#but he very specifically named that when talking about his own experienced '(humiliate me) - so the fact that he uses this term for what

[langernameohnebedeutung]

"The old McDonough family estate. So many childhood memories. After you would beat me, or humiliate me, or psychologically torture Mom, I'd visit this well - I'd toss a penny inside and wish you'd drop dead."

[sorikkung]

ohohoho youve given me so much to talk about here... how you indulge me <33

Gender can be complicated like that sometimes, and to get that in a fanfic is what keeps me coming back for these kinds of stories.

this is a scene i really wanted to include in here at some point, both to normalise these kinds of conversations and also address the reader's gender identity cause i can't say ive ever seen someone describe their identity like this before in fic Or in any other kind of media, only in person. this mc (who i have lovingly dubbed as Vex outside of the actual writing, for any lurkers who may be reading this, but the name will not be mentioned in the text) is more of an oc than a reader insert that is supposed to be relatable to everyone, its supposed to be relatable specifically to me, and anyone like me, because ive never really been able to see myself in fiction like this, but obviously with some creative differences rather than a direct copy-paste. LOL. he wont be relatable to most, but i know for the few who he Is relatable to, it'll mean a lot to have this part explicitly mentioned.

Unintentional personal growth through fanfic! Mischief, your ongoing project to help me grasp the concept of an unreliable narrator is working. (I think. Going to laugh when I look at the educational cheat sheet version of the story if I got this all wrong. I'm determined to learn this!) I don't trust strangers in person, but somehow characters other than Pinocchio and his giveaway nose slip right past me. You finally have me starting to see this reader project his assumptions on everybody interacting with him. This time it starts with Chan.

you got this part right! the cheat sheet talks abt this a few paragraphs down to avoid highlighting the whole intro, but you're on the right page. i'm glad you're able to learn something from this passion project of mine though, haha!

Sure there is some adversarial behavior going on, but to seemingly miss that Chan genuinely can be attracted to him has me sad for our reader. It really speaks to his history and having to fight for his place in the world. We know he can accept unconditional love from his bandmates, so I am excited to see him broaden that group of trusted people over the course of the story.

okay, i want to clarify that its not that vex thinks chan is not attracted to him. he knows that he can continue to have the upper hand on chan because he knows he finds him attractive, he has since their first interaction - but they separate physical attraction from pretty much everything else. what he's doubting here isnt his own attractiveness, but his Power, and his power over chan specifically - he thought he was the toughest guy in the room and he could make chan crumble for him. all these mind games and sexcapades are a power thing for him, he gets off to overpowering and humiliating his self-proclaimed enemies, much like he did to felix both times. its how he feels in control. chan taking that control from him and therefore "winning" their little "battle", has him feeling humiliated that he lost, and assuming that chan planned to humiliate him from the start - the very same way they wanted to humiliate him.

but you're right about him being used to having to fight for his place in the world and accepting unconditional love from his bandmates - i elaborate more in the cheat sheet as to Why he's able to accept that from them yet meets chan with such hostility, but yeah, he's going to face a lot of growth and development throughout the story :)

Oh. That is gutting.

aha THANK YOU! that was exactly the reaction i wanted to garner w that one, and honestly its my favourite part of this chapter i think. honestly it hit rather hard just writing it, like damn SDFKJGKSDF pleased to see it had the intended effect.

And then the commentary about all the hurts and slights he has experienced, meanwhile, we don't know what Chan has been through himself. For all we know, his history could be similar and yet his makeup is set to kindness anyway. But his makeup is honest.

i really, really like this read, because you're exactly right! we (or, i guess, you guys, since im the one writing it, lmfao) have no fucking idea what chan has been through, but once again, the reader is making an assumption here - that if he can't understand why they're so distrusting, he obviously has not been through a hard enough time to get it like they have. but this assumption isn't as entirely left field as most of them usually are, because by chan asking if he's never had someone take care of him or be nice to him before, and asking if he's been hurt that much, being surprised at it, there's a subtle implication there that he hasn't been, but that's still entirely assumption.

And then to get our reader's lack of self-awareness watching Eric's behavior after trying the same with Chan.

this is a very, very good catch that even i didnt consciously pick up on until you mentioned it! yes, their dynamic with eric currently very much reflects their dynamic with chan on opposite ends, just with a lot more love and animosity respectively.

Going to be very interesting to see how the characters grow as the story goes on. I keep saying I am rooting for them, because I am. Can't remember if we have been promised happiness for this cast, but I hope that happens after a lot more episodes to savor.

i did in fact promise a happy ending for this one, because i cant do tragic endings they make me too sad </3 but that doesn't mean a Whole Lot will happen between now and then. it'll get a lot worse before it gets better, but this cast were never the type to do things the easy way anyway. writing these characters grow and develop over time is honestly one of the things im looking forward to most abt writing this!

Loved the reference to a hot cocoa moment with Mingi. I like that you can drop in a reference without having to give us the scene and still give so much meaning to that paragraph.

this story has a Very large cast of characters, and i want to showcase each of their individual bonds and closeness without extending the wordcount by triple the amount just to get in all the required backstory anecdotes, so that's exactly what i was going for here! i like to insert these little moments here and there so you can really feel how close and tightly interwoven these characters are and the history they have without derailing from the plot.

I gotta know if the rice thing is real.

it is! im surprised you havent heard of it, its a very popular woosang moment, heres a cute lil animatic of it by natacular.

thank you for your particularly lengthy review on this chapter!! they always make me so happy to read and i look forward to them each time i post hehe <3

what goes on in neverland. ⇝ aftercare, aftershocks, and the aftermath

word count: 8.9k

pairings: transmasc!reader x Everyone, everyone x everyone (its literally too convoluted for me to try type them out here anymore just see the masterlist for full pairings LOL)

genre: e2l, f2l, smut, fluff and lots of assorted shenanigans. hijinks, if you will

au: battle of the bands!au but make it gay and horny

warnings: nothing really? discussions of top surgery scars and gender identity?

a/n: noticed a lot of chan likers after the last chapter... yall gonna love this one :)

tags: @honeybyunnies @syunderful @absentcaryatid @mingirn (lmk if you want to be added/removed!)

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Waking up in the bed of your biggest competitive rival is definitely, to say the least, sobering. 

You’re not surprised to find the bed empty next to you, but you are more surprised to find yourself still there. Staying the night was never on the agenda, but neither was really submitting to him, so you suppose compromises were made. The memories flood you with the uncomfortable kind of heat now that the lustful haze has faded, and you are left with nothing but the searing humiliation at how easily you played into his hands. 

Who really won there? You really thought you had him for a moment back there, pressed against the wall and shutting you up in the exact way you wanted him to. It was all going so damn well. He seemed so close to breaking then, you saw his subtle blush and the hitches in his breath, the way he leaned into your touch rather than away from it, the way he had to kiss you to shut you up because he knew you were right. He was enjoying you playing with him, he was excited at the prospect of you having a go at him, what fucking happened to all of that?

Was that an act? Letting you have your moment so it can be even more satisfying when he gets to shut it down? Did he find you cute then, too? Or was it that goddamn golden boy, did he want to seem nicer in front of him still? Did he not want poor little freckles to see him be mean?

Illuminated by only the dim coloured light atop Chan’s bed – a warm yellow-orange, now – you wince as you roll over and check the time. 1:47am, your phone says, which isn’t that long after you would’ve finished, considering the time when you arrived there already. God, he really did take his time with edging you – but before you could wonder where exactly he went, he comes back in with a bottle of something in hand and all his make-up washed off.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

“Were you about to do something to me while I was–?!“

“Shh,” he whispers, putting a finger to his lips, “You’ll wake up the rachas if you start yelling. They’re deep sleepers, but not that deep.”

He seems far too calm for someone who could have been caught doing something dastardly or nefarious, so your mouth falls shut, and he opens the bottle and pours some oil on his fingers. You notice the label on the bottle then, soothing massage oil – and after warming it up in his palms, he gestures for you to turn over.

“What?”

“Turn around. On your stomach if you want, but you can also stay sitting up.”

“Why?”

He snorts, nodding at your wrists. “You were bound for a long time. Are you not sore?”

When he says it out loud, you are no longer able to ignore the aching pain in your shoulders, wrists, and your back as well, from being stuck in such a position for so long. While you’re no stranger to aches and pains, whether it be for BDSM related reasons or pole dancing, it definitely doesn’t make sleep any easier, and probably what woke you up.

“Well, now that you mention it…”

“Come on then. Turn around.” His voice doesn’t carry any sternness, nor does it even hold much impatience, simply just having a task he plans on accomplishing and getting straight to the point. You comply.

His hands on you are gentle, but firm, pressing down at the tightness in your back with enough pressure to make you moan softly, but he doesn’t so much as make a snarky comment about it. He’s surprisingly silent as he works, focused on the task at hand, and you wouldn’t mind the change of pace if not for how hyperaware it makes you of every sound you make.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs softly, “you don’t need to hold back that much. The walls are thick enough.”

“It’s not the rachas I’m worried about,” you mutter, uncharacteristically self-conscious despite not even facing him, but you can’t deny his massage feels good. When his skilled ministrations slow down to a halt, you cast a glance at him over your shoulder.

He’s smiling at you.

“What, worried ‘bout little ol’ me?”

You whip back around with such ferocity your neck audibly cracks. “Asshole.”

He chuckles lightly, then gets back to massaging your shoulders, a little gentler this time. “I’m not big enough of an asshole to tease you during aftercare, tough guy. You can relax.”

Aftercare? It shouldn’t come as a surprise to you, having done similar acts of aftercare yourself and having received it more times than you can count, but something about receiving it from Chan of all people is puzzling. Last time you checked, you were having hate sex. Not that you hate him, really, that would be a pretty strong sentiment you currently only really hold for Felix by merit of him being Eric’s flaky ex-boyfriend, but you don’t exactly like him, either. Well, you like pissing him off, and you like competing with him, and you like getting reactions out of him, and maybe you like his artistry as well, but that’s about as far as it goes.

Oh, and you like his body, too, that’s a big one. The way his hands work the tension out of your shoulders is positively divine. Suppose he’s a pretty face, too. All up until he opens that big mouth of his.

“You say that, then you teasingly call me tough guy again. All men do is lie, huh?”

“Tch, you’re one to talk,” he scoffs, pressing harder with his massage, but not too hard, so it’s welcomed. “Besides, I wasn’t teasing. You’re tough.”

You wait for him to elaborate on that, but after a long moment of silence staring at the figurines on his headboard and the flickering triangular lights above it, you realise that was where his comment ended.

“…Thanks?”

“You’re welcome,” he hums simply, definitively, then shifts you on the bed to turn back around and face him again so he can take your wrists and begin massaging the oil into them too. He doesn’t even so much as spare your face a glance, but it’s not avoidant. It’s focused, and just a little bit tired, too, you realise, noticing the crease in his brow.

You frown. Something about the silence feels so damn intimate – even more so than the actions itself, which you suppose are just him going on automatic after dominating someone. After all, giving aftercare is often the aftercare in itself for dominants, too, so maybe he’s doing this for himself as well.

He pauses to look up at you. “Got something on my face?”

As intimate as the silence felt, getting caught staring is far, far worse.

“Yeah,” you snort, throwing up snark as a reflex, “Ugly.”

It’s a bit harsh, you think, and the way he cocks his head makes you think he’s disguising a wince, but he looks back down at your wrists as he continues to massage them anyway.

“You wouldn’t be in my bed right now if you really thought I was ugly.”

He’s right.

“You’re right,” you echo, not really wanting that to be the hill you die on anyway when you both know its not true. That isn’t a good look on you, either. “It was a joke. I don’t sleep with ugly guys.”

“I know.”

He wraps up and pulls away, and you find yourself missing his touch as soon as it leaves you. Which is odd, because once again, you don’t even particularly like him, nor were you even expecting aftercare, and he’s already doing more for you than you would’ve bothered doing for him.

Or that you did for Felix.

The silence stretches on, and that thought grows louder. Is that what this is? Considering how Lino obviously told Felix what you messaged him, you wouldn’t be surprised if Felix told everyone else about your night at the Prism in excruciating detail, too. Based on how Chan acted with you tonight, it seemed far too deliberate for that to not have been the case. The look he gave Eric while kissing up on your neck? Hell, he had to have seen that. That’s right, he was there, he must have seen it and–

“Feeling a bit better? Want me to massage anywhere some more?”

His face is as open as you’ve ever seen it, expecting to hear a genuine response. There’s no more attitude, no more competition, no more sexual tension – despite the fact that you’re both still half naked, you in only the unbuttoned shirt you didn’t take off before he bound your wrists, and him still gloriously shirtless, just sitting in his underwear. He looks a lot less intimidating without his make-up on anymore, either, the softness of his features really bleeding through, and without such a cocky expression either, he looks like a whole different person.

The lingering soreness is more of the pleasant kind, now that he’s worked his magic, but you nod anyway. Just so you don’t have to look at him again. You shift back around. “My back’s still pretty sore, actually.”

You feel the bed shift behind you as he shuffles onto his knees, and presses a hand between your shoulder blades to push you down, and you lie onto your stomach without a word.

“Does that hurt?”

“What?” He already lifted his hand, he can’t possibly think he shoved you too hard. Is your back supposed to hurt while lying on your stomach after being bound like that? “Um, yeah. Kinda.”

“Your scar, I mean,” he says plainly, blinking at you dumbly when you peer over your shoulder again to look at him. “I mean I know it’s healed, at least, it looks healed enough, but still, pressure on such a large wound…”

“Oh, that- that’s fine,” you reassure him, plopping your head back down on the mattress and letting your eyes fall shut. “Bed’s soft. Didn’t even think about it.”

“Alright.” He throws a leg over you to straddle your hips, this time massaging your lower back as well, and while you asked him to continue mostly just because it felt nice, you now realise how much tension you had down there, too. “Can I ask how you got it?”

“My scar?”

“Yeah. I mean, I know what top surgery scars look like, but that looks a bit more violent. Makes me wonder if it was something else.”

“Ah.” You fall quiet, not really sure what to say. That you asked for it to be that way? Doesn’t really sound all that impressive when you put it like that. He’d probably ask why, too, and you aren’t sure how you would explain that to him, either.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he says, stopping only to crack his knuckles and pour more massage oil onto his palms before resuming the massage, “Was just curious.”

“You said it was pretty,” you breathe out, not daring to open your eyes and look at him. “Guess you’re not bad at dirty talk, huh. Suppose it is pretty violent looking in reality. I like it that way, though.”

He pauses – his words, not his hands – for a short beat before responding. “Pretty and violent aren’t mutually exclusive, you know. There can be beauty in violence, sometimes.”

“Yeah?” you huff. “Sounds like something a pretty violent person would say.”

He presses down extra hard on your shoulder and you grunt, knowing it was entirely on purpose. “Says you, tough guy. You’re a little menace.”

“Who you calling little? First freckles, now you – you guys sure do like pulling the height card for a bunch of garden gnomes. Glad to have someone shorter than you for a change? Congrats, he’s not even a cis man.”

“What do you identify as, by the way? Do you consider yourself a man, or...?” Chan asks genuinely, once again dodging your attempts at provocation. He’s getting quite good at this, and that bothers you, because provoking him was the entire fun of him, but you suppose now is too nice of a moment to really push it.

“Man enough. Man sometimes. On Tuesdays, maybe. On Wednesdays I’m just a gendery enigma.”

He chuckles. “What about Thursdays?”

“Hmm. Guy, but in the same way you call an animal friend you find on the street a little guy, y’know? Just a dude.”

His signature giggles are back, and you find yourself smiling and cracking your eyes back open before you even realise it, hazy. You can’t remember the last time you felt this relaxed since the whole competition started.

“And on Fridays?”

You yawn loudly, letting your eyes flutter shut again as sleep threatens to tug away at you once again, but you know you won’t fall properly asleep while he’s still touching you. “Gender on Fridays… that’s between me and God.”

He laughs properly at that, catching himself quickly and keeping it quiet as to not disturb his roommates, but you feel an oddly swelling sense of pride at being able to make him laugh like that. Maybe he won this game of wits you played in bed, but he can’t deny you’re at least funny.

“Alright, I’m getting tired,” he yawns as well, rolling off you and flopping back onto the bed next to you. It’s only then when you notice the bright red lines adorning his back, and gasp at the sight.

“Holy shit, Chan, your back.”

“Yeah?” He looks over his shoulder at you with a simultaneously sheepish and smug grin. “Suppose you didn’t get a good view before, huh?”

“No, I’m not— okay, I am appreciating the view, but dude, I basically mauled your back, does that not sting?”

He wrinkles his nose, twisting his torso this way and that experimentally. “A bit. It’s not bad, though.”

After he took care of you so gently, you find yourself wanting to take care of him at least just a little – just to even the playing field, so he can’t chastise you for not knowing safe kink practices, or otherwise flip it on you somehow. At least, that’s what you tell yourself when you get up and ask him if he has any ointment for it.

“Ointment?”

“Yeah, like an antibiotic cream, or something. I broke skin, Chan. There’s a bit of blood. The least you should do is get it cleaned so it doesn’t get infected, especially if you’re gonna sleep without a shirt.”

He yawns again, stretching out and then wincing slightly, no doubt at the fresh scars adorning his back now. “Get it cleaned, huh? I don’t suppose you’ll do it for me?”

You bite at the inside of your cheek. “Is this a test?”

“A test? No, it’s a question. Do I have to get up and do it myself or can I stay here?”

“...Where’s the ointment? Or should I just use water?”

“Bathroom’s around the left corner, in the cabinet behind the mirror.”

It’s exactly where he said it was, so you return with a damp cloth and ointment in hand, and seat yourself behind him on the bed. This is certainly not your first time tending to your own scratch marks – or claw marks, as Kevin likes to call them, joking that the band are your scratching posts – so you fall into the process rather quickly. A gentle wipe-down before applying the cream, that’s all it is, you could do it in your sleep.

Your heart is beating out of your chest like it’s about to erupt.

You know why. It’s not a Chan thing, you know that for sure – it’s the same when taking care of your bandmates, too, as there is something so sacred about the whole process that’s almost tender. It’s the vulnerability of it all, and you’ve since gotten more adjusted to it with the others, but without any trust built between you and Chan, it feels significantly more potent than usual. Risky, almost.

Maybe it is a Chan thing.

Silence drags on and neither you nor Chan do anything about it. Out of tiredness, probably. You wouldn’t call it entirely comfortable silence, though; for some reason, tending to him feels even more vulnerable than him giving you the massage. You suppose you can’t really keep pretending like you hate him while you’re treating the wounds on his back that you inflicted, and you’re not sure what this means, anymore. You don’t know what any of this means, or how you’re supposed to be feeling about this.

“There,” you finish, closing the cap on the cream shut. “All done.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles, shifting around on the bed to get a better look at you, and you find yourself unable to hold his gaze. He shrugs and simply flops down onto the bed. “’Think I’m gonna go sleep now… oh wait, did you want like, undies or something–“

You snort. Undies. “You’re not kicking me out?”

He tilts his head up just enough to drowsily stare at you in confusion. “No? Not when you look like you’re about to melt right into my mattress. But hey, if you wanna uber home or something, go for it. I’m not keeping you here.”

He rolls over, slipping under the blankets and curling himself around a large pillow. Cute, you think. He looks even smaller like this. You wonder how you must look for him to make such a comment, how much of the number he did on you is visible, but you know you won’t get any sleep tonight if you stop to check in the mirror now.

“Yeah, I’ll take you up on the undies.”

“Aight.” He yawns again, stretches, clearly falling asleep already as he grabs you a spare pair of boxer briefs and tosses them at you as he slides back into bed. Once your shirt is on the floor and you are under the blankets with him, you find yourself subconsciously gravitating towards his side of the bed for warmth, to which he responds by turning over and draping himself over you instead of the pillow. It reminds you so much of sleeping with Sunwoo, Eric or Mingi that you find yourself lulled right back to sleep at a record speed.

If waking up in the bed of your rival was sobering, waking up in the arms of your rival is like a bucket of cold water to the face.

What is worse is that it takes you far too long to realise it, at first. Sleeping with strong arms around you is your norm, so you don’t really question it as your sleep-fogged brain slowly starts turning its gears, and you practically jolt when you pull your head back and realise you’re snuggled up to the one and only Bang Chan and pointedly not one of your bandmates.

“You’re not Sunwoo,” you blubber out, sliding away from him on the bed, and Chan just drearily groans and rolls over, pulling your half of the blanket with him.

“No. M’not.”

He stays still there, so you suppose this is your cue to get out, make your walk of shame, et cetera. Not that it was ever really a shameful walk for you, it being more like a walk in pride at the accomplishment of the notches in your belt, but Chan being who he is and his roommates being who they are make you finally understand why they called it the walk of shame in the first place.

“Where y’goin?” he mumbles, peeking out at you over his blanket as you start picking your clothes back up and getting dressed – still in his underwear with yours discarded on the floor somewhere, but at this point you consider leaving it behind as a prize, just so you can get out of there quicker.

“Where do you think? Home. Unless you’re up for round two? I’m warning you, I won’t go easy on you this time.”

Chan laughs out loud, wide and bright and fucking humiliating. You threatened him and he’s laughing at you. You scramble to get your things quicker. You need to leave, and you need to leave now, before you can dig your own grave even deeper.

“Have brekkie before you leave, at least!”

You pause to gawk at him, curly hair now free from its chemical restraints and sticking out in every which direction, his softer face illuminated by the morning sun. Who is this man?

“Breakfast? Seriously?”

He stares back at you like you are the one out of your mind.

“Yes? Do you not usually have breakfast? It’s the most important meal of the day, you know.”

“I pissed you off, tossed you around, let you bring me home and fuck my brains out, and now you’re making me breakfast? Chan, do you like me or something?” you guffaw, the only reasonable conclusion you can come up with using the limited brainpower you have access to before noon. Seriously, who the fuck does mornings these days? It was either that, or he’s trying to kill you with kindness and make you feel bad. Ha. Like he could ever.

Chan furrows his brow, recoiling in mild disgust and confusion. “No? God, is that what you think? I’m literally just being a good host. You stayed the night, I had my way with you, now I take care of you. It’s not rocket science, y’know.”

It’s not rocket science, he says, but trying to make sense of him is looking more and more like a complicated algebra equation you failed in math before dropping out. Why does he feel the need to take care of you? You’re not his responsibility. He doesn’t owe you anything. You were mean to him on purpose and he knows it, so he might as well have tossed you out on the curb as soon as he got off. Maybe called you an Uber if he wanted to be a gentleman. But this?

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? I just said why! Have you never had someone be nice to you before, or something?”

“Wh– of course I’ve had people be nice to me before, I’m not that pathetic,” you scoff, folding your arms. “Just not after I’ve gone out of my way to aggravate them on purpose.”

Chan just snorts. “Maybe you should stop aggravating me on purpose, then.”

“So that’s what this is!” The final piece of the puzzle clicks into place, and you stare him down intently – or maybe that’s just the morning glare in your eyes. “You’re trying to kill me with kindness, aren’t you? Think being a good host will make me go easy on you? Smart, but I have less of a conscience than you seem to think I do–“

“God, a man can dream, I guess! No,” he sighs your name in the most exasperated tone you’ve ever heard from him, “this isn’t some evil plan to take you down as a competitor, I’m literally just being nice. Because I like being nice to people. Is that really so hard to believe?”

“You don’t have a reason to be nice to me. I sure as hell ain’t nice to you! Every time I think you’ve grown some backbone you–“

“Oh please, that is not what you were saying last night,” he interrupts, finally starting to lose his cool. Good. You hate fighting him when he’s so clear-headed. “You wanna be so tough and scary so bad, but you insisted on cleaning my wounds before bed–“

“Oh my god, you are in love with me, aren’t you?”

Whether you actually think Chan harbours any sort of romantic feelings for you leans heavy towards no, but the accusation is one you can think of very few people who wouldn’t get a rise out of. Not to mention how funny it is to see them flounder to prove themselves just for you to twist everything they say against them.

“In love with you? Are you seriously that self-obsessed? No, no– I’m not falling for that, you know I’m already–“ he cuts himself off this time, realising the hole he just dug, but it’s too late.

“So you are in love with Felix, you admit it!” you cackle victoriously, clapping like a seal. “You’re right, we already knew, but I sure wonder if Felix does. What was his Instagram tag again? Lix something?”

“Sure, go ahead and tell him, like he’d believe you,” Chan huffs, “You’re not subtle either, tough guy! ‘You’re not Sunwoo!’ Hm, I wonder why you’re thinking about waking up in his arms.”

“We sleep together, genius,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes, “the entire band, we all sleep together, I did not think any of us were subtle about that.”

“I know that, but why is it Sunwoo’s name specifically you think of first thing in the morning, huh?”

Fuck. Why is it Sunwoo? As soon as you ask yourself that, your recent conversations flash through your mind, and you sure as hell are not about to let Chan of all people know about that.

“Because your arms felt like his, it’s not that deep!”

“I don’t mean this in a body-shaming way, but his arms are like half the size of mine. I’m not exactly convinced.”

“Then don’t be! I have nothing to prove to you.”

“You really don’t! So why do you keep acting like you do have something to prove to me every time we meet?”

His words slice through you like a hot knife through butter, and it takes a second too long to come up with a response. He’s right. You fucking hate when he’s right, and you would sooner edit a Wikipedia article to win an argument against someone when you’re in the wrong than admit it to him.

He sighs. “I don’t get why you have such a raging hate boner towards us. I know Eric has beef with Felix and we’re neck and neck in the Battle of the Bands, and you get your kicks out of provoking people, but you seem to think that I – or the other guys too, for that matter – would act against you if you slipped up enough to give us a chance to. But we’re not like that.”

We’re not like you, is the unspoken message there, but you hear it loud and clear. “Why wouldn’t you? Felix still has something to prove, that much I can tell for certain. Lino was quick to spill my secrets as soon as he had them. Hell, Changbin threw me over a table for something entirely consensual and even went as far as to slut-shame all of us. Like, riddled with diseases? Really? You’re no better than we are just because we actually own up to being assholes, you just lack the self awareness.”

Chan tilts a brow up at you, then it furrows into a puzzled expression. “This is what I mean about you bringing out the worst in people. Lino went for it because he knew you’d definitely do the same, and Changbin... he doesn’t start fights as often as you’d think he does based off of your experiences with him. They’re usually justified. Though I will admit the slut-shaming wasn’t, he was just trying to get some sort of edge over you since he didn’t know you knew about Hyunjin’s career. He’s actually done sex work in the past too, got his fair share of STI’s, it’s not an insult that comes from a place of actual prejudice.”

“Oh, so its all blatant hypocrisy then! Wow, that’s sooo much better, you guys are such morally-correct heroes.”

He rolls his eyes so hard you think he got a glimpse of his brain, then pinches the bridge of his nose in barely concealed frustration. “Okay, yes, sure, he’s a hypocrite! I’ll admit to that! But you’ve had something to prove since before any of that happened, so I’m just wondering why exactly you expected us – why you expected me – to be some sort of villain from the get-go! Why do you want me to be the bad guy so bad when I’m just trying to be nice to you and make you some goddamn breakfast?!”

You see he has reached his wits end, and it’s no longer a noble attempt to defend his team but a cry for help to save himself. You knew your verbal spars had more behind them than he tries to act, but now he can’t pretend like he’s their infallible shield anymore. Nor can he pretend his little posse are all virtuous saints. In a way, you finally won, you made him crack.

So why does it feel so much like losing?

“Because I just don’t get why you don’t,” you confess in an aggravated sigh, “Other people would! I’d argue that you should, given it all! It feels— it feels wrong to have you just, clean me up and make me breakfast when we’re not even friends! We don’t even like each other! Like, this goes above and beyond even for just a Tinder hookup!”

Chan barks out a dry laugh. “It’s like you really can’t comprehend the concept of someone being nice to you. Have you never had someone properly take care of you before?”

“I have! My band take care of me better than I could even ask for. But that’s the difference, they’re mine. They’re my band, I mean, we have a bond even deeper than family, we take care of each other because we love each other. What reason do you have to take care of me of all people? I haven’t given you a single reason to and yet, you do anyway.”

“You think people need a hard-earned reason to be nice to you?” Chan remarks back at you, and it shocks something deep inside you with an ice-cold chill. Yes? Maybe? That would sound stupid if you say it out loud. Would it? It makes so much sense to you, though. People can be nice without reason sometimes, but not to people who don’t deserve it.

Not to people like you.

“I... I’m not saying people can only be nice to people once they’ve done something to earn it, I just mean that people aren’t usually nice to people who have given them a reason – or in my case, multiple reasons – not to be. If someone hurts the people I love, I’m not making them breakfast, I’m kicking them to the curb when I’m done.”

“I know,” Chan deadpans, no doubt thinking about Felix too. “That’s where we differ then, I guess. I don’t filter who I’m nice to based off of some invisible tally of who deserves it or who doesn’t. I choose to be kind because it’s how I want to be, not because it’s what someone does or doesn’t deserve. I’d like to say that all people deserve kindness, but even I cave and deliberately deny people of that sometimes. I’m only human, yeah? We all are. Even you. So I’m not sure why you’ve convinced yourself you’re so unworthy of my kindness that you lash out at me for it. Have you been wronged that much?”

He says it so casually and gets up to wash his face in the connected bathroom like he didn’t just cover you in paper cuts then drop you in a pool of lemonade and salt. Have you been wronged that much? Hell, have you been wronged by that many? You think back to your family, then your former friends, their friends, your peers. You think about your band, all runaways or renegades from similar surroundings, and the safety you found in them being like-minded individuals. How you all met because you were all so scorned taking the road not taken, so driven yet so lost.

Society has a way of chewing you up and spitting you back out into more pieces than you started off in, then expecting you to pick them up and glue them back together yourself, as if you are the one who did it. That’s just how life is; there is no childhood without hardship, no adult without trauma, despite the best efforts of many and the lack of effort of many more. Everyone has their own demons to fight, all while fighting for their lives in the blender that is late-stage capitalism and man-made prejudice.

You know all this. Yet when Chan asks, ‘Have you been wronged that much?’ Part of you thinks that all of that is bullshit and somehow you and your band have ended up being through hell and back for no other damn reason than drawing the short straw in the hand dealt to the rest of the world.

“I don’t... I...”

You struggle to find words for the emotions you are feeling – rage, grief, sadness, bitterness, envy, but there’s something else in the muddled pit of them all that doesn’t quite fit with the others. Hope, maybe? That’s a dangerous emotion, but that’s rarely stopped you before. You wouldn’t be where you are today without it. Fear? Closer, but what for? Relief? At what?

Chan walks back out of the bathroom with a hand towel around his neck, then right past you towards the kitchen.

“Come on. I’m making pancakes.”

Feeling like you don’t have much of a choice not to – or a reason not to, for that matter – you follow him, plopping yourself wordlessly down on a stool on the outer side of the counter.

He doesn’t say more as he takes out the ingredients and gets to work, a simple recipe but nonetheless homemade compared to the pre-made pancake mixes you use back home. You take the chance to observe your surroundings, spacious yet rather cluttered with the various belongings of the multiple men in the household, and that is when you remember you two are not the only occupants currently home.

“Are the others still asleep?” you ask, and he just shrugs while pouring batter onto a fry pan.

“Probably. We’re not usually up before noon, but I’ll make some for them to have for lunch.”

“Did I wake you, then?”

“Yeah. But it’s fine. I got more sleep last night than usual, honestly.”

It will never not be jarring to you, the difference in the kind of conversations you have with Chan. You’re either arguing with blades drawn, or you’re laid completely bare with nothing but an emergency razor blade hidden under a band-aid on you, conversing like you actually know each other. Like there’s any sort of closeness or trust between you. You don’t know if that is just because you’re more used to fighting him than not, or because something about Chan with his guard down makes you feel even more exposed than ever, or if it’s the things he’s done and said in the past twelve or so hours that changed the air between you. There’s discomfort in how comfortable it is, a juxtaposition you have no idea how you got to.

“Don’t get much sleep, huh?”

He nods, scarred back still facing you as he cooks. “Not usually. I tend to stay up late until I’m exhausted enough to maybe catch some sleep when I finally go to bed, then try to sleep on and off until it gets too hot at noon and I just give up. Well, not all the time, I do get uninterrupted sleep some nights, but the staying up super late and getting up late is pretty consistent. So yesterday I went to bed kinda early.”

“2am kinda early, huh?” you snort, and he chuckles.

“Yeah. Earlier than five, at least.”

The relatively comfortable silence from last night returns, and you find you don’t hate it as much this time. It’s still rather foreign, but not as deeply unsettling as it was before, so you are content to just take in the view of his half-naked form cooking a gigantic stack of pancakes until he finally plates and serves.

“Eat up, then.”

You do.

You have been dreading returning home since the moment Eric threw his little fit last night, so you are already bracing yourself for metaphorical impact – the impact being rancid vibes more than anything else – from the very moment you open the front door to your apartment.

What you find instead, is a messy-haired Han with the buttons on his shirt done up one buttonhole too low, skewing the whole symmetry of the shirt sideways. If the bruises on his jaw and neck are any indicator, you’d guess this is Sunwoo, Wooyoung, or maybe San’s handiwork, but given that it’s your apartment he’s coming out of, you put your money on Sunwoo.

“Damn. You too huh—”

“I was just leaving!” he blurts out, shoving past you and speed-walking away while still putting on his layered jackets, and you snort and close the door behind you.

“Let me guess, that was the work of one man starting with a ‘Sun’ and ending with a ‘woo.’”

“You know it!”

He calls back at you from the kitchen, and you realise the mop of dark hair you spotted on the couch is not him and his permed curls, but simply Wooyoung’s atrocious bed hair. Or maybe sex hair. Could be either or, with him. Walking into better view, you notice the whole band is here already, seemingly waiting for you with Eric standing between the two couches expectantly.

“Ah good, you’re finally here!”

He sounds less than thrilled, and the rest of the band don’t seem all that excited either, barring Sunwoo’s aura of smugness at having his plaything leave moments prior. The tension in the room is palpable, like mugginess on a humid day, except the windows are wide open and the constant drone of the fan on in the background makes the would-be silence even louder somehow.

“Oh boy,” you groan, “if you’re going to grill us all on sleeping with the enemy, frankly I do not want to hear it.”

“You think I wanted to hear Jisung screaming out Sunwoo’s name repeatedly last night and calling him oppa?” Eric guffaws, as if that’s somehow your fault. You take a quick glance at the man in question, who only looks even more proud of himself, so you snicker at him.

“Wow, nice.”

“No, not nice, what the fuck you guys! Is there anyone here who didn’t fuck a stray kid last night?!”

“Huh?”

You look around the room at the others, only thinking you and Sunwoo did, but the only one who cautiously raises his hand is Kevin. You figure Wooyoung and Mingi probably got Changbin to crack with the added influence of Lino, but your eyes widen at San.

“Whaaat? That Hyunjin kid was testing my patience. Though I can’t say I wasn’t curious after his stream—”

“Seriously guys, did everything they said just evade you? They dissed our music, our message, Wooyoung and I’s dancing, our sex lives— and you’re going on and fucking them instead of fucking them over? What the fuck you guys!”

Wooyoung just shrugged. “I sure fucked him over his boyfriend, I think he appreciated the view—”

“You’re not even taking me seriously at all!” Eric roars, eyes flaring, but he’s right. You aren’t. You don’t think anyone else in the room even is.

“It’s hard to take you seriously when you’re trying to come at us for who we choose to sleep with. Like, I thought we agreed that what we do with other people is none of each other’s business, and it’s extra hypocritical when you were the first to do so this time. Last year we literally fucked a homophobe from the rival band to humiliate him and now you’re drawing the line? Just say you’re upset about Felix still and be done with it,” you tell him with scalding bluntness, and you can see the hurt visible all over his face. It does make you feel partly guilty, but you meant every word you said. Suppose you didn’t hear everything the others said once you were preoccupied with Felix and Chan, but you don’t think it would have changed your path of action regardless.

“Fine then,” Eric hisses, bitter and thoroughly done. “Fine! Fuck them all if you want, have one big fat orgy in our living room for all I care, but don’t expect to touch my ass once you’re done with them. Kevin, you’re the only one left with hole privileges.”

Kevin wrinkles his nose and raises a brow, puzzled. “But I’m a bottom?”

“Good! Then don’t use them! An extra fuck you to the rest of them!”

He storms off after that, slamming the door to his room behind him, and you all take a collective sigh at his little temper tantrum. They aren’t anything new, but he usually isn’t this unreasonable, but you all know why. Felix. It always comes back down to Felix, the first love who broke his heart into so many pieces he is still trying to glue them back together. You feel sorry for what he is going through, you really do, but that doesn’t mean you are going to let him walk all over you and lash out like that.

“So. Movie night?” San suggests to break the tension, and the others are quick to nod and mutter in agreement.

“Definitely not here, though,” you pitch in, Eric’s loud trap music blasting from his speakers through the closed door, right on cue. “Let’s give him some space to cool down.”

“I’ll stay here,” Sunwoo suggests, “Just in case he needs to talk it out while we’re still gone.”

“Let me,” you offer, “I’m not huge on movies anyway—”

“Respectfully, I think he’d rather talk to anyone but you,” Kevin interrupts with an apologetic frown. “You did kind of fuck around with his ex without him. I don’t think he wants to confront how jealous that made him. He still misses him so much.”

