel’, but that would be him lying to the kid, because he never knew how it felt to fear yourself, as Damian was. He was a child, and though as eloquent and broad as Jason’s vocabulary was, he couldn’t find fitting words to respond. Instead of offering words of comfort that he didn’t have, he got up and walked out.

Damian was frightened. He went too far, he thought to himself, he hates you, and he should. Everyone needs to stay away from you. You’re a killer, and you’ll end up killing them one day, if not by yourself, then they’ll die because of you. But despite himself, he spoke, quietly, a plea behind the closet door.

“Please, don’t leave.”

But Jason was already out the door, not even catching the last words of Damian’s plea. The boy disappointingly stared down at his socked feet, curling even more into himself. He was sorry, he was so sorry because he knew that now Jason probably hates him, and it was logical. Hell, Jason hated the Joker with his gut, what’s to say that Damian won’t be on that hate list anytime soon. Not to mention Damian’s with a history with the League of Assassins too. He knew it was better this way – if everyone hated him, then they’ll stay away, and he’ll have less of a chance of killing them. And maybe, if he hates himself enough, he might just leave them, so no one will ever die by his hands again. Better yet, if he stopped existing…

The thought pricked his heart. His eyes were burning from the amount of restrain he was doing to hold back his tears. But when he blinked the next time, the first tear flowed down his cheek. He immediately wiped it away, the words from the training in his childhood burned in his mind: Crying is weak. You aren’t allowed to be weak. Weakness will kill you, weakness will only prove to the world your incompetence.

He rested his head on his knee, faced down, hiding because he couldn’t stop the tears after the first. The images of his family dying, pale and lifeless, reemerged - it hurted to remember. It burned, and all he could think was how it much better they would be without him. Bruce would never need to care for an insolent child, Alfred never needing to clean an extra room and worry about another person, Dick never having to deal with his tantrums, Jason not needing to take another bullet for him, Tim and Cassandra peacefully getting on with their life. Everyone is better without you…

His hands clawed at his calves, holding on tightly too the fabric of his jeans, knowing at the end of the day, he’ll only be by himself, and no one will trust him enough to even-

With a thump, Jason plopped down next to Damian again. In front of them a stack of books taken from the Manor’s library.

“From my ‘favourites’ section,” he told Damian, taking the top book out of the pile.

Damian, with puffy teared eyes sniffed and glanced at the man who was already starting on the first page of Oliver Twist. He was confused to why Jason would even sit here next to a killer like himself, completely unwary. He called out, “Todd.”

“Hm?”

“Why?”

Jason put his book down from reading distance, and turned to the boy, only twelve and not even reaching puberty yet, who has seen too much, know so much, and suffered enough for a lifetime. Damian doesn’t need to be shunned. He needed guidance and help; most of all, he needed company. Just someone to be present and keep him in line, and keep him from hurting himself.

“The four things that makes up a Robin: Investigation, confidence, suffering, and family.* Remember? ,” Jason said simply, returning to his book.

Damian stared at him for a while longer, then picking up the top one on the stack. He opened the book, smiling slightly to the smell of old books and the slightly rough texture on his fingers. He was smiling with heart calmed, that maybe, things will turn out okay for him.

Alfred came upstairs with the tray of food to find Damian tucked into bed with Jason on his bedside in a chair, reading. Jason raised a finger to his lips, signaling for Alfred to be as quiet as possible. “I’ll leave this here,” Alfred placed the tray on the bedside table, turned on the yellow lamp, and left. Jason smiled gratefully and returned to his book, mouthing in silence its words.

The room was filled with only their sound breathing and the occasional shuffle of the pages.

* Robin War crossover series: Part 2 - Grayson #15

[newseveryhourly]

