#expectedly inaccurate

[notpoet06]

“She willed him to be hypnotized by her smile, her brown eyes, her easy banter.”

Heh? I didn’t flirt with anyone today. (Or ever.) I talked to like two people outside of my family today

Book divination be upon ye!

Pick up the nearest book or access what you’re currently reading on your e-reader. Go to page 73. Point to a place on the page at random. What does it say about your day?

Reblog this post with the line, phrase, or sentence you landed on. Add the book title in the tags if it feels good. Or don’t, and just embrace the chaos! Up to you!

We’ll go first.

Like we know something other people do not.

[jooniperbonsai]

Penalty Shot (pjm) | Part 1

Pairing: professionalhockeyplayer!jimin x minorleagueplayer!reader (afab)

Rating: 18+

Word Count: 22,512

Release Date: December 24, 2024

Genre: Smut, holiday romance fluff, angst, hockeyau, holidayau, comedy, slight rivals to lovers

Summary: He's the worst hockey player on the worst team in the national league, with an awful attitude to go with it. You're the best player in the local chapter, but turned down your chance to go pro. After a scandal benches him for part of the season, he recruits your help to get him ice ready by the New Year.

Warnings: mentions of threesome, Jimin is bi, probably inaccurate ideas about hockey, Jimin is an asshole, swearing, misogyny in sports, slightly homophobic comments, hometown trauma, arranged marriage, corny Christmas references, holiday party stress, mentioned death of minor characters, teen pregnancy, abortion and discussions of abortion processes, emotions, and characteristics of shame angst, misunderstandings, Y/N is a self sacrificial person, fighting and threatening violence, alcohol, sexual innuendos, omg look it's Shinee's Minho as the role of bff, mention of random kpop artists on y/ns team, groping, oral (f receiving), hand jobs, unprotected sex, creampie, rivals but not, friends but not? Who knows, Christmas is all around and the cheer is in the air idk

a/n: It's here! I mean, kind of! Here's part 1 of what has become a monster of a fanfic. I just have 1. Learned so much about hockey it's ridiculous, and I feel like I need more time with these characters. To all who celebrate, Merry Christmas. I hope everyone enjoys this fic. Be easy on me with the proofing errors. I rushed the proof a bit to get it out on time.

“That’s it, babygirl; Cum on my cock. That’s it. Fuckkk.”

“No no no, what did I say? Did I say you could ride me? No. On your knees. Mouth open. Just your mouth, not your hands. Be a good boy or you won’t get my cum. There we go. Open. I said open. Do you want my cock or not? There we go. Ah-ah, swallow. That’s a good boy.”

“Fuck, Jimin, my turn, please please please.” 

“What did I say about begging? There’s plenty to go around.” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake. Close the damn laptop. I’ve seen enough.” 

The sharp, wet slapping sounds and deep, guttural moans echoing through the conference room cuts off as the laptop is snapped shut. As if rehearsed, all bodies in the room turn toward the subject of the scandal, expectedly awaiting a very different response from the one they’re given.

“What? Everyone has sex, it’s not new,”  Jimin says. 

“Yes, everyone has sex. But not everyone is filming a sex tape, much less an orgy, and putting it out onto the internet,” Sophia, the public relations manager says. 

“I didn’t put it on the internet. I’m not that stupid. And, it was a threesome, not an orgy.”

“Well, clearly you are stupid, if you thought attending, much less filming, your not-so-private sexual exploits wouldn’t come back to haunt you. And yet, shocker, they have, and we are swiftly becoming the top headline in every tabloid magazine on the planet. You seriously thought none of these participants would want to brag about how they bedded the bad boy of the UHL?” 

“Park, you finished off last season being one of the most famous people in the Universal Hockey League, and not in a good way. Need I remind you that we just spent the whole summer trying to implement a marketing campaign to improve sales of your jerseys since manufacturers don’t even want to make them? That after ‘Park the Park’ became a trending hashtag on every social media site, you suddenly caught attention as the ‘Hottest But Worst Player in Professional Sports’?” Coach sighs heavily into his hands, clenching his fists as if he needs to punch something. 

It’s very much the Coach way. It’s not unheard of for him to be taking swings at the punching bag during gym training days. Clearly this is how he releases steam. 