“I know,” you sigh, sinking down into the couch, wedged between him and Mingi. At this point you have already accepted movie night is not going to happen until you have talked this all out with the others. “I think it’s more than that, though. When I was talking to him about it while training him on pole, he said the rest of the kids made him jealous, too. Because those are all effectively, and I’m paraphrasing this bluntly, mind you, but they’re basically his replacements. His and the rest of their dance crew that he left. He wanted me to fuck Felix with him to prove that he too had moved on and met cooler, hotter and more talented friends to make music with, so he could feel in control again. But I think it backfired on him as soon as they started winning and rubbing it in our faces. At least, based on his outburst just then, that’s my guess. Still needa ask him directly, preferably once he’s let off some steam.”

Mingi plays with your hand as you talk, his large ones easily encasing yours and tracing patterns along your skin. “Sounds about right. Maybe we should stop sleeping around with them, then. It’s not like we’d have much of a dry spell without them, as hot as it is I don’t know if it’s worth making Eric upset.”

“That’s treating the symptoms, not the root of the problem,” you point out, noticing the way he stays fixated on your hand, not looking at you, but more so, not looking at Wooyoung. “That’s the thing I don’t get about monogamy. People will go to such lengths to make sure their partners don’t get jealous, instead of trying to unpack why they feel so bad about seeing someone else with them. Like, clearly he has a lot of insecurity about being replaced, or other people being better than him. I get that. So we just need to show him how much we value him, and how irreplaceable he is to us. How fucking with other guys doesn’t change that.”

That seems to stir something within Mingi, gears turning in his head visible on his face. You hope that it’s the realization you think it is, because while Mingi has never been the overly jealous type like Eric is, you know from many late nights drinking hot chocolate on his shoddy balcony that his insecurities are just as loud and all-consuming sometimes. You haven’t had the chance to properly check in on him since his fight with Wooyoung in front of you, but you hope he can read between the lines nonetheless.

“Huh. And how do we do that?”

“We put him in control again,” you say decidedly, nodding. “A position of power, of some sort. Make him the star of our next stage, build it all around it. Let him run it, even. And of course, him permitting, suck his dick till he’s shooting blanks.”

A unanimous chuckle ripples through the room at the last part, knowing full well how the combined effort of the six of you could make that a very easy feat.

“He did call us here to talk about our next stage,” Wooyoung hums thoughtfully, “I think he wants to do another special stage like we do at those dance clubs, with you taking over drums and Sunwoo on bass so he and Mingi can dance with me, if I were to guess. He seemed particularly torn up about their comments on dance specifically, which makes sense given how that’s how Felix left him.”

“What did they even say about your dancing, anyway? I didn’t catch that, was too busy arguing with—”

“Sneaking off to suck Felix’s dick in a hallway, we know,” Wooyoung snorts, shifting himself into his usual seat, that being Mingi’s lap, and leaning against his chest. “They said I danced like my sex appeal could make up for a lack of talent. Which is whatever, honestly, I just used that to make Changbin admit he still found me hot and eventually lead to bringing him home – amazing ass, mind you, he wanted to top so bad and I damn near let him but—”

“Okay, okay, details later, what else did they say about us?” Knowing each other inside out means that the tendency to cut each other off is never taken too personally, given how much you all have the tendency to ramble.  You’re grateful for it, because at times like this, you need to get straight to the point. “Did they insult Eric’s dancing too?”

Wooyoung grimaces, lips pursing into a line, and that is enough to confirm your suspicions. “...yeah. To be fair, Eric did bring it up first. He was taunting them about their dancing and how they should go compete in dance competitions instead like they used to in Force – but oh, that’s right! Felix left Force, and for this, and he implied it was because he knew that they’d never make it in an actual dance competition without Force. So they dragged him and the rest of Force through the mud, saying maybe the reason they disbanded as soon as Felix left was because they knew he carried the team and they were nothing without him. You can imagine how hard that would have hit.”

You poke your tongue at the inside of your cheek. Can’t exactly say their response was entirely uncalled for, then, but at the same time, Eric made a solid point. Why didn’t they just enter dance tournaments instead? You remember Eric going to compete in a whole ton of them between Force and Triple Z, the dance crews he was in with Felix and Wooyoung and Mingi respectively.

Force since disbanded with Felix’s departure since he acted as the glue that held the crew together, the other members closer with him than each other, while Triple Z still meets up sometimes, but a lot more casually than they used to now that most of them aren’t studying anymore, and have a lot less free time working to pay rent. Especially with the Battle of the Bands coming up, you don’t expect they will be doing anything big for a while now. At least that meant Eric finally stopped overworking himself between all his commitments.

You think about the week prior he spent learning a whole new medium of dance just to prove a point, and you quickly retract that thought.

“I think I know just what he needs,” you speak up, the puzzle clicking together in your head one piece at a time. “Not just what he needs, what this competition needs. An even match.”

“An even match?” San echoes, and you nod, noting the way he looks slightly disheartened, but you continue before he can think that the band isn’t a worthy competitor to the current reigning group.

“An even playing field, I mean. They’re doing something completely different to everyone else; that’s why they’re winning, because they can’t be compared to anyone else. We just need to give them something to compare to. Another dance group. Four of us are already some form of dancer, and the rest of you are fit and fast learners. If we spend the next week on the grind, we can make a dance performance out of one of the old tracks Kevin or Mingi produced for Force or Triple Z that never got used– and if we let Eric run this little boot camp, he hopefully will feel like he’s in control of the situation again and that we still value his opinions and role on the team.”

“So... your vote is basically plagiarism then,” Wooyoung snorts, crossing one leg over the other with a playful flourish, almost kicking you in the face in the process. “I’m interested. In fact, if we want to really boot camp this, we should all take the week off work. I think I can help cover the costs that may arise from that one.”

“No way!” San gasps, eyes quickly widening while the rest of you glance around at each other, not getting the memo. “Don’t tell me that sugar daddy you were talking to is actually legit...?”

“More than legit,” Wooyoung preens, evidently rather proud of himself. “I found out how to squeeze even more dough out of him. He loves seeing me in fancy designer brands, he has no idea I just stole half of it and have been using the generous allowance he gave me to spoil Mingi instead and buy other sorts of useless shit and necessities. So I just pretend I’m this fashionista diva who only wants to wear the most exclusive of designer, and even with all the money he’s giving me, it doesn’t give me the connections to get limited edition pieces from exclusive collections... and he gets them for me, of course, and do you have any idea how much those kinds of things sell for?”

If there was one thing you always admired about Wooyoung, it was how clever that sly fox could be when it came to things like this. Trust Jung Wooyoung to milk rich old men for all they’re worth, but still not consider that microwaving rice three times would make it into a solid brick. The duality of man.

“Why haven’t you told us earlier?!” San seems almost offended, lips falling into a pout. “That’s huge! You’re basically rich now!”

“Ew, gross,” Wooyoung wrinkles his nose, “I’m not rich, I’m exploiting the rich. Big difference. Don’t lump me in with those bastards! I didn’t tell you all yet because I didn’t want to get my hopes up in case it was a scam or he ended up being dangerous, but... I think we’re in the clear now. I’m still going to pole dance because I love it and I don’t want my only source of income to be reliant on some old rich man’s whims, but I can afford to take a week off and pitch in for you guys too. I might have to leave periodically if he calls, though, but luckily I already know how to dance. I’ll catch up quick.”

“It’s a plan, then,” Kevin speaks up, and the relief it fills you with is immense; you were the most concerned about his reaction to the idea, as he was the least inclined to heavy physical activity out of all of you, but you figure you must have been underestimating him – he may be no dancer yet, but Gaga nights at the gay club have him vogueing like he is one. “We make our next stage a dance stage to rival theirs, and Eric gets to put us all through dance hell? Good thing I started working out…”

You look around the room for any signs of protest, but luckily enough, everyone seems to be on the same page. You see a particular spark in Wooyoung and Mingi’s eyes – for completely different reasons – that make you think this really is the right path to take.

“Going once, going twice… agreed, then!” You clasp your hands together, determined. “Someone pick a movie, and we can tell Eric when he feels like speaking with us calmly again.”

a/n: not gonna lie this might be one of my favourite chapters so far hehe those chan scenes were extremely fun to write. anyway if you havent already, let me know your thoughts thru this google form or even through an ask, either or can be anonymous if you want (tho if you want me to reply to your form responses, pls do sign off w ur @!) as always reblogs are always appreciated and im always down to talk in depth abt these characters if any questions or brainrot arises. LOL

[ibis-gt]

ok ok i got the writing bug again. cam drives luther to the hospital to figure out why he's got Shrinks When Gay Disorder. 2k words.

~~~

“Well, Mr. Algers, from what I can tell you’ve got a very rare, very difficult autoimmune disease. We call it Gulliver’s Hanahaki.”

Luther sits glumly on the examining table, clad in a paper gown. He resists the urge to pick at the edges of it, instead keeping a tight grip on the table. Doctor’s offices always make him fidgety.

“Basically,” Dr. Townsend continues, “when your body encounters a specific form of stress, it will react in an attempt to defend itself, resulting in the reduction of size you’ve been experiencing.”

“So is there… any kind of cure?” Luther asks.

“Well, no. It’s not the kind of disease you cure.”

“Treatment of any kind? Pills I can take, shots, anything to stop it?” An edge of desperation creeps into his voice, the paper covering the table crinkling as his fingers dug into it.

“Nothing I can give you, I’m sorry to say,” Dr. Townsend sighs. “Unfortunately, its rarity means that it’s difficult to study. Any medication is still in the early trial stages and it wouldn’t be ethical for me to prescribe. There are two forms of preventative measures you can take to avoid further episodes, however.”

Luther straightens up from his slump. Thank god, something to get this nightmare to finally end!

“The first is very effective. Since the episodes are triggered by attraction to another individual and the anxiety resulting from that attraction, if you are able to avoid interactions with that individual altogether, no further anxiety will be triggered.”

Luther deflates, shoulders sagging. “That won’t work,” he mumbles. “We live in the same building.”

Dr. Townsend nods sympathetically. “I thought it might be something like that,” he sighs. “Your other option is to confess.”

Luther reels back like he’s been slapped. “Confess?”

“Yes. These episodes are made worse by bottling up your attraction or attempting to deny it. This causes the stress to compound and become more intense. If you admit your feelings to the individual you’re attracted to, then you will remove some of that stress and your episodes will be less frequent and less severe.”

“But- but that would only stress me out more!” Luther says, throwing his arms out to the sides. “I mean, I mean what if he says no? What if he says yes? What if he -”

Dr. Townsend puts a hand on Luther’s shoulder, cutting him off. His hand is… very large. Too large. Dr. Townsend and Luther are about the same height, after all, but his hand barely fits on Luther’s shoulder. Luther realizes suddenly that he’d been shrinking, and takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. I see your point. I just gotta tell him how I feel. Easy peasy.”

“Hm.” the doctor says. He lets his hand drop and a tinge of sympathy colors his serious expression. “Good luck, Luther. This is a very difficult disease to live with, even once you’ve mitigated your stress as much as possible. If there’s anything else I can do to support you, please let me know. Otherwise, our consultation is at an end for today. I’ll start reaching out and seeing what options there are for you - maybe a support group would help?”

“Thank you, doctor. That would be nice, actually. Um. Quick question - how… small can I get? Could I just… entirely disappear?”

Dr. Townsend lets out a huge sigh. “Well… on record, the smallest a person with Gulliver’s Hanahaki has been reliably measured at is about one and a quarter inch. There are rumors of people getting down to five centimeters, but frankly, that’s just ridiculous.”

Luther stares at the doctor for a long moment. “Right. Ridiculous.”

~~~

When he gets out to the waiting room, Luther is surprised to see Cam sitting there.

“I thought you left? You didn’t have to stick around.”

“Figured you might need a ride back. Wouldn’t want you shrinking on the way over.” Cam stands and stretches, rolling his neck. “Ugh. Little stiff,” he mutters.

Luther tries to get his racing heart back under control. He’s a little shorter than usual, and having Cam loom over him like this… it’s not doing him any favors in the height department. But he manages to keep a handle on himself as they walk out to the parking lot. Cam’s quiet for a bit, but once the car starts up, the questions begin.

“So, what’d the doctor say?” Cam asks, glancing over his shoulder as he backs out of the parking spot. A little ball of panic starts to form in Luther’s gut. Oh, nothing much, just that I’m going to shrink every time I’m awkward around my crush. Which is you, by the way.

“Uh, it’s… an autoimmune disorder,” Luther mumbles. “Rare one. They don’t know a lot about it yet.”

“Okay, makes sense,” Cam says. Luckily his eyes are on the road, so he doesn’t notice Luther losing an inch. “What’s it called?”

“G - “ Luther starts, then catches himself. What if Cam looks it up later and figures it out? He shrinks a little bit more and swallows, trying to clear his throat. “I… the name was… it was very long and I didn’t really, uh, catch it.”

Cam chuckles quietly. The sound reverberates around the inside of Luther’s skull. It’s so musical and sweet. He clutches the seatbelt and shrinks some more.

“Yeah, some of them have weird names. What kinda treatment are you lookin’ at?”

“Uh… this was just like, a consultation, to identify it? So we’re gonna do treatment next time.” Luther doesn’t even sound convincing to his own ears. Cam glances sideways at him and his heart skips a beat.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Cam says, looking the other way as he makes a turn. “It’s medical stuff, it’s personal. I’m sorry for prying.”

“No, no, it’s not that! It’s… just a lot to take in, and I’m still - there’s a couple things it could be actually and they don’t know for sure so they took blood samples, and there’s tests that are gonna come back later, and um, uh…” Luther trails off. He’s shrunk so much now that the seat belt presses uncomfortably across his chest and neck, and the tension on it makes it difficult to adjust. He’d been staring out the windshield as he rambled, but now he’s too short to see much more than the sky. He feels Cam pull the car over and turn off the engine. Luther slowly turns to his left and looks up at Cam, who stares down at him in turn. Luther, maybe two feet high now, offers a shaky smile.

“There’s, um. No cure. Or treatment,” he says in a soft, wavering voice. “I just… live like this now.”

Cam tilts his head to one side like he’s trying to decide on something. He shifts in his seat, turns his body a little to face Luther, and props up one arm on the headrest. Then he sighs.

“You’re too short to sit in the front now,” he says. He glances to the backseat. Luther follows his gaze and stares in horror at the car seat sitting neatly behind the driver’s side.

“Oh, no,” Luther whispers. He raises his voice as Cam shifts again and undoes his seat belt. “No, no, no, no, I am not going in that! Cam!” But it’s too late. Cam opens the car door and gets out, then shuts it behind him. Luther slams down on the release button for his own seat belt with both hands, keeping his eyes on Cam through the windshield as he walks around the front of the car. The belt retracts with such force that it knocks him sideways, and it takes him a moment to right himself and get his bearings again. Before he can try to run or hide, the door opens, and Cam reaches in for him.

“No, please, come on,” Luther pleads. He backs up as far as he can, but Cam easily gets his hand around Luther’s middle and lifts him up. “I’m an adult, a full grown man, I can’t go in a baby seat! Please, Cam, don’t put me in that thing, why do you even have it? It’s so humiliating, you can’t do this!”

“Number one,” Cam says, opening the back door. “I can put you in it, I have plenty of practice wrangling my niece in there.” He sets Luther down and gets to work on the straps, easily subduing Luther’s halfhearted attempts to squirm free. “Number two, this is about traffic laws. If I’m driving around with someone under four feet in my front seat, I’m gonna get pulled over, and if you wanna explain to the officer that you’re a full grown adult and pay the ticket, be my guest. And number three,” he says, clicking the last buckle into place, “this is about your safety. We get in an accident, that seat belt up front is gonna do you more harm than good.” He straightens up again and shuts the door. Luther puts his head in his hands, trying not to break down in tears. That would only make it worse. The words ‘this is about your safety’ echo around his head in his father’s voice. He hears the driver’s side door open and close, hears Cam settle himself in, and manages to speak up.

“Just… please don’t laugh. Or take pictures, or anything.” He risks a glance between his fingers. Cam is looking at him in the rearview mirror, no amusement or pity visible in his eyes.

“I won’t.” The sincerity in his voice takes Luther by surprise. “This isn’t funny. This is really serious, and I’m sorry I had to do that.” He turns the key in the ignition and pulls the car back onto the road. “We’re nearly home. You won’t have to be there for long.”

Luther stares miserably out the window at the sky above. True to Cam’s word, it’s only another ten minutes before they’re pulling into the apartment complex’s lot. As soon as the car’s turned off, Luther starts pulling at the straps, trying to figure out how to get himself free. Cam comes around to his side again and opens the door.

“I got it, I got it,” Luther assures him. “It’s just this one, right? No… wait, this one? Or is it… um…”

“Let me,” Cam says softly. He reaches in and has the whole contraption undone in an instant. Then, to Luther’s surprise, Cam scoops him up and holds him against his chest like he’s a toddler. Luther’s arms hang over Cam’s shoulder as he blinks in shock. Cam whistles as he approaches the door to their building, fishing his keys out of his pocket. He opens the door one-handed and starts the climb up the stairs to their floor. Luther should say something, this is horribly demeaning, but… it’s also undeniably very nice. He feels supported and safe, and he’s so close to Cam but the usual stab of anxiety is totally absent. He could almost drift off like this.

Cam reaches his door and unlocks it, then stops suddenly and looks at Luther.

“Oh! Shit! I’m so sorry, it was kind of like muscle memory, I guess? God, I’m sorry.” He lowers Luther to the floor and looks away, rubbing the back of his neck.

“That’s… that’s okay. The stairs would’ve sucked to climb right now anyway.” Luther should leave, Cam’s still got the door open for him, but… “Do you mind if I stay for a bit? Just until I get a little bigger? Um, I can’t really reach my door handle right now, so…”

Cam smiles, and that familiar pang of anxiety flutters up inside Luther again. “Yeah, you can hang out here. You’re always welcome.” He turns and trudges towards the kitchen, his footsteps shaking the floor as he passes Luther. “It’s pot roast tonight, anyway. Even if you get your height back in the next five minutes, I’d insist you stay for dinner.”

Luther thinks about the doctor’s advice. Confess your feelings, and all of this gets easier. But when he goes to open his mouth, he loses another three inches all in one go. Luther digs his nails into his palms and sets his jaw. Not just yet, then. But soon. Eventually.

One of these days.

[theonewiththefanfics]

Shy (one-shot)

Synopsys: She’s shy. He likes her. She likes him. But every time something gets between the ex-Winter Soldier and the cute lab rat that works with Stark. The team has had enough of the pining.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader

Genre: fluffffffff

Warnings: swearing, as per usual, nothing else really. Just some cute lil fluff I wrote (also this is defo not my best work :D)

Word count: 3042

It was a seemingly ordinary day when the ex-Winter Soldier’s life changed forever.

        Bucky’d plopped down onto the sofa with a disgruntled sigh, making Steve smirk and divert his attention from the show on the TV to his friend.

        “You know, she likes you,” Steve said to Bucky as he sipped on his coffee giving him a side glance.

        Bucky just grumbled and crossed his arms, mind still reeling on the absolute failure that he had experienced earlier that day. It'd been a trainwreck of a mission. No lives lost, but he'd made an absolute fool of himself by making a few bad calls. “Who?”

        “Y/N.”

        “Yeah, as if,” he snorted. “I mean I know she likes me, but she likes everyone. There’s not a single mean bone in her body.”

        “No, I mean,” Steve huffed placing down the cup before he spilt some of it on himself, “she likes you. As in she might want to pursue a relationship with you.”

        Bucky was choking on his spit the second the word ‘relationship’ came out of his friend’s mouth. Y/N? Liked him? As in more than a friend? He’d be lying if he said that thought didn’t send him over the Moon, but it seemed like such a far reach, especially with the interactions they’d had, that he had to give Steve a glare, especially with how she didn’t even give a single sign she might be into him. 

       He raised an eyebrow. “Because you’re the expert on flirting and getting it on?”

        “Wow.” Steve put a hand on his chest in mock hurt. “That’s a low blow. I might’ve not had any game when I was skinny, but let me tell, you after the serum th-“

        “When was the last time you went on a date?” Bucky interrupted his rant.

        His friend broke the eye contact and paused, chewing on his bottom lip before deflecting. “Look that doesn’t matter.”

        Bucky rolled his eyes so much he feared they’d be permanently stuck like that.  

        “What matters is that she likes you, but she’s too shy to do anything about it,” Steve stated.

        “We had a pretty good conversation a couple of hours ago.” They did. If you take saying 'hello', an awkward wave and bashful smiles as a conversation, then yes, it was very successful.

        “Shy doesn’t always mean ‘incapable of holding a conversation’. Shy can mean not talking about how they’re feeling or how their day is because they think no one cares or would get annoyed with them,” Steve said looking over his mug.

        Bucky was baffled. “How – why – how could anyone think she’s annoying? She’s – she’s amazing!” But that’s when it hit him - Y/N never looked him in the eye, she always apologized for talking ‘too much’, and at any point in the conversation, she always diverted the attention away from her or her troubles.

        “So…” Bucky swallowed hard. “You think I should go for it?”

        Steve shrugged. “I think if you don’t, you’ll never know what it could lead to.”

        ***

        It was about an hour later after his enlightening chat with Steve that Bucky found himself walking towards where their resident lab rat usually stayed at when he heard muffled cursing.

        “Work, you absolute piece of shit!” Y/N exclaimed each word emphasized with a harsh hit against a machine’s side. “Top-notch technology my ass!”

        “Everything alright, doctor Y/L/N?” His voice was gruff as he interrupted her conversation with the computer. 

Not that Y/N would ever admit it, but usually just his presence alone set her body ablaze, but this time, it was a distraction and not a good one.

        “Just fucking peachy,” she grunted and slammed her hand against the computer with every uttered syllable.

        “Alright,” Bucky chuckled and entered the lab. “What did that poor computer do to you, since you seem so inclined to completely destroy it?”

        “For starters, it decided to shut down,” she growled at the computer, and if it was alive, it would hang its head in shame. “Then, when I rebooted it, the files were not lost, oh that I could live with, but they were corrupted. Meaning I do have them, but they’re useless, and that means I have to redo everything.”

        “You’d have to redo everything if the files were lost either way.” Bucky gave her a small smile, teasing the woman as she whined.

        “Yeah,” Y/N threw back her head. “But it wouldn’t be as humiliating. I mean, if they’re gone, they’re gone, but they aren’t!” She threw the screen a scowl. “The files are there, just sitting… and useless… just like me.”

        “Well, I wouldn��t say you’re useless." Bucky smirked at her, and she sighed.

        “Please, do tell what I’m of use here right now, right this moment.”

        “Company?” It came out more as a question than a statement, and that’s when Y/N realized how much she’d rattled on, how much of his precious world-saving time she’d taken up by a stupid mistake she made.

        “Sorry,” she muttered, shying away from Bucky’s gaze. “Didn’t mean to bore you with my crap.”

        “You don’t bore me. You could never.”

        He had that love-sick look on his face as she gave him a small smile, and her eyes dropped back to the ground. Not that Y/N ever noticed, but Sam never stopped teasing him about that fucking look. The one where his eyes glimmered like stars in the night sky, and his lips involuntarily lifted up in the corners. More than once Steve had to tell him to close his mouth or someone would slip on his drool. And each time, Bucky would slap his friend on the back of his head.

        “I’m not drooling,” he’d contest and go back to watching as Y/N moved around the lab, delicate fingers replacing whatever was fractured in his metal arm.

        “No, saliva just generally spills out of your mouth when she’s around.”

        Bucky would just grunt and say, ‘fuck off’. But he couldn’t help it really. 

        “Anyway." Y/N brought him out of the daydream. “Did you need anything? Is the arm acting up again?”

        Although she'd never think that Bucky had any feelings for her, there was some suspicion rising in her mind. Tony was the acting engineer, but on more than one occasion he had called her up and asked if she was available to take a look at Bucky's vibranium appendage.

        “Need some assistance, sweets,” the genius would mumble, and then when she would slip into work mode, he’d slyly exit the room and leave the two of them alone. And given how Tony knew, Y/N’s primary thing was chemistry and using the nanotech for cell regeneration, not engineering, it raised her suspicion level. Especially when the super-soldier came to her lab to have a check-up on days Tony was out specifically. 

        But she would never do anything about it. He could be standing at the altar with someone else in white walking towards him, and even then, Y/N, knowing it was her last chance, wouldn’t move a muscle to say what she felt. How could she when Bucky was the walking epitome of a Greek God while she tripped over her own feet while standing? For fuck’s sake, the man even fostered puppies in his spare time as if his day job wasn’t saving the world already how could her watching cells split in a petri dish match up to that?

        “Oh, uh,” he stammered fidgeting with his fingers. “No, I uh, actually came to ask you something. Nothing work or arm… related.”

        If Y/N’s heart wasn’t already beating out of her chest, she was pretty certain she’d vomit it up with the way he was looking at her. “Sure,” she whispered. “Umm, what do you want to know?”

        He twisted a ring on his flesh arm. She had gotten it for him two years ago during a game of ‘Secret Santa’, which Tony promptly had added her to the list. It made her feel all fuzzy and warm on the inside for being included, but then dread settled in. What the fuck do you get a bunch of superheroes that could afford literally anything they wanted? And then she’d pulled Bucky’s name from the tacky Santa’s hat.

        It wasn’t bad enough he was her crush, now she had to get him a gift he’d actually like, and she could barely hold a conversation with him that didn’t involve Avengers stuff. But from the looks of it, he had enjoyed the jewellery immensely, as any time he came over for whatever reason, he was wearing it. He liked it so much there was a lighter line of skin underneath the ring where the sun couldn’t get.

        But the words wouldn’t come out of his mouth. Bucky just froze as Y/N stared at him with hopeful and inquisitive eyes. All the things he wanted to say and ask just vanished from his brain as if he’d been put back into that horrible machine that used to wipe his mind.

        “Buck?” Her voice was small as his mouth hung open like an idiot. But he didn’t even get a chance to collect himself when Bruce rushed in.

        “Sorry to interrupt whatever this is, but Y/N I need you. There’s a problem with the cradle.”

        And that was her cue. With an apologetic smile, she pulled off her latex gloves and rushed out of the room, but not before leaning back in through the door. “Hopefully I should be done in two hours tops. Raincheck on that question?”

        Bucky shook his head. “You know what, it wasn’t that important anyway.”

        Y/N furrowed her eyebrows, hand reaching out to touch him, but he pushed past her and was gone, leaving the woman a bit stunned, and in all honesty - heartbroken.

***

        The rest of the day she spent in utter confusion, and Bucky in self-wallowing. Y/N couldn’t understand what had changed his mind so suddenly, what she’d done so wrong, and Bucky beat himself up the whole time about choking and running away. Which is why Steve was absolutely done with it.

        As Bucky sulked on the couch, stuffing his face with M&Ms and the pop tarts he’d stolen from Thor’s stash, Steve with Natasha, Clint, Tony, Bruce and Y/N in tow, all came into the room. 

        Seeing her lab coat swish behind her as she walked, Bucky slid down into the couch even more, as if the granite gray leather could absorb him and erase him from existence. God, how he wanted to be erased from existence. 

        “Hey, Y/N?” Tony drew everyone’s attention as he handed a coffee to her. “Would you mind taking a look at F.R.I.D.A.Y’s intercom system? She’s gotten a bit rusty here.”

        “Umm yeah.” She nodded, kinda confused as to why she'd have to do it, but Tony was her boss, so Y/N rarely asked him much. Unless something he said was absolutely dumb. “Mind getting me a ladder?”

        With a wink from Steve, Clint nodded. “Sure.”

        But instead of just him leaving, all of the Avengers slowly started to ‘disperse’ throughout the living-room, before bolting towards the hallway and telling the A.I. to shut everything down.

        “What’s going on?” Y/N asked looking around the common room, spotting the bright fiery hair of Natasha as she rushed out of the room, asking F.R.I.D.A.Y to override the lock code and not let either of them out. “Why are the doors locked?”

        The smug smile she received from the assassin only infuriated Y/N more. “Tony!” she yelled through the glass, but the genius put hands over his ears and screamed back at her.

        “Not until he talks to you!”

        That’s when she felt someone towering over her from behind. 

Two beautiful Y/E/C eyes looked up at him as Y/N turned around, confusion swimming in her irises. Bucky almost swore he passed out just from that look alone. 

“Buck, what’s going on?"

        The second he’d seen the group walk in, he knew what was happening. He wanted to murder all of them. Rip them apart piece by piece, but not in front of Y/N. No. He’d do that in the middle of the night, blending into the shadows and delivering slow and painful deaths to all of the conspirators. 

        But at the same time, this was his chance. There was literally nowhere for either of them to run unless you counted jumping out through the window and the ninety-story drop, you’d face. Which seemed very appealing to him at that moment, but Steve’s words rang through his head – ‘You’ll never know what it could lead to.” And he hoped it would lead to something beautiful, so taking a deep breath, Bucky confessed.

        “Because I’m a coward…” he sighed, “and I can’t do it without someone telling me to.”

        “Why?”

        “I’m scared,” it came out as a whisper, and Y/N had to take a step back hurt flashing across her face thinking back to all of the times they’d spent together, while in truth Bucky’d been terrified of her.

        “Of me?”

        Instantly he shook his head seeing the pain on her features, and once more Bucky scolded himself. “No… of what your reaction might be.”

        “Buck, you know I would never judge you. You can always talk to me… about anything.”

        “Yes, but this will change things.”

        “How?”

        “I don’t know… that’s what I’m scared of. I don’t want to lose you.”

        “Never. You could tell me you’re hiding a body in the tub, and I would offer you my help to get rid of it.”

        And it was this firm statement that solidified his decision.

        “Would you maybe,” Bucky exhaled deeply not daring to turn and look at the team that was gawking at both of them like hawks pressed against the glass, the same team that had bolted shut every door and window to prevent either of theirs escapes, “would you maybe want to go out… with… me… on a date?”

        Y/N was stunned. The cup of coffee she was still holding in her hand went slack, and it would’ve smashed against the ground had Bucky not quickly stepped forward and caught it stepping to stand in front of her.

        “You don’t have to,” he mumbled, looking at the milk infused drink. It was a light beige colour with a white foamy swirl in the middle like a little vortex that was sucking him in. God did he hope it would pull him in and never let out after what he was going to say. “It’s just that… I really like you.” There. Now it was out there. “I really like you. And not the way a friend likes a friend. I like you in a way that I want to hold your hand when we walk out together. I want to buy you coffee in the mornings and wake you up with breakfast in the bed and smooth out the hair that’s fallen on your face…”

        She wasn’t breathing as with every single word said Bucky seemed to move closer. “I think I might be in love with you, Y/N…” his hand gently lifted and cupped her cheek.

        She just stared at him, mouth slightly agape, shallow breaths escaping into the air as her heart beat out of her chest in a manner, she thought it might hit Bucky directly in the stomach. 

        “Say something,” he pleaded, blue eyes searching for an answer in Y/N’s Y/E/C ones. “Please.”

        “I – I don’t know what to say,” she whispered back. And it wasn’t because she didn’t feel the same, not at all. In fact, when he had started his whole confession, she felt like she was about to pass out from all the love that invaded her body, but the thing is - Y/N has never been good with emotions. She never knew how to process them, how to give the correct answer and make people happy. She was shy, awkward and a recluse. And now she was supposed to come out of her safety shell. Which is why for the first time in her life, she expressed herself with her actions by leaning up, grasping onto the nape up Bucky’s neck and pulling their mouths together.

        When her lips touched his, Bucky knew there was no going back. Not that he’d ever want to. He couldn’t help the giant smile that bloomed on his face, as he pulled Y/N closer to him, wrapping his arm one around her waist, the other trailing up to settle between her shoulder blades, pushing their chests together, so impossibly close an ant couldn’t crawl between the two. 

        It became even more of a beautiful moment when Y/N’s own lips pulled up in a smile, breaking the kiss apart, but leaving them grinning and feeling dizzy from the happiness. 

        “Guess we needed a gentle nudge in the right direction,” Bucky gave out a small laugh, both palms securely resting on Y/N’s hips and bringing her closer.

        “I’d say it was more of a shove with a rifle at our backs,” she said, holding onto Bucky’s shoulders fingers skimming against his clavicles and making his breath stop halfway to his throat. “Let’s… let’s go somewhere… the two of us without a bunch of people watching our every move.” Her eyes flitted over to where the rest of the team stood behind the doors listening in on the two, and suddenly the heads of their teammates disappeared from the view, making Y/N and Bucky shake their heads.

        “Yeah,” he chuckled, squeezing her side. “That’s probably the best idea. You truly are a dream, aren’t ‘ya?”

        Y/N could only chuckle and hide her face in the crook of Bucky’s neck as her hold tightened around his middle, and he responded much the same by weaving his fingers in the hairs on the back of her neck and pulling her closer if that was even possible, burying his nose in the Y/H/C locks.

        “Don’t go all shy on me now.”

        “Can’t,” she mumbled back. “You make me turn into mush.”

        Bucky chuckled, pressing a kiss to Y/N’s forehead. “A cute mush.”

        “Shut up!”

And he did by pulling her in for another searing kiss. God, how he loved his shy girl.

Tags (crossed out wouldn't take):

Bucky tag list: @thunderous-flower @who-cares-rn​ @projectxhappiness​ @callmebucky-doll​ @coal000​ @killuaenthusiast @courtneychicken​ @sophiealiice​ @raquelbc2003​ @watch-out-for-thorns​ @potentially-kinetic​ @thatonegirljessy99​ @proxinge @bbkenna @buckysclub​ @ulired @fangirlofeverythingbasically @mrsalh32611​ @horrorx570ximagines​ @the-nargles-made-me-do-it​ @pooslie​ @itsisabelanotisabella @httpmcrvel​ @purplebananatragedy​ @pxrrishly​ @parker-barnes-af​ @skulliebythesea​ @california-grown​ @stevehesaidabadlanguageword​ @belongsto-prachi​ @hello-i-am-insane

Marvel tags: @nerissa98​ @happyseagrill​ @asguardiansoftheavengers​ @crazybutconfidentaf​ @wishingforahome​ @pizzarollpatrol​ @desir-ae​

Forever tags: @lumelgy​ @palaiasaurus64​ @supernaturalbaesduh​ @breezy1415​ @crazy--me​ @thatawkwardlittlefangirl​ @sea040561​ @staryeyedgirl​ @deathbyarabbit​ @s-c-a-r-e-d-po-t-t-e-r @reblogger-not-a-blogger @m-a-t-91​ @dalilx​ @i-need-a-hero-i-need-a-loki​ @maladaptive-ninja-returns​ @averyrogers83​ @in-the-end-im-still-trash​ @gallifreyansass​ @dewy-biitch​ @avxgers​ @unlikelygalaxygiver​ @sweet-ladyy​ @magicwithaknife​ @ollyoxenfrees​ @bnhvrdy​ @tvwhoresblog @celebsimagines​ @thatkindofgurl​ @sj-thefan​ @teenwolflover28 @strangersstranger​

A/N: have you ever hated your job so much so, that you can’t sleep, can’t eat and basically live in a well of anxiety? and not because of the work itself, but because of that ONE PERSON that makes it miserable? Cause I do. And I can’t wait to get away from it.

P.S. sorry for being so pessimistic, but it’s just a nightmare.

P.S.S. feedback is always appreciated :) P.S.S.S. if you wanna be added to a taglist, drop me a message :)

[slytherinsnekxvii]

let's talk about lily evans. she's an interesting character—or rather, the case surrounding her character is quite interesting.

i honestly don't know if i can say i dislike her. by all means, she should be a fan favourite, and she is... but for some rather intriguing reasons.

for one thing, due to the fact she's hardly expanded on in the series, certain parts of the fandom have been forced to either take the few qualities that she displays canonically and amplify them to the extreme (eg. immediate righteous anger at the slightest hint of injustice in fic) or create an entirely new personality (eg. no, i didn't actually disapprove of your pranks, it was just sexual tension). of course, the option of creating a new personality is much more tempting when you can just add amplified canon traits on the side.

for another, her relationship with james sometimes seems likes it's being weaponized against snape and his fans. i've seen arguments that go like "haha, snape just wanted to fuck lily, but james got her in the end anyway, sucks to be you", and not only does it entirely reduce her to an object, it feels like they don't even care about the relationship, the dynamics or the characters. she's basically a plot device.

and thirdly, half of her characterisation in fic is to be a peter stand-in. we don't like the rat man, so let's take the pretty girl and put her in place of the guy who was canonically a member of the marauders, even up until he was named secret keeper. suddenly, she's a prankster and an enabler.

but, snek, you may say, all of that is fanon lily, tho. you just explained that people seem to like her because they just put any personality they want into her as long as she's at least vaguely a good person. you would be right.

let's look at canon lily. she's described as the brightest witch of her age, most everyone speaks favourably of her. in fact, the only people we see actively disliking/being upset with her are petunia, out of jealousy and the invasion of privacy concerning her letter, severus, who lashed out and used a slur that also applied to him in a moment of serious distress and apologised after, and well, pureblood supremacists by virtue of her being muggleborn. interestingly enough, even this dislike manages to develop everyone's character more than it does her own.

as a teenage girl myself, let's look at her actions as a teenage girl. not necessarily in chronological order because I'm writing this at 2am and my memory is already mediocre at best.