(Bloomberg) -- President Donald Trump and New York Governor Andrew Cuomo traded blows in real time during Cuomo’s daily virus briefing, with the president tweeting that the governor should “Stop talking!” and Cuomo mockingly telling Trump to use his signature line from “The Apprentice” and fire his aides working on the pandemic response.The exchange on Friday was the sharpest yet between the two Queens, N.Y., natives, who for weeks in the initial phase of the crisis had worked hard not to publicly criticize each other. New York is the epicenter of the nation’s coronavirus outbreak, with nearly 13,000 fatalities so far.Cuomo has previously praised Trump’s assistance and thanked him for aid. Even after Trump said that New York was asking for too much, Cuomo kept criticizing the federal response but didn’t attack Trump personally.Cuomo’s broadside against Trump -- with one soliloquy lasting 17 minutes without interruption -- showcased a side of the governor’s personality that is talked about in political circles but rarely displayed in public: bristling, pugnacious, abrasive.Minutes earlier, Cuomo had been delivering his standard daily assessment of the outbreak, in a routine that has been a balm of sorts for anxious New Yorkers. He reflected on the emotional toll of the pandemic, talking about how he was using the downtime to deepen family bonds.Suddenly, here he was, lecturing Trump on live television about the Constitution and the founding fathers.While it may have cheered New Yorkers to see their governor calling out Trump and the federal handling of the crisis, it also risked alienating a president who rarely hesitates to undermine and attack perceived enemies and critics. Clips of the diatribe have been carried on national television networks.“You don’t want federal disaster response contingent upon whether the President likes you,” said Bob Griffin, a former U.S. Homeland Security official in the Obama and Trump administrations who is now dean of the College of Emergency Preparedness, Homeland Security and Cybersecurity at State University at Albany. “The frustration that you’re seeing from Governor Cuomo reflects a level of frustration, candidly, that most of the governors are feeling in the sense that Trump decides when he wants to get involved and take credit, and then deflects blame.”Trump’s Twitter attack on Friday, posted about a half-hour into Cuomo’s briefing, came in response to Cuomo’s suggestion that the federal government was falling short on coronavirus testing.“Governor Cuomo should spend more time ‘doing’ and less time ‘complaining,’” Trump tweeted. “Get out there and get the job done. Stop talking!”He went on: “We have given New York far more money, help and equipment than any other state, by far, & these great men & women who did the job never hear you say thanks. Your numbers are not good. Less talk and more action!”After a reporter read the president’s tweets aloud, Cuomo fired back with a thinly veiled dig at Trump’s TV-viewing, famously listed on his schedule as “executive time”: “First of all, if he’s sitting home watching TV, maybe he should get up and go to work.”The governor delivered a stream of zingers, saying the president cared more about helping big businesses than states, and, responding to Trump’s comment about different states making their own policy, he said: “No, no, no, that’s called a map of the United States. It’s not a puzzle.”The exchange overshadowed another day of encouraging evidence that the crisis is ebbing, with hospitalizations, intensive-care admissions, intubations and deaths all ticking down, though they remain at elevated levels.Cuomo said 630 New Yorkers died in the prior 24-hour period. Fatalities have declined steadily in recent days from a peak of 799 on April 9.Even after he had moved on to addressing other subjects, Cuomo returned to throw more insults at Trump, making fun of his TV career and asking that a data slide be shown on the screen “so the president can see what he said.”Cuomo had been smart to go out of his way to nurture a productive relationship with Trump to maximize aid for the state, in the form of FEMA help with Javits, use of the navy ship, and in procuring ventilators, said Bruce Gyory, senior adviser of government and regulatory affairs at Manatt, Phelps & Phillips, LLP.But now there’s not much left to do outside of testing, said Gyory, a New York-based Democratic political consultant. Cuomo may still need the President but he needs him less -- and apparently could not let the taunts go unanswered.“In effect, the governor had to join the argument,” Gyory said.On the conflict between the president and some of the nation’s governors over the timing of reopening schools and businesses the states: “All he is doing is walking in front of the parade, he has nothing to do with the timing of the parade,” Cuomo said of Trump.On Trump saying that some governors showed a lack of appreciation for federal help: “What am I supposed to do, send a bouquet of flowers?”On federal projections about the scope of the pandemic: “Our only mistake then was believing your numbers and believing your projections,” he said, addressing Trump. “If that was a mistake, then I’m guilty. But I thought New York State relying on what you said would have been a safe assumption. I won’t make that mistake again. And it was your CDC and your White House Coronavirus Task Force that made those projections.”And on the separation of powers between the federal government and the states: “What are you going to do? Grant me with what the Constitution granted me before you were born? It’s called the Tenth Amendment. I didn’t need the president of the United States to tell me that I’m governor.”Cuomo said the president was wrong to insist on personal gratitude for federal assistance: “Thank you for Javits, thank you for the U.S. Navy Ship Comfort. By the way it’s just doing your job as president, it’s not thank you like you wrote a check yourself.”(Adds outside analysis of dispute ramificaitons.)For more articles like this, please visit us at bloomberg.comSubscribe now to stay ahead with the most trusted business news source.©2020 Bloomberg L.P.