Only the problem is, the steam is channeled directly at Jimin. 

“I thought any press is considered good press.” 

Sophia snorts and rolls her eyes. “That is a load of bullshit that PR reps say to make shitheads like you feel better. But I’m not here to soothe your ego. I think it’s been stroked enough, based on what we all just saw.” She clears her throat, shaking her head. “The point is, JImin, you’ve cost this team a lot, and at this point, I can’t advise the staff enough to let you go. You’ve caused fights on the ice that almost turned lethal, you have the worst stats, and the highest lien we’ve had to take out after you damaged the rink in LA and caused them to end their season early. In any other job, you’d be fired by now.” 

Sophia scoops her laptop up off the table and places it in her bag. She stands, hastily collecting her other things. Her assistant-slash-lackey, some nameless, anxious young woman, follows suit, clattering her impressive collection of color-coded pens across the conference table. She bows in apology, shakily attempting to collect her things. No one, including Sophia, moves to help. 

“I have to go, because I need to figure out some way to spin this story now that we are receiving hundreds of requests for interviews, quotes, and extra footage.” She fake gags, as if Jimin and the debauching act on the screen is repulsive to her. “Stay off social media. Do not make a single claim unless advised by your lawyers. We are petitioning the website to take the video down. I know it’s out there forever, but I think if we act fast we can reduce views and hopefully end its virality quickly. Once I hear back from the firm I’ll send you an update.” 

The door shuts behind them slowly, but once the final click ensures that no one outside can hear what’s being discussed, Jimin turns to see the deep set frown of Coach and Assistant Coach Jay sharply aimed toward him. 

“Do you. Have. Any fucking idea. How bad this looks?” Coach’s voice is clipped, fury piercing through his staccatoed breath. Gone is the negotiator, the collected cool that he’d worn while Sophia was here. Instead is the same anger and resentment that Jimin has gotten used to experiencing in the locker room before and after every game, as well as his many meetings as of late. 

“It only looks bad because people take shit way too seriously. If this was a threesome with two women, I’m sure it wouldn’t be blowing up right now. But add a man into the mix and all the homophobes come with their torches and pitchforks. This’ll all blow over in a few weeks, or days even depending on what new scandal the tabloids decide will get the most clicks. Really, Coach, it’ll be okay.” 

A vein protrudes from Coach’s neck, and he huffs a heavy sigh. “You’re missing the point, Park. It’s bad because it’s gay or bisexual or pansexual or whatever the hell your generation is calling things now. But that’s only part of it. All those celebrity gossip pages have been reporting on you for months as is, detailing your explicit sexual appetite and partying with celebrities. You’ve built a reputation for yourself as a playboy, and they’re eating that shit up. And maybe that would all be fine and fun and you could be the next Travis Kelce of the world toting around your celebrity fuck buddies, but there’s one thing Kelce’s got that you don’t.” 

“…Taylor Swift? Whiteness? A mustache?” 

“No you dumbass, talent. Travis Kelce is good at his sport, Jimin, and you fucking suck at yours.” Jay interjects. He reaches into his padfolio, pulling out a complex spreadsheet. “We’ve pulled the totals of all the stats. In the Universal Hockey League, you have the lowest stats out of every active player. Minor players are doing better than you. A hell of a lot better.” 

Jimin reaches out and takes the page, scanning it, brows furrowed. “Okay, so I need to clean up my game a little bit. I don’t see how those two things are connected.” 

“Then let me explain it to you, son.” Coach leans back in his chair, revealing the lower portion of his suit coat, stained from the bit of pasta sauce that dribbled down during his lunch. Jimin finds himself staring at it for so long that it takes Coach three tries before his attempts at calling Jimin’s attention actually works. 

“Focus, Park.” 

“Sorry,” he responds reflexively. 

“Basically, what Sophia said in the meeting is true. I have been advised by her as the official Public Relations Director to fire you. You’ve caused significant risk in various ways. And what I didn’t tell her is that the manager of the Bells and team owner both called me this morning worrying about the integrity of the team. Your little bullshit behaviors have been adding up. Not only are you impossible to market to Bells fans, you’re untradeable and undesirable to any other team. No one wants the Scarlet A you’ve tainted the team with.” 