1. she's done well enough in school to be considered trustworthy and responsible enough to be a prefect.

okay, i can respect that. a good few of the prefects at my school were really just appointed based on how much the teachers liked you, but at hogwarts, there's so few of them that they must put at least a little effort into it, so i'll move on.

2. she does not press for details when informed that her best friend's life needed to be saved by someone who has been publicly tormenting him for years

now, see, there's no reason why she needs to play therapist. it's not her job, she's just a girl, and we know that snape wasn't supposed to talk about the incident, so he would've been stuck if she had asked for an explanation. however, i also feel like she doesn't seem particularly concerned about his wellbeing, and when he brings up his concerns about lupin, rather than ask for proof, she dismisses it. which, fair enough, i would hate to listen to someone talk about the same thing over and over and over, but, i also feel like the fixation on a theory like that would be cause for concern.

3. she dismisses the actions of a group known to play tricks that harm people and have specifically been tormenting her best friend on the basis that they don't use dark magic

first, i'm going to establish what i usually assume dark magic refers to. aside from jinxes, hexes and curses, i also include anything that produces an effect similar to any of the unforgivables (takes away your life, your free will or your ability to feel safe in your own body, such as when you're in excruciating pain), and magic that would require a sacrifice of some sort.

when snape tries to point out the danger in what the marauders do, she insists that they don't use dark magic. and they don't... but they do use illegal magic. she then argues against the company that snape keeps, which, again, to be fair, is justified considering mulciber's done something to mary macdonald... it's also not a particularly realistic ask. snape probably shares a dorm with these guys, and he's a poor half-blood so he's already on the outs. as far as he knows, any dissent will be met with him getting hexed in his sleep. but, i digress.

given that the marauders have been shown to be doing extremely dangerous with little regards to anyone's safety, and actively tormenting her best friend, i disagree with her choice here. on the other hand, she's made her own friends in gryffindor and perhaps she sees a nicer side of them that we don't get to. she's justified in her actions, but i still disagree.

4. she intervenes when her best friend is hung upside down by a spell of his own invention at the wands of the people who have tormenting him for years

she does object to the marauders' treatment of him, and she does try to get them to let him down. if i were in her position, i would absolutely do the same. i respect the decision to stand up for her friend.

5. she does not seriously attempt to help him or punish the marauders

i do not respect how she handled it. at any point, she could have drawn her wand. but, snek, you say, perhaps she didn't want to get involved physically. she wanted to follow the rules. in that case, at any point, she could taken points, assigned detention, or sent someone to get a member of staff. she does none of those things and i viscerally disagree. if we were ever friends and someone tried to hurt you, i can assure you that i would try to at least see to it that they'd be punished, even if it wasn't immediate or by my own hand. lily, however, chooses to argue rather than take action.

6. she smiles when severus gets hung upside down

chances are, it was more than likely an involuntary reaction, like laughing when your friend has fallen over. however, the fact that it was intentionally written in seems like it's mean to be an indicator that the friendship was already falling apart.

7. she comments on her best friend's poverty and uses a name that's been used to make fun of him after he calls her a slur that also applies to him

she was 100% within her rights to be upset by being called a slur. it is never okay to use slurs. the only situation in which a slur could possibly ever be appropriate would be if you were an oppressed group attempting to reclaim said slur which is not at all what snape was doing here. he was experiencing cruelty, being humiliated, publicly, for no reason beyond existing and he was in distress, choking on soap and upside down. it was damaging to his pride, especially when james suggests that he needs lily to fight his battles for him (paraphrasing) which is an emasculating statement to make, especially to a teenage boy. so, snape lashes out with the most hurtful word he could think of, which happened to be a slur that also applies to him. lily was 100% justified in being upset about this, and she retaliated in kind. she was very much allowed to say what she said. i understand that she was hurt and angry and i respect that, especially as i can't guarantee that i would not have been just as upset in that situation.

8. even when the threat of sexual harassment is made, she still does nothing

i get it, at this point, she's hurt, she's mad, she wants him to suffer since she's a teenage girl and teenage girls hold grudges like it's nobody's business, but... i definitely couldn't just stand by and watch it happen. she basically just let them go through with it.

9. she does not accept her best friend's apology for calling her a slur that also applies to him, effectively burying the friendship

she is, by no means, obligated to continue being friends with him. however, if i were in that position, and the apology was sincere, i would take the friend back.

10. she goes on to date and eventually marry the guy who bullied her former best friend for his entire school life

no. i disagree. but, snek, you say, james changed. no. he didn't. we know, that at this point, james was still going after snape behind lily's back. you can say that she didn't know, but that means that she would have allowed james to lie to her and that doesn't sit right with me bc a relationship built on lies is a relationship that is going to fall apart, especially when your partner has been disappointed by your actions before. you can say that she did know, and that proves that she simply didn't take her responsibilities as head girl seriously enough to stop the head boy from harassing people when she explicitly told him not to. the point is, no. there is no way that this would have worked out as a long term relationship. james is too comfortable lying to her. i can't even say she was justified. there is no circumstance where i personally see this as okay for anybody involved.

alright, so, essentially teenage lily was justified in (most of) her actions, even if i find them questionable.

adult lily dies at 21, while saving her son, but her death also helps save the wizarding world. good job. she, as expected, did what any good mother would.

and that's canon lily.

my thoughts: she's a perfect example of why writing tips are so adamant on making sure people try to show and not tell. we were told that lily is meant to be good and pure and lovely, but the author never bothered to actually prove that, so what we're left with a dissonance between what we see and what we know.

as a result, i still don't know if i truly dislike her. her actions are justified, but they don't match with what we've been told, and we don't have any other information to go off of. at best, i can say for certain that i disagree with many of her choices, despite understanding why she would have made them (except for marrying james potter, uggghh, the only good thing to come out of that was harry and the saving of the wizarding world by extension, ig).

thanks for reading all that, btw! hope it made sense :)

[jasperwhitcock]

equinox | chapter 07 –– “a cruel god, a wrathful goddess”

here is chapter six of my bella as a vampire and edward as a human fanfic inspired by an au that @bellasredchevy​​ posted. you can read the new chapter on AO3 or here. i post updates on AO3 or on tumblr using the #equinoxjw tag. but it seems 10/10 times my tag does not work, so that is a fun mystery for me to solve.

oof... sometimes u get distracted and then ur sister gets married and then u get unmotivated & d*pressed and forget to update ur fanfic for over three months... my bad y'all... sorry for the wait hehe. i hope it is worth it. again, i'm so thankful for the comments & i read them all. i get too shy to respond, but i WILL. i just need to talk myself up first. i love u. thank u. hehe. ♡♡♡ merry christmas/happy holidays if i fail u again before the 25th. i WANT to update more frequently. my catchphrase these days is "i'm trying my best," so... i'm trying my best.

this is for the sweet anons who slide into my ask box & ask me questions abt my fanfic. and for taryn, who consistently reminds me that there are people wanting to read this seeing as she is one of those people, kim, who i am so desperate to impress that i began working on a new chapter once she started to read my fanfic, and kae, because without her, this fanfic would never have existed in the first place. i love how i'm writing this as though it's the intro to an actual book when it's literally just chapter seven. ok, i will shut up now so u can read. love u. again.

07 A CRUEL GOD, A WRATHFUL GODDESS

In great contrast to the noisy ambience of the other students in the hallway, we were silent on our walk to our shared biology class. I wondered how conscious Edward was of the stares and whispers focused on our proximity to one another, but my guess was that he was very much conscious of it. I intentionally ignored glancing in any direction that I sensed one of my siblings’ presence, although I figured it was mostly paranoia driving me to feel as though we were about to cross paths. Holding my breath to more easily walk beside Edward left my senses impaired to the ability to pinpoint their location. 

I was lucky that for the majority of my immortal life, I’d managed to escape unwanted attention. But now, it seemed that precious luck had finally run out. Maybe embarrassment had been creeping up on me, maliciously building itself up all these years, waiting until just the right moment to rear its ugly head and exact revenge that immorality had stolen its favorite object of humiliation to torment. But here it was, ensuring that I was finally catching up on feeling awkward and out of step, a feeling I experienced for what seemed like the entirety of my human life. I thought once I’d been changed, I’d never feel this way again, but becoming misaligned with my family made me feel bashful to parade my defiance in their faces. I had operated better under no scrutiny as a mortal and was surprised to realize that that still held true as an immortal as well. Because though there was now never a struggle of staying upright or a risk of tripping over my own feet, that didn’t prevent me from feeling self-conscious as I walked beside Edward. Although for different reasons –– it was too mortifying to consider what my family might make of what my actions suggested about my feelings towards Edward.

And yet still, I would put up with the ridicule and disapproval of my siblings if it meant I could listen to Edward speak his silly philosophical theology, his questioning of god and existence, for just a few more hours. If I were going to be teased over Alice’s visions regardless, I might as well find out what I can about this pretentious boy before I leave him alone forever. If only to understand why his moving to this small town threatened to warp my own future so much. In losing night and in losing death, there were so very little anomalies in the endless amount of time I’d been given. So what would it hurt to allow myself to fixate on this minuscule difference in my life for just awhile?

It could hurt Edward, a more selfless part of myself reminded me. If indulging myself was playing with fire, I was being justly punished with the way flames were efflorescing the inside of my dry, burning throat.

If a god did exist, why would it make sense for such a being to craft someone like Edward with his perceptivity, and send him off to this small town, home to a secret such as ours? If a god did exist, why it would be fair for such a being to craft someone like Edward, someone who tempted me both in bloodlust and in curiosity, and send him off to this small town, home to the very vampire who desperately wished to kill him most? If a god did exist, if our kind had fallen short of heaven, I could understand why sending Edward into our path –– and more specifically, my path –– could be some kind of punishment. But what I couldn’t understand is why a god would allow someone as innocent as Edward to be endangered for the sake of bringing a sinful, undead creature to justice. It seemed the only reasonable explanation would be that a god probably did not exist. 

And how could there be? I was on the precipice of falling into temptation with every step further in the hallway and every question he asked and answered. I could never not be very much aware of the fact –– especially now with his body merely inches from my side and his sweet fragrance blooming both deliciously and relentlessly in the air. And even as I impossibly withstood the lure of his blood, how was I meant to ignore the irresistibility of his mind and how inexplicably concerned I was to understand it? It seemed like a very cruel experiment of free will and knowledge –– far too cruel to allow much room for the kind of god Edward hoped for.

I frowned as I realized that this experiment wasn’t that of a cruel god’s but that of a cruel vampire, and I felt very much like a vampire as the sound of his heartbeat was so appealing that it made my mouth water.

“Do the stares bother you?” Edward spoke quietly to me as we weaved throughout the hallway. Easily distracted, his question was able to pull the more civilized parts of myself together, though this was probably also in thanks to my choosing not to utilize my sense of smell. I found it funny that at least one of his thoughts had been in a similar vicinity. But of course, the rest of his thoughts were probably free of all consuming agony and struggle. For all his curiosity about morality, to inflict this existence upon him would probably devour him in misery. At least as a human, despite whatever conclusions he may come to, there was still some hope to be had for an afterlife. This thought should have been dark and depressing, but because it made Alice’s vision seem like a complete hoax, I almost found it funny. How would Edward ever end up like me?

“Oh, no,” I swallowed the venom in my mouth. “I live for attention.” I watched from the corner of my eyes as his gaze flickered over to me, the ever present half smile appearing on his face at my joke. My answer came out so comfortably as though I was used to this, when in reality, the student body for the most part had grown accustomed to ignoring me. And, of course, there was nothing comfortable about the demanding, aching dryness in my mouth or the burning in my nostrils. “How about you?”

“Likewise,” he joked, laughing. “This is interesting –– their fascination. I understood their interest on my first day because I’d guess a new addition to the student body in a town this small is something of a rarity, but today, walking by your side is garnering even more attention. Is it a once in a lifetime opportunity to have Bella Cullen walk you to class?”

“You’re just so observant, aren’t you?” I rolled my eyes, though the corners of my mouths pulled up despite myself. “And I’m not walking you to class. I’m walking to a class I just so happen to share with you, so don’t get the wrong idea. I think they’re just surprised because they’re probably under the impression that I don’t play nice with others.”

“And do you?”

“You tell me,” I replied, pausing to face him beside a wall of lockers next to the entrance of our biology classroom. As he stopped beside me, a gust of air from a passing student walking hastily down the hallway sent his scent reeling into me at an unfortunate moment where I’d chosen to breathe in. My muscles tensed to spring, and I desperately anchored myself to the floor as my mind fell into disarray.

“Nicely enough,” Edward winked naturally as though we’d been the best of friends since his first day. The demanding thirst was intruding on my awareness, and the desperation for something wet and hot and delicious in my desiccated throat was so dizzying that his voice sounded as though it were underwater. With an effort as though I were swimming through drying cement, I resurfaced, just barely proving my dominion over the desire. I focused on his voice so that it’d become clearer, forcing myself to take another excruciating breath in and exhale the fire out. “I will say I am honored to be the exception –– to be plucked from the masses by the renowned, reclusive Bella Cullen.”

With torturous effort, I snorted as though I wasn’t fighting everything within me to keep him alive. I breathed in again heavily, allowing my body to become a pyre so that I could speak. “Alright, that’s enough. Stop saying my name like that. And you’ve lost the privilege. I am never walking you to class again,” I rolled my eyes even though my joke could very much be the truth. The bunching of my muscles, the twitching of my hands, and the fierce pain in my throat reminded me of the fact. Before he could point out the contradiction of what I’d previously clarified, I sighed. “Let’s take this quiz.”

His pretty green eyes were alive with mischief and enlightened with what must be more answers to questions he hadn’t outright asked me as he turned to enter the classroom. I followed behind him towards our shared table.

Air from the vent rushed out, thrusting the scent of his blood wafting into my face again. I paused for an indistinguishable moment as I battled agony, murderousness, monstrosity. Holy fuck. What was I trying to prove! Was it really worth this? Swallowing hard, I sat beside him as though nothing happened. My suffering was so great that Emmett could have brutally ripped my arm off, he could have beat me with it, and I wouldn’t have noticed nor felt a thing. I could have been set on fire, and it’d feel like sinking into a cool pool of water on an even cooler day. I was already burning alive, my body acting as a furnace, and I was imprisoned inside it.

Without intending to, I sighed aloud, exhaling as though it would smother the flames. It was a stupid, attention seeking thing to do. Humans sighed to expel air or express some sadness or relief or exhaustion, so when my family emitted an audible breath, we did so as a means of blending in. But to breath out in a way to clue Edward into the fact something was plaguing me… it was a stupid invitation for more questions. And these were questions I had no intention of sharing the answers to. I felt his eyes on me, but before he could say anything, Mr. Molina began passing out quizzes face down on our lab tables as students continued to pile in from lunch.

“Alright, class. Today we have a pop quiz–– oh, come on, guys, don’t groan. You will have the opportunity to make corrections after these have been graded. This is just an assessment of what you’ve retained from this unit so far. You will have the entire period to complete–– thanks for joining us, Mr. Patterson, glad you could fit my class into your busy schedule. Why don’t you take your seat? –– You will have the entire period to complete your quiz. If you finish early, feel free to get a head start on this weekend’s homework! I’ve written the reading down on the board. Aw, I’m sure you’re all moaning because you’re disappointed at how light of an assignment it is because I just know how very excited you all are to continue your passionate pursuit of studying biology. Alright, now that everyone’s settled–– wait a minute––”  Mr. Molina paused, raising his pointer finger in the air, his eyes squinted in anticipation. Three seconds later, the bell signaled the beginning of class. “Begin!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Edward reluctantly turn away from me. In an elegant script, he wrote his name at the top of the paper and began his quiz. I turned away from him to look at my own paper, preparing myself to uncomfortably hold my breath for the next hour. The difference this made in my thirst was almost insignificant, but enough so that it gave me a tiny more leverage in my control. I smoothed out the pucker on my forehead with the eraser from my pencil, accidentally snapping the rubber off against my face. 

Absentmindedly, I began to breeze through the assessment, circling the correct answers, but my mind was more absorbed in the warmth of sitting beside Edward. Aside from the affliction of doing so, it was too pleasurable to have sat beside him so often and for so long today. I enjoyed the toastiness like a lizard basking in the sun. It made me recall the muddy human memory of laying out on a blanket in my backyard beneath my beloved blue Arizona sky, hiding beneath the small shade of a book. Not the blistering heat of a summertime Phoenix sun, but the warmth of the first day of spring. But the heat of Edward’s body alone was enough to fill my mouth with venom, so I tried to refocus my attention onto my quiz.

When I turned to the last page of questions, a motion beside me diverted my concentration once again. I peeked over, turning my head slightly in Edward’s direction to see what it was. As he thought over one of the questions, his right hand was moving peculiarly as he lifted and dropped down his long fingers almost as though he were impatiently tapping each digit one by one along the tabletop. Except the movement was more exact and calculatingly random. Engrossed, I watched as his his soft, fragile skin rippled over the muscle, the tendons appearing and disappearing with every bizarre movement. It took me a moment to make the connection between the large grand piano in his home and the motion of his hands. I realized he was miming piano movements while he thought through his answers. There was something both weird, funny, and endearing about this. I smiled to myself, not having the required oxygen to quietly laugh.

I felt his curious eyes flicker over to me and watched peripherally as he raised his eyebrows. I shook my head, biting down on my lip to unsuccessfully fight the smile, and returned to completing my quiz.

I finished a moment later and impatiently waited another ten minutes or so before I could turn in my work. I tried to ignore Edward for this small period of time at least, mentally reading myself the opening chapter to Wuthering Heights. Even though the words were committed to my memory, it was still never as good as actually reading from the book itself.

Once I’d decided an appropriate enough time had passed, I stood up to walk my quiz to the completed basket on Mr. Molina’s desk. Even having waited, I was still the first to finish the examination.

“Thank you,” the teacher whispered without breaking his focus away from the crossword puzzle he peered through his glasses at. I breathed in now that I’d placed some distance between myself and Edward, gladly facing the cool, fresh air from the vent.

“Neophyte,” I whispered back now that I’d replenished my oxygen supply.

“Excuse me?” He glanced up, his slightly aged face confused.

“Neophyte,” I repeated. “Eight across, two down.”

I took in one last clean breath and walked back to my seat as he tapped his pen across the squares of the space, mouthing his count of the letters to check if the word fit.

As soon as I took my place in my seat again, Edward stood up to walk his own quiz to the basket.

I wanted to watch him, but instead I forced myself to unzip my backpack and retrieve the biology textbook.

Busying myself with the assigned chapters, deciding to actually read them so as to not feed into my invasive Edward obsession, I couldn’t help but listen as Edward too placed his own textbook on the countertop.

I heard the scribble of pen on paper as he began to write what I imagined were notes until his large hand slid the paper over to me beneath the wall of my hair spilling over the desk. Well, I wouldn’t ignore him if he was the one deciding to bother me.

You know I’m pretty certain that cheating is a violation of the student handbook, but I’ll let you get away with it just this once.

I turned to glance at his face to see if he were serious. His eyes were warm and inviting, his mouth in the same crooked smile.

I took the piece of paper and looked around for my writing utensil that had gone missing somehow. My eyes zeroed in on a suspicious, tiny pile of wood dust on my side of the desk. When had I brutalized my pencil? He held his hand out to offer his own pen, and I accepted it, carefully plucking it from his fingers without making contact.

I wasn’t cheating. You were doing something funny. And what do you know about the student handbook? You’re new.

I slid the paper and pen back to him and watched as he combed a hand through his bronze hair, reading my response. The smile grew wider as he construed the biting tone of my note. 

Can I be let in on the joke? Edward wrote, turning to look at me once he was done. Again I was prisoner, though this time not to my own body. I was momentarily held hostage by the beauty and warmth of his light green eyes. I was understanding more and more the attraction the other students had for him. If I had a soul, it was as though he were staring straight into it.

I recovered, placing my hand atop the desk and then wiggling my fingers as though I were weaving my way through a very complicated piano piece.

Oh, Edward mouthed, immediately understanding. He silently laughed and placed his left hand to his forehead briefly as if to hide his face in mock embarrassment. The ink from the pen spilled onto the paper as he began to write again.

In my defense, there’s research that supports classical music puts students in a heightened emotional state, making them more receptive to information and helping them focus.

That’s very nerdy of you. I scribbled back, the corners of my lips pulled upwards.

I know. As I read the words on the notebook paper, we both laughed a little too loudly for the quietness of the room.

“Please remain silent for your classmates still working,” Mr. Molina stage-whispered from his desk, his eyes still fixated on the crossword puzzle.

It’s a bad habit. Edward tacked on to his message. I beamed. I knew a thing or two about bad habits today. I was appreciative of this silent conversation on paper; it made it easier to be beside him without needing to breathe to speak aloud.

What were you playing? I scrawled.

Clair de Lune. Edward wrote back. His thick eyebrows raised as my eyes lit up, and he continued writing. You know Debussy?

My mother used to play a lot of classical music around the house. It was one of my favorites.

It’s one of my favorites, too. Edward’s eyes were a little sad and lost in thought, and he smiled softly.

I was shocked by the change in expression and weirdly desperate to return the brightness back to his eyes. The burn in my throat was almost forgettable in the face of my concern. Almost, but not quite. He turned his head down to write on the paper again.

You said Rosalie played piano. You never learned? He turned to look at me, his expression curious. I shook my head and shrugged, reaching for the pen.

I didn’t think I had the coordination for it. While this was true for the time I was human, it wasn’t true now. Still, even though my days stretched into endless nights, I hadn’t yet devoted time to any instrument as an immortal.

Edward read the paper, his long pointer finger tracing the line beneath the words as he did so. He held his large hand out, and I dropped the pen into it.

I’ll show you sometime. Edward half smiled at me, his eyes sweet and earnest.

Knowing I shouldn’t be allowing him to think making a plans with me was an option, I reached for the pen to tell him that it was alright, but I froze as he suddenly moved to drop the pen and take my hand. Though he should have been the one hesitant and cautious as though approaching a dangerous, wounded animal, I held perfectly still as though he were the danger, and I needed to play dead for protection. You can’t play dead if you are dead, I thought to myself. 

My body tensed as my hand was enveloped in the heat of his much larger palm, uncertain as to what he was doing. My muscles screamed at me as I clenched my free hand into a tight fist, terrified of myself.

A shiver rippled through him as he felt the chill of my frozen fingers, and I twitched the hand in his possession, wanting to yank it away to protect him from the iciness but not wanting to alert him with the swiftness of the motion.

He smiled mysteriously at the spasm as though he somehow expected it. I wanted to ask him what he was thinking but didn’t want to risk breathing. My control could too easily be lost. Besides, I was scared that if I were to open my mouth, I’d end up screaming.

I felt him push slightly and realized he wished for me to curl my fingers, so with great concentration and the acute awareness of his fragility, I moved my stony hand into the shape he directed, my fingers curved slightly beneath his like a relaxed talon. I didn’t like the shape; it was odd and inhuman and made me think of the violence I could cause.

But it wasn’t a claw. Because once my hand was positioned the way he wanted, he began to slowly place pressure on my fingers, and I dipped and rose them accordingly to carefully move with his. I watched as the two of our hands together played what I imagined must be the opening chords to Clair de Lune.

The disconcerting emptiness in my chest soared at the bizarre pleasure of this touch, and a weird sensation tickled my scalp, moving swiftly down my spine to my entire body. 

My muscles tightened violently and then relaxed, sending a shiver to ripple through me. It was too much pleasure and too much pain as my throat ached and I leaned into the warmth.

Embarrassed and not wanting to push my luck, I cautiously pulled my hand slowly away. He lifted his hand to allow me to escape as though I couldn’t just break his hand to do so, a half-smile pulling on his lips. I pretended not to notice the goosebumps on his arms.

See? he mouthed before deciding to whisper. “You could do it.”

I forced myself to smile and then turned away for the rest of the hour, trying to keep from doing anything stupid like looking at him or killing him. I’d completely forgotten where we were.

When the bell finally rung, I collected my things atop the desk hastily. Edward reached for my backpack and held it up for me.

“Thanks,” I murmured as I dumped my books into the bag. Before I could take it from him, he slid it onto his back and nodded his head once for me to go forward.

Feeling awkward, I turned and allowed him to follow me to the door. I was lucky to walk in front of him, taking the opportunity to breath again as the vent blew out in front of my face.

Exiting the classroom, I paused for a second when I saw Emmett waiting for me across the hallway rather than his typical spot beside the wall of lockers next to our shared Spanish classroom. Even though I was well aware of the fact I’d been dangling my irresponsibility in their faces all day, I still felt as though I was being caught in the act.

Emmett’s eyebrows raised as his golden eyes watched Edward follow behind me, carrying my backpack. I crossed the hallway reluctantly towards my big brother.

“Hello,” I greeted him, avoiding his eyes. I felt smaller than ever beside him with my head down, and yet not small enough as I wished to disappear.

“Hey, little sis,” Emmett began uncertainly, though I glanced up to see his full lips were beginning to stretch into a smile that I didn’t like. “Who’s that with you?”

“Uh…”

“I’m Edward Masen,” the lanky human boy introduced himself confidently as he stopped beside me. “And you must be––”

“Emmett,” my brother interrupted, grinning as though he always so comfortably interacted with humans. This was all too weird, but he looked to be enjoying it far too much. His desire to mess with me and his confidence in Alice’s visions seemed to override the abnormality of speaking to a student so amicably. I watched as he breathed in and shot me a meaningful look. I grimaced.

I opened my mouth to put an end to this torturously awkward interaction, but Emmett interrupted again.

“It’s nice to see you made a friend,” he began, an evil glint in his eyes as he watched my face. I was confused as to where he was going with this because our entire family would come across as misanthropic to the rest of the school, so why should it matter to him. He turned his attention to look at Edward who was closer in height to him. “You know, we worry about her––”

“Okay, let’s go to Spanish,” I cut him off quickly. “Edward, can I have my bag, please?”

Without looking at him, I reached for my backpack as he offered it and threw it over my shoulder, heading down the hallway. It was a massive relief to put some distance between myself and Edward. My thoughts were clearer, and I could breathe freely.

Emmett burst into laughter, his guffaws booming in the hallway. Several students paused in fear making me concerned about Edward’s reaction to my giant of a sibling, but I relaxed when I heard Edward chuckling along with him.

“Um, see you,” Emmett said to Edward before his steady, near silent footfall followed after me.

Even moving at a lethargic human pace, he caught up to me quickly.

“That wasn’t funny,” I grumbled.

“What the hell are you doing?” Emmett chuckled, ignoring my question.

“What the hell are you doing? What was that back there?”

“I don’t know. That was weird, but not as weird as you playing with your food.”

I hissed quietly.

“Damn, I’m kidding, Bells. But seriously, what are you doing? What happened to your high and noble speech about doing the right thing and staying away from the kid? I thought Esme was about to produce real tears. It even softened Rose.”

“Ugh, don’t talk to me about Rosalie right now. She’s been giving me dirty looks all day. It makes me feel awful. I already feel bad!”

“Well, I don’t really care what you do either way so––” I looked at him questionably. “I mean, sure, I want you to do the right thing, whatever that means. I don’t want you to feel miserable. But on one end, I didn’t really mind so much what happened to me.”

“Rosalie did,” I countered.

“Yeah, Rose did,” he acquiesced quietly.

“Anyways, I’m not having that conversation. I wasn’t talking to him today to test whether or not he’s worth it. That’s… unethical.”

“So what were you doing?”

“I don’t know,” I groaned in answer.

Emmett laughed.

“You’re weird these days, Bella.”

“You’re weird everyday,” I quipped back before sighing. “I don’t know. He’s weird, too. I guess… I’m not making any decisions, at all, but if Alice told you what she told me… wouldn’t you be curious?”

Emmett thought it over. “Yeah, I think so. But I also don’t think I’d have even made it to this point,” he admitted. I winced.

“It’s kind of unfair for me to care more about satiating my curiosity and dance with the devil this way, right?”

“Well…he may not know it, but isn’t it more so that Edward’s the one dancing with the devil?”

“Yeah,” I agreed, frowning as we walked into our Spanish class. “I guess it is.”

I made the decision to avoid thinking of Edward for the remaining hour of school. I paid very little attention in Spanish, returning to the familiar mind-numbing boredom that classes had been prior to the last few days. Now that it was in stark contrast to the sudden life breathed into my time at Forks High School by my fixation with Edward, the tedium was no longer something dealt with indifferently and sluggishly. Now, it left me feeling restless, and it almost pained me how laborious it was to sit through a life I wasn’t an active participant in. It was nowhere near the pain of dealing with the excruciating thirst I had around my bronze-haired lab partner, but it almost tampered with my thoughts more knowing I’d feel less miserable if I spent this time analyzing every word Edward shared with me, every fluctuation of his tone, every glint in his perceptive eyes, every expression on his pretty face… But I was becoming too obsessive. The same hunger for adventure that made me fall in love with reading must be what was leading me to so treacherously, so impetuously dive into exploring this insignificant and yet cataclysmic difference in my life.

As though it had a personal vendetta against me, time moved even more lethargically than it ever had before, but finally, the bell signaling the end of school rang. Emmett’s eyes shot a concerned look at me as I rose from my seat too quickly, and I immediately felt embarrassed again. The cautious reminder in his expression made me feel childish as Emmett was never one to care much about bending the rules. 

“See you at home, I guess,” he shook his head, giving me one last look that seemed to suggest I’d lost it.

“See you,” I mumbled, slinging my bag over my shoulder. Leaving Emmett behind to wait for Rosalie, I weaved through the crowded hallway and out to the parking lot. Students were bundling together and squealing at the chilling air as tiny, fluffy snowflakes fluttered down from the overcast sky. The floor of the parking lot was almost as glassy as yesterday as the rain from this afternoon had melted into a thin layer of icy mush. Though there was hardly enough snow for a decent snowball fight, some of the rowdier students were bundling up a pitiful pile of snow to form pathetic snowballs in their fists.

I nearly skipped to the pearly white vehicle parked beside Rosalie’s overly conspicuous crimson car which was forming a small crowd of admirers. Leaning against the trunk of the car, I watched the front doors of the school to look for Edward.

The tangle of reddish-brown hair was easy to spot because of its strange metallic tint as he strolled out of the building with Naomi, the student who’d provided him with the information about my family on his first day. He had his coat folded over his arm, revealing how form fitting his light tan turtleneck was. He truly was a very attractive boy. It was odd that I hadn’t really paid much attention initially. With his dazzling face and tall, lean frame, Edward was pretty enough that for the vampires who searched for exquisitely beautiful humans to create into even more stunning immortals, he could probably be a contender for someone to collect.

Thinking of how Emmett questioned my motives today, I quickly banished the idea of Edward as an immortal from my mind, even if it was only a hypothetical inspired by my observation.

Edward paused, asking Naomi if she could hold on to his backpack for a moment. When she grabbed it, he pulled on his long black coat, and fiddled with the collar. Recollecting his backpack, he slid it onto one shoulder, then rubbed his hands together, blowing the warm air from his mouth to heat them up. Thinking of the sweetness of the smell of his breath made me remember to take in swallows of fresh air before he made his way over to me.

As he was distracted momentarily, I watched as a stray snowball flew towards Edward’s head. I was overcome with the urge to intercept it in the event it may hit him too harshly and knock him to the pavement, but flying across the parking lot inhumanly fast twice in one week was probably not the way to go about correcting my mistakes.

The soggy snowball crashed into Edward’s hair, exploding into shards of ice and water that slid down his prominent cheekbone. I laughed aloud at his shocked expression as the curtain bangs framing his face were immediately drenched, darkening his hair into a brown color. Once he’d realized what happened, his face broke into a good-humored smile.

“Holy shit! Sorry, Edward!” The classmate who had thrown the snowball with poor aim called out.

“No worries!” Edward called back. He shook his head, chuckling as he wiped the water from his face. As he laughed, his eyes found the space where I waited and brightened seeing that I, too, was enjoying the moment.

“Hey, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he told Naomi, who was too beside herself in tears of laughter to reply.

Edward sauntered over towards me, and I inhaled deeply as a fortuitous whisper of wind blew from the tree line. I held onto the notes of crisp eucalyptus, fresh snow, and cedar wood, trying to distract my mind from the offensively mouthwatering scents approaching me.

Edward was a coordinated human, but even he lost his footing on the icy pavement. His body slid forward for a moment, but I stepped towards him to close the space between us and caught him by the elbow.

He looked up from his boots against the frozen parking lot into my eyes, startled momentarily at the swiftness in which I had appeared. Then, his full lips lifted into a crooked smile that creased his astonishing green eyes into half moons. I let go immediately and took a big step back to ensure a safer distance between myself and the warmth of his fragile body. It had been a risky movement, but somehow in comparison to yesterday, it didn’t seem to matter as much. I figured our classmates were too involved in their gawking at the details of my sister’s car or their feeble, slushy snowball fight to notice, and oddly, I didn’t care that Edward had seen. It was beginning to feel too late to keep up certain pretenses.

Although, it wasn’t too late, and it shouldn’t feel that way. I reminded myself I still had every intention of leaving Edward alone once I’d figured out what was so compelling about our paths crossing that had Alice’s visions spiraling in a confusing jumble. I took another step back slowly.

“Thank you,” Edward said, his eyes humored with another secret he didn’t seem willing to share. “You keep saving me.”

“Well, let’s not make this damsel in distress thing habitual,” I snorted, turning so that he couldn’t see the smile forming on my face. I felt shy about showcasing any comfort or happiness in his presence now that I was reminded of how fleeting this experimental friendship was, but I wondered if subconsciously I wanted him to catch me in my misery and ask me to explain, though I wasn’t certain why I wanted to sabotage myself like that. I opened my door and turned to look at him again. “You coming?”

Before he could answer, I dipped into the driver’s seat, and breathed in one last time. Well, once this was all over, I could finally stop inhaling dramatically as though they were truly my last, dying breaths. The air was mostly clean of his scent, but I knew that regardless, the heat of his body would be enough to disrupt my comfort and control. As the thought crossed my mind, I painfully swallowed back the venom pooling beneath my tongue.

Edward swerved through the crowd obsessing over Rosalie’s car and opened the passenger door, sliding into his seat. As he placed his backpack on the floor and fiddled with his seatbelt, I made sure to adjust the air conditioning so that the heat could warm Edward from the frigid Forks air. Though for me, just being in his presence made the intimate interior of the car feel as though I were again sitting by his fireplace.

“That’s a beautiful car,” he murmured. “Is it an M8?”

“Uh, it’s a BMW?” I asked uncertainly as though he’d spoken another language.

Edward grinned as though he wanted to laugh but didn’t want to make me angry. Rosalie would have loved to answer all his questions if he too had an interest in cars. Would have loved to, if she wasn’t deeply offended by my actions or if I had any intention of Edward meeting any more of my family members.

“Ready?” I bit my lip as I forced out any inconsiderate plots of murder that threatened to distract me from being a defensive driver.

“Mhm,” Edward answered.

I reversed out of the parking slot slowly, but as I looked in the rearview once I’d straightened out, I saw the fleeting image of Rosalie’s exquisitely beautiful and exceptionally angry face. I quickly readjusted the mirror to remove my sister’s reflection and sped out of the parking lot in a way that could have taken out a few unlucky students if I didn’t have above average years of driving experience.

Peripherally, I watched as Edward’s thick eyebrows raised, but he decided not to question me. Once we’d reached the main road, I slowed my speed so as not to rush through this time, even though I knew for his safety and my sanity, I should. As I drove, his right hand moved in odd shapes again against the arm rest of the passenger side door as though he were playing piano once more.

I decided to bite and use up some of my limited air supply.

“What are you playing?”

“Clair de Lune again,” he replied. Then, he began to hum the melody aloud for me as he moved his hand.

I thought to offer to play the song for him through the speakers, but I decided against it as I listened to Edward’s soft, velvety voice hum beautifully through the song, breaking the silence.

The ugly, slush-like falling of snow transformed into a falling of rainwater, and Edward’s voice was orchestrated by a lovely symphony of raindrops.

Before his voice could weave into the more involved moments of the piece, Edward stopped.

I looked over at him, curious for the reason as to why. His face was turned away from me so that all I could see was his untidy bronze hair as he gazed out the window. I pulled in front of his driveway and parked against the curb.

Miraculously, I’d made it again. Carefully, I inhaled through my nose to experiment with my control. The sweet bouquet of the boy’s blood was potent and even more mouthwatering than usual from the snow turned rain that’d wet his hair. I hadn’t considered the possibility that he could smell better than before, and I kept myself from groaning aloud as I dug my nails into my own palms. The tingling sensation in my nose was as though I’d sniffed some powerful chemical, the burning sensation in my throat as though I’d taken a long drag of a cigarette. But more painful. More demanding. Desire, need flew from my core out towards my extremities, and the beating of his heart pumping the blood through his body drummed loudly in my ears. It seemed to move through me, my frigid body almost twitching with every pulse, ready to lunge forward and crush his neck to my lips.