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[bigbirdgladiator]

(Bloomberg) -- What was conceived as a celebration for one of the world’s most important military alliances risks becoming a show of disunity -- and this time it’s not because of anything Donald Trump has said or done.Meeting in London this week, leaders of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization have two other presidents to worry about: France’s Emmanuel Macron, who in recent weeks has openly questioned the collective defense clause at NATO’s heart, and Recep Tayyip Erdogan, who has troubled alliance members with his decisions to send troops into Syria and buy a Russian anti-missile system.To make matters worse, Macron and Erdogan are now trading insults in public.In fact, so much has changed since then-Prime Minister Theresa May offered to host the two-day commemoration of NATO’s 70th anniversary that her successor, Boris Johnson could be forgiven for wishing she hadn’t.“I will tell you again at NATO, first check your own brain death,” Erdogan said, addressing Macron in a speech from Istanbul on Friday. He was referring to an interview the French leader gave last month in which he not only criticized Turkey, but described the alliance as brain dead.With three significant member states bringing conflicting agendas to the table at a gathering that takes place in the closing stretch of a charged U.K. election campaign, the event risks fanning concern about NATO’s future, rather than celebrating what alliance officials and leaders routinely call the most successful military grouping in history.Officials from the U..S. and Britain were at pains last week to highlight NATO’s successes, including a renewed sense of purpose since Russia’s 2014 aggression in Ukraine. Defense spending is on the rise and NATO is expanding into counter-terrorism, cyber security, and now even space.And NATO does continue to attract. North Macedonia, set to join next year, will bring the number of leaders at the table this week to 30, up from 15 when the Berlin Wall fell in 1989.Such accomplishments however are being drowned out by the increasingly public dispute over what NATO should focus on, and what it should stand for. In an apparent attempt to contain the debate, Germany has proposed forming an expert group to report on the future political shape of the alliance.Macron drove Germany’s Chancellor Angela Merkel to make an uncharacteristically spirited defense of the alliance last week. “Even more than during the Cold War, maintaining NATO is today in our own best interest,” she told lawmakers in Berlin. “Europe cannot currently defend itself alone.”Read more: Erdogan May Seek EU Money Even as He Trades Insults With MacronA senior U.S. official said on Friday that Trump would prioritize enlisting NATO to push back against China’s growing influence. The official said Trump would also press allies to increase defense spending and to exclude Chinese companies from the construction of 5G mobile networks, something many have been unwilling to do.Instead of containing China, Macron wants NATO to prioritize the fight against terrorism. Thirteen French soldiers died in Mali last week and a lone terrorist on Friday killed two people in London. A French official said Macron also plans to press for greater “operational” burden-sharing as a way of complementing Trump’s push for Europe to share more of the alliance’s financial burden.Erdogan, meanwhile, is demanding acceptance of Turkish goals in northern Syria, including classifying as a terrorist threat the Kurdish militias that have fought Islamic State alongside other NATO allies. He also rubbed salt into another open wound in Turkey’s ties with Western allies, by unpacking and testing the NATO non-compatible S-400 air defense system he recently bought from Russia.Read more: NATO Foresees More Europe Defense Outlays as It Braces for TrumpAnd that’s all before Trump makes his first tweet of the event.“It will be a great tribute to how much all the NATO allies value the institution if we manage to get through this leaders meeting without President Trump, President Macron or President Erdogan doing something damaging to the alliance,” said Kori Schake, a former National Security Council official in the George W. Bush administration who is now deputy director of the International Institute for Strategic Studies.The shortened time frame for meeting –- formal sessions will take only about four hours -- may limit the potential for damage. Long term NATO watchers also caution against exaggerating the dangers of intra-alliance tensions, which aren’t new to an organization that includes countries with differing geographies and security priorities.Macron’s questioning of the collective defense commitment at NATO’s heart is certainly dangerous, but in many ways he is simply reverting to France’s traditionally semi-detached status. President Charles De Gaulle pulled out of the organization’s military command structure in 1966, and France rejoined only in 2009.Read more: Macron Says NATO Should Shift Its Focus Away From Russia“It’s not a fashionable view, I know,” said Sir Adam Thomson, the U.K.’s envoy to NATO from 2014-2016, but NATO “has been pursuing a new vision since the end of the Cold War and, to some extent, it’s already got a lot of the material.”He cited three new roles since the Cold War: Crisis management in places like Afghanistan, keeping a lid on potential disputes between members in eastern Europe, and building partnerships with dozens of non-member countries.“It is quite distinctive that this alliance, which in the eyes of some is so wicked, finds so many partners to work with it.”As the site of NATO’s first headquarters, London was a natural choice for this week’s anniversary. It was also supposed to make a statement on the global stature of a new post-Brexit Britain.Read more: Johnson Plans Major Review of U.K.’s Defense, Foreign PolicyBrexit, however, has since been delayed. Johnson also called a snap election that will happen just eight days after the leaders fly home. The presence of Trump, a toxic figure among British voters, is a potential political liability for the prime minister.Were Johnson to lose to Labour leader Jeremy Corbyn, that would give NATO yet another individual to worry about at its next summit, due in 2021.Over his career the socialist firebrand has called NATO “a danger to world peace and a danger to world security,” among other things. He has more recently fallen into line with party policy, which is for the U.K. to stay in the alliance, but he would likely prove another awkward partner.The last time Britain hosted NATO leaders, in 2014, he told an anti-NATO rally that the end of the Cold War “should have been the time for NATO to shut up shop, give up, go home and go away.”\--With assistance from Onur Ant, Geraldine Amiel and Justin Sink.To contact the reporters on this story: Marc Champion in London at mchampion7@bloomberg.net;Jonathan Stearns in Brussels at jstearns2@bloomberg.netTo contact the editors responsible for this story: Rosalind Mathieson at rmathieson3@bloomberg.net, Flavia Krause-JacksonFor more articles like this, please visit us at bloomberg.com©2019 Bloomberg L.P.