Jimin raises an eyebrow. He didn’t know Coach was so familiar with classic literature.

“The point is, investors are backing out. Brand deals are falling through. The capital gains of our team are dwindling because we have a shitty player with an even shittier attitude.” 

It feels like a brick has been launched at Jimin’s chest. A hot, crumpling feeling washes over him, and the very cool and collected nature he’s kept fresh this whole meeting has now taken the backseat. 

“I don’t know what happened to you, Park, but you weren’t always this way. When I scouted you and signed you onto the Bells, you were just this young kid with a dream. You loved the game more than you loved the fame. I miss that guy. That’s the one who I wanted. I wanted the fresh energy of early morning practices led by a player with eagerness and potential. And you were that for a while. 

“But all I’ve seen in the last two seasons is someone who cares about hair gel and being an A-lister for afterparties. When you’re supposed to be driving the net, you’re getting flanked. You can’t control your mouth so you start chirpin’ and hand every opposing team at least one power play, usually in the third period and leaving your team to handle the mess you created as you sit in the box.”

Heat floods Jimin’s cheeks. “Am I supposed to just let all those guys walk all over me? I’m one of the shorter players in the league, and they love to talk shit.” 

“Of course they love to talk shit when you’re such an easy target! It's a practical strategy! If you target the hothead, they’ll take themselves out of the game! They don’t even need to be good to do that!” 

“Isn’t that allegedly your strategy anyway?” Jay says, raising an eyebrow. “Doesn’t seem like a very good one.” 

“Shut up, Jay,” Jimin retorts, blowing air sharply out of his nose. 

“Don’t you two get started on me now,” Coach says, snapping his fingers. Jimin refocuses his gaze. 

“So, what does that mean for me then? Am I fired? Just like that?” He folds his arms over his chest defensively.

Coach rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know, son. It depends on what you want from this.”

This shocks Jimin. Is he seriously being asked if he wants to be fired? Isn’t the answer obvious? He opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off by Coach. 

“What I mean, is that now is a good time to think about your goals. Do you just want to be a celebrity or do you want to be a player? A good one, one who makes his team proud.” 

His chest twists with sadness. For nearly ten years, Jimin has been with the Bells. He’d been scouted by Coach himself at the age of 19, having just completed high school and graduating from his own league. During the try-out period, he’d been one of the best, and after a summer of ups and downs, he was offered a contract to be the rookie starter of the season.

 “I want to play. You know that. You know how much this means to me!” His voice trembles as the pain in his chest spring tears into his eyes. 

Coach gives him a sympathetic smile, nodding. “I do. At least, I used to. But now, I need you to prove it to me. To all of us. Which is why I think this break will be good for you to do so.” 

He knits his eyebrows, counting how many days of break he’ll have over the holidays. Then he nods. “Sure. It’s not much, I know, since we have a game between Christmas and the New Year, and one next week, but I’ll come to the arena every day, morning ‘til night. I’ll do explosion drills and I’ll rework my stickhandling. Shit, I’ll even do one better. I know we’ve been struggling to get the puck out of our zone, so I’ll focus on drills that shift us into neutral position. I know Zelensky was complaining about that last game and–”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down kid. I’m glad to hear you’re taking this matter seriously, but it’s not going to correct itself in a matter of days. It’s going to have to be a change in attitude. You need to learn how to not let every little thing trigger you on and off the ice. That’s going to take some time. Therapy, maybe.” 

“I’ll get a therapist. Right after this, I’ll call my friend Yoongi who can recommend me to someone and…” But already they’ve moved on, Jimin’s promise hanging in the air. 

Coach opens the folder he has in front of him before digging into the pocket of his jacket to fish around for something. He produces a glasses case, and then pulls out his reading glasses, placing them on the bridge of his nose. “Let’s see here. What are you thinking, Jay?” 

Jay careens his body to glance over at the schedule Coach has unfolded and laid before them. “Well, you already know what I think.” 