“What was your mother like?” He asked me suddenly, his voice soft. Edward turned from the window to face me, and I was bewildered by the intensity of his expression. His eyes were light and beautiful against the gloomy grey of the sky, and they squinted slightly as though studying my face like this information was absolutely essential. But this was not what stunned me, as I’d already seen the severity of this expression before in our ephemeral time together. It was the unexpected vulnerability of his stunning face. The more time I spent looking at him, the more I realized how beautiful this human boy really was. And it seemed a great tragedy for this beautiful boy to harbor such devastation in his eyes.

Whereas previously in his presence, my thoughts had become incoherent due to a lapse in control, now my thoughts were incoherent in distress and desperation to understand what had gone wrong and how I could fix it. I was momentarily dumbfounded, but I pulled myself together after the soft sound of a few droplets of rain against the roof reminded me that he was waiting for an answer.

“Well, she looked a lot like me, but prettier,” I began stupidly. He raised his eyebrows. “Or at least, she used to look a lot like me, and I used to look a lot like her. I don’t so much anymore.” It’d been so long since I’d really spoken about my mom, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to laugh or cry. I knew I should have made some comment about whether or not she looked like Esme or Emmett since our story made us siblings, but I didn’t want to taint the rarity of sharing who she was with a lie.

“She was more outgoing than I am,” I continued, thinking through the foggy memories I held onto from my human life.

“That’s difficult to believe,” Edward teased quietly, his lips curving into a half smile.

I laughed, listening to the melodic sound of it, thinking of how it symbolized how very much different I was now from the human girl my mother knew.

“I was always very shy,” I smiled, before speaking up again, caught in the echoes of my past. “She was brave and irresponsible and slightly eccentric. And she was a very unpredictable cook!”

I laughed aloud again thinking of some minor explosions in our tiny kitchen and some questionable dishes. Edward laughed too, but when our laughter faded into the falling of the rain, my smile faded.

“She wasn’t perfect,” I admitted. “I think I recognize now that she was very fallible. I worshipped her when I was younger, but when I think back, I do see how in some of the ways she raised me, I was done a disservice… I grew up too fast. When she died––“ I sighed, feeling insincere and guilty about perpetuating this lie when I really should have said when I died, “––Esme became more of a mother to me, and even Rosalie’s been more traditionally nurturing than my mom ever was… But still, she was my best friend.”

“You miss her,” he murmured simply. I met his gentle eyes.

“Yes,” I bit my lip.

“How old are you, Bella?” Edward asked. “And not the formulaic, theorized version where you were born in your thirties. How old are you really?”

I tensed, wondering if he was asking this again because he’d taken note of how I didn’t directly answer this question the last time he asked.

“Seventeen,” I answered automatically.

“You don’t seem seventeen,” he responded, reproachful.

The tension left my body at the tone of his voice. I smiled again easily.

“Sorry?” I asked, biting my lip to hide the smile, unsure of how to respond.

Edward chuckled and the subtle crinkles by his eyes lit up his face. “Well, I wish you’d been given a happier, normal childhood.”

“I’m fine,” I shrugged, brushing it off. “I hardly remember most of it, and what I do remember reminds me that I probably didn’t have much chance at a normal childhood to begin with. I was terribly shy, remember.

“I did do girl scouts, though….Oh, and ballet briefly,” I admitted, unsure as to why I was volunteering so much information about myself. Wasn’t the purpose of me sitting here to uncover information about him?

“Why does that make you… embarrassed?” Edward’s eyebrows pulled up.

For an odd moment, I felt betrayed by the flush of my cheeks before I realized there was no blood rushing to my face. I blinked, bewildered by the peculiarity of this long buried instinct to become frustrated with my easy blushes when I hadn’t blushed for years. I felt self conscious as I wondered what Edward saw reading my expression to so perfectly decipher my feelings.

“I was very uncoordinated,” I dismissed his question as I fought the urge for my hand to flutter to touch my cool cheek.

“Now that truly is difficult to believe,” Edward half-smiled. “I can’t imagine I’ve seen anyone as graceful as you.”

I laughed aloud at his compliment, though I didn’t doubt his sincerity. I knew this was true of myself. It was true of all of our kind to appear fluid and effortless, but still, no one had ever applied the word to me. My vampiric poise was irrelevant and unimpressive to my family, and the very few humans brave enough to overcome their nerves to compliment me typically found their words to fail them.

“You’re very odd,” I beamed.

“What do you mean?” The bronze-haired boy asked, again wanting to be let in on the secret. While I had an insatiable thirst, it seemed he had an insatiable curiosity.

“How old are you really? Your word choice is bizarre for someone your age, you know.”

“Oh,” he laughed easily. “Well, I’m actually not seventeen. I’m eighteen. But I’ll try to strictly adhere to a more teenage vernacular, so I can compliment you in a more acceptable way from now on.”

I looked out at the dim light of the brewing storm, my smile fading as I decided that I should probably allow him to escape me before I did something I’d regret. But I knew I wasn’t resolved enough to completely leave him alone. He made me monopolize too much of the conversation, and I wasn’t satisfied with what I knew about him yet.

I sighed aloud, and Edward, too, looked out at the rain darkened sky.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” he asked hopefully, making the assumption that our conversation was coming to an end.

“Yes,” I promised reluctantly. My eyes flickered back over to his pretty face, studying the lines of his strong jaw, his chiseled cheekbones, his full lips, committing this inconsequential face to memory as I silently resolved that this should be –– and would be –– one of the last times I’d allow myself to be this close to him. Tomorrow may well be the very last.

Likewise, as though his thoughts were in the same vein, his beautiful green eyes studied my face as well, though he did so in that mysterious way of his where he looked at me as though hoping to read my mind.

He sighed, then collected his backpack. Edward opened the door, stepping out into the bitterly cold weather. A shiver ran through his lanky body, making my body tense with perverse excitement. I cringed away from the deadly instinct and swallowed against the dryness of my yearning throat.

Edward’s tall, lean frame leaned down to peek into the car.

“Goodnight, Bella,” he spoke softly.

“Goodnight, Edward,” I almost whispered, gazing into the beauty of his dazzling green eyes.

Edward smiled his half smile, and closed the door, escaping into the building torrent of rain.

I gasped in relief at his absence, then stiffened realizing how the cab of the car was still heavily perfumed with his scent. I took in another deep breath, forcing myself to confront the burning thirst again, willing myself to manage it. I sighed as I hit the gas, making Edward disappear behind me.

  Both my control and the rain pour strengthened significantly as I turned onto the long drive leading to my house. I grimaced as I wondered how I’d face my family and explain the complete reversal of what I’d promised to do. I didn’t have time to consider for much longer as suddenly, a figure appeared instantaneously in the drive. I slammed my foot on the brake immediately in shock at its appearance, not wanting to total yet another car against one of my siblings.

I peered through the windshield, unable to see through the complete downpour that submerged my vehicle as though it were underwater. It was annoying for my perfect sight to be obstructed by anything, rainwater or even the transparent windshield because of my eyes’ desire to focus on the microscopic scratches.

The car violently screeched against the muddy pavement, and it looked as though we would have to bid this car goodbye until the figure hidden by the storm placed their hands out on the car roughly and forced it to a stop. The tires screamed in protest, and the metal groaned as it warped into the shape of the palms. I listened as it unnaturally bent again in a piercing moan as the figure fixed the indentions they’d created.

My windshield wipers swatted away a flood of water. Finally, I could make out my sister Rosalie, her hair dripping wet down her back like a supermodel who’d just emerged from a pool on the cover of Sports Illustrated. Her exquisite face was absolutely furious.

I gulped, feeling like a child who’d just been discovered sneaking home past curfew.

I felt uncertain as to what to do and why she’d chosen to stop me here. Surely she could wait for us to be under the cover of the garage before she chastised me. Not wanting to be drenched by the rain, I revved the engine to ask her to move aside, but the car didn’t inch forward against her strength. Beginning to feel annoyed, I revved the engine again loudly and for longer, but still, she didn’t move.

“Rose,” I hissed as I hit the brake again so that the car could roar viciously in the storm, only to be cut off by the voice of my adopted mother.

“Girls!” I couldn’t see Esme through the obscured glass behind the downpour, but even with the barrage of the rain, I could hear her lithe steps run furiously to the front porch. “Please!”

Rose’s head snapped up to look in Esme’s direction before turning to glance unhappily back at me. She stepped aside, and I sped into the garage, parking the car hastily.

I exited immediately and went to expect the damage to the front of the hood. It was only a minuscule bend from having been pushed and prodded back and forth, and I was positive Rosalie could make it look like new, though why it had been necessary to punish the car was beyond me. It wasn’t even mine.

I wheeled around once I’d heard the near-silent steps of her run, a wave of anger making me forget my guilt.

“Are you insane?!” I demanded.

“I could ask the same of you, Bella!” Now free from the obscurity of the rain, I could see in perfect detail the stunning fury of her glorious face. Her golden hair had been darkened by the rain, and it was slicked back effortlessly, like a glittering waterfall down to the middle of her back. She looked like a wrathful god, but I couldn’t find it in my stubbornness to care about how valid her anger may be.

“Okay, but did you have to take it out on the car? What did it ever do to you! You couldn’t have waited another twenty seconds to confront me? Well, you have my attention now, Rosalie, so say whatever it is you want to say!”

“You’re just unbelievable, Bella!”

“He’s not going to say anything, Rose! We already talked about this yesterday. You heard Alice! He’s not a threat to you and Emmett, so I don’t understand why you’re taking this so personally.”

“Exactly, Bella. I heard Alice. Which is precisely why I fail to understand as to why you wouldn’t understand why I’d take it so personally. After all these years of sisterhood, how can you not understand how I feel about this?”

I frowned, my forehead puckering, but still, I retained my anger. She huffed, continuing.

“If it was an inevitability, I’d understand. However, it hurts me deeply that you recognize the choice that you have. The choice that Edward has. And still, you’re willing to play with his mortality as though it were a game, when I never had that choice.”

I froze, the realization dawning on me that she was right. No matter the ways in which I tried to justify my actions or spin my intentions, she was right. Another part of my mind acknowledged that while I was aware of right and wrong, I wasn’t certain that what was right would be enough to keep me away anymore.

We stared each other down much like we had yesterday. Only today, rather than anger, her face was contorted in hurt, and mine was contorted in hopelessness.

“But… you found Emmett when he was still human…” I weakly protested, selfishly trying to highlight the irony, though I knew it was pointless as I wasn’t advocating for Edward to be changed either. That was too complicated a thought to wrap my mind around. But whatever may happen –– and I was still very much aware of the worst of possibilities –– I didn’t want my sister to hate me for it.

“He was dying, Bella,” Rosalie whispered. The anger on her face had completely faded, and in its place, pain marked her eyebrows, her full lips, her golden, sad eyes. In her sadness, she looked like a work of art, like one of those paintings of a weeping saint. “It’s not the same.”

I didn’t have a response to that, and I felt as though I was at an impasse, both with myself and with Rosalie. Because I knew the promises I’d made and broken, but I knew the promise I’d made to Edward today, and I had no willpower, no desire, and no intention to break that promise.

“You may not feel anything for him now,” Rosalie began, her eyes intently fierce as they bore into mine to warn me. Only this warning felt significantly more horrible than I’d imagined it may be, because it wasn’t made in anger, but in desperation and love. “But if Alice is right, you will. And it seems to me a horrible way to repay someone you love to steal their life, their future, their soul from them. You should leave him alone now while you still can, because once you love him… it’ll only hurt more one way or another. And you’ll have to live with that for the rest of your existence. I know I have.”

And with that, Rose turned, her face cold and sad, and she left the garage.

[alaskatalks]

Abuse in the Youtube Vlogging Community — My Experiences

Note 07/07/2021: My original posting was removed by unknown so this will now live here. Please be aware of the content warnings.

Apr 26·14 min read

2012–2018

CW Mention of; Suicide, Assault, Blood, Rape, Deceased Person(s)/‘Suicide Forest Video’

I’m writing this statement to not only provide background on the toxic and abusive culture of the community at the time but to support the multiple other people who have recently come forward detailing abuse from within the UK vlogging Youtube community, and to finally talk about these incidents publicly after carrying them for so long alone.

As I am writing this, one of those mentioned has contacted several mutual acquaintances to stop me from sharing my own story to those people privately,then when they and I didn’t, this person quickly began to smear my name. Because of this I want to begin with some basic background and thoughts which will be most likely be used/twisted in the coming days/weeks by those I mention.

I will only be discussing physically abusive events I was personally privy to but to keep this specific I will be omitting the many micro and macro-aggressions I experienced as usually the only black mixed/non-white and working-class individual in the room/group. It was clear to me quickly that if you were an “other” in certain ways, you’d be open to mockery, namely also if you were working class or lacking financially, I’d heard Chris repeatedly make remarks and mean comments behind the backs of his own guests/friends at various events and parties in his own home in addition to others making similar comments. Because I appeared white passing that time especially; I made my heritage/ethnicity explicitly clear when it first began as a failed attempt to minimize racial remarks around me and then from then on, kept my private life private from many in the group. I learned quickly to ignore a lot directed at me — as I was younger and possessed no media industry contacts or clout/followers at the time, I had to accept my place in this kind of mostly elitist clique/working environment as the only way to continue working with the people I looked up to.

I met everyone personally and got into the community when I was 16/17 after being a fan for many years, contacting CB via post and then emailing him, I wanted to get into television eventually and thought working with YouTube vloggers I looked up to would be a great first step in that direction. Everything detailed below I had previously tried to discuss with those involved privately, but was unsupported and thrown away both professionally and personally.

Rachel

I want to talk briefly about Rachel as I was around just before she joined the general group so was witness to a lot of things. I have spoken to Rachel privately but want to share the frustration and bitterness I feel and felt publicly. Please read her statement via twitter for their story. (In addition to addressing the dangerously hypercritical individuals I have seen crawling out of the woodwork to send her empty public displays of ‘support’ whilst in the past they contributed heavily to the environment which fostered abuse or carried it out themselves.)

The first few times I met Rachel it was at different pubs, and so I had always assumed that she was at least 18 on joining the general group, I was also told (unprompted) about her familial connections within the media/television industry — something that I now believe contributed to many of the youtubers mentioned overlooking basic welfare issues and red flags, and instead thinking of furthering their careers. I spent close to a year trying to help as I could see certain red flags in her ‘relationship’ with JSL, him struggling very heavily and publicly with alcoholism at the time, and Rachel seemingly struggling also. I made my concerns known repeatedly because I was worried, having myself suffered from various abuse from a young age I instinctively wanted to help.

However, close friends of Rachel herself and others, namely Bown, sent me the repeated and clear message that I was “in the way”, this was a message Bown kept telling me once he was living with JSL, who I had begun seeing months prior to Rachel meeting him. I was told by them that my concern was only jealousy and experienced an abundance of side eyes, verbal abuse, bad mouthing, and gossip — I was just a ‘jealous bitch’ in many eyes. (This all despite me being polyamorous with my primary partner from before dating JSL to this current day) I continued to help Rachel whenever I saw her in person before ending things with JSL and distancing myself because not only was I incredibly uncomfortable dating someone who was in a unhealthy situation, but I was very selfishly fed up receiving so much hate when I did speak my mind on the subject. In hindsight, especially after finding out recently that Bown was aware of Rachel’s age, I wish I’d have stuck around.

Rachel is incredible and I hope the following can contribute in some way to validating all those who were victimized by these same people in addition to others with similar stories. For Rachel’s full statement please read it on her Twitter in its entirety @rachelkiki_

MT

Beginning with MT, I had been a huge fan of The Man Time Podcast and The Fratocrats for years before so on meeting him at a party for the first time at C.B’s place, I was excited to talk to him, however, as soon as he found out I had a partner (literally the first thing he asked/said to me after hello) he walked away from me and didn’t interact with me in any way for the rest of the party. A few months later when I was single we slept together for the first time, halfway through he held my wrists down suddenly and just as I thought he was going to kiss me he instead spat in my mouth. I did not ask for, nor want this and reacted as negatively as you’d expect, then feeling incredibly uncomfortable made some excuses and tried to stop things physically.

It was a little while later I found out that he had spoken to a group of very popular youtubers, one of whom was Tom. I found out that not only did MT “report back” to these youtubers detailing a story about how we had had sex and I was in fact, horrendous at it, but hearing about it from C.B. in the form of the question whilst he smiled jokingly “Is this true?” was not only super inappropriate but humiliating.

These were people I had looked up to for years and really wanted to work within the future, but now that seemed like it wouldn’t happen, especially if I ‘made a fuss’. MT wanted to meet up with me at a later point (once I’d confronted him repeatedly afterwards) though when we met it was clear he just wanted to have more sex and the half assed ‘apology’ was more tokenistic. He was sorry “If” anything he did upset me. Because of my own previous trauma (and low self-esteem admittedly) I thought the only way to redeem my reputation would be to continue to see him — I thought if others knew or saw us flirting casually even, it would negate his rumors. This obviously didn’t help and the damage had been done.

Tom*

Shortly after that, whilst on a work trip with CB and others, Tom approached me at a bar and asked me for a photo, I thought it was odd but perhaps he was just being friendly. I was a big fan of Eddsworld so I was okay with it, he took a photo of us both, making sure I smiled and then sent it to MT who was sitting a few tables away in our group as a further way to humiliate me. I spoke about it with some of the others privately after being laughed at, who seemed used to that kind of behavior. I just needed to get used to it and/or “lighten up” so I tried to remain professional and focused, though it seemed more and more like certain people viewed me as disposable entertainment almost, rather than a person.

*I do want to note, as of writing this today, Tom is the only person to reach out to genuinely apologise, which I highly appreciate.

Bown

I could fill multiple pages with the amount of racial charged, sexist and abusive things Bown has done and/or said to me, for example, he berated me the day I got my first big television job, calling me stupid, useless and implying I was only hired because of my ethnicity. He almost always sent his hate via text or instant messaging, I mention that because he commonly expressed all his negativity behind a screen, then in person, he would do a lot of gaslighting. When drunk at his worst, his understanding of the word no became non-existent when I would repeatedly ask not to be touched or requested space.

On one occasion when I had made clear it was a platonic hang, we were watching a film when he suddenly reached over and pressed his fingers into my breasts. I felt instantly violated, I froze for a few seconds and then pulled my shirt up to cover more of my chest/create a visual barrier. I said don’t/stop and continued watching the film. In shock — we weren’t even touching or hugging before- that but he nonetheless did it again and laughed as if it was some kind of game. I made it very clear I was not interested and did not like what he had done. This repeated when he was drunk and said he wanted to apologise, it was at a party which wasn’t the time nor place for that kind of conversation, then, with me saying so then no multiple times, he kept grabbing my waist, then arms and shoulders, refusing to give me the space I was requesting.

CB

There was a lot of disrespect and ugliness I experienced from my first experience ‘working’ (unpaid at first and then at or under minimum wage afterwards) to present but again, I’m only discussing the physical stuff. The first physical time he hurt me was when on tour sharing a room (due to a lack of space as we were out of London) I was sharing with JSL on the floor and Bing had the bed alone. I was awoken in the early hours of the morning to a small piece of metal (which turned out to be a zip as I recall) from a pillow, hitting me hard. I was confused and so thought it was an accident — I assumed the pillow had fallen off the bed by mistake so reached over and put it back on Bing’s bed before going back to sleep. I was then awoken repeatedly by Bing’s hand hitting me in my face hard and repeatedly, though I tried to turn around with my back to him, I then experienced the same but on the back of my head, and my hair being pulled. He had thought the very loud snoring which was waking him up was me, but it was in fact JSL (most who have lived with him or slept in close corners knows he can be a snorer) the next morning I woke having a panic attack which I dealt with before asking him why he did that as it really hurt, he replied that I was snoring but when I told him of the mistake he just looked at me funnily and that was that. No apology ever appeared.

The worst experience I had with him was at his house during a party; it was winding down and I could sense him rushing people out the room in a hushed tone; I was looking at his bookcase, filled with cd’s at the time. On hearing the hushed tones I could sense something was wrong/odd and looked around to find myself suddenly alone in his room. I said a quick sorry, that I didn’t realise and will go join everyone else upstairs if he wants to sleep, he said it was no problem and I should have a drink before bed with him. I was content looking at the cds and before I could answer he brought me a cup and poured out a drink for me (clearly over pouring). I had just eyed a specific CD from my all-time favourite band (they were very niche at the time) and exclaimed in joy before showing it to him, he responded that a fan had sent it to him, I laughed because I was that fan, I had included the CD in a fan letter I sent to him years back. He was giving me a really odd look and then as I said ‘anyway,’ laughing in that british ‘I should get going’ kind of way.

He grabbed the CD before putting it on and pulling me towards the bed. We were sitting side by side and as soon as he grabbed me towards the bed I gave a nervous laugh saying something along the lines of ‘no, I don’t’ when he interrupted me to say it’s all fine, just one song and I need to drink, pushing my cup up which I’d been holding with both hands motionlessly since he gave it to me. As soon as I took a sip, he put his hand on my waist, I kept protesting as he pushed more towards then against me and repeated things like “It’s no big deal” and “It will be fast” ignoring my physical resistance and me audibly saying I did not want to. He placed his hand on mine and pulled it towards his groin area — this was when I finally stopped freezing and pulled away forcibly, I then sat up off the bed and made a beeline for the door — apologizing as I went. As soon as I was on the other side of the door I burst out crying and having a severe panic attack, I muffled the noise and went upstairs where I knew others were sleeping before I couldn’t keep quiet. I cannot remember who else was upstairs but there were multiple people (at least 5) sleeping in various places, I woke up quite a few before being calmed down and going to sleep. He hired me one last time after that as a producer.

H H S

H.H.S is the long time editor of the Paul brothers, he’s worked with many large youtubers and was one of (if not the main) editor of now notorious Logan Paul’s “Suicide Forest Video”,– the following happened around that time for context and is one of the biggest catalysts in my completely giving up on working within the YouTube vlogging sphere. H.H.S had been lightly dragged on his Facebook by friends on a post where he apologized for the Logan Paul video he responded with a fundraiser event post (both this, and the fundraiser have since been deleted) the fundraiser itself was to a suicide prevention charity, although he created it, he hadn’t and didn’t invite anyone directly to it — in hindsight, it’s clear it was just lazy personal pr. I had my own mental health and neurological episode and had attempted to take my own life a little before, so I had created an event with friends to celebrate being alive and beginning new/better things. Not many could come on short notice, though H.H.S was the first (and only) person to click ‘attending’ on the event page, which he did very quickly once I sent out invites.

He never was overly kind or supportive emotionally, so I thought that because of the amount of mutual colleagues, close friends and vloggers invited he would look very crass not to come. I was upset that many couldn’t make it and drank far too much, though I could Just about walk by the time we left the bar — the last 4 of us decided to head back to H.H.S to drink and hang out more as a group. I was meant to text my friend and her partner the address whilst they went home quickly to grab a coat as they lived nearish. H.H.S helped me into the cab and we made our way to his place, it’s then he put his hand behind the seat and began touching my leg. I thought he had a partner at the time and so was confused as he mentioned her earlier in the night, I asked him about this roughly over drinks at his house (which he poured himself) and he said it was fine, I accepted this as I was very drunk by this time and being ethically non-monogamous at the time; I assumed naively that they talked before this. I don’t remember what happened after this until later, I know that I was so drunk I completely forgot to ask H.H.S again for the address, let alone that I had to contact my friend at all.

I remember roughly that things seemed to me above board, but then I experienced a huge amount of pain as he had pushed me onto my front and put his entire weight onto me, I started to say stop, and no as he put more weight onto me and was trying to enter me anally. I told him to stop and that it hurt (he had done this before to me but stopped after a few seconds of me saying no and we discussed how it wasn’t okay with me especially without prior consent so I didn’t expect this). He then put his weight further on me so I was prone and continued for several minutes, I managed to move my body so it wouldn’t hurt as much, though by this point I was stuck under his weight and could barely breathe. Once he had “finished” he got off of me and said something about how this was a good “purge” for him but he loves his girlfriend and so should sleep in the living room. I was in total shock as he just exited the room.

I had no way of getting home by myself and triggered , drunk and confused I went to sleep. I woke up to H.H.S typing away on his computer next to my bed and I shouted “bucket” multiple times so he ran and got me one which I then projectile vomited into. I apologized and went to the bathroom to continue throwing up before heading back to his bedroom to find my things and get home. As I was doing this I asked about the video, he wasn’t talking otherwise and I was extremely uncomfortable trying to hold back a panic attack and further barfing. I waited for my taxi to come as he confirmed everything about the video that I had expected, he boasted about being the main editor of that video, how it was his idea to blur the body, how they wanted more views and they (him and Logan Paul) obviously didn’t care genuinely for anything to do with suicide prevention — this was after excusing various racist acts and remarks made by Logan.

H.H.S didn’t contact me for a full week after this incident, when I got home I discovered I was bleeding from his forced entry, and went into another panic attack. I tried to contact Bing, who had introduced me to him in the first place, when I was met with a barrage of blame. He told me a lot of things like ‘What did you expect?’, ‘That’s on you’ and on me beginning to cry and get emotional, he quickly started to distance himself saying that we aren’t “really friends” anymore, and further slut shaming. I wanted help and was rejected, not only by him but the few others also who I contacted. I figured if my friends would not help me, why would the Police believe me?

I reached out to H.H.S privately but was ignored, he read my messages but did not respond, though remained friends with me on facebook. He now has his own channel with 134k subscribers and won a Streamy Award for his editing work with Logan Paul. If you’ve read all of this, thank you sincerely. I’ve carried this for far too long alone, every time I heard of the people involved and even the Paul brothers names, things just came rushing back violently. After being rejected by so many I believed to be my friends, I decided I shouldn’t come out publicly at the time as I thought no one would believe me, that in addition to the fact that I valued the content they created to such a vast degree that I thought it more important to keep quiet.

Thanks to a sadly long list of brave people, I now know that I matter and so does my voice. I hope that with this, I can finally begin to let all these incidents go and know I appreciate every single person who has been an ally and/or spoke their own truths.

#MeToo #BlackLivesMatter #StopAisanHate

Alaska Harrison

[beauregard-s]

Richie Tozier’s NSFW Alphabet

A/n: Catch me writing headcanons and alphabets to help me out with the blocks, folks.

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A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Richie isn’t one to rush and grab things you need or run a bath for you right after you guys have sex. He’ll just lay there with you and if you need something you gotta ask him. That way he’ll do it in a blink of an eye 

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He likes his hands but only because you once told him you liked them. Now he’s really proud of his large hands

Talking about you, Richie would probably say he likes every single part of your body, trying to be charming, but if pressured to choose one he’d go for your ass without a doubt. That can be proved by the fact that he’s always grabbing or spanking your ass during sex

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Richie likes cumming in your mouth a lot. He thinks it’s hot when some of it drips out your lips, and he’ll wipe it off with his thumb and probably whisper a “good girl” in the process

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He claims himself as dom and he’s on this side of the road 90% of the time, but sometimes his guilty pleasure is to turn into a whiny sub. Richie sometimes gets in the mood to let you dom him and he turns into a whiny, needy mess watching you ride him. Don’t let him touch you and he’ll go insane twice as faster. 

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Richie was quite experienced by the time you got together. Not as much as he bragged being, but he had some previous hookups and that allowed him to learn what works better for you pretty quickly

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

It’s Richie. He likes it in every possible way but he has a thing for bending you over stuff and taking you from behind. He likes how you turn into a weak, trembling mess like that.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He’ll crack jokes often, from good and sexy ones that make you blush to bad ones that make you roll your eyes and shove him

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

At first, Richie didn’t care that much about grooming but soon enough he learns how to take care of himself properly. By the time he’s with you, he’s already a very put-together and trimmed guy

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Richie isn’t romantic all the time. Of course he’ll be if he notices that’s how you need him to be, but that’s not common

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He does it. A whole lot. If he has you, then he’s having his way with you. If you’re away, then he’ll jerk off thinking about you

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

He has a daddy kink. A fat soft spot for it. The first time you called him “daddy” was as a joke but got him all riled up. Later, when he was fucking you into the mattress, he went straight into the matter by dropping a husky “who’s your daddy, babe?”

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Any fucking where. Periodt. In the bedroom? Yes. At the quarry? Yes! In bathrooms? Hell yes! But he has a weakness, he loves backseat sex.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Richie is really easy going, he doesn’t need any specific motivation to be turned on at first but later his dom side pops out. He likes to watch you falling apart underneath him, moaning louder and louder until you’re screaming for him.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Extreme stuff like piss play, or bdsm dynamic. He would never hurt or humiliate you.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Talking about giving, the guy is good and he loves eating you out, but he’s more of a receiver. There’s one thing that really makes him weak in the knees and it is you kneeling down before him to suck him off.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

It depends on what he wants to do with you. Richie can go slowly if he’s teasing and edging you but can escalate to rough, fast pounding if he’s chasing both your highs. One thing is sure, he always goes as deep as he can.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Quickie is his middle name. Of course, he loves taking his time with you, but quickies are more practical for him. Sex anywhere, whenever you both need it.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He likes to try new stuff. Richie watches porn of course and here and there he’ll find out about something interesting and if he’s in the mood to try it, he’ll openly talk to you or even show you what he wants to do

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Richie can last a couple rounds, Sometimes the boy is so built up he’ll cum first, but he never leaves you unsatisfied 

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He likes to try things out, but not much when it involves toys. I think he wouldn’t own any

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

A lot. Richie has no filter, he’ll tell you when he’s horny but he also has other ways to show it to you and tease you. Catch him pulling you to sit on his lap, kissing your neck, and even whispering what he wants to do to you in the shell of your ear.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He can go from low grunting (when he’s fucking you) to loud moans (when you’re the one in charge)

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

The very first time you had sex, Richie was insecure as hell and internally struggling with it. You really didn’t notice, it was an amazing first time, but later he told you he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to satisfy you the way you deserved boy was in love, your honor

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Richie is average talking about length, but he’s thick as heck. And he talks about it too much.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

His sex drive breaks through the ceiling and it has been like that since he was a teenager

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Pretty quickly. As said, he’ll lay down and cuddle you and he’ll probably be the first one to drift away. Like you are both already sleepy talking and suddenly he’s quietly snoring. It’s cute, to be honest.

[astralsweetness]

Set my soul on fire (make me wild) || Hui/Reader (M)

➣ I was originally going to write a LOT more smut (I had so much planned that I never got to!!! ugh).. Maybe I’ll have to do a part 2 or something 👀 the amount of time i spent looking at pics of his studio just so that one scene would be accurate is insane Title from the song ‘Queen of Disaster’. Very briefly proof-read, so please feel free to inform me of typos!

➣ Hui/Reader | Hui drunkenly kisses the reader without explicit consent but owns up to it bcs I’m tired of every other fic that includes this trope just glossing over it | Smut warnings include: masturbation, fingering, hair-pulling (implied), biting (mostly implied), oral + snowballing, slight pain/masochism (implied), some humiliation/degradation + some praise, referenced submissive headspace, and all of them apply to Hui lmao. Also it’s mentioned that Hui isn’t strictly heterosexual and if that bothers you then idk what to tell you

➣ “He is hanging off your every word and you suddenly feel like you have a choice to make - it’s one you don’t think about for more than a second, because you realize that you don’t need to.”

Hui knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that you had completely ruined his life just by existing in it.

It wasn’t a bad thing, necessarily. The feeling he got whenever you smiled at him, for example, was definitely not a bad thing. The way his skin tingled whenever you brushed against him was.. bothersome, but not a bad thing. The way his heart sped up and beat almost painfully hard whenever he indulged in his regular skinship with you wasn’t particularly bad, but he’d stopped doing that recently just as a preservation strategy so he didn’t die in the next year from a heart attack. (He was a naturally touchy person, and he wasn’t completely sure how he felt at having to stop that with you specifically.)

The way his mind constantly drifted to thoughts of you was starting to become an issue though, as was how he tensed up whenever you got even moderately close to him. You’d started to notice, and he had no idea how to tell you that it was happening because of that one time the rest of the boys had ‘accidentally’ forced the two of you to be pressed against one another in an elevator, and that just the knowledge that your breasts were pressing against his arm had him fighting to not get hard like some sort of teenager. He wasn’t totally sure how successful he’d be the next time if something similar happened.

Still, you were, as far as he was concerned, completely unattainable, and that in itself was a problem. He’d experienced his fair share of heartaches and heartbreaks before, but this was.. different. At least in those circumstances he’d gotten a definitive answer.

With you though, he couldn’t even bring himself to ask, had resigned himself to pining over you like a kid with a crush.

If you hadn’t ruined his life then you sure as hell had made it harder.

.｡..｡.

When Hui gets a knock on his studio door around six pm he’s not particularly surprised – lately his members had taken to dropping in to make sure he had eaten something that day. (Usually he had not.)

He is surprised to see you standing alongside Yuto when he opens the door, so he glances at the maknae suspiciously – Yuto seems perfectly innocent, but Hui wasn’t exactly sure how much of that was an act.

“Hyung, did you eat today?” The younger boy holds up a bag as an offering – it doesn’t look like the regular convenience store food the boys would usually grab for him, so Hui accepts it hesitantly.

“I was originally just going to bring food for Hyunggu, since he was apparently starving in his studio or something, but then he mentioned that you never ate either, so..” You’re looking at him like you’re vaguely disappointed, and it makes a funny feeling tighten in his chest so he pretends to be completely absorbed with looking through the bag. He’s not sure where you got the food from, but it was mostly stuff that he actually liked. “I went to a place Hyunggu wanted, but he told me what he thought you’d like from there – I hope he was right.”

“This – you didn’t have to do this.” It’s nice not being the one buying things for once, he has to admit that to himself, but he still felt a bit bad that you’d felt the need to bring him anything at all. “Thank you, though.”

“You’re right, I didn’t have to. I wanted to – just like I wanted to bring Yuto food too when Hyunggu told me he was also here.” You’ve perched on the edge of his small leather couch and he wonders if you’d ever been in here before – he honestly can’t remember, though with how hyper-aware he was of you it was pretty safe to assume you hadn’t been. Yuto’s lingering near the door quietly, watching you and he interact, and he feels like the younger is analyzing what was happening.

“Thank you for it – I should go eat it now, while it’s still warm.” Yuto’s gentle bass of a voice is almost soothing, but Hui shoots him a look anyway because he suddenly knew what was happening. His maknaes were downright masterminds when it came to plans like this, and he can’t think of any way to get Yuto to stay before you bid him a cheerful goodbye as the Japanese boy smiles at the both of you as he carefully closes the door.

“Should I go too? I don’t want to distract you or be a bother or anything.” Your question is so sincere that he just looks at you for a few moments, tries to figure out a way to say ‘Yes, you do distract me and bother me, but definitely not in the way you’re thinking’. He finally settles on a single head shake, clearing a small portion of one of his desks to place the food on.

“Did you already eat?”

“No, but I’m fine.” Your answer is quiet, and he glances over to see you gazing around his studio – he feels vaguely embarrassed, though he’s not particularly sure why. His studio is remarkably small, it’s true, but he’s not actually ashamed of anything in it.

“You’ve never been in here before?” He’s pretty sure you haven’t, but there’s no harm in confirming it. You’d been focused intently on reading the names on his soccer jerseys, but once he speaks you turn all that intense concentration on to him and his mouth goes dry.

“Nope. Not that I remember, anyway, and I’m pretty sure I’d remember that.” You’re smiling at him and he doesn’t know why that’s something you’d remember, but your smile makes him not really care about the particulars. “Now eat, Hui.”

He raises his eyebrows at the parental tone you’ve adopted but says nothing, knowing there was no way he could get out of it now – and honestly, he didn’t really want to. He was really fucking hungry, and the meat you’d brought him smelled delicious.

It’s only as he’s taking his first bite (which is excellent by the way, Hyunggu apparently had a very good taste in restaurants) that he remembers what you said about not eating and makes a stupid split-second decision. (He’s never been one to think about things like this too much before blindly doing them, which was probably a problem, come to think of it.)

“Here –“ He holds the strip of bulgogi out towards you, one hand underneath, the sound of his heartbeat a constant background theme song. “Say ‘ah’~” And it’s so easy to pretend, to act like he’s just being friendly, to tinge everything he says with a bit of aegyo – you roll your eyes at him but accept the food anyway.

It’s not easy to ignore the intimacy of an act like this, to ignore the way he’s hit with a sudden yearning deep in his chest to be able to feed you food whenever, like a real significant other could.

“Thank you, but no more! This food is for you.”

“Okay, okay.”

The silence that slips back afterwards is mostly comfortable – you seem determined to make sure he eats, so while he does so you go back to gazing around his studio. Hui feels like there really wasn’t that much to look at, but you hadn’t looked bored yet, taking in the contents of his desk and then computer monitor. He realizes belatedly that he still had the windows open for some of their unreleased tracks, but when he glances at you again you’ve already moved on from them, so he leaves them where they are.

“Are you still seeing that one guy?” It’s easy conversation, light and carefree even if the topic makes him feel a bit bitter – as much as the knowledge of you seeing other people ate away at him he knows it would bother him more if you didn’t feel comfortable talking with him about it at all. Being able to be a close friend you confided in was something he cared more about than not feeling jealous.