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[morningusa]

(Bloomberg) -- What was conceived as a celebration for one of the world’s most important military alliances risks becoming a show of disunity -- and this time it’s not because of anything Donald Trump has said or done.Meeting in London this week, leaders of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization have two other presidents to worry about: France’s Emmanuel Macron, who in recent weeks has openly questioned the collective defense clause at NATO’s heart, and Recep Tayyip Erdogan, who has troubled alliance members with his decisions to send troops into Syria and buy a Russian anti-missile system.To make matters worse, Macron and Erdogan are now trading insults in public.In fact, so much has changed since then-Prime Minister Theresa May offered to host the two-day commemoration of NATO’s 70th anniversary that her successor, Boris Johnson could be forgiven for wishing she hadn’t.“I will tell you again at NATO, first check your own brain death,” Erdogan said, addressing Macron in a speech from Istanbul on Friday. He was referring to an interview the French leader gave last month in which he not only criticized Turkey, but described the alliance as brain dead.With three significant member states bringing conflicting agendas to the table at a gathering that takes place in the closing stretch of a charged U.K. election campaign, the event risks fanning concern about NATO’s future, rather than celebrating what alliance officials and leaders routinely call the most successful military grouping in history.Officials from the U..S. and Britain were at pains last week to highlight NATO’s successes, including a renewed sense of purpose since Russia’s 2014 aggression in Ukraine. Defense spending is on the rise and NATO is expanding into counter-terrorism, cyber security, and now even space.And NATO does continue to attract. North Macedonia, set to join next year, will bring the number of leaders at the table this week to 30, up from 15 when the Berlin Wall fell in 1989.Such accomplishments however are being drowned out by the increasingly public dispute over what NATO should focus on, and what it should stand for. In an apparent attempt to contain the debate, Germany has proposed forming an expert group to report on the future political shape of the alliance.Macron drove Germany’s Chancellor Angela Merkel to make an uncharacteristically spirited defense of the alliance last week. “Even more than during the Cold War, maintaining NATO is today in our own best interest,” she told lawmakers in Berlin. “Europe cannot currently defend itself alone.”Read more: Erdogan May Seek EU Money Even as He Trades Insults With MacronA senior U.S. official said on Friday that Trump would prioritize enlisting NATO to push back against China’s growing influence. The official said Trump would also press allies to increase defense spending and to exclude Chinese companies from the construction of 5G mobile networks, something many have been unwilling to do.Instead of containing China, Macron wants NATO to prioritize the fight against terrorism. Thirteen French soldiers died in Mali last week and a lone terrorist on Friday killed two people in London. A French official said Macron also plans to press for greater “operational” burden-sharing as a way of complementing Trump’s push for Europe to share more of the alliance’s financial burden.Erdogan, meanwhile, is demanding acceptance of Turkish goals in northern Syria, including classifying as a terrorist threat the Kurdish militias that have fought Islamic State alongside other NATO allies. He also rubbed salt into another open wound in Turkey’s ties with Western allies, by unpacking and testing the NATO non-compatible S-400 air defense system he recently bought from Russia.Read more: NATO Foresees More Europe Defense Outlays as It Braces for TrumpAnd that’s all before Trump makes his first tweet of the event.“It will be a great tribute to how much all the NATO allies value the institution if we manage to get through this leaders meeting without President Trump, President Macron or President Erdogan doing something damaging to the alliance,” said Kori Schake, a former National Security Council official in the George W. Bush administration who is now deputy director of the International Institute for Strategic Studies.The shortened time frame for meeting –- formal sessions will take only about four hours -- may limit the potential for damage. Long term NATO watchers also caution against exaggerating the dangers of intra-alliance tensions, which aren’t new to an organization that includes countries with differing geographies and security priorities.Macron’s questioning of the collective defense commitment at NATO’s heart is certainly dangerous, but in many ways he is simply reverting to France’s traditionally semi-detached status. President Charles De Gaulle pulled out of the organization’s military command structure in 1966, and France rejoined only in 2009.Read more: Macron Says NATO Should Shift Its Focus Away From Russia“It’s not a fashionable view, I know,” said Sir Adam Thomson, the U.K.’s envoy to NATO from 2014-2016, but NATO “has been pursuing a new vision since the end of the Cold War and, to some extent, it’s already got a lot of the material.”He cited three new roles since the Cold War: Crisis management in places like Afghanistan, keeping a lid on potential disputes between members in eastern Europe, and building partnerships with dozens of non-member countries.“It is quite distinctive that this alliance, which in the eyes of some is so wicked, finds so many partners to work with it.”As the site of NATO’s first headquarters, London was a natural choice for this week’s anniversary. It was also supposed to make a statement on the global stature of a new post-Brexit Britain.Read more: Johnson Plans Major Review of U.K.’s Defense, Foreign PolicyBrexit, however, has since been delayed. Johnson also called a snap election that will happen just eight days after the leaders fly home. The presence of Trump, a toxic figure among British voters, is a potential political liability for the prime minister.Were Johnson to lose to Labour leader Jeremy Corbyn, that would give NATO yet another individual to worry about at its next summit, due in 2021.Over his career the socialist firebrand has called NATO “a danger to world peace and a danger to world security,” among other things. He has more recently fallen into line with party policy, which is for the U.K. to stay in the alliance, but he would likely prove another awkward partner.The last time Britain hosted NATO leaders, in 2014, he told an anti-NATO rally that the end of the Cold War “should have been the time for NATO to shut up shop, give up, go home and go away.”\--With assistance from Onur Ant, Geraldine Amiel and Justin Sink.To contact the reporters on this story: Marc Champion in London at mchampion7@bloomberg.net;Jonathan Stearns in Brussels at jstearns2@bloomberg.netTo contact the editors responsible for this story: Rosalind Mathieson at rmathieson3@bloomberg.net, Flavia Krause-JacksonFor more articles like this, please visit us at bloomberg.com©2019 Bloomberg L.P.