Jimin and Jay haven’t always had such a sour relationship. They were friends once, before Jay was hired as the Assistant Coach. Before there was a significant power imbalance between them. Most days, they can get by without making snarky remarks. Some days, Jimin even likes the guy still. Jay is a good AC. He looks at problems with a square eye, knows usually before anyone else what strategy the opposing team is laying out. He protects and vouches for all his players in press meetings, including Jimin. But when he doesn’t have to be doing his job, Jay is ready to cut down anyone and everyone who gets in his way of going home early. 

Jimin sighs, looking around the conference room. A framed poster from the 2000 season Choice Cup championship stares back at him. It’s faded, but he can see the beaming face of his favorite player: Lee Wonhyuk. 

Wonhyuk is seen as a hockey legend, having more hat tricks than anyone in Bells’ history. Always a balanced player, he led his team to the 2000 Choice Cup Playoffs. Jimin was just a kid then, but that was what started his love for hockey. 

“Hmm, well, then I think this is going to be the only option. Park, you’re suspended until late January.”

Jimin freezes. “What?”

“Suspension. I don’t want to see you on the bench in your jersey until the 23rd.” Coach marks the calendar with a thick black marker and nods. “That’ll give you enough time to start getting your shit together and maybe we will have cleared the air from this scandal long enough to recover some of our team’s reputation.”

Coach stands, gathering his folder and heading toward the door. 

“B-but I said I was going to fix this! Did you not hear me promise I’d get a therapist?” 

“We heard you, Jimin. That doesn’t suddenly erase everything you’ve done. How can we even be sure you’ll take it seriously? It doesn’t seem like you’ve taken much of your career seriously for a while now. You’re just lucky you’re not being fired,” Jay knocks his knuckles on the table, almost like a gavel from a judge. 

“Don’t take this thing too much to heart, kid. A suspension is kind of like a break. A vacation even! Go enjoy Christmas with your folks and enjoy some eggnog. Watch one of those ridiculous Hallmark movies about the magic of Christmas making some uptight lawyer into a farm girl because of the hot ranch hand or whatever it is. Take a crash course in anger management, I don’t know. Either way, stay away from the team or else you might not be part of it for much longer.” Coach idles in the open doorway, wafting his hand for Jimin to leave. “Either way, let’s go, we need to go. Our time is up with the conference room and I gotta get home to the Mrs. to help make enough cookies to feed an army.” 

Jimin deflates, grabbing his bag and shuffling out of the building and into the mild winter air swirling around him. 

Christmas with his folks sounds like a nightmare. He hasn’t talked to them since the scandal leaked, despite the worried calls from his mother and the less-than-enthused follow-ups from his father who began calling on behalf of his mother. 

He wasn’t planning on going home for the holidays. The excuse of his work schedule would keep him away another year, and he also suspects that the invite to attend Christmas is one that has no real urgency behind it. He hasn’t been home since his first year going pro. He was just a kid then, trying to balance this new life with the one he left and heal a broken heart. He had hopped on a plane home, only to have to turn around just after the Christmas dinner was finished. The entire flight he was nauseated from overeating. 

The idea of coming home now, while being the biggest loser in the UHL just sounds like another way to rub salt in his wounds. 

He drives home, calling Yoongi and getting a number for a therapist, only to realize that they would be closed until the new year. Of course they will. He turns the key to his apartment, he can’t help but feel like the place looks completely different even though it’s exactly as he left it a handful of hours ago: blinds drawn, warm-lit sconces on his display shelves in his living room giving everything a soft glow. Everything is pristine. Jimin values tidiness and control of his home. Of his life.

Which is why standing here with nothing to guide him for the next 30 days suddenly feels paralyzing. How is he supposed to become another person in a month? He’s not allowed at the arena for practice, and god, he knows everyone will recognize him at the next closest community one, though who knows if he’ll even be allowed in after how “inappropriate” his type of fame now is. 

And it’s too warm here to skate outdoors. He checks the weather app on his phone. No snow is forecasted for the next two weeks. It’s looking to be a warm Christmas this year. Meanwhile, he knows from the location settings that his hometown he’s saved into his favorites is reporting frigid temperatures and at least a foot of snow by the end of the week. Which means the pond he spent so many winters on with his father learning the rules of hockey and practicing on will be frozen solid. A safe place to anonymously practice. 