“Oh – no, I’m not.” Your tone is carefully disinterested, but he can see through it well enough by now. Still, he doesn’t say anything, just turns so he’s fully facing you, focused and listening. “We just had a – confliction of interests I guess you could say.” You laugh softly at your wording and he laughs too, even if he doesn’t totally understand what you mean.

“And that means, what, exactly?”

“He thought women should be submissive during sex, and I disagreed.” ..Oh. Hui’s gaze darts away as he tries to process that – it wasn’t that you talking about sex was surprising. He was used to talking with you about intimately private things like this, though that was before this annoying infatuation with you had manifested into the tiresome nuisance it was now. Still, you’d never exactly stated your.. affinities towards any one thing.

“Ah.. is that so?” He sounds much hoarser than he’d meant to, like he’d choked on something – he still can’t look at you, because suddenly all he can think about is what that meant, if it meant leather and pain or lace and sweetness, if it meant scathing words or saccharine praises.

“Are you blushing?” You’re leaning forward off his couch, grinning and trying to get a look at his face, one of your hands on his knee to keep him from turning away from you - and he realizes that yes, he is fucking blushing, and the place you were touching him felt like it was blistering with heat. “Well, at least you’re not getting all upset with me for injuring your masculine pride or whatever by being a woman who doesn’t like to –“

“Okay! Okay okay, please take mercy on me!” His slightly exaggerated whining is met with your laughter, and his face feels like it’s on fucking fire, but he can’t look away from you now that he’d accidentally met your gaze.

“Sorry – you’re just so cute when you’re flustered!” And he knows he shouldn’t take this as anything more than friendly teasing, just like whenever Hyunggu would call him ‘cute’ whenever he got scared of something, but your words still make something short-circuit in his brain and he swears to everything that you will be the death of him.

“I’m – sorry things didn’t work out with him, but you’re really going to kill me if you keep this up.” And it’s not even a lie – he is ninety-eight percent sure that if you keep talking like this without giving him time to recuperate then he was just going to over-heat and pass out.

“I should go anyway, I’ve distracted you long enough – I didn’t go too far, did I?” You’ve stood up now and are looking down at him with a worried smile, so he just shakes his head because he’s pretty sure if he tried to talk he’d say something stupid like ‘No, I definitely didn’t mind hearing you say that, and while you’re at it please tell me some more’. “I’ll talk to you later, okay? Make sure you eat it all!”

He manages a “goodbye” that sounds sort of like he wasn’t dying, waving to you until you leave and his studio door beeps to signify that it was locked again.

“For fuck’s sake..” Hui forces himself to breathe deep, tries to will some of the heat to leave his face. He really didn’t know why he was getting so flustered over something like this – he wasn’t usually the type. Was it just because it was you? Because he definitely wouldn’t mind if you preferred to be dominant?

Hui curses again, a quiet ‘fuck’ that doesn’t really encompass everything he’s feeling but seems to be the best he can manage. Fuck indeed. He was so fucked.

.｡..｡.

The next time Hui’s in his studio he does his best to forget about the conversation the two of you had had last in there, tries to forget the way his entire body had lit up when you touched his leg, tries to forget the way you’d smiled so sweetly when he fed you.

It doesn’t go well.

To be honest, he didn’t do things like this often – he was busy most of the time, and if he was in his studio then he usually had something he needed to work on instead. But being in this room less than twenty-four hours after you had off-handedly mentioned that you liked to take a more dominant approach in the bedroom had him unable to concentrate on anything else, though he had made a valiant effort for an upwards of fifteen minutes.

With an agitated huff he’s pushing his chair back from his desk with more force than necessary, moving to make sure his studio’s door was locked before taking a seat on the edge of his couch. For a moment he contemplates if he’s really going to do this, runs an aggressive hand through his dyed silver hair and then curses the tingling pain it brings that he doesn’t quite hate as much as he should in the moment.

There’s a lingering feeling of shame and a much stronger feeling of embarrassment covering his body when he reaches for himself, though it only lasts for a few moments until the feeling of the rough friction of his palm through his jeans overpowers anything else.

Hui tips his head back with a soft moan before he remembers he needs to keep quiet, bites his lip when he unzips himself so he can wrap his fingers around his cock more easily. He’s rough, impatient, wants to finish fast but also likes the slight bit of pain – he full body shudders when he finally tugs the waistband of his briefs down and feels the cold air hit him, falling back onto his forearm. He knows, for a fact, that there’s a small bottle of lube in one of his drawers somewhere, but he doesn’t bother looking for it – he’s slick enough as is, and the slight pain keeps him grounded, keeps him from getting into it enough that he wouldn’t be able to monitor his volume.

There’s a slight urgency surrounding it all that is always there when doing something like this in a semi-public place, and he gives into it this time and allows it to urge him on quicker, fucking into his fist like he was going to get caught at any second.

He wants to drag this out, wants to get this over with, wants to think about anything else or feel the need to pull up some dirty video on his phone to finish, but all he can think about is you, you, you – he wonders what it would be like if you were the one stroking him instead, if you’d take pity on him or would be ruthless, if you’d whisper sweet compliments into his skin or humiliate him with biting words, if you’d bite at his neck, he really wanted you to bite at his neck and mark him up –

He orgasms with a choked off cry, hastily shoves the back of his wrist against his teeth to try to keep quiet as his hips buck sloppily into the loose circle of his fingers. He’s never been particularly quiet, and another wave of arousal washes over him as he imagines you telling him to keep it down, warning him that you’d have to gag him otherwise. He whimpers pitifully at the thought and tries to shut his mind down, feeling overstimulated both physically and mentally.

His fingers are sticky, the warmth quickly drying on his skin, and he feels much too hot, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to his skin alongside a layer of shame. He’s not totally sure why but he feels like he’s just made everything worse, like somehow he’d crossed a line and now being around you was going to be ten times harder.

He also feels like this was inevitable though, that his attraction to you had been building for so long that if he hadn’t found a release for it somewhere then he would have gone insane.

Or maybe he’s insane now, now that he’d done something this dirty and depraved. He really didn’t know, gaze still just a bit glassy and unfocused.

What he did know was that he was completely and utterly fucked at this point, collapses onto his back and lets his aching forearm finally take a break as his eyes slide shut in defeat.

.｡..｡.

“You’re not serious.”

“Of course we are, hyung – why, do you have a problem with it?”

Hongseok is taunting him, like he always does, and Hui would usually play along and tease him back but he feels completely thrown off guard and does nothing more than blink at all of them incredulously. His lack of a playful reaction in return has Hongseok softening a bit at the edges, but Hyunggu isn’t nearly as merciful.

“What’s the problem with it? You’ve been wanting us to do something bonding like this for a while, and now we have a time to do it, a reason to do it, and someone to make sure we don’t screw it all up by doing something stupid when we’re drunk.”

“We didn’t force her, hyung, she offered when we asked.” Yuto’s trying to alleviate Hui’s concerns, but he’s way off base – still, he’s trying, so Hui manages what he hopes is more smile than it is grimace in the Japanese boy’s direction.

“We want to drink, she doesn’t like drinking, and we have a few days off because Road to Kingdom ended – what are you so worried about?” Changgu asks him, kind and sincere as always – Hui doesn’t trust him for a minute, but he can’t fight the natural urge to tell everyone what his issue was anyway. God, he hated them sometimes. (They were his family, and he supposed sometimes you just had to hate your family.)

“You all know my – my problem with her.”

“Yeah, we know you want to –“

“Date her.” Wooseok cuts Shinwon off at the last second, modifying whatever it was his hyung had been about to say – Shinwon looks both annoyed and scandalized that Wooseok had thought he was going to say anything else. Hui does his best to ignore them.

“You really thought I’d be okay with her being the one watching over us while we drank? Knowing that none of us can drink well?” He swore he could literally feel his stress levels rising – it wasn’t like he was an embarrassing drunk or anything, but he knew he had an incredibly low tolerance for it, and he also knew that if the entire group was drinking then they were just going to end up egging one another on until everyone was truly smashed.

“Well, you’re going to have to be okay with it, hyung.” Hyunggu, always the hard-ass, insists forcefully – he doesn’t say it unkindly, but he says it in a tone that brooks no room for disagreement. It’s more Kino’s voice than it is Hyunggu’s, scarily similar to when they’re in the practice room.

Hui knows he could override it with hyung or leader seniority, knows Hyunggu is watching him carefully to see if it’s actually something the elder couldn’t deal with.

He ultimately says nothing, just sighs in a way that lets everyone else know he’s acquiesced – the resulting cheer brings a small smile to his face, even if he still feels uneasy about how the planned drinking night would go. He knew that when it came to both his members and you in one building with alcohol involved there was no way he wasn’t royally fucked.

.｡..｡.

The night goes exactly as you expected it to – none of the Pentagon members could hold their liquor particularly well, which meant that after an hour and a half they were all at their limits. (It was honestly kind of funny to watch. They were all so intent on getting one another drunk that they weren’t really even paying attention to the way everyone was sabotaging each other by constantly keeping the cups full.)

Still, that meant you were mostly trying to make sure they didn’t kill or injure themselves somehow. It wasn’t too hard of a task, though you did have to threaten both Wooseok and Hyunggu to keep them from climbing on top of the only coffee table Dorm A had. You were pretty sure the glass would just shatter under their combined weight. Hyunggu had targeted you with an impressive pout after that, but he’d lost interest pretty quickly when Yuto had fallen asleep - not that you blamed him, the rapper was sort of adorable when he slept.

It also meant that when Hui got up to get water – he swore that’s what he was getting, at least – you followed him. The man was a menace in the kitchen when he was sober, you were almost afraid to imagine what he’d manage to do when he was drunk. Just his presence alone might cause the stove to burst into flames or something. He was seriously cursed.

“Why are you following me?” His question is just a bit slurred together, almost sounding more like he was incredibly sleepy instead of drunk – you figure it’s because he hadn’t had as much to drink, but you weren’t really sure. You hadn’t been monitoring how much any person drank, more concerned with keeping them alive. (They could manage to injure themselves sitting on the floor sober, so being drunk just made your job several times harder.)

“Just checking.” You murmur – he raises his eyebrows at your comment but doesn’t say anything else, turning to grab a glass from one of the cupboards. You watch him for four whole seconds before you decide he’s about to knock several of them to the floor, stepping forward to reach for it instead. Maybe you’d been wrong about how much he had drank.

“I could have gotten it..” His petulance makes you smile, doing your best not to laugh at the little “hmph” he gives you when you inform him that no, he probably could not have.

“Just let me take care of you, you big baby. At least this way I can make sure you’re getting only water.”

“That is all I was getting..” He’s still sulking when you hand it to him, face flushed from the culmination of everything he’d drank tonight. You force your gaze away when he begins to drink – even drunk off his ass he was still an infuriatingly confusing mix of handsome and cute, and you resolutely did not want to watch his throat when he swallowed.

The sound of glass hitting a bit too hard on a solid surface startles you – Hui’s set his glass down incredibly close to your hand, depth perception just a bit fucked. You want to open your mouth to scold him for the close call, but his body heat is incredibly distracting, and he’s raising one of his hands and your breath catches in your throat.

He cages you in against the dorm’s sink, one hand on the side of your neck – to angle the kiss better or to steady himself you weren’t sure – with the other bracing himself as he presses his lips to yours. He’s so ultra-hot against your body, tastes of the same fruity drink Shinwon had been pressing into his hand all evening, the metal of his belt buckle biting into your stomach.

It’s not until he gives a soft breathy moan into your mouth that you realize you’ve been kissing him back for the past thirty seconds in his own kitchen, heedless of the rest of his members in the adjoining room or the fact that he was drunk enough he could barely stand without assistance. You press at his shoulders with minimal force, missing the pressure of his lips when he instantly moves away.

“What..?” He looks immensely confused, and you feel awful for kissing him back when you weren’t totally sure he was even aware of what he was doing. “Why’d you push me away?“

“Hui –“

“You kissed me back, so why’d y –“

“I just don’t want you to do something you’re going to regret later, Hwitaek.” You hope the use of his full name will get through to him – it seems it does, in some regard, because while he chokes out a half-disbelieving and half-tormented laugh he still pauses and blinks at you slowly like he was trying to carefully choose his next words.

“You act like I haven’t wanted to do this since the first time I met you.” And oh, his voice is just a bit huskier, a bit slurred on the syllables, but he says them carefully and you know that, at the very least, Drunk Hui meant them.

The problem was that you didn’t know if Sober Hui would agree.

“You should go to bed, Hui.” You say this instead of saying all the other things crowding the tip of your tongue, instead of grabbing him by the collar and kissing him again – alcohol took away a person’s consent, and you weren’t about to take a chance to pressure Hui into doing something you weren’t sure he wanted in the first place.

“No one else has gone to bed yet..” Now he’s sulking – but this is normal, this you can deal with. You can pretend like your lips didn’t still tingle where his had been touching, can pretend like you weren’t already addicted to the feeling.

“That’s not really a valid argument considering Yuto’s fallen asleep twice already.” You counter, watching the way he bites at his bottom lip in frustration – you know it for what it is, and it still seems coy to you instead, like he’s trying to seduce you.

God, what was wrong with you? He was just pouting now, brow furrowed, and you feel absolutely pathetic for seeing his current actions as anything other than what they really were.

It didn’t matter how attractive or desirable you found him, you couldn’t in good conscience do anything while he was so inebriated.

“Come on, Hui – let’s get you to bed so I can get back to the other boys to make sure they haven’t done something stupid, like coercing Hongseok into wrestling Changgu shirtless. Again.”

“It wasn’t that stupid –“

“They literally broke a bookshelf with their bodies, be quiet.” The banter comes easily, is normal and comfortable – it’s easy to pretend like he hadn’t just been kissing you, like you hadn’t just been fantasizing about him seducing you of his own free will. His skin is warm underneath your fingertips, flushed from the alcohol, as you direct him by the bicep down the hall and to his room.

You’re rarely in here – he’s rarely in here, actually, considering how much time he spends at his studio, how often he sleeps there. Because of that his room is sparsely decorated, an incredibly faint lingering smell of the cologne he occasionally wore clinging to the edges of some of the surfaces. It’s a heady scent that you do your absolute best to ignore, because it brings to mind images of him whenever he bothered to get extra dressed up, devastatingly handsome.

He lets you guide him over to his bed with zero fuss but turns back towards you when his knees hit the edge of it, one hand coming up to caress your cheek. It’s a deceptively gentle action, and you know you should really stop him, but you don’t move when he leans in to kiss you again. Underneath the flavor of alcohol there’s a distinctive taste that is purely him, and you know if you weren’t addicted to kissing him before then you definitely were now.

When you nip at his bottom lip and he lets out a shuddering moan you realize what you’re doing, try to pull away as fast as you can – this wasn’t fair to him, when he wasn’t in his right mind – but he catches you with a hand frantically landing on your waist, dropping his head to litter kisses along your jaw and then throat. You try to ignore the way your legs go weak at the feeling.

“Please –“ It’s more of a whine than a plea, but you feel it against the skin of your neck all the same, the words dragged along your pulse-point like a searing flame. “If we don’t now, then I don’t think –“

“You need to sleep.” It takes every ounce of willpower inside of you to ignore the wetness pooling between your legs, the insistent hard press of his cock against your thigh, the way his whimper when you push at his chest vibrates along the skin of your shoulder where he presses one last desperate kiss. “We can – we’ll talk about it in the morning.” You continue to push him gently back until he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, gazing up at you through his eyelashes, flushed and looking five different kinds of wrecked. Your entire nervous system threatens to shut down at the sight and you’re not sure that you can keep your promise about talking about it tomorrow.

He’s apparently not sure of it either, expression pinched and distraught when you press him insistently by the shoulders back onto his bed. His hair is ruffled and his eyes are glazed (from the alcohol or lust, you weren’t sure), his lips slick and kiss-bruised –

You tear your gaze away and force yourself to breathe again. When you look back Hui’s thrown a forearm over his eyes, bottom lip snagged between his teeth, breathing labored.

It takes ten seconds before you’re out of the room, clicking the door shut as quietly as you can, trying to erase the imagery of tears staining his face.

.｡..｡.

When Hui wakes up it’s to a pounding head and the vaguely disgusting feeling you get when you sleep in your clothes on top of your covers. His entire body hurts and he makes the same promise he always does when he wakes up like this, the same one he’s never kept – he’ll never drink again. Or, at the very least, he’ll never drink that much again.

His whole room spins when he pushes himself up, groaning softly at the way he feels like the world tilts dangerously on its axis as he slides his legs off the edge of his mattress. It’s only because of this world-shifting that he notices Wooseok asleep on the other side of his bed, all his long limbs drawn in as close as possible, his brow furrowed in his sleep.

He wonders when the maknae had ended up here and how they’d decided on rooms while he goes to the pain-staking process of draping one of his extra blankets over the tall boy. The world is still too bright (even with his blinds shut) and every step he takes feels a bit like walking through mud, but when he sees the way Wooseok slightly relaxes after being covered it all feels worth it.

The trek from his room to the kitchen feels like it takes much longer than it should, but at the very least the suspiciously long stretch of the dorm gives ample time for his headache to shift from excruciating to manageable. He was going to find the bottle of Aspirin, take all of them, and then go the fuck back to sleep. (Okay, maybe one of those was an exaggeration, but it sure felt like he could use that many painkillers.)

“Good morning.” He almost chokes when he hears your voice, a sudden onslaught of memories causing his face to heat up – you weren’t even looking at him, busying yourself with the small skillet Hongseok kept religiously cleaned. Hui wasn’t sure if his nausea was due to the smell of food or the way all he could think about was how he had – stupidly, why the fuck had he done that – kissed you and then tried to get you into bed with him.

“..Morning.” He hopes you take his lackluster response as a product of his hangover, sliding into one of the chairs at the kitchen table so he can bury his head in his hands.

“That bad, huh? You’re going to have to learn to tell Shinwon ‘no’ when he offers you drinks, you know.” He looks up to see you placing what he assumes is an Aspirin down on the table in front of him, already turned back to grab him water. He’s not sure if he’s glad you mistook his suffering as the results of a hangover or not.

“Thanks.” He waits until you hand him the glass before he takes the medicine, downing the rest of the contents when he realizes just how thirsty he was. He can feel the weight of your gaze still on him and it makes the blood in his veins feel like ice, knowing you had to remember the exact same things he (suddenly) did.

“If it makes you feel any better, Hongseok is way worse off than you right now. I honestly can’t believe he’s such a lightweight sometimes…” Your tone is sympathetic, but all Hui feels is a slight smug happiness at there being someone else who was, at the very least, suffering more than he currently was. At least Hongseok hadn’t had the chance to do anything stupid with someone he liked last night, like Hui had. “Honestly, it’s sort of impressive.”

“Huh?” He’d stopped listening to you by pure accident, forces himself to refocus on you – which just causes his eyes to instantly lock on to your lips, face heating up because not only does he remember kissing them, he remembers what they felt like and tasted like and he has to fight to tear his gaze away. God he was so fucked.

“How many lightweights you have in your band. In a group of nine you’d think it’d be more even, but, like.. almost all of you can’t hold your liquor. It’s kind of impressive.” You’re back to focusing on whatever it is you’re cooking – he only just now notices you also have ramen boiling in their small stove to the side, the dull bubbling of the water having blended into background noise long before he’d realized it had been there.

“Are they okay?” He’s sure they are, but there’s some deeply ingrained part of him that feels required to check – the soft smile you give him in response makes him feel like he’s in high school again whenever his crush would focus on him and him alone, and he isn’t sure what to do with that feeling now that he’s twenty eight years old, so he looks down at his empty cup instead.

“They’ll be okay. Wooseokkie ended up in your room – I’m sure you noticed him.” You wait for him to glance at you and nod before continuing. “Hongseok and Changgu ended up in the same room together, which worked out well considering Changgu’s probably the only one who could sleep through Hongseok’s pitiful whining about his hangover anyway. Hyunggu and Yuto shared a room, I think – which I guess means Shinwon ended up alone. Any guess on whether he’ll be happy or upset about that?”

“It could be either.” He responds, mostly because it’s true (Shinwon’s moods were hard to predict sometimes) but partly because talking about his members was something he could easily do, something that felt familiar and normal. It felt safe and far away from the topic he didn’t want to think about. (But he was thinking about it anyway, could remember your warmth when your body was pressed against his, could remember the way you kissed him back bruisingly and made him want nothing more than for you to wreck him every day of his life.)

“Oh, right – Yanan’s in China, by the way, and Jinho’s in the military.”

“Thanks.” His response is a dry remark at the way you were trying to tease him – like he didn’t know where Yanan was and wasn’t constantly in contact with the soon-to-be actor, like he didn’t think about Jinho every single day and wonder if he was doing well. “What would I do without your incredibly timely information.”

You just roll your eyes at him and turn to the ramen – he wonders who you’re making it for before realizing it was probably for whoever woke up hungry. That realization makes a certain spot in his chest warm, and he tries to ignore it because for fuck’s sake, not now.

“I knew it was going to go badly..” He mutters to himself – you hum questioningly and he blinks, surprised you heard him and instantly trying to reach for a half-truth that you’d believe. “Drinking so much, I mean.” Not totally a lie, which meant he could say it and have it sound mostly believable. To his relief you seem to take it at face value.

A silence stretches out between the two of you – it seems comfortable for you, but he feels like his skin is crawling, waiting for the moment you spring the dreaded conversation on him. He can’t think of any more topics to bring up to stall it.

“Hwitaek.” The tone of your voice makes his heart drop into his stomach and freezes over any warmth he’d been feeling because he knows the conversation that is now seconds away from happening is going to be one he didn’t ever want to have. “I think we should talk about what happened last night.”

“What happened?” He tries to brush it off like he didn’t remember, but his voice wavers just a bit and he can’t meet your gaze and he knows that you don’t buy it for a second.

“We have to.” Your voice is soft, gentle, and he hates it because he feels like you’re trying to be as kind as possible, and that didn’t bode well for how the conversation was going to go. “Did you do what you did because you were drunk, or because you were drunk and wanted to?”

Your gaze has him pinned to the seat, his own eyes wide and brain trying to stutter through any excuse he could think of, and when that didn’t work, trying to think of some way he could play it all off as a joke, or as him just being an overly friendly drunk.

You won’t believe anything but the truth, he can tell, and he was a shit liar even when he wasn’t hungover and panicked.

“I –“ He doesn’t know what he’s going to say, probably something stupid like ‘I love you, and I don’t know when I knew that but I’ve always wanted to kiss you, I was drunk but it let me do what I always wanted to do’ but he’s saved by Hyunggu walking into the kitchen, rubbing at his eyes and looking a bit less like hell than Hui felt.

“I think I’m dying..” The maknae grumbles, and your attention shifts to him and getting him something to help his headache. Hui tries to feel relieved that the conversation had been dropped, but the look you send him once over Hyunggu’s shoulder says, ‘We’re not done talking about this’ and he feels sick all over again. He was so fucked.

.｡..｡.

It isn’t until he escapes to his studio later that day, having basically inhaled an entire cup of coffee to try to fight off both his hangover and his exhaustion, that he realizes that aside from all his personal problems with how the night before had went he had essentially pushed himself on you and then not allowed you an avenue to talk to him about it.

And that makes him feel even more sick, because there had been a chance you’d just wanted closure of some kind considering he had basically drunkenly assaulted you, and all he’d done was avoid the issue entirely when you tried to talk to him about it.

Fuck. Fuck, he was the worst.

He’d been so worried about rejection that he hadn’t even thought about the fact that you’d never consented to being kissed – or, fuck, being propositioned for sex – in the first place.

He runs both hands through his hair aggressively, ruffling it in the slightly painful way he usually did whenever he did something he wasn’t happy with – he feels anxiety sitting cold in his stomach, fear that not only would you hate him but that he’d ended up hurting you or breaking your trust in him all because he’d gotten stupidly drunk.

Pushing down the steadily rising nausea, he reaches for his phone and almost calls you, deciding at the last moment to text you a simple ‘You’re right, we need to talk’ instead. He’d already fucked up once, he didn’t want to force you into the conversation by calling you unexpectedly. As an afterthought he adds a quickly typed ‘I’m sorry I tried to avoid it before’, because despite how nervous the thought makes him, he is genuinely sorry. (Sorry for everything, in fact.)

He tries to busy himself with unfinished tracks while waiting for you to respond, listens to the same snippet of some demo Yuto had sent him six times without really ever hearing the notes, does his absolute best to ignore how one of the last times he was in here he’d ended up touching himself to the thought of you. With everything that had happened since he feels fucking disgusting at the thought of it.

When his phone vibrates he essentially lunges for it – it wasn’t like he’d been making progress on anything anyway – heart hammering in his throat as he opens your messages.

‘It’s okay. In person or by a call?’

He wants to fucking cry at how nice you’re being, at giving him the option to choose a less personal route – but he knows that you were the one who’d taken the brunt of the incident, that all he was really worried about was rejection and being embarrassed. His fingers tap out ‘I’m embarrassed, but it’s up to you’ before deleting the first part before sending. He didn’t want you to feel like he was trying to pressure you into one choice or the other at this point.

‘Knowing you, and seeing how you reacted this morning, I think you’d die if we did it in person lol I’ll call you’

He tries to fight the weak smile your text causes – you always make him smile, and this is no different, but he can’t tell if you’re genuinely okay or not through text and it worries him. You’d seemed fine this morning, almost painfully nonchalant – too nonchalant? He wasn’t sure if he was overthinking things now or not – but he’d been hungover and tired.

You don’t call right away, and he resigns himself to waiting out another five or so minutes in this sickening state of anxiety, selecting and re-selecting the exact same clip of audio over and over just so he can pretend he’s doing something, so he can try to occupy his brain.

When his phone does ring he slams his knee into the table in surprise, high-strung and nervous. He barely even feels the tingling pain.

“I’m so sorry.” He blurts out the instant he answers, muttering a soft fuck under his breath afterwards. He’d wanted to give you time to speak, but he was buzzing with an anxious and guilty energy that had him speaking before he even realized he was.

“What?” Your question sounds more surprised than legitimately confused, like you hadn’t expected him to just start talking immediately. He rakes a hand through his hair again and then keeps it there, fisted, trying to ground himself with the tiny bit of pain as his breathing speeds up.

“About last night – I’m so sorry, I just – I was drunk, and that’s no excuse for what I did, I wasn’t thinking and I’m so fucking sorry. Are – are you okay? Am I allowed to ask that?” He feels like he’s right on the verge of panicking and he hates it, because you were the victim here, not him.

“I –“ You only pause to collect your thoughts for a heartbeat, but he feels the moment stretch on endlessly, sees ninety different scenarios play out and discards every positive one immediately. “Hui, you’re – god you’re so sweet.”

“What?” It’s more of an exhale than a word, because you didn’t sound angry, or hurt, you just sounded slightly amused and grateful, and he doesn’t want to get his hopes up but you didn’t sound upset.

“You’re right, what you did was wrong and shitty, and you suck for doing it.” You pause to breathe, and it reminds him he needs to breathe, his gaze darting along one of his computer monitors without really seeing anything. “But it’s sweet of you to apologize. You should, but most people wouldn’t.”

“I should have this morning.” He murmurs quietly, fingers gripping his phone so tightly they’ve begun to ache. “I was selfish and didn’t even think about it. I really am so fucking sorry.”

“I know, Hui. I believe you. You suck at lying anyway, if you weren’t sorry then I’d be able to tell.” You’re laughing again, and he tries to join you, but it sounds weak. His entire body feels like it’s melted into nothing – he didn’t even care if you rejected him at this point, you didn’t hate him and that was good enough. “But I kissed you back, Hui. Multiple times, actually.”

“…..what?” He can’t think of anything else to say – he had remembered you kissing him back, of course he did, but it all sort of blurred together at one point and he wasn’t sure that any of it had definitively happened. “I – I know – I mean, I thought you did, but you could have just, I don’t know, been trying.. to.. get me to go away by not resisting..?” Some drunks became irate when told ‘no’, and while he knew he wasn’t one of them – and he had a feeling you did too – that didn’t mean you hadn’t just been trying to protect yourself.

“God you’re sweet.” Your sudden, repeated statement is quiet, almost like you hadn’t meant him to hear it – he doesn’t say anything, doing his best to just breathe, doing his best to act his fucking age and not like some kid who needed instant reassurance. You were the one who deserved reassurance in this situation. “I kissed you because I wanted to, Hui. It’s very kind of you to be so concerned, but you’re about the least threatening drunk I’ve ever encountered. I could have probably pushed you off me with one hand – actually, I did push you off me with one hand, when we were in the kitchen.”

“I – you – you wanted to.” It’s a statement because he’s stuck trying to process this new information, because this wasn’t a rejection (he thinks it’s not, at least), because you didn’t hate him, because the way all the anxiety induced adrenaline had leeched out of his body was leaving him feeling even more exhausted than before.

“I actually wanted to tell you that I was sorry – since I kissed you back and all, but you were drunk so it wasn’t really like you were –“

“I wanted to – I wanted you to.” He says the words too fast, trips over them, but he knows you understood by the way you went silent on the other end. He appreciated the apology, really, he did, but not only did he not think it was needed, he also couldn’t stand listening to you apologize for kissing him back when he had been dreaming about this moment for way too fucking long.

And he wants to tell you that, but you’re still silent and he’s beginning to wonder if he somehow read this entire situation wrong.

“..I don’t know what to say now.” You admit softly, and he lets out a silent exhale when he realizes you’re just being shy. He wasn’t used to that side of you, but already he knew he found it adorable, just like the rest of you.

“You can’t be more embarrassed than me, if you are then neither of us will be able to talk.” He’s laughing quietly now, feeling.. not quite comfortable yet, but definitely on the way there. You hadn’t really made any declaration of love for him, but you had reciprocated his kiss, at the very least.

“Oh, you need me to be confident?” There’s a teasing tone in your voice that is more commonplace than the shy one from before, and he already knew just by the sound of it that whatever you’re going to say next is going to affect him in some way.

“It’d be helpful.”

“Then I’d say we need to try that whole kissing thing again, but without the alcohol. It really ruined the experience last time, don’t you think?” He suddenly can’t breathe again, mouth opening and then closing at your statement – not that you care about his lack of a response, since you continue without him saying anything. “It could have led to so many fun places if you hadn’t been drunk.” A pause, where his heartbeat pounds in his head and his mouth has gone dry. When you speak again he can tell you’re doing your best to keep up your confident façade. “..Is that okay with you?”

“Yes.” He says this on a relieved breath, face still hot but body covered in excited, adrenaline filled tingles. You were really putting him through an emotional workout this morning, but at this point he wouldn’t dare complain. “Please. I’ve wanted –“

He cuts himself off before he can say anything more embarrassing, about how long he’s wanted to do something like that, to hear you say something like that, how he’s fantasized and day-dreamed about it for way too long. He flushes even more when he can hear your gentle laughter on the other line.

“You mentioned something like that last night. I wanted to ask about it actually –“

“Oh, wow, I am super busy right now doing leader things, just.. so busy. I couldn’t possibly talk to you anymore, I’m just so extremely busy.”

“Jerk.” This time when you laugh he laughs with you, a real laugh instead of the weak one he’d offered you earlier. “Okay, fine, go do your suddenly important work – but I’m definitely interrogating you about that later, it’s just too interesting to pass up. Bye Hwitaek.”

“Bye.”

It’s so like you to cut the conversation short whenever he mentioned his work – you never wanted to genuinely distract him, and it was one of the things he liked about you.

Loved about you.

Fuck. Fuck.

He can’t contain his laugh of disbelief and giddiness, setting his phone down on his desk so he can cover his face with both of his hands, running them through his hair and pushing it back away from his eyes.

You said you’d wanted to kiss him. You had kissed him. He hadn’t imagined it.

You’d said you wanted to kiss him again.

His phone vibrates and he lowers his hands to glance at it, sees it’s a text from you, and already he can feel that warm, lightweight feeling in his chest just at the sight of it.

God, he was so fucked – but with how this had turned out, he really couldn’t complain at all, nor did he want to.

.｡..｡.

Trying the ‘kissing thing’ again, as you had put it to him on the phone, turned out to be a nebulous concept – not that Hui really expected anything else, but it was a bit disappointing to finally get an answer (a positive one at that) only to be unable to meet up with you again. Not that getting to text you often wasn’t wonderful – it was, and he felt the need to make that abundantly clear (though he was pretty sure you knew that, considering he actually paid attention to his phone now just so he could respond to you) – it was just a bit frustrating to finally have permission to do the things he’d been dreaming about, like kissing you, and then be barred from doing it by forces outside of his control.

As it was, it was nearing the end of the second week since the ’confession’ had happened, and he was only just now finding time to head over to your place after working all day. It was late (nearing four am, he noticed with a groan) and his muscles ached from practice and his eyes ached from composing all day but he would be damned if he’d let another chance to spend time with you slip by him without leaping for it.

“You look so attractive.” It’s the first thing out of your mouth when you see him at your door – Hui laughs the soft sort of laugh he does when he’s a bit nervous, bending to unlace his shoes. It’s not rare of you to compliment him – in fact, you usually did, because it was true and he deserved all the kind words you could heap on him – but something about the circumstances makes it feel different this time, charges the air with a sort of excited, nervous tension.

“Really? I came over right after practice, I can’t look that good..” He trails off, shy, and you look him over again. It’s true that he looks a bit tired and run down, but the dim low lighting of your entryway paints his skin golden and throws his profile into a mix of soft shadows and gentle lines, illuminates his silver hair into a gradient of golden blonde to dusky gray.

“You look good, trust me.” It’s all you can say – everything else gets stuck in your head, muddling itself before it can get to your tongue. You hope to one day be able to properly put into words just how beautiful he is to you, but you’re in no rush to do it now, you have time. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay tomorrow?”

“If I passed up on this chance then I might legitimately die.” He says it so seriously that you laugh, and the way his expression smooths out into a warm smile has your heart beating erratically. God, he didn’t play fair at all.

“Well, if you’re sure..” You take the chance to step closer to him during the slight lull in conversation – he blinks at you once, still smiling, but the smile freezes on his face when you nonchalantly place your arms around his neck. You can feel the way he’s tensed at the new, intimate position, and it’s absolutely adorable how he clearly wants to reciprocate in some way but resolutely keeps his arms at his sides. “You –“

“Can I kiss you?” He says it all in one breath, interrupting you, rushed and embarrassed but also like he craves it, like he might die if he didn’t get your permission to do so. It’s the cutest thing in the world and a surge of heat floods your bloodstream at the tone of his voice, the look in his eyes. “Please.” He tacks it on at the end, a quiet whisper, so fucking good and sweet and perfect.

“Of course, baby.” The words are barely out of your mouth before he’s surging forward to connect your lips, his hands landing on your waist and a soft sound of pleasure escaping him as a sigh. The pet-name of ‘baby’ is one you learned that he liked recently, and while it had been deliciously fun to tease him with it through text and over the phone it was something else entirely to see the way he responded to it in person, the rich sunset color of his eyes softening into something more gentle and pliant.

The way Hui kisses now is slightly different than when he’d been drunk – it’s more assured, more precise, and while it still holds that level of desperation from before there’s something a bit less rushed about it, something more confident and not as nervous as before.

There's something infinitely better about doing it this way, Hui thinks, better than anything he'd fantasized about or hazily remembered from when he'd been drunk. Every single one of his senses is attuned to you and you alone, and nothing exists outside of the two of you kissing, the weight of your arms on his shoulders, the feeling of your nails lightly scraping at the nape of his neck, the rough feeling of your clothing beneath the pads of his fingers at your hips. Your lips press and slide against his constantly before parting for a few brief seconds, and he chases the faint swipe of your tongue against his bottom lip with his own, whining when you don't instantly give in to his demands.

By the time you nip at his lip he's completely given up on leading the kiss, opens his mouth and moans high and sweet when your tongue leaves a blazing trail of pure fire in its wake. His lips are kiss-bruised and tingling, the sensation imprinting on him that this was real, you were really kissing him, he wasn't going to suddenly wake up and realize it was all a dream.

When you pull away from him he follows you for a moment, stopping only when you cup his cheek in one hand and slide your thumb across his bottom lip. His gaze is glazed and he looks so thoroughly wrecked from simply getting kissed that you feel another surge of heat flood your system.

"Good?" Your whispered question barely makes it through to him, but when it does he blinks a few times to force the haze from his mind and nods, grip on your waist tightening, grounding him. You’ve never seen someone look more adorable.

“Yeah.” His voice is slightly hoarse and you give in to the urge to kiss his throat tenderly – when he tilts his head back with a sigh you trail your lips up to his jaw. “Yeah, it’s – great.”

You can feel the heat of his skin against your face, leave open-mouthed kisses from the spot under his ear (which makes him shiver in a way that you immediately catalogue in your mind) in a line down to the collar of the light-weight hoodie he’d worn for practice.

“I wish I could mark you up here..” Your lamentations are met with a literal fucking whine from Hui, one of his hands coming up to grip unsteadily at the crook of your arm like the mere comment had made him unsteady. “Oh? Is that something you’d want? For me to bruise you up so prettily that there’d be no way you could cover it?”

He nods, not trusting his own voice, head full of fantasies where you could do that, where you’d be able to sink your teeth into him, suck dark marks into his skin that wouldn’t fade and that his members would tease him about. (But even in his fantasies his members are there, a constant, and he knows that there’s no other timeline better than the one he’s currently living in.)