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[worldtopnewsoftheday]

(Bloomberg) -- What was conceived as a celebration for one of the world’s most important military alliances risks becoming a show of disunity -- and this time it’s not because of anything Donald Trump has said or done.Meeting in London this week, leaders of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization have two other presidents to worry about: France’s Emmanuel Macron, who in recent weeks has openly questioned the collective defense clause at NATO’s heart, and Recep Tayyip Erdogan, who has troubled alliance members with his decisions to send troops into Syria and buy a Russian anti-missile system.To make matters worse, Macron and Erdogan are now trading insults in public.In fact, so much has changed since then-Prime Minister Theresa May offered to host the two-day commemoration of NATO’s 70th anniversary that her successor, Boris Johnson could be forgiven for wishing she hadn’t.“I will tell you again at NATO, first check your own brain death,” Erdogan said, addressing Macron in a speech from Istanbul on Friday. He was referring to an interview the French leader gave last month in which he not only criticized Turkey, but described the alliance as brain dead.With three significant member states bringing conflicting agendas to the table at a gathering that takes place in the closing stretch of a charged U.K. election campaign, the event risks fanning concern about NATO’s future, rather than celebrating what alliance officials and leaders routinely call the most successful military grouping in history.Officials from the U..S. and Britain were at pains last week to highlight NATO’s successes, including a renewed sense of purpose since Russia’s 2014 aggression in Ukraine. Defense spending is on the rise and NATO is expanding into counter-terrorism, cyber security, and now even space.And NATO does continue to attract. North Macedonia, set to join next year, will bring the number of leaders at the table this week to 30, up from 15 when the Berlin Wall fell in 1989.Such accomplishments however are being drowned out by the increasingly public dispute over what NATO should focus on, and what it should stand for. In an apparent attempt to contain the debate, Germany has proposed forming an expert group to report on the future political shape of the alliance.Macron drove Germany’s Chancellor Angela Merkel to make an uncharacteristically spirited defense of the alliance last week. “Even more than during the Cold War, maintaining NATO is today in our own best interest,” she told lawmakers in Berlin. “Europe cannot currently defend itself alone.”Read more: Erdogan May Seek EU Money Even as He Trades Insults With MacronA senior U.S. official said on Friday that Trump would prioritize enlisting NATO to push back against China’s growing influence. The official said Trump would also press allies to increase defense spending and to exclude Chinese companies from the construction of 5G mobile networks, something many have been unwilling to do.Instead of containing China, Macron wants NATO to prioritize the fight against terrorism. Thirteen French soldiers died in Mali last week and a lone terrorist on Friday killed two people in London. A French official said Macron also plans to press for greater “operational” burden-sharing as a way of complementing Trump’s push for Europe to share more of the alliance’s financial burden.Erdogan, meanwhile, is demanding acceptance of Turkish goals in northern Syria, including classifying as a terrorist threat the Kurdish militias that have fought Islamic State alongside other NATO allies. He also rubbed salt into another open wound in Turkey’s ties with Western allies, by unpacking and testing the NATO non-compatible S-400 air defense system he recently bought from Russia.Read more: NATO Foresees More Europe Defense Outlays as It Braces for TrumpAnd that’s all before Trump makes his first tweet of the event.