“Fuck.” He knows what he has to do. And as the phone rings one full time before an answer, Jimin tries not to feel the heat that floods to his cheeks in humiliation. “Hi, Mom. It’s me.” 

“Okay, now drive through! Tighter, tighter! That’s it Y/N! Go! Go! GO!” 

You weave through the blur of jerseys, somehow avoiding a tripping maneuver that would have had you crashing head-first into the wall. Well, barely. Maybe you’d be easier to trip if you hadn’t calculated their positioning early enough in the quarter. 

You drive forward, just as you’re told, scanning. Where’s the weakest link in the defensive lineup? Ah, there he is. Number 55. The taller one who has already spent half of the game tailing you as if he’s an offensive player. The one that said shit on socials about your pussy being so tight because of how much you enjoyed being anal. 

As if that made any sense. Encountering an entitled, hot-headed loser in the minor leagues is about as unique as a tiny, crusty white dog being named Bella. They exist in abundance. Lucky for you, these are always the worst players on the team, and it became immediately obvious to you who was going to be your target for the rest of the game. 

As you redirect your position toward his direction, 55 seems to have plenty to say. 

“Hey Baby, why don’t you leave the big game to the big boys?” he coos, clumsily regripping his stick as he glides toward you. 

“Mm, if this is a game for the big boys, then why are you here?” you say with a smile, cutting the puck around his right skate before tapping your stick against his. It clatters to the ground. 

“You fucking bitch!” he yells, but you’re already well past him, leaving just the rookie goalie between you and the goal. 

He tightens up when he sees you barreling toward him, the puck guarded tightly behind your stick as you weave it, turning slightly to your side to make it seem like you’re going in for a slapshot on the left side of the goal post. 

Naturally, the goalie floats to the left, creating a huge gap on the right side. 

Suddenly, you pivot, shooting the puck to the right, where your teammate, Minho, has stationed himself perfectly to receive and slide the puck neatly into the net. 

Easy. As the buzzer sounds at the end of the game, you high five Minho, solidifying the hottest win streak the Griffins have had to date. The teams line up, a slur of “good games” parroting from the mouths of each team member as you go down the line tapping sticks. That is until you reach 55, whose expression has soured significantly. 

“Fuckin’ slut,” he mutters under his breath. You pause, turning to him. 

“But I thought my pussy was so tight since I’m so anal? Now I’m a slut? Wow, I really got around fast,” you laugh, rolling your eyes. “Leave it to the worst player on the team to have the most unoriginal, misogynistic insults. Maybe if you practiced holding your stick properly instead of trying to craft an insult, you would have one less thing to suck at. I’m sure not knowing how to handle your stick isn’t just a problem on the ice either. Yikes.” 

You feel a nudge on your back, knowing your team captain, Christopher, is bringing up the rear. 

“Easy there, Y/N, don’t make the guy pop a blood vessel when the season’s barely started,” he says and you chuckle. “And for what it’s worth, I don’t tolerate the sexist machismo you’re carting around. You’re lucky you didn’t lose some teeth this game. If I hear you chirping more bullshit on the ice next time, I’ll personally make sure you have a dentist on speed dial, we clear?” 

Christopher smiles with shiny white teeth, making his threat all the more menacing despite his usual golden retriever energy. 

55 deflates, giving you one more loathsome glare before spinning on the ice and skating away. 

“Bang, Y/N, hustle! We have a party to get to!” Your coach, Bee, curls one gloved finger in, her impatience apparent on her face as she waits at the end of the rink. 

You and Christopher shrug at each other before racing across the ice, the high of the victory still swirling in your head. 

“Oh, bullshit! You know for a fact that if given the chance he would rather be cameoing in some D list movie in LA than getting his shit together. I get that he was your idol, Chris, but times have changed.” 

Jihyo takes a swig of her beer, jabbing a tipsy finger in Christopher’s direction. 

“So he’s gotten a little big-headed with his team. It happens to the best of us. Jimin still remains a hometown hero and we should be grateful he put us on the map!” 

“What map? No one has come here to scout talent since Y/N was being considered for the UHL. I still don’t get why you turned that down. Fucking moron.” Wonpil scoffs as he bites down into his pizza, effectively silencing Christopher, and well, the rest of the room. 