“Hwitaek.” You say his name softly, wrap a hand around the back of his neck to make him look at you – his gaze is disconnected, lingers on your lips before your silence registers as he meets your eyes. “I think we should talk about what we both want out of tonight.”

“Yeah – okay, okay.” Fondly, you watch as he takes a small step back and forces himself to become more present, a bit of clarity re-entering his eyes. You notice that he hadn’t stepped far enough away that either of you had to stop touching one another though, and it makes a part of your heart warm with affection. “That’s probably a good idea.”

He lets you lead him further into your house, glances around in interest but doesn’t stop you – he thinks (hopes) he’ll have more time later to become acquainted with this place.

“So, Hui –“ He perks up at you speaking to him, and it’s so cute that you have to stop just to recollect your thoughts. He peers around your room with thinly veiled interest but keeps glancing back at you like you’re the most interesting thing in existence. It’s flattering and adorable. “Considering we’ve talked about it before you know that I prefer to be more dominant, and you –“

“Find it incredibly hot?” He finishes your sentence for you, a happy little smirk on his face at your surprised expression as he darts in to kiss you once, quick and chaste and filled with delight.

“I – I was going to say, ‘you’re okay with it’, but what you said was so much better.” You’re smiling now too, still a bit shell-shocked – really, what sort of luck did you have for an incredibly attractive and sweet guy to also be down for being submissive for you? – but definitely not complaining. You cup his face in your hands and draw him towards you again for a sweet kiss – it lingers just on the side of ‘too passionate’, but neither one of you have enough self-control to reign it back in. You can feel his flush underneath your fingertips. “How did I ever get this lucky?”

“Should I say the cliché thing about thinking the same thing?” His voice is soft, one of his hands coming up to slip underneath your own, fingers curling around your palm. “Because I was.”

“You really are a hopeless romantic sometimes, you know that?” You couple your rhetorical question with another kiss – you were one hundred percent addicted to them now, you knew that for a fact. “We should really talk about what you’re comfortable with happening tonight, Hui.”

He must not be thinking clearly (he’s not, all he can think about is you and how you keep kissing him and how it’s all he’s ever wanted in his entire life) because he says “anything” in a strained whisper, breathless and needy before anything has even happened.

“Anything?” You can’t hide the surprise in your voice, though you try to soften it at the last second – he flinches anyway, like he was embarrassed with how eager he had come across, his gaze somewhere at your hip now. “’Anything’ is a dangerous thing to say, Hwitaek. What if all I wanted to do was finger-fuck you?”

He knows you were joking – he can hear it in your voice, the way you’ve tried to lighten the mood to make him more comfortable. He appreciates it, but it does absolutely nothing for him considering the effect your words had on him. “…I wouldn’t mind that.”

“Really?” Again you’re surprised, but this time you seem slightly eager – he raises his gaze to assess the situation, and yes, you did look interested. The excited, nervous little fire burning in his core feels a bit stronger suddenly. All he can do is nod, mute in the face of your presence, your power, your effortless aura that has him sinking down gratefully onto your bed at the slightest push of your hand against his chest.

Your fingers press at him, hard, and he feels breathless when they slide underneath his hoodie and t-shirt both in one go, hitch it up to above his navel. He thinks about all the marks you could leave on him there, hidden under clothing between promotions, and the sly grin you share with him when your fingernails rake a teasingly shuddering line down his side makes him think you have the exact same ideas he does.

Those two articles of clothing are lost quickly, dropped somewhere over the side of your bed as you kneel between his legs and kiss him until he can’t breathe, a wonderful feeling that has him drifting along in hazy bliss until he realizes what you’re doing.

“You’re a bit more dressed than I am, suddenly..” He tries to make it teasing but it comes out as something soft and reverent, and your lips when they smile at him are a slash of color that he can’t tear his eyes away from. He can feel your curious fingers dipping under the waistband of his athletic joggers and he does his best not to lose his fucking mind at the connotations of it.

“That’ll come. Later. Let me focus on you first, Hwitaek.” And how could he even argue with that? Why would he argue that? He’d have time to see your body later – and to be completely honest, he was perfectly happy with seeing however much of you that you were comfortable showing him.

(Still, he thinks, as you gently push him to lie down on your bed, he hoped you weren’t too uncomfortable with showing your body. As you drag the fabric of his briefs slowly down his legs he thinks about how much he really wants to eat you out, and what a shame it’d be if you weren’t comfortable with that. Regardless, he’d find some way to pay his respects to you and your body, even if his regular go-to’s turned out to not be an option.)

“You’ve done this before?” He doesn’t sound nervous, just questioning, having slung a  forearm across his eyes. You let him leave it there for now, knowing he must feel a bit vulnerable in his current position.

“Mhm, I have – and you?” It’s almost laughable how casually the two of you are speaking, like you hadn’t just been feeling him up and wasn’t currently in the middle of warming lube on your fingers. When he nods you hum and use your clean hand to grip him under the knee, pulling it up high enough you can place a kiss on the inside of it. An amused laugh leaves him in the form of a surprised exhale at the surprisingly tender action.

“I have – don’t worry, I’m not new to all of this.” You can’t see his eyes but you can see the rest of his face, see that he’s still smiling – you keep a close eye on his expression as you circle his rim teasingly, watching with rapt attention the way the smile disappears as he tenses with a soft sound that’s not quite a gasp before forcing himself to relax again.

“With women or men?” You keep it casual, careful to keep your voice unaffected, and he laughs again but it’s more disbelieving this time, pulls his legs up so his knees bracket you on either side.

“Yes.” Hui simply answers, and it’s your turn to laugh, your free hand smoothing soothing circles into his bare hip. You think he looks absolutely beautiful like this, spread out just for you and you alone, a small notch in his brow from the way his expression has twisted as you carefully slip your first finger in.

“You’re really cute like this, all vulnerable and naked for me.” You’re teasing him, testing the waters – from the way he flushes though, the little hitch upwards that his hips make, you think you might have just discovered something fun. “Hui, do you like me talking to you like that?”

He doesn’t answer you right away, moves his arm so he can look down at you between his legs. Something about it must get to him, because he just looks at you for a moment or two, like he was trying to imprint the visual in his mind.

“You can add another.” He says instead, all breathy and soft like you’d already ruined him, wrecked him into pieces. It’s incredibly endearing, you think, dropping your gaze to where his cock sits red and shiny and untouched against his lower stomach, a small mess of pre-cum already smeared onto his skin. That was also endearing.

“I’ve barely even stretched you yet..” Your disbelieving murmur is clearly heard by him, and you raise your gaze to meet his as you test the waters with a second finger. It’s definitely tight (tighter than you would have preferred, if only for his own safety), but Hui just moans and shifts his hips more towards you, digging into your pillow as he tips his head back. “Oh – Hui the size queen, huh? Is that it?”

He laughs, but it tapers off into a sound closer to a moan than anything else. “I don’t think I’ve ever been called that before.”

“Does it suit you?” You keep one hand splayed flat on one of his hips – he’s doing a wonderful job at not moving overly much, but by doing this you can feel every small tremor that goes through his body, can feel his muscles tense each time he forces himself to stay still. “If I end up fucking you one day am I going to have to make sure it’s sized big enough to totally wreck you?” Your question is coupled with an inquisitive upwards quirk of your fingers, and he nearly kicks you in surprise at the liquid arousal that floods through his body at the feeling. (You teasingly bite at his lower calf for it, and the soft sound he makes as you press your teeth into him is definitely something you file away for later.)

“I know you’re just teasing me, but -“ He licks his lips, tries to gather his focus again as you add a third finger. It burns in such an exquisite way that it’s hard to concentrate on anything else except for the current points of contact between you and him.

“Do you want me to stop?” A pause. “Hui, look at me.”

He obeys, meets your analyzing gaze and offers a slightly strained smile as he thinks about your question – though he doesn’t think for very long, a burst of wonderful, embarrassed heat curling across his chest and through his stomach when he lets his upper body drop back down to the bed, shaking his head ‘no’.

“Oh, Hwitaek..” You sound vaguely pitying, and he hates it, but he loves it. “You’re just a little boy who likes to be teased and humiliated, is that it?”

He feels so small with you talking to him like that, like his body was three sizes too big for his skin and he was burning up from the inside out – whenever the heat becomes too much all he has to do is open his eyes and see you looking at him (you’re always looking at him, and it takes his breath away because the way you watch him makes him feel like he’s something special, something that should be treasured) and suddenly everything was okay again. It was like you were the one stoking the flames of his desire, but you could also cause that blistering heat to ebb away whenever it became too much.

He realizes he hasn’t answered you yet and frantically nods, heart threatening to dissolve into something sticky and sweet at the way your expression softens.

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but we’re not going to delve too deep into that tonight without talking about it in more detail later.” He nods, because he really does understand (despite the slight burst of disappointment) and he appreciates that you want to talk out what his limits are first. “Besides, how am I supposed to talk to you like that when you’ve been so good for me this entire time? So pretty and vocal.”

He can’t help the whine that tears itself from his throat at your phrasing – it didn’t matter what you were saying to him anymore, every single word embedded itself into his skin and worked its way through his body like an electric shock.

“Oh? Sweet boy - are you an adorable whore for both degradation and praise?” He doesn’t even bother saying anything this time, just shuts his eyes tight - he knows you already know the answer, can read him so well it’s almost like his desires were written out on his skin in black ink. “That’s so cute. You’re just so responsive to everything, aren’t you? I love that - anything I say or do I’ll get a direct response to, won’t I, Hwitaek?” You wait until he nods, his eyes still shut, before taking the opportunity given to you. Your lips press a teasing kiss into the line of his pelvis, giggling softly against his skin when he gasps above you. “Yeah, just like that. So beautiful, Hui, and all for me.”

Yes, all for you he thinks, and even his thoughts are getting mixed up and hazy now because you’ve wrapped your fingers around him loosely and he is so slick already, the feeling of your thumb swiping across the head of his cock, tracing the lines of precum down the shaft to where they’ve collected on his skin causing his entire body to twitch in a mess of stimulation.

“Oh, baby, you’re so wet for me already.” He can’t focus on anything, can’t think of anything, hears your voice through the haze like it’s faraway and he’s drifting underwater. He tries to force himself to be more present, tries to physically drag himself out of those depths, but you’re cooing at him sweetly and running your fingers over his cock softly, and any amount of shame he might have felt at having fallen so far into this headspace is eradicated by the sugar-laced kisses you press into his side.

“You really can’t keep quiet, can you?” Your voice is sweet but laced with amusement, and you can feel the way he throbs in your hand at the slightly degrading comment. “You sound like you’re going to cum just from three of my fingers – are you, baby? You going to make a mess of yourself before we even get to do anything?”

“Fuck..” Hui’s entire body feels like it’s on fucking fire, and when you duck your head to suck a bruise onto the inside of his thigh it’s all he can do to keep from crying out even louder. You were right, he couldn’t keep quiet, his head swimming and his fingers curled so tightly into your sheets that he could barely feel them anymore. “I’m –  you’re –“ He can’t concentrate, can barely speak, and he knows his words come out more as whines anyway.

“Do you think it’ll be okay if you cum now?” You’ve stopped moving entirely and his whole body feels like it’s buzzing, his hips trying to rock back onto your fingers or up into your hand with no real success as the haze slowly recedes from his mind enough for him to be able to form full sentences

“Y-yeah.” He pushes himself up onto his forearms to be able to look down at you, groan catching in his throat when he sees the way you’re peering at him openly, watching him with beautiful eyes and a graceful flush on your face, one of your hands slick with his pre-cum and the other still wickedly deep. He’d never been more sure of the fact that he loved you than this exact moment. “If – if you give me a little bit afterwards, it’ll be fine.” He knows he sounds breathless and wrecked already, but you smile so sweetly at him anyway, like he was something precious to you, and he feels like the ground and the bed he was lying on had just suddenly disappeared at the sight.

And then you’re lowering your head and wrapping your lips around him and it’s all he can do to keep his eyes open – you hadn’t eased him into it, hadn’t given him any indication of your plans at all. One moment you were asking him about his refractory period and the next you were doing things with your tongue and mouth that he couldn’t even begin to fathom, your fingers once again brushing against that spot deep inside of him that has him keening.

He’s not going to last much longer; he knows that with a sudden certainty that has him trying to warn you but is more disjointed pleas for you to not stop than they are anything else.

One of his hands grasps for your shoulder blindly when he hits his peak, fingers curling into your skin as he spills himself onto your tongue. It’s blindingly hot and you can see the way he fights to keep his eyes open to watch, brow furrowed and mouth open almost like he was in some sort of pained ecstasy as you continue to finger-fuck him through it until he’s trembling.

When you stick your tongue out at him tauntingly and show him the mess he made Hui groans from deep within his chest like you’re torturing him, sits up abruptly and crashes his mouth into yours. It’s messy and dirty and he licks into your mouth aggressively, chasing all essence of himself off your tongue and onto his own with a moan that rattles your bones. You do your best to withdraw your fingers as gently as possible but he whimpers at the feeling anyway, drops his head to begin kissing a sloppy trail from your jaw down to your neck.

“You’re so dirty..” Your head is spinning and you feel short of breath - each time you inhale his chest knocks against yours as he heaves his own breaths, though he refuses to pull away from your skin for long enough for him to be able to recover as quickly. You think you feel him murmur a soft sound of agreement to your statement against your collarbone.

As soon as you can wrest a big enough part of yourself back under control you lean back, holding him securely away with your thumb and forefinger gripping his chin. Hui looks at you with an expression of wrecked reverence, the perfect picture of debauchery, and you know that right here, right now, at five something am in your bedroom, he would do literally anything you asked – that at this point in time it was no longer your room, with the window showing glimpses of the outside world, the sounds of cars going past. This place, this moment in time, it was now something disconnected and intangible, where he had given you explicit trust (perhaps foolishly, considering how inchoate your relationship was) to control and lead him. To take care of him in whatever way you see fit.

And you know that right here, right now, in this nebulous place that the two of you occupied, you would strive to make sure he never regretted giving you that permission.

“Hwitaek.” Your voice is breathier than you expected – you sounded like you’d been kissed hard. You sounded like you were in love. “Hwitaek, you are messy and crude – you are such a dirty boy, and you’ve hidden that from me for years.” He is hanging off your every word and you suddenly feel like you have a choice to make.

It’s one you don’t think about for more than a second, because you realize that you don’t need to.

“And, Hwitaek – you are so perfect for me.”

.｡..｡. .｡..｡.

“You know something?” Hui says it casually, out of nowhere, hand still rubbing nonsense patterns into the skin of your lower back after having crept underneath your shirt some twenty minutes ago just for the skin to skin contact. He’s not focused on anything else but relaxing in his bed at the dorm with you, thoughts about producing and writing lyrics and being a leader far from his mind.

“Hmm?” Your head rests on his chest, listening to his heartbeat – it’s a comforting sound, if not slightly faster than average, and when you close your eyes you can hear it mix with the soft (and sometimes not so soft) sound of some of his boys arguing or laughing or just living somewhere else in the dorm, outside his shut door.

He still hasn’t spoken so you lift your head and gaze at him, admire his features as he looks back at you with an expression so tender you’re almost afraid to have the weight of it on you. His hair is back to brown now, cut a bit shorter than before, and you stretch an arm out to run your fingers through it lazily, watch as he leans into it but keeps looking at you.

“I think you’re perfect for me, too.” His voice is warm, probably what sunshine would sound like if it was an auditory thing, and you blink at him in confusion for a few moments before you understand what he’s referencing, press your smile into his until it turns into a gentle, surging kiss.

It’s not quite an I love you, something adjacent to it, almost there but not exactly.

And neither of you say those words yet, just smile and look at each other and press kiss after sugared kiss into each other’s skin, interlace your fingers and marvel at the way affection seems to blossom for one another in both your ribcages at the simplest of actions.

The two of you weren’t in any rush. You had time.

[sugar-petals]

Can you tell us how to please a soft sub and hard sub? Like what could a guy enjoy?

it’s 95% individual, i’d ask + negotiate before ideas for play. i can suggest scenes but still, it might not be his limits. to remember is what differenciates the two: hard subs enjoy pain + power, soft subs don’t.

you can likely please the latter if you’re a gentle femdom aficionado. still depends on what kind of GFD you like, but you can grow into the role you agree on, shift. it’s a bit easier: fewer prerequisites. ofc there’s etiquette + talent, but you can please by tuning into the role pretty well. 

the former: not as flexible. there are set qualities. understand this as a ‘needed with good reason’ profile rather than gatekeeping. sadism is the requirement. no 50-50 zone, you feeling that you are a natural is key. your sub won’t be happy if you merely try it. it’s usually clear to a domme anyways, you either lick your fingers for s/m or not.

↳ as for specific kinks. what i can give you is a list of things to AVOID for each.💡it’s a roundabout way to see what he prefers and each sub’s a different case but it’s a compass.

✏︎ soft subs — don’ts

hair-pulling -> choose fondles and pats instead wherever he likes it the most.

name-calling -> praise is usually preferred

yelling -> whispering/soft-spoken, this is an asmr zone ☁️

hard spanking -> lighter squeezes

no squishy props -> use pillows, blankets, plushies if he wants. but, in any case, you’ll need pillows. can’t have enough of those.

tears -> only as a spontaneous release [during aftercare], most soft subs aren’t into dacryphilia

chaos -> soft subs love consistency. 

too much genitalia focus -> don’t forget the smooches and forehead kisses, and massages possibly. if he likes that, tend to seemingly neglegible body parts even, like ears and toes. boop the nose.

toy overwhelm -> back to basics, never forget he loves your hands. idea: choose pastels for color if you do get toys. dramatic black/red/metal is for the hardcore femdom department and suits the mood better. you likely have that preference already if you strictly soft dom.

breath play -> stick to neck kisses. mouth gags, same thing, he probably isn’t comfortable with it.

leaving marks -> 50-50, again, ask what kind you can and cannot leave. if he likes it, do 20% marks, 80% affection.

pragmatic, planned aftercare -> make it extensive + adapt easily. seems counterintuitive since hard subs take a lot more, but let me tell you soft subs think aftercare is literal catnip. if you’re a big brain domme, you transfer some aftercare favorites to the main act. also, about pragmatism: unlike with hard subs (see list below: #21), come up with a more fine-tuned safeword/limit system. these are play scenes where you can go into many different directions so that’s why. 

straightforward -> it’s no problem if you’re the indirect or shy type as a domme, it’s about careful questions toward him here. many soft subs approach their dommes well with wishes. ironically, hard subs are the other way around, they might anticipate more unless they’re very extroverted. the biggest hard subs were the quiet kiddos at school 😉 soft subs can be bubbly and reveal their demands rather easily.

deprioritize your orgasm -> make him tend to you in a lazy, slow demeanour. spoil each other.

all over the place -> stick to bedroom bed, bathtub and couch unless otherwise requested. the point is to have a safe and comfortable spot.

breaking him -> never push, always guide. again, consistency, no highs and lows.

suppressing critique -> he wants to know where to improve, show him exactly how to do things the right way and work with mistakes. not humiliating, more like teaching. 

dungeon -> keep it above ground. 

hands-on ownership -> show him he belongs to you in other ways. spoil him, that’s the best way.

high heels -> too impractical for 80% of GFD activities. fetish gear generally doesn’t work here. just mentioning, it’s probably already clear to everyone. and, purely soft dommes don’t gravitate towards dominatrix fashion in the first place.

passive -> unlike with hard subs, you likely do a lot of the work. soft dommes are busier than people expect.

atmosphere? -> switch on the fairy lights, candles, make it dim. make it as romantic as possible.

power imbalance -> air to breathe for any hard sub, but soft subs prefer flatter hierarchies. mind you, your position is still one of guidance. 

✏︎ hard subs — don’ts

tender voice > grit and growl in their ear aye

questions > proportion-wise, give more commands instead.

no tools -> introduce some devices according to your couple taste.

lenience -> tame that provocateur 😄 you define where his place is. show him, physically. under your foot, kneeling, bowing? find that perfect position for the two of you. 

only caressing > choke and slap him, but ask/announce right beforehand.

unbridled aggression -> misguided way of dominance unless it’s primal play. i know it’s more negatively connotated but deliberate brutality is the word, you exact it while keeping rather cool. unless... he fancies you as the angry mistress, or passionate, punishing. but then again, no aggression. just brutality. the difference is huge. the more sadistic the play, the more contained your action. not all understated, just very directed and according to how you spoke about it, and according to the feedback in front of you. you get perfect awareness, not dizzy tunnel vision and fluctuating feelings. i say brutality because it indicates a person knows what they’re doing. aggression and anger means you bottle your judgement. the brain switches off there, it gets too erratic. also, aggression is less severe and a means to an end while brutality is for its own sake and goes heavy which is what hard subs enjoy: since they’re masochists. aggressive and violent dommes are just assholes, brutal hard dommes... are good dommes. 😛

free reign clothes -> tell him what type of outfit makes him domme candy. experiment plenty. don’t worry, most hard subs enjoy being told what to wear. and even if they don’t, suggesting it won’t piss them off. also, you can get strict and exacting as fuck with this. hard subs want your possessiveness in creative ways.

plain undressed -> chances are CFNM could be a hot idea sometimes, or fetish wear which is often appreciated in all things hardcore. then again, dressing up is no must, but definitely try all-black outfits, suits etc, whatever makes you radiate authority and the upper hand. remember, hierarchy. your superiority is what he enjoys during sex, he actually gets confused if you don’t show it in your particular way. if it’s not clothes, it’s the voice, anyway. the voice lives in his head rent free.

no control -> full body attention, grope him the way he likes. also, the nape of his neck is where your hand belongs. guiding his head is just...mmh ❤️

monotony -> hard subs like a rollercoaster. roleplay = perfect opportunity.

static plans -> important: hard subs learn fast. since pain-pleasure is involved their sensations are more intense so feedback is usually unequivocal. mind you, soft subs can sort their preferences well but for them it takes exposure to variety.

what’s a nipple? -> pinching and more is most likely welcome. ask and test.

spoiling -> spoiling no. rewards, yes. he works for it. what does he work towards? pleasing you completely. in your body and commands.

shy domme -> when it comes down to it, you need to be resolute and eloquent. if you struggle with it, e.g. start with being stoic. pick your favorite pokerface and have a signature smirk lmao! and definitely do in-depth talks. yes, about his desires. unlike soft subs, some guys take more time to open up here. 

dry -> lube. keep it wet, especially his tear ducts anyway. 

unsure experiments/not knowing the outcome -> seriously tackle and prepare skills. yes, whip your pillow first. you can ‘try’ things with soft subs, but you ‘do’ things with hard subs. why? less room for errors. you please him by being precise. don’t let it intimidate you, simply take it as a responsibility he respects you greatly for.

heels -> hard subs might like that. plus, you’ll often simply stand. he does lots of the work. hard dommes can be more laid-back than you’d expect. remember, you kick his ass and give orders. he’s a pretty active party. exception: he’s tied up.

hesitation -> hard dommes have to be quick. especially since we edge a lot. also, never hesitate to praise.

forgetting skin -> stimulate large areas as much as you can.

unarmed -> chances are he likes knife play, ask about it.

too much caution and pampering -> an insult to his esteem. i’m not kidding. he feels in his element when you don’t hold back anxiously. trust his strength 😊 it’s a perk of femdom in the first place, you may be working on more muscles and often more space on the body, most maledoms don’t have that luxury. the same goes for safewording, keep it simple and applicable for the heat/reflex of the moment. it’s counterproductive to be overcautious since it makes it too complex.

the usual spot -> if he’s down: play everywhere, consider every room together. a cold and hard surface does something for a hard sub. as does rug burn if he likes that. make him do all kinds of things 100% naked on a carpet while you watch, it’s so humiliating. i did it, the result was my sub discovering even higher levels of sluttiness. 

suppression -> ask him to let it out vocally when he’s shy or not experienced. you’ll both love what follows. most hard subs are screamers. i hope you don’t have neighbors.

soft illumination -> use artificial light. not just to make your patient - doctor roleplay perfect, but because a hard domme needs to see what she’s doing for safety reasons already. use your (soy wax!) candles to ruin his back instead.

serious -> hardcore femdom is at its best when it’s peppered with little giggles. bring a feather just in case.

PS: these can even apply if they enjoy doing both, you have to match your tone according to the mood and plan then.

[maddiewritesstucky]

Call me maybe (but only during business hours)

A smutty gift for @raynakiasbel​, for her endless patience with my infuriatingly slow writing and inability to focus on one thing at a time! 

Pairing: Steve/Bucky

Rating: Explicit

Wordcount: 3308

Tags: CEO Steve, College Student Bucky, Poorly-Timed Phone Sex, Anal Fingering, Masturbation, Dirty Talk, Light Daddy Kink, Dom/Sub Undertones

Part 1 of the SugarVerse series on Ao3 

Bucky is most definitely not watching the clock.

His eyes have absolutely not been glued to the LED display on the bedside table for what feels like a hundred goddamn years, watching the little white lines form number after number, blinking their way into the formation that will mean he can pick up his phone, and call Steve.

That would be all kinds of pathetic, and Bucky is not that kind of boyfriend.

He’s certainly not the kind of boyfriend who’s already fixing to climb out of his skin on day three (three!) of Steve’s out-of-town business trip. Bucky is one of those autonomous, self-sufficient boyfriends, who is entirely too busy with his own obscenely full schedule to care about the fact that he’s not getting dicked down at his every whim this week.

He has midterms to study for, and hours to log at StarkTech to go towards his internship, and Nat’s surprise birthday party to plan even though she’s literally impossible to surprise…he doesn’t have the mental real estate to spare on thirst right now. He might have become a whole other kind of hoe since being exposed to the many splendors of Steve Rogers’ cock, but twitching for it before they’ve even hit the seventy-two hour mark?

That would be highly problematic, if that was happening.

Which it isn’t.

Bucky is well accustomed to flying solo when Steve’s off in corporate alter-ego mode; he’s done this countless times over the past few months since he moved in with Steve, and he’d made his peace with it long before that. You don’t couple up with the CEO of an internationally renowned architecture firm and expect to see his face at the dinner table every night, and for the most part, Bucky has no complaints about having the stupidly plush bed all to his starfishing self a few nights a month.

It’s just...there’s a method to this, usually. And that method does not involve three entire days of near radio silence.

When Steve goes away, even on his busier trips, he always finds time to call Bucky at least once a day, even if it’s just five minutes as he’s crawling into bed to say goodnight. They’ll text, and Steve will send emails that are endearingly formal because his brain tends to stay in CEO-mode 24/7 when he’s on business trips, and they’ll generally tide one another over with tidbits of cyber-affection until they get back in the same physical space.  

But this time? They’ve hardly been in contact at all. And it’s on Bucky, too, at least in part - he’s been swamped with his own workload the past few weeks, struggling to find quality time or head space even in the few days just before Steve left, and all they’ve managed so far is a few sporadic messages in their rare moments of down-time, which have so far been chaotically misaligned.

It’s been a drag, if Bucky’s honest, and he can occupy himself all he wants with his exam prep and his party-plotting, but at the end of the day…

Bucky’s just a boy, laying in front of a clock, asking his dick to hold out just a few more minutes.

Because right now, it’s 10:42pm.

It’s 10:42pm, which means that in exactly three minutes, Steve will be sliding into the crisp white sheets of whatever lavish hotel bed he’s being put up in; buck-ass naked because he’s as stringent on his no-pyjamas policy as he is on his bed time, and in exactly three minutes…

Bucky’s gonna call him, and phone-fuck the soul right out of his offensively perfect body.

He flips onto his back and nestles into the pillows, a dumb grin already fixing to his face in his hormone-fuelled stupor. The lights of the city outside the floor-to-ceiling penthouse windows bathe his naked skin in soft orange-gold, and his hand migrates of its own accord to the semi he’s been rocking ever since it occurred to him that he could just straight up call Steve and spring a jerk-sesh on him.

The whole thing feels deliciously sneaky-skanky. He’s never done this before, just cold-called Steve with an x-rated agenda. They’ve had phone sex before, a great many times in fact, but there’s always a lead-in; a text exchange turned sordid that spirals into a video call straight out of Bucky’s horny teenage fantasies. 

But he’s never gone in jizz-first, ask-questions-later, and as certain as he is that Steve will be entirely on board, it feels just risky enough to have Bucky a little high off the adrenaline of it.

Here lies Bucky, Queen of the Sluts! Stretched out bare atop cream colored sheets, lit up by the New York skyline! Dick in hand and filth on the tip of his tongue!

He is power! He is scandal! He is ready for this!

He pulls the lube out from its hiding place under the pillow and slicks himself up, stroking slow as he tries to summon some small measure of nonchalance about the whole thing. He has a vision for how he wants this to go, and it does not involve him losing his cool the second he hears Steve’s voice on the other end of the line.

This is about seduction, about surprising Steve with some old-school nasty, no video or visuals involved - just Bucky’s filthy mouth and vivid imagination, and he’s determined to keep it together long enough to paint Steve a picture he can jack it to.

He pulls up Steve’s contact and waits out the final torturous minute with his heart in his throat, hitting the call button the second it ticks over to go-time. He hits the speakerphone button, dropping the phone onto the pillow next to him, and holds his breath through the four rings it takes for Steve to pick up.

“...James?”

And oh, but that bodes well...Steve uses his real name in two contexts, and two contexts only - when Bucky visits him at work and he’s in business mode, and when he’s got Bucky flat on his back underneath him, letting him have it.

If Steve’s already keyed up tonight? This just got a lot more interesting.

“Mm, there it is,” Bucky heaves a deep sigh, “that’s what I needed, that voice...”

His mind’s eye conjures up visions of Steve spread out across the bed, taut lines of muscle and bare flesh all laid out. He’s probably just had a shower, so his skin would be all warm and pink, smelling like soap and aftershave; his hair all fluffy from that irreverent way he has of rubbing it towel-dry...god, Bucky misses him.

“James? Are you alright?”

He can practically hear Steve’s brows drawing together in that way they do when he’s overworked; a tight-wound tension in his voice that Bucky has every confidence he can allay before the night’s through.

“Mm, be a lot better if it was your hand wrapped around my cock right now,” Bucky drawls, rolling his body for his audience of no one, “but I guess I’ll just have to settle for fucking my fist to the sound of your voice. Can you hear me touching myself, Daddy?”

He breathes a soft groan as he strokes himself slick and languid, and Steve is silent for a long moment that Bucky’s brain is all too happy to color in with pornographic images of how Steve might be listening; where his hands might be wandering, how his cock would be filling at the mental picture Bucky’s painting. Bucky thinks this might just be the best idea he’s ever had, and he doesn’t hold back on letting Steve hear exactly how good he’s feeling about his decision...

...Until Steve clears his throat, and unceremoniously hits him with an ice-cold dousing of you-done-fucked-up.

“I’m in a meeting right now, I have two clients with me.”  

There is zero inflection in his tone, and if Bucky thought he had experienced true panic before, he was mistaken. He can physically feel himself paling; his mouth dropping open soundlessly, humiliation warring with plain confusion as to why the hell Steve is still working at this ridiculous hour.

And then it clicks.

Horribly, harrowingly clicks.

Steve isn’t working at stupid o’clock at night.

In the perpetual haze of Bucky’s overworked brain and Steve’s ever-changing schedule, Bucky had forgotten that this trip was taking Steve to Hawaii.

For Steve, it isn’t slutty phone-sex hours. It’s very sensible, 4:45pm strictly-business hours.

“Ohmygod,” Bucky gasps, bolting upright and looking desperately around the room like it might hold the solution to his colossal screw up, “Steve, I completely forgot--”

“Mr Barnes, I can give you exactly two minutes of my time right now because I realize it’s been difficult to touch base recently,” Steve interrupts, his tone cooling abruptly with the air of professional detachment and veiled authority Bucky’s heard him use on work calls a thousand times. “Can you tell me exactly what the issue is with the redesign?”

...Bucky blinks, breath caught in his throat as he scrambles to string together some sense from Steve’s response.

Steve hasn’t mentioned any specific projects lately, is Bucky supposed to know something about a redesign? Was there something he--

Oh.

Oh.

His brain and his dick catch on at the same time in a borderline painful rush of blood. He hears Steve pull back from the phone to address his clients, placating them with an apology and the assurance that this won’t take long, and Jesus Christ...Steve is actually doing this.

Steve is actually going to let this happen, going to let Bucky have one-sided phone sex with him while he sits there in some boardroom, with actual clients sitting right in front of him.

What the fuck.

Bucky’s breath leaves him in a rush as he drops back against the pillows and wraps a frantic hand around himself. “The issue is you’ve been gone three fucking days and I wanna sit on your face.”

“Mm, I see why that’s problematic,” Steve muses, cool and unaffected, “what exactly do you need from me?”

God, Bucky can just picture it - Steve sitting there looking like a fucking wet dream in one of his distractingly well-fitting suits, with his hair swept perfectly over and his beard trimmed just close enough to show off the sharp cut of his jaw; radiating that air of quiet authority that makes Bucky want to bounce in his lap until he dies...

Bucky knows for a fact that Steve’s face will be betraying precisely none of what’s happening on the other end of the line, and why the hell is that such a turn on?

“Well I was gonna describe in graphic detail all the things I want you to do to me when you get back,” Bucky huffs, breaths coming faster already, “but if I’m on the clock now, guess I’ll have to settle for sayin’ I need you to bring that dick home ASAP...fuckin’ miss it.”

“I see,” Steve sighs, “well I’m not back in New York for a few days yet, how do you plan to manage this in the interim?”

Bucky curses under his breath, tightening his grip on himself. “Just have to fuck myself, imagine it’s you.”  He sounds every bit as unconvinced of the efficacy of this plan as they both know he is, and Steve hums thoughtfully in response.

“I’m going to need more detail, paint me a picture here.”

Bucky knows he’s blushing, feels the heat of it all the way down his chest, and fuck this shouldn’t be as hot as it is. Dirty talking at Steve and getting nothing back but clipped responses, void of emotion and the usual undercurrent of affection he’s become accustomed to?

Work-Steve needs to come to the bedroom more often.

“I’ll touch myself, like I’m doing right now,” he twists his grip a little on the upstroke, hissing at the change in sensation, “get my fist all wet and tight around my cock...pretend it’s your mouth.”

How close are Steve’s clients sitting to him? Steve wouldn’t be letting this happen if there was any way they could hear...but what if one of them has some kind of medical condition that gives them enhanced hearing? What if one of them can read minds and is hearing this entire conversation play out in stereo quality in their head?

Why is there a part of Bucky that hopes one or both of those things are true?!

“...And?” Steve prompts, almost brusque, and Bucky gives himself a second to revel in the way his dick twitches for the hard edge in Steve’s voice.

“And I’ll, fuck- ” Bucky stutters, rocking his hips with the rhythm of his strokes, pushing himself up through his grip, “I’ll use my toys, fingerfuck myself.”

“Right, well why don’t you go ahead and start that for me now,” Steve says, off-hand; pulling back from the phone to place an honest-to-god coffee order with the oblivious intern who’s now seemingly in the room too, and Bucky’s never felt more of an affinity for the whole bored-and-ignored thing.  

He slicks up the fingers of his free hand and shifts a little onto his side, hiking a knee up as he slips a finger inside himself.

“Can I take that as a yes, Mr Barnes?” Steve asks at the breathy moan Bucky lets out as he presses in first with one, and then with two fingers, and Bucky nods frantically even though Steve can’t see him.

“Yes, fuck...I'm doin' it...feels so fucking good, Steve.”

And it does. It’s a difficult angle, and he can't quite hit the spot he wants to inside himself, but the steady stroke-tug against his rim while his fist flies over his cock is working for him; winding him towards what would, in any other non time-constrained circumstance, be an embarrassingly fast orgasm.

He can hear Steve shuffling papers, making quiet sounds of agreement along with whatever conversation is going on in the background between his clients whilst they wait, unknowing, and Bucky can’t decide whether it’s a blessing or an immense disappointment that Steve has to bite his tongue right now; that he can’t unleash any of the filth he’d definitely be spitting if he didn’t have an audience. 

Steve fucking loves to run his mouth, and Bucky loves to hear it; lives for the endlessly colorful obscenities Steve comes out with in the throws of it.

Just listen to you, he’d be laughing a little; his voice dripping with that indulgent, self-satisfied grin he gets, so goddamn easy for it, ain’t that right baby? Three fuckin’ days and you’re gagging for it...should be ashamed of yourself…

But Steve is in a very public forum right now, in the middle of a meeting no less, trying to give the impression that he’s very decidedly not having phone sex. Right now, he’s Steve Rogers - CEO, consummate professional.

But he is also an asshole, and when he asks Bucky “do you feel you have a firm grasp on the situation, or would a second set of hands be helpful on this one?” Bucky swears he can hear that faint hint of a smirk all the way across the fucking country.

“Might just have to go find myself a second set of hands if you stay away too long,” Bucky retorts, emboldened by the distance, and a little morbidly curious to see what sassing gets him when Steve can’t say shit about it.

Turns out, what it gets him is a full-body shiver and a throb between his thighs as Steve’s tone dips to somewhere in the realm of politely-veiled threat. “I would not advise that, Mr Barnes.”