“It will be a great tribute to how much all the NATO allies value the institution if we manage to get through this leaders meeting without President Trump, President Macron or President Erdogan doing something damaging to the alliance,” said Kori Schake, a former National Security Council official in the George W. Bush administration who is now deputy director of the International Institute for Strategic Studies.The shortened time frame for meeting –- formal sessions will take only about four hours -- may limit the potential for damage. Long term NATO watchers also caution against exaggerating the dangers of intra-alliance tensions, which aren’t new to an organization that includes countries with differing geographies and security priorities.Macron’s questioning of the collective defense commitment at NATO’s heart is certainly dangerous, but in many ways he is simply reverting to France’s traditionally semi-detached status. President Charles De Gaulle pulled out of the organization’s military command structure in 1966, and France rejoined only in 2009.Read more: Macron Says NATO Should Shift Its Focus Away From Russia“It’s not a fashionable view, I know,” said Sir Adam Thomson, the U.K.’s envoy to NATO from 2014-2016, but NATO “has been pursuing a new vision since the end of the Cold War and, to some extent, it’s already got a lot of the material.”He cited three new roles since the Cold War: Crisis management in places like Afghanistan, keeping a lid on potential disputes between members in eastern Europe, and building partnerships with dozens of non-member countries.“It is quite distinctive that this alliance, which in the eyes of some is so wicked, finds so many partners to work with it.”As the site of NATO’s first headquarters, London was a natural choice for this week’s anniversary. It was also supposed to make a statement on the global stature of a new post-Brexit Britain.Read more: Johnson Plans Major Review of U.K.’s Defense, Foreign PolicyBrexit, however, has since been delayed. Johnson also called a snap election that will happen just eight days after the leaders fly home. The presence of Trump, a toxic figure among British voters, is a potential political liability for the prime minister.Were Johnson to lose to Labour leader Jeremy Corbyn, that would give NATO yet another individual to worry about at its next summit, due in 2021.Over his career the socialist firebrand has called NATO “a danger to world peace and a danger to world security,” among other things. He has more recently fallen into line with party policy, which is for the U.K. to stay in the alliance, but he would likely prove another awkward partner.The last time Britain hosted NATO leaders, in 2014, he told an anti-NATO rally that the end of the Cold War “should have been the time for NATO to shut up shop, give up, go home and go away.”\--With assistance from Onur Ant, Geraldine Amiel and Justin Sink.To contact the reporters on this story: Marc Champion in London at mchampion7@bloomberg.net;Jonathan Stearns in Brussels at jstearns2@bloomberg.netTo contact the editors responsible for this story: Rosalind Mathieson at rmathieson3@bloomberg.net, Flavia Krause-JacksonFor more articles like this, please visit us at bloomberg.com©2019 Bloomberg L.P.

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