It occurs to Bucky, then, that this won’t just be done and dusted once they hang up. At the end of the week, Steve will come back to New York, and he will absolutely have some Things To Say about this little interruption.

He can picture it now, the way Steve will stand there all calm, staring him down with his mouth upticked at the corner while Bucky fumbles his way through an explanation. 

He’ll probably do that thing where he doesn’t say much but his eyes say everything, and Bucky will have to try really hard to seem remorseful even though they’ll both know he’s not actually all that sorry. And Steve won’t want him to be, not really, but it’ll be something he can use to their mutual benefit, nonetheless.

Fuck, Steve might spank him.

Bucky smothers a moan into the pillow next to him, twisting his fingers inside himself and brushing his thumb across the head of his cock as he turns that thought over, Steve bending him over his knee, or better yet, over his desk...

“Oh,” Bucky gasps, a sudden rush of heat twisting tight in his gut, “fuck, I’m gonna come.”

Steve huffs a vaguely incredulous laugh, and there’s a faint creaking sound like he’s settling further back in his chair. “Oh really? Who authorized that?”  

Bucky lets out a deeply undignified whine, his whole body strung tight enough to snap; caught between the sensations of his hand moving frantically over his dick and his fingers scissoring inside himself.

“Come on,” he whimpers, teetering on the knife edge of losing it, “tell me I can finish, please.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”

Oh, fuck him, fuck him...how is he still edging Bucky when he was the one who put the rush order on this?

“Please, Daddy,” Bucky doesn’t try to hide the desperation in his voice as he changes tact, “if you don’t authorize this orgasm I think I’m gonna go blind, just fucking let me come!”

Steve pauses a beat, humming a considering sound. “No, I’m not comfortable signing off on that. We’re tabling this until I get back to New York.”

Bucky freezes, both hands stilling; his face crumbling into a mask of abject disbelief.  “You can’t be serious?”  His stomach drops, even as something in the back of his mind says he really should have seen this coming...or, not coming, as is the case.

“I'm sure we can come to a far more satisfying resolution in person,” Steve says, maddeningly cavalier.

Bucky’s gearing up to plead his case, but Steve’s not done ruining his night yet.

“In fact, Mr Barnes,” he piles on, “I’d like to make you personally responsible for ensuring no further action is taken on the matter until I return. Can I trust you with this?”

Bucky gapes down at his poor, oblivious cock still standing at eager attention in his grasp, unaware of the disaster that’s just befallen them, and he takes his hands off himself with a pained groan.

“This is criminal,” he objects, flopping heavily onto his back and throwing his arms out to his sides, “if my dick falls off, it’s your fault!”

“Great! Glad to hear it,” Steve chirps, as if he's not the worst person alive, “I’ll be in touch.”

“Whatever,” Bucky scowls at the shadows stretching across the ceiling, willing his mind off the throbbing ache of injustice between his thighs, “I’m totally not answering any of your calls.”

Steve’s smile bleeds into his tone a little when he responds, the closest he’s come to fondness yet. “Okay, speak soon, Mr Barnes.”

Bucky tries, really tries, to inject some petulance into his tone as he signs off with a grumbled “love you, I guess,” but he can’t quite bring himself to sulk as much as he feels the situation warrants.

After all, in exactly four days, Steve will come back to New York.

He’ll come home, and they’ll laugh about this, and in exactly four days…

Steve will make him forget what he was even upset about in the first place.

(Part 2 of the series here!)

[imdoingthismspaintadventure]

Worm 2.2 - In which we browse a superhero forum

The run had helped to wake me up, as did the hot shower and a cup of the coffee my dad had left in the pot.  Even so, the fatigue didn’t help the feeling of disorientation over just how normal the day seemed as I made my way to school.  Just a matter of hours ago, I had been in a life and death fight, I had even met Armsmaster.  Now it was a day like any other.

Yeah, I’d be suprised if you pay any attention to anything they teach at school today. The feeling of coming back to normality and routine after that must be something else

I felt a bit nervous as I got to homeroom.  Having basically skipped two classes the previous Friday, failing to turn in a major assignment, I figured that Mrs. Knott probably knew already.  I didn’t feel relieved when Mrs. Knott glanced up at me and gave a tight smile before turning her attention back to her computer.  That just meant the humiliation would be redoubled if and when class was interrupted by someone coming down from the office.  A part of me just wanted to miss this class too, just to avoid the potential humiliation and avoid drawing attention.

Ugh, falling out of schedule and/or failing classes because of the bullying is rough as hell. Keeping your grades acceptable can be used as escapism from your own thoughts in these kinds of situations and if that starts falling apart too... what’s keeping you in school at all?

If you start missing classes it can quickly slowball into full-on not attending class at all.

All in all, I felt anxious as I made my way to my computer, which kind of sucked because Computer class was one of the few parts of the school day I didn’t usually dread.  For one thing, it was the one class in which I was doing well.  More to the point, neither Madison, Sophia nor Emma were in this class, though some of their friends were.  Those girls didn’t usually feel the need to harass me without the trio around, and I was further removed from them because I was in the advanced stream of the class.  A good three quarters of the people in the room were computer illiterate, being from families that didn’t have the money for computers or families that didn’t have much interest in the things, so they practiced typing without looking at the keyboard and had lessons in using search engines.  By contrast, I was in the group that was learning some basic programming and spreadsheets.  It didn’t do a lot for my already geeky reputation, but I could deal.

Oh interesting that Taylor’s favourite class is Computer Science! I am studying to be a Software Engineer myself! Nice!

It’s good that those three aren’t in every class, so you at least get some moments of respite from their bullshit. That’s good.

We never had the basic kind of keyboard-training classes and all that. Is computer science taught early in America? Here we basically don’t learn anything until we are like 16 or 17 at the very least.

Mrs. Knott was an alright teacher, if not the most hands on; she was usually content to give us advanced students an in-class assignment and then focus on the more rambunctious majority for the rest of the class. This suited me just fine – I usually wrapped up the assignment in a half hour, leaving me an hour to use as I saw fit.  I had been recalling and going over the events of the previous night during my morning run, and the first thing that I did when the ancient desktop finished its agonizing load process was to start digging for information.

Lucky you! Assignments stress me out a lot, generally. I wish I could just do them easy-peasy like that. Although I suspect Taylor’s are much simpler, just because of her age and school education vs college.

The go-to place for news and discussion on capes was Parahumans Online. The front page had constant updates on recent, international news featuring capes.  From there, I could go to the wiki, where there was information on individual capes, groups and events, or to the message boards, which broke down into nearly a hundred sub-boards, for specific cities and capes.  I opened the wiki in one tab, then found and opened the message board for Brockton Bay in another.

Ok I love this. I love this a lot.

This is one of the most realistic things the serial has done so far. Also one of the most fun. If superheroes were real, you bet your ass there would be forums about them, probably more than one. With hourly threads and a lot of speculation and debate.

I imagine there would be like a serious one with strict rules for talking about world events relating to capes, like if it was the news. Cause they aren’t just a tv show or a videogame, they have a real impact in the daily lives of people everywhere.

There would also be whole fanclubs or communities for each super-group and for each city/country, where they talk about the popularity, newcomers, fights, etc...

I can also see entire pages dedicated to romantic relationships or rumors, fanarts, conspiracies, versus battles (who would win?) etc....

Basically, supers being real would absolutely reshape the whole internet forever.

I had the sense that either Tattletale or Grue were the leader of the group I had run into.  Turning my attention to Tattletale, I searched the wiki.  The result I got was disappointingly short, starting with a header reading “This article is a stub.  Be a hero and help us expand it.”  There was a one sentence blurb on how she was a alleged villain active in Brockton Bay, with a single blurry picture.  The only new information for me was that her costume was lavender.  A search of the message boards turned up absolutely nothing.  There wasn’t even a hint as to what her power was.

Grue seemed the one calling the shots, but I could also see Tattletale as a short of “shadow leader” type, yeah...

Tattletale has almost nothing about her in her page! That’s very interesting. So she’s very secretive or at least good at hiding information about herself...

Heh, ironic that the Tattletale is the one who keeps secrets. I like the name she picked.

I looked up Grue.  There was actually information about him, but nothing detailed or definitive.  The wiki stated he had been active for nearly three years, dealing in petty crimes such as robbing small stores and doing some work as an enforcer for those who wanted a little superpowered muscle along for a job.  Recently, he had turned to higher scale crime, including corporate theft and robbing a casino, together with his new team.  His power was listed as darkness generation in the sidebar under his picture.  The picture seemed crisp enough, but the focus of it, Grue, was just a blurry black silhouette in the center.

So Grue is an experienced criminal! Somewhat at least. Three years of experience is certainly better than one night!

He was doing low-level crimes until recently, when he adquired his new team, and they seem to be doing big heists now! How did Grue find the others? Seems like a pretty big increase in notoriety and strength in a short time!

Darkness generation....that could potentially be very cool. I wonder if it can be used offensively, like fire with Lung. I always imagine the darkness element (when used as blasts the same way they use fire, in some media) to feel like being devoured by some parasite, like if darkness ravages and devours you. Light on the other hand just scours and obliterates everything it touches. At least those are my headcanons for the more esoteric elements.

I searched for Bitch, next.  No results.  I did another search for her more official title, Hellhound, and got a wealth of information.  Rachel Lindt had never made any real attempt to hide her identity.  She had apparently been homeless through most of her criminal career, just living on the streets and moving on whenever police or a cape came after her.  The sightings and encounters with the homeless girl ended around a year ago – I figured that was when she joined forces with Grue, Tattletale and Regent.  The picture in the sidebar was taken from surveillance camera footage – an unmasked, dark haired girl who I wouldn’t have called pretty.  She had a squarish, blunt-featured face with thick eyebrows.  She was riding atop one of her monstrous ‘dogs’ like a jockey rides a horse, down the middle lane of a street.

Huh, so Bitch, or Rachel, had never had a secret identity or a secret life! Seems like her cape and normal life are one and the same! She was homeless and running from one place to another, along with her giant eldritch dogs.

I assume they took her into the group and she prefers it to being alone and without a place to be.

According to the wiki entry, her powers manifested when she was fourteen, followed almost immediately by her demolishing the foster home she had been living in, injuring her foster mother and two other foster children in the process.  This was followed by a two year series of skirmishes and retreats across Maine as various heroes and teams tried to apprehend her, and she either defeated them or successfully evaded capture.  She had no powers that would have made her any stronger or faster than the average Jane, but she was apparently able to turn ordinary dogs into the creatures I had seen on the rooftop.  Monsters the size of a car, all muscle, bone, fang and claw.  A red box near the bottom of the page read, “Rachel Lindt has a public identity, but is known to be particularly hostile, antisocial and violent.  If recognized, do not approach or provoke.  Leave the area and notify authorities as to her last known location.”  At the very bottom of the page was a list of links that were related to her:  two fansites and a news article relating to her early activities.  A search of the message boards turned up too many results, leaving me unable to sift through the crap, the arguments, the speculation and the villain worship to find any genuine morsels of information.  If nothing else, she was notorious.  I sighed and moved on, making a mental note to do more investigation when I had the time.

Damn, can she control her powers all that well? Or at least, at that time? Cause that sounds to me like the type of situation where her newly-found powers go out of control and cause problems.

She had a foster-home, but then had to run away from the people she hurt ,the authorities, heroes and everyone! And she lived two years like that! No wonder she is antisocial now, jesus.

Also she can apparently turn any dog into those boney creatures of death. Wow. Depending on where she is, she could be incredibly powerful in a fight!

She also seems to be the most famous one so far, having even online admirers and fansites about her exploits. Interesting. She seems to be dangerous though, as she is said to be violent to everyone she meets.

The last member of the group was Regent.  Given what Armsmaster had said about the guy being low profile, I didn’t expect to find much.  I was surprised to find less than that.  Nothing.  My search on the wiki turned up only a default response, “There are no results matching this query.  32 unique IP addresses have searched the Parahumans.net Wiki for ‘Regent’ in 2011.  Would you like to create the page?”  The message board didn’t turn up anything else.  I even did a search for alternate spellings of his name, such as Regence and Recant, in case I had heard it wrong.  Nothing turned up.

Woah, if Tattletale had little to no information, this guy is straight-up a nonentity! Absolutely hidden from the public eye!

We don’t even know his powers, story or place within the group. How fascinating.

If my mood had been on the sour side as I got to homeroom, the dead ends only made it worse.  I turned my attention to the in-class assignment, making a working calculator in Visual Basic, but it was too trivial to distract me.  The work from Thursday and Friday had already given us the tools to do the job, so it was really just busywork.  I didn’t mind learning stuff, but work for the sake of doing work was annoying.  I did the bare minimum, checked it for any bugs, moved the file to the ‘completed work’ folder and returned to surfing the web.  All in all, the work barely took fifteen minutes.

You at least get experience and speed in doing these kinds of things! And calculators can be fun to program!

Also yeah, having nothing to do and being able to use the internet the rest of the class is pretty sweet!

I looked up Lung on the wiki, which I had done often enough before, as part of my research and preparation for being a superhero.  I’d wanted to be sure I knew who prominent local villains were and what they could do.  The search for ‘Lung’ redirected to a catch-all page on his gang, the ABB, with quite a bit of detailed information.  The information on Lung’s powers was pretty in line with my own experience, though there was no mention of the super-hearing or him being fireproof.  I debated adding it, but decided against it.  There were security concerns with my submission being tracked back to Winslow High, and then to me.  I figured it would probably be deleted as unsupported speculation, anyways.

They are really underselling Lung huh. No wonder Taylor was suprised about how OP he could be! And yeah better not to edit anything in a trackable device, or without any solid source for that matter.

The section beneath the description of Lung and his powers covered his subordinates.  He was estimated to have forty or fifty thugs working for him across Brockton Bay, largely drawn from the ranks of Asian youth.   It was pretty unconventional for a gang to include members of the variety of nationalities that the ABB did, but Lung had made it a mission to conquer and absorb every gang with Asian members and many without.  Once he had the manpower he needed, the non-Asian gangs were cannibalized for assets, their members discarded.  Even though there were no more major gangs in the east end of town to absorb, he was still recruiting zealously.  His method, now, was to go after anyone older than twelve and younger than sixty.  It didn’t matter if you were a gang member or not.  If you were Asian and you lived in Brockton Bay, Lung and his people expected you to either join or to pay tribute one way or another.  There had been local news reports on it, newspaper articles, and I could remember seeing signs in the guidance counselor’s office detailing where people who were targeted in this way could go for help.

He seemed to want to grow quickly by recruiting every asian person in Brockton Bay, cape or not! And if you were Asian, you would have heard of his band and their threats or extortion.

You are partly responsible for the capture of one mayor threat to the safety of the citizens of Brockton Bay. You did great last night, Taylor!

Lung’s lieutenants were listed as Oni Lee and Bakuda.  I already had some general knowledge about Oni Lee, but I was intrigued to see there were recent updates to his wiki entry.  There were specific details on his powers:  He could teleport, but when he did so, he didn’t disappear.  As he teleported, his original self, for lack of a better term, would stay where it was and remain active for five to ten seconds before disintegrating into a cloud of carbon ash.  Essentially, he could create another version of himself anywhere nearby, while the old version could stick around long enough to distract or attack you.  If that wasn’t scary enough, there was an report of him holding a grenade in his hand as he repeatedly duplicated himself, with his short lived duplicates acting as suicide bombers.  Topping it all off, Oni Lee’s wiki page  had a similar red warning box to the one that Bitch/Hellhound had on hers, minus the bit about his public identity.  From what they knew about him, authorities had seen fit to note him a sociopath.  The warning covered the same essential elements: exceedingly violent, dangerous to approach, should not be provoked, and so on.  I glanced at his picture.  His costume consisted of a black bodysuit with a black bandoleer and belt for his knives, guns and grenades.  The only color on him was an ornate Japanese-style demon mask, crimson with two green stripes down either side.  Except for the mask, his costume gave off the distinct impression of a ninja, which just added weight to the notion that this was a guy who could and would slide a knife between your ribs.

Oni Lee sounds like a mayor fucking threat! The ability to teleport-shadow clone yourself multiple times to get to a thousand places quickly AND leave behind copies who could stab, shoot you or even blow themselves up seems really really dangerous.

And he’s a sociopath to boot! You were lucky he wasn’t there last night, he could have probably just teleported to the roof and knifed you.

Bakuda was a new entry, added to the ABB wiki page just ten days ago. The picture only showed her from the shoulders up, a girl with straight black hair, large opaque goggles over her eyes and a metal mask with a gas mask styled filter covering the lower half of her face.  A braided cord of black, yellow and green wires looped over one of her shoulders. I couldn’t pinpoint her ethnicity with the mask and goggles, and her age wasn’t any easier to figure out.

This was the bomb expert, right?

She looks menacing with that setup, which is probably true! Her powers also sounds really worrying!

The wiki had a lot of the same details Armsmaster had mentioned to me.   Bakuda had essentially held a university ransom and she did it with her superhuman ability to design and fabricate high tech bombs.  There was a link to a video titled ‘Bomb Threat @ Cornell’, but I didn’t think it wise to play it in school, especially without headphones.  I made a mental note to check it out when I got home.

Damn, she was basically a domestic terrorist back then!

It’s probably not a good idea to play a bomb threat at a school IN a school, you’re right.

The next thing that caught my eye was the section heading titled ‘Defeats and Captures’.  I scrolled down to read it.  According to the wiki, Lung had apparently suffered a number of minor defeats at the hands of various teams, ranging from the Guild to the local teams of New Wave, the Wards and the Protectorate, but consistently managed to evade capture until last night.  A blurb read, ‘ Armsmaster successfully ambushed and defeated the leader of the ABB, who was weakened from a recent encounter with a rival gang.  Lung was taken to the PHQ for holding until the villain’s trial by teleconference.  Given Lung’s extensive and well documented criminal history, it is expected he will face imprisonment in the Birdcage should he be found guilty at trial.’

Huh, so he WAS bested before! Just not captured! He always evaded prison, until now thanks to Taylor and co.!

Or thanks only to Armsmaster, according to the official story, which to be fair, is what they agreed upon.

The birdcage? What is that, some sort of super-prison like The Raft, Blackgate, Impel Down in One Piece...

Is that place safe? Cause prisons and jail breaks are pretty synonymous in comics

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  I wasn’t sure what to think.  By all rights, I should have been angry that Armsmaster took the credit for the fight that could have cost me my life.  Instead, I felt a building excitement.  I felt like shaking the shoulder of the guy sitting next to me and point to the screen, saying, “Me, I made that possible!  Me!”

Hehe. Excited and happy Taylor is just the best.

With a renewed enthusiasm, I switched tabs to the message board and began looking to see what people were saying about it.  A post by a fan or minion of Lung threatened violence against Armsmaster.  There was a request by someone asking for more information on the fight.  I was given pause by one post that asked whether Bakuda could or would use a large scale bomb and the threat of potentially thousands or hundreds of thousands dead, to ransom Lung back.

Eeash, seems Arms was right about the consequences of this!

That Bakuda threat is really scary

I tried to put that out of my mind.  If it happened, it would be the responsibility of heroes better and more experienced than I.

True, you can’t carry everything on your shoulders.

It struck me that there was one person I hadn’t looked for.  Myself.  I opened up the advanced search page for the Parahumans.net message board and did a search for multiple terms.  I included insect, spider, swarm, bug, plague, and a mess of other terms that had struck me when I had been trying to brainstorm a good hero name.  I narrowed the timeframe of posts to search for posts made within the past 12 hours and hit Search.

Huh, I don’t think you would find that much honestly. I mean, fight aside, you were pretty stealthy on your way in, and the only people who directly met you are the fire dragon currently going to jail, a couple of mooks without their boss, a group of very cryptic teenage villains and the superhero who was going to keep you hidden sooo yeah.

Also kinda hard to search for yourself without having decided on a name yet!

My efforts turned up two posts.  One referred to a villain called Pestilence, active in the UK.  Apparently Pestilence was one of the people who could use ‘magic’.  That is, he was if you believed magic was real, and not just some convoluted or deluded interpretation of a given set of powers.

Pestilence sounds awesome as an insect-power name. One of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse!

Huh, so there are powers that seem more “magical” and others that are more “technological”. Nice.

The second post was in the ‘Connections’ section of the message board, where rescued damsels left their contact information for their dashing heroes, where conventions and fan gatherings were organized and where people posted job offers for capes and the cape-obsessed.  Most were cryptic or vague, referring to stuff only the people in question would know.

That is a nice system to have, to contact people anonymously.

The message was titled, simply, “Bug”

Oh

Well damn, seems someone did notice you

I clicked it and waited impatiently for the outdated system and overloaded school modem to load up the page.  What I got was brief.

Subject: Bug

Owe you one.  Would like to repay the favor.  Meet?

Send a message,

Tt.

OH

IT’S TATTLETALE.

IT’S THE TEENAGE VILLAINS REACHING OUT TO HER AFTER THE LAST FIGHT.

This opens up so many possibilites oh my god

The post was followed by two pages of people commenting.  Three people suggested it was something important, while a half dozen more people decried them as tinfoil hats, Parahumans.net’s term for conspiracy theorists.

Hah! I imagine a message like that would cause speculation even in OUR reality! Considering Taylor’s the protag, those tinfoil hats may be on to something there...

It was meaningful, though.  I couldn’t interpret it any other way; Tattletale had found a way to get in contact with me.

She sure has!

So now both Arms and Tattletale have contacted her, both with offers maybe! Damn, she sure got popular after that one night!

Oh, oooh

What if they offer her to join them?

And what if she accepts?

Oh god the story could go in a wildly different direction now. I hadn’t even considered that in my list of possibilities!

It seems at odd with her desire to be a hero, so maybe not.... But what if?

I’m liking where this is going.

[yobaba30]

Brace yourself, dear reader, for today’s topic is rage. Not just any garden-variety rage, but its narcissistic kind, one of the darkest and most destructive manifestations of our Shadow.

A narcissist’s rage is always there, sometimes barely under the surface, sometimes hovering above it in the form of sadistic cruelties dispensed casually without specific reason, just because (that stupid dog was in my way, you are so fat and ugly, only idiots park their cars in this spot, and no one talks to me like that — any or no reason would do). There are, however, solid enough explanations of its existence.

You may have heard of Donald Trump’s very bad day the other Tuesday — or rather what would have been a very bad day for any normal person / presidential candidate confronted with his inaccuracies and lies. For Donald, however, it was just Tuesday as usual, complete with playing the Perpetual Victim™ of the Cruel and Unforgiving Press, and humiliating people who dared to question him about these pesky things known as facts.

The sordid as usual spectacle was instructive, as is everything else coming from the man, in the dynamics of narcissistic pathology.

First, the bombast. His over-the-top pronouncements about his huuuge charitable efforts are meant to shock and awe the audience into unquestioning submission.

Second, should any audience member retain his or her bearings and still manage to persist in their questioning, next comes the unloading of the massive victimhood complex designed to cow them into silence filled, presumably, with commiseration and appreciation for the Put Upon Donny and His Unique Suffering (and, oh, how he suffers! only a narcissist can suffer so — you mere mortals / losers cannot possibly comprehend it).

Third — since, remarkably enough, the first two options did not quite work, a sign perhaps that some of the press members are growing spines — there followed a predictable, but still shocking, dose of sadism in the form of insults, direct and less so, meant to shut everyone up for good.

It is instructive to watch The Donald, who epitomizes dishonesty and sleaze, rage at the reporters for being “dishonest” and call them sleazy — for trying to extract some honesty and truth from him. He shames them — or futilely attempts to, given that his moral standing is non-existent and reality is decidedly not on his side — with the ease and force that indicates the extent of his own fear of shame.

This sequelae, seen above, in response to shame is classic for any narcissist, especially one of this extreme caliber, for very obvious reasons:

The narcissist tends to be very sensitive to shame, which he perceives as humiliation: a blow to his ego (sense of self) and/or a threat to what he sees as his important status compared to others. This sensitivity is the reason why he tends to lash out at those who shame or appear to shame him in any way. His reactions to shame are grossly disproportionate to the “offense;” he will hold grudges and seek revenge sometimes till death, his own or his “offender’s,” whichever comes first. Hell hath no fury like a narcissist scorned.

Shame is so difficult for a narcissist to tolerate because it arises from an exposure of some flaw of his to others. He has many serious shortcomings; but in his own eyes he is perfect and surpasses everyone else, as he will let you know time and again, directly and not. He must retain this grandiose delusion of superiority and perfection at all costs because this is all he has. His bigger than life persona hides an empty inner core, devoid of meaningful values and attachments. A prick of shame exposing any flaws in the narcissist’s façade has a potential of deflating it and effectively destroying him since there is nothing of substance to fall back on within his inner world.

The rage with which a narcissist reacts to shame or humiliation thus deflects attention from his inner emptiness. That rage is often a predominant emotion, particularly in a narcissist who feels chronically deprived of the admiration and perks he believes he deserves (and as his need for admiration and perks is bottomless, so then is his sense of deprivation). It does not take much to provoke it: a simple, neutral observation or a request can suddenly unleash it on an unsuspecting victim.

The vehement defense against shame is also another reason why a narcissist never takes responsibility for his behavior. Why should he anyway, when he’s perfect and does no wrong? Nothing is ever his fault, no matter how great a mess he creates. Responsibility is always projected outwards, onto others, as blame. Admitting his culpability in anything could lead to shame and cracks in the false façade that defines his character — and his ego won’t allow that. It is a matter of life and death, ‘psychically’ speaking.

The flip side of his shame intolerance is his desire to humiliate others. It comes as naturally to him as breathing. He derives pleasure from inflicting on others the kind of pain he himself wants to avoid at all costs. Humiliating other people is almost as satisfying as winning. It helps that the two often go together in the narcissist’s life. In fact, humiliating others is itself a win. And he likes to win.

What we have seen in Donald’s behavior was a relatively mild version of narcissistic aggression in response to shame, but it gives us a glimpse of what’s beneath it. We are still in the wooing phase, and Donald is, believe it or not, on his best behavior.

He is still The Charming Donald (or what passes for charming in Trumpland), trying to curry our favor and votes. If he makes it into the White House, then we will get to know his true self, unhampered by all these frivolous niceties.

We must appreciate the often sadistic and always revealing quality of insults dished out by The Donald at the people who try to confront him with reality, because, in the Freudian-slippage way, they expose his shadow — take this one, directed at ABC’s Tom Llamas on Tuesday:

You’re a sleaze because you know the facts and you know the facts well.

In this breathtaking attack, The Donald conveyed more than he wished. While his intent was to imply that he was being unfairly (but of course) criticized by the reporter who should know better, he let us know, Freudian-slippage style, what we have observed time and again: that reality as we know it with its pesky facts is optional — and threatening — for him, because he lives in his own version of it, where we all should join him (if we knew what’s good for us).

This again ties in with his pathological defense against shame. A narcissist’s facts and facts as most of us know them are distinctly incompatible, and you bring it up at your own risk.

Should the truth — those inconvenient realities of his life and his character as the rest of us see them — be revealed, he would be emotionally annihilated, so he cannot allow that. Yes, a narcissist would kill, easily, to protect his fragile ego from this unforgivable, to him, insult of the truth.

That narcissistic rage attacks can be deadly we see in, for example, the tragic and seemingly incomprehensible instances of lethal domestic violence where a narcissistically injured spouse, usually a husband, lashes out at his wife who may have offended him “for the last time” by confronting him with some imperfection of his (as in, Would you take your shoes off the table, please?). We can also see it, brazenly displayed, in the lives of genocidal tyrants. Saddam Hussein, for instance, was known to invite his advisers to give him honest feedback, and then execute those who took the honest part seriously. Ditto Stalin.

The epidemic of gun violence in the US, particularly mass shootings — a persistent clamoring of our Shadow to pay attention to its presence, something we equally persistently refuse to do — is also driven largely by narcissistic rage. During a news conference several days ago about the UCLA shooter, the chief of LAPD said the following:

Everybody tries to look for a good reason for this. There is no good reason for this. This is a mental issue, mental derangement.

He was correct that there is no good reason for this and that “mental derangement” is the cause — but we should learn to identify and name this specific mental derangement, called aggrieved entitlement, which is a form of narcissistic rage, already. Our failure to do so, repeatedly and with the kind of stubbornness that suggests willful blindness, is deadly. Whatever other difficulties the UCLA shooter may have experienced, we can assume with a fair degree of certainty that narcissistic entitlement and rage were among them, as it is nearly always the case. For it takes a grand dose of faith in one’s specialness to believe that one has a right to take another’s life — or many — in revenge for whatever slights, real or imagined, one may have experienced.

Tom Llamas’ offense, like those unlucky honest Hussein’s advisers, was, in addition to confronting Trump with cold facts about his charitable inactivities, ignoring those central facts that comprise the narcissist’s reality:

It is not, however, as though his understanding of himself and the world is entirely fact-free. There are three major facts around which his whole reality is organized:

1. I am great.

2. People unfairly malign me.

3. I will show them (they will pay).

Those are not just beliefs — they are facts etched deep in his psyche, and they evoke corresponding emotional states of 1. grandiose pride, 2. sense of victimhood and resentment, 3. desire for revenge, all of which form the core of his sense of self and motivate his actions.

“You’re a sleaze because you know the facts and you know the facts well” — the real facts, about the narcissist’s unsurpassed and unquestioned greatness — and you choose to ignore them. You will pay.

Trump’s gratuitous putdowns hint at the reservoir of narcissistic rage within. If physical violence (or a lawsuit) is not an option, sadistic insults will do. We all remember his gleeful mockery of a disabled reporter; yesterday, he gave us another example when talking about John Kerry’s accident in France last year:

He goes into a bicycle race, and he breaks his leg, and he’s incapacitated. And you know what they’re saying to each other? ‘How dumb is this guy? How dumb?’

The crowd laughed, as WaPo reports.

Narcissistic rage is easily evoked by the weakness of others, which the narcissist finds contemptible and deserving punishment, sometimes giving us hints at his own early traumas he may have experienced as a weak and helpless child at mercy of his harsh and/or cruel caretakers.

It also gives us a close look at other aspects of his shadow. Here is what Trump said about Hillary Clinton this week:

She’s a total mess, she’s unstable, and she can’t be president.

And how he responded when asked why he engaged in Twitter wars with Elizabeth Warren:

Because she is a nasty person, a terrible senator, and it drives her crazy.

These grade-school level barbs, which, like everything else that comes from the man’s mouth, are based on projection, tell us most about his shadow, facts which he does not want to — cannot, at a risk of grave injury — acknowledge of himself: that he is a nasty person, a total mess, unstable, terrible at his job (whatever it really is), and easily driven crazy by petty insults and criticisms. Oh, and that he can’t be president. If only Donald listened to his shadow…

Narcissistic rage is one of the darkest and deadliest forces known to mankind. Before it erupts, it usually simmers and percolates for a long time, fueled by resentment, envy and entitlement, the latter always aggrieved as the narcissist’s need for adulation and glory is insatiable and he can see the world populated by the undeserving, inferior people who nevertheless dare to be happier and/or more successful than he is. It thus creates enemies out of the innocent and often weak who become vessels for the narcissist’s hateful and envious projections.

These sustained projections form a basis of an attitude called the narcissism of minor differences, first described by Freud, where we exaggerate small differences in people who are our neighbors — their dress, the shape of their noses, etc. — in order to feel superior to them and exclude them from our group. This attitude, like anything else based on fear and hatred, easily infects others, already narcissistically predisposed; and the sharing makes the hateful projections grow and spread. The co-existent phenomenon of collective narcissism, which intensifies the in-group ties (and which is unsurprisingly associated with authoritarianism) at the expense of excluding and demonizing those who do not belong to our group, strengthens this pathological, but common and predictable enough process.

Once established as a more or less legitimate shared worldview, the narcissism of minor differences leads to an easy dehumanization of The Other, entrenched in racism and other forms of prejudice. It culminates in mob actions, gang violence, terrorism, and endless internal conflicts and wars, which — because of their grand scale and the magnitude of destruction — are the ultimate expressions of narcissistic rage and the deadliest manifestations of our Shadow.

And we allow this to happen.

Much cyberink has been spilled on analyzing Trump’s enduring appeal to American voters, and lauding his purported political mastery. This predictable but misguided adulation that stems from widespread narcissistic collusion and denial it creates (and the other way around) is exactly what the narcissist desires and aims at extracting from others.

It is unforgivable that our media not only legitimize this destructive individual, but imbue him with all kinds of special skills, attributing to him, with admiration and awe, political genius and media savvy.

Not coincidentally, the same happened with other leaders in human history who shared this character defect: while they were ridiculed by some, they were lauded by the press, domestic and foreign, for their “eloquence” and “brilliant political skills” as they peddled their grandiose dreams of glory alongside contempt and hatred for their “enemies,” The Others.

“This is a marvelous demagogue who can really inspire loyalty.”

“This guy is a clown. He’s like a caricature of himself.”

That’s how the media both idealized and devalued another similar character from the past who set out to show the world how great he was and how much adulation he deserved, Adolf Hitler.

This happens every time with an extreme (psychopathic) narcissistic leader / public character, because his pathology evokes just that very kind of response in people, media people included: it makes us either laugh in disbelief and contempt, or idolize his hyped-up “skills” — which are really nothing more than expressions of his pathology — often both at the same time. And while the public is both amused and mesmerized by the future tyrant’s larger-than-life persona, he ever so persistently marches toward his ultimate goal unimpeded — because the number of those who fall for his narcissistic manipulations is always too large.

The predictable and co-occurring idealization and devaluation are two emotional states that generally define a narcissist’s attitude toward himself (idealization) and others (devaluation; see the insults discussed above). He projects them, primitively — i.e., without any self-reflection or inhibitions, as there is no functioning conscience to impose such “obstacles” on his mental processes and behavior — onto the world and constructs an entire ideology from them.

When dressed up in grandiose and empty sloganeering on patriotism, faith, national purity, and other perverted “ideals,” this pathological process is mistaken for “political brilliance” and other such dangerous nonsense, as it inspires too many people to follow the leader, even if straight into an abyss. His irresistible pull lies not in any specific policies he may be promising (and being blissfully unacquainted with reality, he is always short and/or vague on those), but in the feelings his words engender in his followers, specifically a narcissistic identification with the strongman, which compensates for his followers’ inadequacies; and narcissistic rage, which the strongman embodies and already unleashes on the nation through inciting chaos and violence. The only promises that matter are those which bring in a possibility of revenge for the real and imagined hurts of his followers. That, too, is our Shadow at work.

This phenomenon, part of narcissistic collusion that develops between narcissistic leaders and their followers in any human group and organization, is as common as it is dangerous. It should be obvious that any promises and “serious” pronouncements such a leader makes are not worth the air he wastes uttering them. The only “skills” that he possesses come from his emotional primitivism combined with his grandiosity and lack of conscience, which allow him to unleash the disordered contents of his psyche on the world without any inhibition or compunction.

This appeals to and “awes” people who are psychologically similar, but frightens and repulses, correctly, the rest who are not as primitive and/or disordered and who see where this dangerous process leads. Unfortunately, too many journalists, not to mention Trump’s admirers and supporters, apparently belong in the former camp, as their shadow dangerously colludes with his.

[missmentelle]

Could you describe what an emotionally abusive father/the rest of the family would look like? I’m looking back at my life and having an epiphany that maybe my dad was, but he never outright put me down; he’s just super manipulative and has extreme anger problems (usually throwing things to get his point) and then he turns around and acts like a victim because “none of my children love me or want to be my friend”. I’m 23 and out of the house but I still get anxiety when people near me get angry.

There are a lot of possible ways for a parent or family member to be emotionally abusive. In the words of Leo Tolstoy, “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way”. It’s possible for two people to come from equally abusive households and have very few experiences in common. Your family member doesn’t have to have all the characteristics on this list to be abusive, and this list doesn’t cover all possible abusive traits and behaviours - this is just a general guide to the major things that you can expect to see from an abusive family member:

Name calling, put-downs and insults. It is not acceptable for a parent to say harsh, cruel things to their child or call them insulting names. This is not an okay form of discipline. Parents are expected to express their anger and disappointment in healthy ways, even when they are upset. Removing privileges and giving a child a stern talking-to for a bad report card is acceptable. Calling the child “stupid” and telling them they’re an embarrassment is abusive.

You were punished for having emotions. In a healthy household, you have to have the freedom to feel the full range of emotions - sadness, grief, fear, anger, insecurity - without fear that you’re going to be mocked or punished for how you feel. In a healthy household, parents validate their children, comfort them and help them work through their feelings. In abusive households, parents are unable to deal with negative emotions, and demand that their children only display happiness or neutrality in their presence. Any sign of negative emotion is not tolerated.

A complete lack of privacy. Responsible parents should monitor their children’s activities in an age-appropriate way; however, all children need some amount of privacy, and this need for privacy increases as they get older. A parent who reads all diaries, goes through all belongings, reads all messages and constantly accuses you of hiding things is an abusive parent. Parents should also know when to keep your issues between you and themselves; a parent who insists on discussing your most humiliating issues in front of others is not a healthy parent. 

Your goals or ambitions were belittled and mocked. Parents are supposed to support their kids’ dreams. That’s a pretty low bar. It’s natural for a parent to have concerns about a child with risky or unrealistic career ambitions, but a decent parent still finds ways to support their child. A parent who mocks your dreams, implies that you think you’re better than other people, or makes fun of you for not being “good enough” is an abusive parent. 

You were expected to lie for your parents. Abusive parents’ biggest fear is that their behaviour will be uncovered, and they often force their children to lie in order to cover up problems at home. Forcing a child to lie causes stress and guilt for the child, it teaches terrible habits for future relationships, and it prevents issues in the home from being addressed. 

Isolation from others. Abuse generally requires that you not have a support network to help you recognize and escape the abuse, and so abusive parents will do everything they can to keep you isolated. They forbid you from hanging out with friends outside of school. They forbid electronic communication, or monitor everything you send. They sabotage your relationships with your siblings. They convince you that the world outside is dangerous and not to be trusted, so you won’t confide in teachers or peers.

Fear is used as a weapon. A parent doesn’t have to hit you to abuse you. Punching walls, breaking objects, throwing things, slamming doors and screaming are all abusive tactics. These are scary behaviours, and they make you live in constant fear that the parent’s next outburst might involve hurting you or your siblings or pets. 

There is constant emotional manipulation. Healthy parents explain that your misbehaviour has disappointed them, remind you of what is expected of you, and try to work with you to correct the problem. Abusive parents accuse you of never loving them, tell you that you’re the reason they don’t have any friends and tell you that you’re responsible if they die from a heart attack. Small situations get escalated to emotional catastrophes and everything is always about them. Your emotions never come into play - you live your whole life in orbit of your volatile parent.

Expectations of you are unrealistic and constantly changing. You’re never good enough. Ever. Your 95% average should be a 99%. Your lead in the school play is a waste of time when you should be playing sports. Your sports career is a waste of time when you should be getting a job. There is zero tolerance for mistakes or imperfections, and the goal posts are constantly moving. The point isn’t really to ensure your happiness or success - the point is to make sure that you always feel like a failure. 

Mistakes are never forgiven or forgotten. A failed math test from the 4th grade is trotted out as proof that you’re a bad student until you graduate from high school. The one time you talked back in middle school is used as proof that you “never listen” for the rest of your life. There is nothing you can ever do to repair or move past a mistake, no matter how hard you try. You are reminded of all your flaws and shortcomings over and over and over again, and all of the many things you’ve done right pale in comparison to the handful of things you did wrong. 

You are exposed to physical abuse. Witnessing physical abuse is still abuse, even if you never get hit. A parent who abused your other parent or your siblings in front of you was abusing you too. The fear, stress and anxiety that can be caused by living with abuse can be just as severe as the stress of actually being physically abused. 

Affection and love are withheld. Healthy parents hug, kiss, cuddle and smooth your flyaway hairs. They tell you that you are proud of you and ask you how school was. They attend parent-teacher meetings and generally act like they give a shit. A parent who doesn’t care if you live or die is an emotionally neglectful parent, even if you are well-fed and clothed. Similarly, a parent who withholds affection specifically as “punishment” is abusive - children need to know that they will still get love and goodnight kisses, even if they screw up. 

Your parents interact with you as if you were an adult. The parent-child relationship is inherently imbalanced, and parents have to be the adults in the relationship. When a six-year-old tells you that you’re a poo-poo head, you don’t take it personally and start an adult argument. You chuckle and tell them that they’re not being very nice, because they’re too young to engage you as an adult. Abusive parents don’t understand this - children are held to the same expectations as an adult, even when they don’t have the emotional maturity for it. A parent with a rocky marriage may also use a child as a “substitute partner”, forming an inappropriately close relationship where the child is expected to listen to their parent’s adult problems. This could include listening to a parent talk about their financial issues, body image issues, or sex life - issues that children should not be dealing with. 

Trust is constantly betrayed. Your parent gets angry with you for not trusting them with secrets. As soon as you’ve confided the secret, they tell all their friends and neighbours and discuss it openly at the dinner table. This happens over and over, and if you get upset or point out this pattern, you are the one who somehow gets in trouble for it. 

The environment is sexualized. You don’t have to be sexually touched or molested to have experienced sexual abuse. Children should be introduced to the idea of sex in a gradual, age-appropriate manner. A parent who shows a young child pornography, has sex in front of their child, or tells their child graphic details of their sex life is committing child abuse. Likewise, a parent should not be constantly making comments on their child’s body, nagging their child to be more sexual or pressuring their child to engage in sex acts with others. 

Intentional humiliation. Some abusive parents enjoy humiliating their child, even if they deny it. They might intentionally buy their child clothes that are unflattering or ill-fitting, or force their child to get unflattering haircuts. They might also constantly force the child to do things they are bad at, in order to laugh at them. No matter what their tactics, abusive parents know how to wield shame and humiliation as a weapon, and they have no qualms about doing it. 

Obvious cries for help are ignored. No healthy parent could notice self-harm cuts on their child’s arm and walk past without a word. Healthy parents look for signs that their child might be struggling, so that they can intervene. Abusive parents don’t give a shit. They will ignore cuts, bruises, obvious signs of drug use, or any symptoms of mental illness. You could be sobbing in the living room, and they wouldn’t bother to ask what’s wrong. 

It’s important to note that no parents are perfect, and that everyone screws up from time to time. You are not an abusive parent because you flew off the handle one time and called your child a name. Abuse means that these behaviours occur as part of an ongoing pattern. A parent doesn’t need to check off every item on this list to be considered abusive - even having a handful of these traits is a problem. Frankly, from the sounds of it, there was some emotional abuse going on in your household - it sounds as if your father was emotionally manipulative and wielded fear as a weapon. This wasn’t an acceptable way for him to behave. Realizing that a parent had abusive tendencies does not mean that you automatically have to hate the parent or cut off contact with them - mostly, the point of realizing the abuse took place is so that you can heal and learn from it, and avoid passing these behaviours down to your own children. 

Hope this answers your question!

[shirlleycoyle]

The Juicy, Round World of Blueberry Porn

“If something exists, there is porn of it:” Welcome to Rule 34, a series in which Motherboard’s Samantha Cole lovingly explores the highly specific fetishes that can be found on the web. If you’ve thought of it, someone’s jerked off to it.

The links and images in this article may be considered NSFW.

Most stories in the blueberry porn genre begin the same way: A woman eats an unusually delicious piece of candy. She starts to feel a little funny��maybe a little bloated—and as she chews, her transformation into a piece of fruit becomes unstoppable. Her thighs, breasts, and belly start to swell to cartoonish proportions, ripping her clothing as her juice-filled body swallows her arms and legs.

“Squeeze me,” she might plead, begging the onlooker to relieve the pressure that’s built up in her gurgling, swollen, bluish form. The berry girl is rendered helpless by her round, over-full state, at the mercy of the onlooker. She sloshes and rolls, confused at what’s happening but not altogether repulsed by it.

The “blueberry” kink is a subgenre of several other kinks: It combines force-feeding, expansion or inflation porn (using air, water, enemas, or food), super-sized “big beautiful women”, as well as elements of bondage and submission. There’s often a humiliation element, or care-taking tenderness, or a combination of the two.

Yes, this all might seem a little weird, even for someone who writes a column dedicated to lesser known, highly specific fetishes. But the more I looked into the genre, and the more I talked to the people in the blueberry community, the more universal their experiences with sexuality seemed. That’s not because everyone has some unexplored fruit-based fetish, but because they understand something that’s true for us all: It’s not always easy to admit your kink, and it’s a relief to find a group of people who accept it, and you.

“A catalyst that sparked something in their brain”

As with most of the niche fetishes we’ve covered in the Rule 34 series, the most visible part of the blueberry community on the internet is on Reddit, with the r/blueberry subreddit. While that forum is fairly dead (the most recent post was a month ago), there are chat rooms, Discord servers, and fan forums where the community is very much active and alive.

Almost everyone I talked to within the blueberry kink community referenced Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (some reference the 1971 movie starring Gene Wilder, others said the 2005 movie starring Johnny Depp or the original Roald Dahl book)—where the boisterous young girl Violet Beauregarde chews some of Willy Wonka’s magical meal-flavored gum and subsequently becomes a human blueberry—as their first awakening to blueberry content. Beauregarde inflates to a huge blue ball, to mimic the blueberry pie flavor at the end of the gum. She is then sent to a “juicing room” to alleviate her condition.

For many, watching it as children themselves, this surreal preteen berry girl was their gateway to a lifelong kink.

“Some of my earliest memories were replaying and replaying ‘the scene’ on the VHS player in the living room, my eyes literally plastered up against the glass as I rewound the scene for the eighteenth time in a row,” a member of the community who goes by Weeblord told me in an online chat. Motherboard granted Weeblord and other members of the blueberry community anonymity because of the private nature of the subject matter.

“A huge misconception with this fetish is that since its origin is from a children’s movie it has something to do with being attracted to children,” another member of the community who talked to me in a private message, who also asked to remain anonymous, told me in an online chat. “That couldn’t be further from the truth. Almost all of the people I’ve encountered online just saw it as a catalyst that sparked something in their brain when they were young and it carried over into adulthood.”

But as they grew up and explored new aspects of the berry girl world, their tastes evolved into something more erotic. On forums like DeviantArt and Discord chat servers devoted to the kink, in illustrated and photographic art, or through text-based role playing or erotic writing, it became less about a specific scene in a movie or book and more about what new creative directions they could take the concepts of inflation and BDSM.

Even outside of Willy Wonka’s inventing room origins, the community has its own landmark works and origin stories. Several enthusiasts brought up blueberry comic artist and writer DocSwell’s “Bizarre Adventures of Berrygirl” series when I asked what influenced their interest in the kink.

Last week, several members of the community launched an anthology of blueberry kink writing and art called Bloomfph! They crowdfunded the more than 70 page collection. A contributor who goes by Fate-Full told me it’s a “love letter” to the community.

“Jiggliness and squishiness”

An erotic video producer who goes by the name Maxgrowthtold me that he believes blueberry porn is not something anyone consciously chooses to be into, but “just the way you are wired.” He said he’s always been fascinated with transformation sequences in comics and cartoons, and as he grew up, that fascination turned sexual.

“I always gravitated to bigness in transformation, so the berry girl scenario was easy to get excited about,” Maxgrowth said. “On the surface, for me, it’s about the bigness and the roundness, but I think underneath the surface psychologically it’s about the helplessness and emotional reactions of the girl to her condition.” Those emotions can range from confusion, to excitement, arousal, and fear.

ImageCredit: Maxgrowth/TaylorMadeClips

Riddlercorps, a prominent member of the blueberry kink community who runs a Discord server with channels focused on the kink, creates photo edits and role plays blueberry transformations with his partner. She doesn’t share his kink, but he says she’s a supportive model for his artwork.

“I like the psychological implications that the transformation has,” he told me. “It’s a process of shock, fear and/or pleasure in some cases, acceptance, etc. and different people react in different ways.”

“If you have a strange interest you believe no one else has or will accept, then turn that fantasy into something tangible”

To many, it’s a form of BDSM: The berry-person is trapped in their own juice-laden bodies, unable to move except for some helpless twirling fingers protruding from their round forms.

“Some people find it as [a] form of bondage due to the obviously restricted movement of the submissive, berried individual,” Riddlercorps said. “Others enjoy the humiliation and embarrassment factor of it. Some people just like to pretend that they or a partner is swelling up, ripping through their clothing. Some people mimic it to the BBW kink. It truly just depends on who you ask.”

Image: Phot edit by Riddlercorps

A blueberry enthusiast who goes by Thiccestboi1293 told me that it’s the “jiggliness and squishiness” of the characters that’s attractive to him. Another fan, Mikey D, told me that it’s the “size and the heaviness,” combined with the slow buildup of juice.

”It’s foreplay to the body, and then the immediate helplessness once it finishes filling you with juice. At least when being the berry,” Mikey D said. “Looking on at one, the size is still something to love, regardless of how the berry is or if the berry’s got an erect dick. Once it’s big, you feel that sort of daunting feeling on how massive they are and how juicy they seem to be.”

For others, the gurgling, churning of the juice inside the berry belly is a turn-on. A community member who goes by JC19 told me that the changes in skin color and the softness are also part of the allure, for him: “Seeing how soft it must feel to be a ball of fat or juice, and just the growth and helplessness of it all.”

“We’re treated as freaks”

As patient as the many blueberry enthusiasts I spoke to for this piece were with my questions about their kink, their openness is not without some sense of risk to their community. In the past, their kink has been labeled as “horrifying,” and several people I interviewed told me that they were concerned about harassment—or had experienced it in the past.

“I think a lot of people who are in the community aren’t very open about their expansion fetish in broad daylight,” Maria Alive, a fetish-artist who specializes in inflation and dabbles in blueberry photo edits, told me in an email. “A lot of the time it’s due to these social stigma around fetishes, especially as this is one where the partner requires to grow larger or at least pretends to grow larger. We all have been conditioned to find bigger or larger people unattractive, as they’re fat and unhealthy—but that couldn’t be further from the truth. So most people are ashamed to admit this to their partner.”

Read more: Slime Girls are the Sticky, Gooey Monsters of Your Wet Dreams

Another member of the community who requested anonymity told me that many people in relationships keep their kink a secret forever, out of fear that their partner will judge them for it. “I’ve always mentioned it [to partners] and never suffered a negative reaction, but curiosity instead,” she said. “It’s a much more male dominated fetish than female like most fetishes are. I’ve sort of felt like an outsider as a woman into it but many of the guys I talk to about it are nice and I’ve had very few bad experiences.”

“For the most part, the community keeps to itself because we’re treated as freaks rather than normal individuals with an unusual kink,” Riddlercorps told me. “It also doesn’t help that there are some prominent members of the community that seem to actively ruin the reputation. We’re normal people, just like you and the readers. Of course there are always a handful of people fucked up in the head that do nothing but damage to our community’s reputation. The few ruin it for the many.”

Blueberry erotica writer Fate-Full told me that the challenges they face are like any other marginalized kink that exists on fan art sites like DeviantArt, where a lot of blueberry art is hosted. When blueberry art occasionally makes it to the front page, people who don’t share or understand the kink spam the comments with hate and distaste.

“Sometimes art is taken down, but like YouTube’s algorithm, many times it’s completely random and impossible to protect against. Artists try to solve this by posting their work elsewhere, especially if the content is NSFW, but as seen with the Tumblr ‘no female presenting nipples’ implosion, this can be a finite solution.”

It’s even harder for blueberry enthusiasts to get mainstream acceptance of the kink because it’s nearly impossible to replicate the blueberry effect in person, unless you have an inflatable suit and a lot of blue makeup handy. Not everyone has the interior space or funds to buy a giant sumo-suit for acting out their kink—which is why so much of it lives in illustrated art, photo editing, erotica and text-based role playing. It’s a fetish that, for many, originated from a special effect in a big Hollywood movie, and while people find creative ways to replicate it, it’s still a production when compared with more widely known kinks.

“Blueberry inflation/transformation is inherently impossible in reality, it is pure fantasy,” blueberry artist luvemripe told me. “There are inflatable suits available that simulate the experience as close as possible, perhaps enough to suspend one’s disbelief. The challenge with a morph is crossing this line of believability, making something unrealistic look realistic.”

Despite all this, blueberry enthusiasts find ways to explore their kink, and many said it helped them explore their sexualities, beyond giant blue women. “The average blueberry enthusiast realizes that the kink is strange and ridiculous and usually has a good sense of humor about it,” luvemripe said.

“If you have a strange interest you believe no one else has or will accept, then turn that fantasy into something tangible,” Fate-Full said. “Watch as people slowly find it and realize they are not alone, and neither are you.”

The Juicy, Round World of Blueberry Porn syndicated from https://triviaqaweb.wordpress.com/feed/

[silkygoldmilkweed]

SanSan Is Everything and Everything Is SanSan, 4/?

Previous installments: THE BEAR AND THE MAIDEN FAIR (Season 3) | THE RED WOMAN (Season 6) | GARDEN OF BONES (Season 2)

Basically any episode that has even the slightest connection to a SanSan moment or a big Sansa or Sandor character shift is littered with other scenes and scenarios that relate to love, marriage, warrior of light, hearts of fire and their arcs through the series. Episode eight of season four, "The Mountain and the Viper,” is no exception.

This first scene is about Sam and Gilly. And the next scene is about Missy and Grey Worm. These are all living characters with their own dramas and amazing stories. But ALSO, nearly every word has a dual role, also serving to examine the otherwise invisible love and yearning between Sansa and Sandor, which is the epic love of the story.

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~~~A STORY ABOUT A LOST LOVE~~~

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The wildlings sack Mole’s Town, where Gilly has been staying. Sam is basically talking to himself here, while the rest of the NW guys argue about Kegs and Mully and Blackjack and the coming Mance Ryder problem. (This episode immediately precedes “Watchers on the Wall.”)

What does Sam, our romantic hero, say to himself? You can watch the episode for the original, I’ll slot in Sandor’s internal monologue here.

Note: Read this in Sandor’s grumpy growl voice instead of Sam’s whine.

Sandor: “I never should have left her there...Sansa’s dead because of me. And little Arya. As if I cut their throats myself.” Shoulder Angel #1: “Maybe she managed to hide herself. I thought all of you was dead. You went away and no one came back[*see note below]. Not for ages. But then you did.” Shoulder Angel #2: “She survived Joffrey and he was the worst shit I’ve ever met...[She’s a survivor.] She might have got out.” Sandor, hopeful again: “She might have.”

Sam is an interesting stand-in for the Hound, but that’s what he is here.

Sam has NO martial skill, whereas Sandor is an experienced, seasoned pure-bred war dog.

Sam is a naive young man in love for the first time; Sandor is a grizzled cynic.

Sam guilelessly voices these sentimental feelings for this woman and child he considers his own. (Counterpoint: Sam and Gilly haven’t even done it at this point, and the little one isn’t even his blood.)

Sandor punches down on every one of those sentimental feelings for this woman and child he considers his own. (Same as Sam-Gilly-LilSam, Sansa and Sandor haven’t even done it at this point, and the little one, Arya, isn’t even his blood.)

And yet, all men are knights and all men are fools where women are concerned. He loves the girl and he’ll take her family too, because it’s what she wants.

** always, always there is language about lovers and soldiers who are gone and do or don’t “come back”

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~~~A STORY ABOUT SEXUAL DESIRE AND MUTILATED WARRIORS~~~

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Grey Worm sees Missy naked, and the two of them have feelings about that.

“I have come to apologize. I hope I didn’t frighten you.” [Do I frighten you so much girl, or is it him there making you shake?”]

“You don’t need to apologize.” [classic Stark line: There’s nothing to forgive, my lord.]

“The lesson you give in the Common Tongue. These are precious to I.” “I don’t remember teaching you the word precious.” “Jorah the Andal he teaches I--he teaches me--this word.”

[YOUNG LOVE SO FUCKING CUTE ASDSJSDFSDKKKK]

“Do you remember the name you were given at birth?” [Do you remember being a hopeful, emotionally healthy child before they turned you into a mindless killing machine?]

“I remember nothing. Only Unsullied.”

“When they cut you, do you remember that?”

“I’M SORRY. I’M SORRY THEY DID THAT TO YOU. IT’S A TERRIBLE THING TO DO TO A BOY.”  [6yo Grey Worm got his dick cut off. 6yo Sandor Clegane got his face burned off. ALL THE GOOD GUYS ARE BASTARDS CRIPPLES AND BROKEN THINGS] [Also, “I’m sorry about all that’s happened to you and I’m sorry that it had to happen here in our home.”]

“If the masters never cut me, I never am Unsullied. I never stand in the Plaza of Pride when Daenerys Stormborn orders us to kill the masters. I never am chosen to lead the Unsullied. I never meet Missandei from the island of Naath.”

“If Gregor never burns me, I never go to serve the Lannisters. I never ride North to Winterfell with King Robert and meet Sansa Stark. I never go on walkabout with Arya Stark. I never find my wife and my daughter, my family.”

“If I never fall in with Joffrey and LF and Ramsay, I never come to cherish the Hound, brave, gentle and strong, even without seeing him for years. I never get back to Winterfell. I never find my true home is with Sandor Clegane.”

“I am sorry for today. I am sorry.” “Grey Worm, I’m glad you saw me.” “So am I.”

[1. YOUNG LOVE SO FUCKING CUTE ASDSJSDFSDKKKK, 2. While SanSan are suffering out in the wilderness, we gotta get our kicks elsewhere. This is another example of what a semi-functional romantic relationship means for the people involved. What does it feel like? What path is walked to bring two souls and bodies together? How does the union change them?]

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~~~A STORY ABOUT A HOME IN THE NORTH~~~

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Part I: Ramsay and his cutout Theon retake Moat Cailin.

(a) A yearning for home

I cannot even w Theon, but this whole Ramsay-Theon hellscape ends in a scenic vista of Winterfell and Reek mumbling “Will we go home now?” The just-slaughtered Ironborn wanted the same. To go home. It’s so pure, almost too much so for this horrific medieval realpolitik.

This is also necessary setup for the next couple seasons, where Sansa re-enters Winterfell (“home”?) and then finally learns how to escape her abusive boyfriend and then returns with two armies to retake back her ancestral land for good. Winterfell is, I need not tell you, a key location, not just for the show at large but for Sansa specifically: Her power, I think both magically as well as politically, is seated at Winterfell.

(b) The many ways a pair can be devoted to one another

The Ironborn captain at Moat Cailin tells Reek: “Only a whipped dog would speak this way. Or a woman. Are you a woman?”

I think at heart, what George is exploring with the story of Reek is what does it mean to make someone your bitch, not least because when you have a character named the fucking Hound, his woman automatically gets called “Hound’s bitch.” But what does that mean?

Is being the receptive partner in a sexual relationship the same as being an emasculated, cowering animal? What is the nature of genuine emasculation?

This is one of many many “superfluous” references to sexuality and/or dogs in the series. Because SanSan is everything, and everything is SanSan.

Part II: Ramsay becomes a Bolton, and the Boltons take Winterfell

“The North. Ride 700 miles that way, you’re still in the North. 400 miles that way. 300 miles that way. The North is larger than the other six kingdoms combined, and I am warden of the North. The North is mine.”

This whole scene establishes the substantial nature of the North generally and the role of the Warden specifically.

But of course “there must always be a Bolton in Winterfell” ain’t right. This is about the Starks and Winterfell and the great disturbance in the Force when the family is wrenched out of their home, the most important holdfast in the North.

We don’t know it yet at this point in the story, but all the trueborn male Starks are dead, doomed and/or unfit. Rickard, Brandon, Eddard, Robb, Rickon, Bran, Benjen. I mean. It’s an unspeakable toll for one family to suffer.

If the 8,000-year-old line of Stark continues--and it is the oldest continuous family line in Westeros--it will be through Sansa’s heirs. You can tell me till the moon turns red that Arya could do it too, except she won’t. Every single thing she’s ever told us is that she doesn’t want that, and it’s not the kind of declaration that George sets up to knock down (“I don’t want brave, gentle and strong, I want him!”), it’s a core principle of who she is as a character.

Jon Snow is “not a Stahk,” and Arya is not a lady who will give some high lord sons. “That’s not me.”

Sansa Stark is the Wardeness of the North, just as Jon Snow is the heir to the Iron Throne. Only traitors can take that from them.

This scene looks like it’s about the Boltons, but they’re just the voice the show uses us to remind us of how Sansa Stark is (not just will be) a very important person.

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~~~A STORY ABOUT A GIRL’S ONLY FRIEND~~~

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“My name’s not Alayne. [TRUE] It’s Sansa Stark, eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark. [TRUE] Lord Royce, we met when you came to Winterfell. [TRUE] You were escorting your son Ser Waymar to the Wall. [TRUE] Lord Baelish has told many lies. [TRUE] All to protect me. [FALSE] Since my father was executed, I have been a hostage in King’s Landing, a plaything for Joffrey to torture or Queen Cersei to torment. [TRUE] They beat me, they humiliated me, they married me to the Imp. [TRUE] I had no friends in King’s Landing. Except one. [TRUE BUT HER ONLY FRIEND IN KING’S LANDING WAS SANDOR CLEGNE -- Sansa and Baelish basically don’t talk once in King’s Landing until after Joffrey ends their betrothal and then he does nothing but play her as a piece in his game.] He saved me. [TRUE. Mostly the Hound did this but we will stipulate that LF at least got her out of King’s Landing.] Smuggled me away when he had the chance. [TRUE. Hound would have done this, but she rejected him. He failed at wife-stealing, because he’s honorable and decent and gentle as hell. Don’t @ me.] He knew I’d be safe here in the Eyrie, with my own blood, my Aunt Lysa. [TRUE BUT AGAIN THIS IS ABOUT THE HOUND, WHO IS CURRENTLY TRYING TO GET ARYA TO HER BLOOD IN THE EYRIE. Meanwhile, Littlefinger is already formulating plans to leverage Sansa’s body and claim for the Vale and the North and the Iron Throne.]

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~~~A STORY ABOUT TWO MEN IN A WOMAN’S LIFE~~~

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Barristan is the Hound stand-in here, and Jorah is Littlefinger.

When you have time, rewatch the scene where Dany confronts Jorah about his selling her secrets to Varys and Bobby B, and then compare it to the scene three years later of Sansa presiding over Littlefinger’s trial. The language used to accuse and condemn Littlefinger is virtually identical to the language against Jorah here. 

Littlefinger’s flawless record of murdering Sansa’s family members and cornering her away from anyone besides him (ABUSE VICTIM GROOMING WHAT IS IT) is not yet known to the viewer when this episode originally airs, but we are being warned.

If Sansa had a Clegane as Dany has a Selmy, and he was informed of a fraction of Littlefinger’s treason, Littlefinger would be cut in half where he stood. That Jorah gets out of this alive is pure plot armor. But we are meant to understand that trusting Jorah/Littlefinger is both dangerous and foolish.

The most cutting of Dany’s recriminations, to mind, is this: “Don’t ever presume to touch me again, or speak my name.” Barristan, for his part, warns: “You’ll never be alone with her again.”

This is a denial of previously granted intimacy. This is disgust, revulsion and pure rejection resulting from the betrayal of her trust.

From a strictly political sense this is harsh, but the added dimension that makes it absolute savagery is that Jorah/Littlefinger, in their own ways, are said to truly love Dany/Sansa. It might just be lust, but...“Don’t ever presume to touch me again, or speak my name” is more than just polite friendzoning. 

Above all, it’s about having enough power to pick and choose who gets to know you, and touch your body, and call you your true name. Dany has this power, thanks to three dragons, Grey Worm, Barristan the Bold, and her general commanding mien. 

Sansa reclaims this power against Littlefinger after escaping Ramsay. Watch her with him Mole’s Town, how she pushes him away in the godswood after BOTB, and then again in the first episode of season seven. She calls him Lord Baelish and declines to spend her free time in his company.

For a long time this kind of control was taken from her by her various minders and jailers. Sandor could never give her this kind of power even if he freed her from her jailer-of-the-moment. She had to take it for herself.

What’s lovely is that when Sansa and Sandor finally reunite, Sansa at last has all this power for herself. And with every opportunity in the world, with a limitless choice of life paths and possible male companions, she will choose the Hound. Romance, bitches.

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~~~OH FUCK ME LITTLEFINGER IS TALKING~~~

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“Not a child any longer.”

Promise me this, gentle readers: If a man with a nasty goatee ever says to you “Not a child any longer,” you run the fuck a thousand miles away. Just run.

This scene where LF asks why Sansa lied to protect him kills me for two reasons (1) she’s the loneliest girl in the world and it’s so clear to see that her internal experience and the courtesy-armor shell are two totally different personas, and (2) it’s really just a setup to toy with us and show us THE LAST CHANCE. 

FWIW, there’s no way Littlefinger doesn’t have the Hound poisoned or pushed out the Moon Door inside a week if he gets into the Eyrie with Arya and finds Sansa there, but just as a hopeful sucker, you the viewer want Sansa to get away before it’s too late.

If Sansa encounters Sandor at this point, Sansa Sandor & Arya just stay right there under the protection of the Lords of the Vale, and LF gets the legs cut out from under him, and maybe everything is OK. “The pack survives.”

So by Narrative Law it just cannot happen. They have to torture us (especially Sansa and Arya not a little) for another three seasons to make the eventual payoff so much sweeter. But jiminy cricket, this hurts.

He’s right fucking there.

Sandor Clegane is, like, downstairs.

He found her. And it’s just one big Craigslist Missed Connection. Give me something for the pain and let me die.

[SCREAMS INTERNALLY]

Anyway, it’s all fucked, and instead she has only LF to talk to, and she tells him and tells us: “I know what you want.”

[VOMIT EMOJI HERE]

This is the closest the series ever gets to acknowledging the sexual awakening of Sansa Stark that George explores a great deal more in the books.

(In the books, I’m fairly sure that Lysa’s loud sex screaming is when Sansa figures out the double meaning to the Hound’s talk about her singing to him. That’s a big realization. And then she starts having sex dreams about him and deludes herself into thinking they shared an erotic kiss. Even as she is being hunted sexually by Littlefinger, she seems to find solace in sexualizing her relationship with Sandor Clegane. They are both predators, but she only finds one truly threatening. But that’s the books, so we’ll just leave that be bc we’re doing TV right now.)

So Sansa’s with her “uncle” (puke) but he’s a pedo whoremonger molester conman who never stops trying to hump her leg like a horny Chihuahua and she can’t escape and everything her family wouldn’t want for her is about to happen.

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~~~A STORY ABOUT A KNIGHT ON A QUEST~~~

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Where’s Arya? She’s with the Hound. He’s supposed to be a psycho killer, but he’s...not. He’s funny and vulnerable and empathetic and despite a certain ruthlessness and bloodthirst, he has a code.

“Nothing makes you happy.” --> he gives a damn if she’s happy

“That fleabite’s got you walking a lot slower than you used to.” --> her old man is ailing. Seriously tho, she’s worried.

Because they are a family. But they can’t accept that yet because it’s a fucking mess. So.

“Doesn’t matter. You’re her blood.” Notice how this mirrors Sansa’s phrasing earlier in the episode. “...with my own blood, my Aunt Lysa.”

FIRE AND BLOOD AGAIN AND AGAIN. Sansa, Sandor and Arya are blood of my blood. It is forever just biology. A lady wolf and a lonely alpha-male war dog? I mean...there is really no chance of this not turning out with them fucking. BUT FOR NOW WE MUST SUFFER ALONE.

“Who would enter the Bloody Gate?” “The bloody Hound, Sandor Clegane, and his...traveling companion, Arya Stark.”

THIS IS THE CUTEST BREAKTHROUGH LINE EVAR. Game of Thrones is really a family sitcom, guys. She’s technically his prisoner. But he has fatherly feelings for her. He doesn’t know quite what they’ve become to each other during their journey, so he settles on “traveling companion.”

(I have a pet theory that in season eight when Arya has to explain her relationship with the Hound she will claim him as her “traveling companion” and never tell Jon that the Hound kidnapped her and claimed he only wanted the Stark-girl ransom money.)

BTW, notice how in this scene all of a sudden the Hound starts talking like a normal person and not so surly and adversarial? HE’S SUCKING UP TO THE KNIGHTS OF THE VALE. Yes, Sandor Clegane, Mr. No Fucks Given, gives fucks. He gives all the fucks when it comes to Stark girls. He’ll play nice to get Arya safe if that’s what it takes.

Poor guy. At this point we still believe him to be a Bad Guy, some kind of menace, so we’re all in with Arya’s mocking laugh, but also, this is the basis of his rant to Brienne two episodes following, e.g. “there’s no safety, you dumb bitch.”

On the surface them being told Lysa is dead is funny, because little Arya Stark laughing at the absurdity of the world and at the Hound getting his ass handed to him by life AGAIN, but the subtext is so much darker. They are in big trouble, they are sick and broke, and it’s NOT EVEN HIS KID, and he doesn’t know what to do with her, and it’s so weird that they are together (So! Weird!), and yet he kind of likes being her dad but admitting that feels so jacked up he doesn’t know what to do.

Every plan he’s had has gone to hell. They are desperate. If the Hound ever suffered the neurosis and anxiety of lesser men, this would be the time, even though we’d like to believe he’s impervious to such mortal plagues.

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~~~ A STORY ABOUT DEAD MEN AND CLEGANES ~~~

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“Don’t leave me alone in this world.” “No never.”

“Do you know who I am?” “Some dead man.”

I basically don’t care about any of the Lannister or Targaryen or Martell of the titular battle in “The Mountain and the Viper.” I mean, that’s all important, but also who cares. Let’s talk about the monsters of House Clegane instead. 

Let’s take the unlikely position of seeing what we can learn about Sandor from this.

In this arena, today, Oberyn gets killed by a mountain and leaves his family behind to be destroyed by predators.

In a different arena, not so far away, Sandor gets killed by a mountain and leaves his family behind to be destroyed by predators.

So much of this story is based on the raw facts of survival of the fittest: animal communities that suffer the death of their alpha males are extremely likely to be destroyed completely. The attacking lion or wolf or wildebeest or chimpanzee is an aggro testosterone-fueled jackass has one purpose: propagating his own genes at the expense of competing males. So almost without fail, once he offs the competing males, he murders their existing children and takes their women for his own. It’s not worth it expend valuable energy and resources on raising some other dick’s kids. It’s just evolutionary biology.

Ned and/or Robb Stark was the Daddy wolf.

Soon after his death, his woman and children were murdered.

Oberyn Martell was the Daddy viper.

Soon after his death, his woman and children were murdered.

Aerys and/or Rhaegar Targaryen was the Daddy dragon.

Soon after his death, his woman and children were murdered.

SANDOR CLEGANE IS THE DADDY WAR DOG WHO ASPIRES TO STEAL NED STARK’S JUVENILE WOLF DAUGHTERS AND MATE WITH THE HOT ONE TO MAKE HIS OWN HEIRS. IT’S BAKED INTO THE STORY, BUT THE SEXUAL REALITY OF THIS IS SOMETHING WE DON’T LIKE TO CONTEMPLATE IN HUMAN TERMS BECAUSE IT MAKES THE WORLD SO SO SCARY.

George R.R. Martin holds the radical position that humans are animals. 

Please complain to Charles Darwin and/or David Attenborough if you are offended, I can’t change it.

(Tywin Lannister was the Daddy lion. Soon after his death, his heirs/legacy start being murdered. BTW Cersei and Jaime are doomed too. Tyrion will survive b/c narrative law b/c he’s a secret Targ so he escapes. Cersei reflexively hates Tyrion bc she smells that he’s a chimera not a purebred lion. This is also why Cersei is so cranked at Tyrion about kinslaying Tywin: It is not good for the women and children when Daddy gets killed and eaten by his enemies, either of different or same species. And Jaime doesn’t step up because IDK he’s a slow learner or something.)

ANYWAY.

The entire next episode is devoted to the battle for the Wall, which serves as a nice firewall between these two stories in episode 8 and 10 so you don’t notice the connections. But what happens in episode 10?

THE HOUND FUCKING DIES GUYS.

Just like warrior Oberyn dies and leaves Ellaria alone in the world, when the Hound is gone, the Stark girls are completely and totally and hopelessly alone.

But...Littlefinger? 

Nah. Littlefinger is not a person, he’s a walking lie.

But...Jaqen? 

Nah. Jaqen is not a person, he’s a walking lie.

The Hound or Sandor Clegane or whatever you want to call him is Sansa and Arya’s fucking family, even though no one can handle that truth at this point, and losing the Hound at the end of S4 is a blow nearly equivalent to the death of Ned Stark. Arya becomes No One. THAT IS NOT A GOOD THING. And Sansa. Poor Sansa. You know what happens to Sansa.

The Hound didn’t put his dick in Sansa fast enough (because honor and morals and human decency and stuff) so someone else did. I do not approve of any of this, but that’s just canon.

Of all the horrible shit that happens to her, I’m going to argue that being raped out of her virginity by Ramsay fucking Snow on her wedding night in her childhood home while her sexually and physically abused foster brother watches is actually the worst. 

So. Oberyn dies. The Hound dies. What of it?

Death is the enemy, the first enemy and the last. 

If you’re a dead man with no surviving heirs, like Oberyn, you are forgotten quite quickly. That’s also what Sansa reminds Ramsay when she defeats him. The way to “beat death” is to create a legacy that lives on after you: you can make children who allow you to live forever, or you can do something that allows you to live forever. (cf D&D’s movie Troy, wherein Achilles ponders this kind of immortality.) 

Childless GRRM’s immortality is writing ASOIAF.

So the Hound is a dead man, and that leaves his woman and child open for predation. 

So it’s a fucking tragedy, and the Lannisters are at fault, and those girls suffered because Cersei is an amoral dishonorable liar, and you know who else suffered? The fucking Hound.

“I heard a wolf, howling his grief in the rain.”

The bloody Hound, Sandor Clegane, breaks not because he got his ass whupped by Brienne and nearly died, and deserted at the Blackwater and couldn’t fight anymore, but because he’s lost his wife and his daughter and he feels like he failed them and also what are they to him just total fucking strangers that are none of his business. It’s wild, guys. Being apart from them and not keeping them from being beaten and bloodied by the rest of the world is what really destroys him, not falling off a fucking mountain.

It’s hard to tell sometimes, but GRRM is actually a hopeless romantic. You’ll see.