“Ah yes, the awkward silence about me missing out on my once chance,” you snort, glancing around the room as the remaining members of your team devour the last of the team holiday dinner. Bee left not long after the party started, getting some phone call that appeared urgent. Slowly, your families and friends made their way home, leaving only a handful of you behind in the old bar. 

Taeyon, one of the servers you’ve known forever, smirks at you as you gather some plates together to make cleanup easier. 

“Why did you turn it down?” Soobin, the youngest and shyest member of the team asks. 

Everyone in the room turns to you. Everyone in the room besides Soobin knows why. 

“Uh, well, a lot was going on in my life at the time. I had a scholarship to go to college, but then I’d heard that some coaches were coming to scout for the UHL during the summer so I deferred the fall semester, just in case. I was up for consideration and offered a spot with the Bells, but um…I was…sick. And he only had room for one person on his team. While he’d told me I was his first pick, I don’t know, I was…sick, and the other player deserved it. He had a future in it, a need to get out of this place more than I can say I had. So I declined the offer and made plans to use my scholarship and go to school.” 

“I didn’t know you went to college,” Soobin says, eyes wide. 

“She didn’t. Finish the story, Y/N.” Minho says before shoving a tree shaped cookie into his mouth. 

You click your tongue. “Honestly. It was no big deal. It turns out my deferment voided my scholarship, so I didn’t go.” 

“So you gave up on both the major leagues and college? Who’s the other player?” 

You wince at the question, knowing the storm that Soobin has just unknowingly unleashed. 

“What do you mean who’s the other player? Who do you think? She’s talking about Park Jimin, dumbass. He’s the only pro hockey player from here.” Christopher says, delivering a light punch to the maknae. 

“Oh, right,” Soobin says, blushing in embarrassment. 

“And look at what he did. He’s fucking up his chance in this after everything Y/N went through. He knows how to rub it in.” Wonpil downs the rest of his beer. “Honestly, Y/N. If I were you, I’d want to beat that guy to a pulp for being such a loser when you were the one who was rooting for him the most, it seems. Bastard. Good thing he doesn’t come around here much.” 

“Yeah, ha, well. He’s probably off somewhere warm and sunny and not thinking about anyone but himself anyway. It’s for the best, probably.” 

“I never knew you were sick,” Minho says later that evening as you two gather the empty bottles of soju and beer and place them on the counter for the barkeeper to collect. “Bummer that was aligning at the same time that you were about to make it big.” 

“Yeah, it was. Um, hey, my mom wants to know if you’re going to the caroling party,” you say, hoping to change the subject. 

“Oh, uh, no sorry I can’t make it. I have a date.” 

“A victory and a hot date? Well, Minho, look at you! Looks like you’re growing up.” 

He rolls his eyes, chucking a wadded up napkin at you. “Shut up. She’s nice. We are going to that Thai place downtown.” 

“Well, it sounds like we need to get you out of here so you can get your ass downtown. Are you even going to be hungry? You ate like, a half a package of those cookies by yourself.” 

“I’m a growing boy! I need my calories! And yes, I’ll be fine, Mom. And I’ll remember to wear my coat and hat too.” 

“Well, good. It’s supposed to be sub zero tonight. Not the night to be outside without the proper gear.” 

You grab your purse, doing one last run of the room before you shove Minho out the door to prepare for his date.

“Fuck, I thought you said it wasn’t too cold, Mom!” Jimin climbs into the passenger seat of his mother’s car, his luggage practically owning the backseat. 

“It isn’t! It’s just a cold snap! I thought you’d be used to it from spending so much time in the cold.” She clicks the turn signal, pulling them away from the curb while Jimin fidgets with the heat settings. A thin stream of hot air puffs out of the ancient sedan. 

“I usually have tons of padding on me and am moving so much I’m sweating. That’s different from whatever tundra this is.” The heat finally kicks in. “Where’s the Kia I got you for Christmas last year? Don’t tell me you traded it in for the cash or something.” 

His mother scoffs, merging into the freeway. “No, we didn’t trade it in. It’s in the driveway. You can drive it while you’re here.” 

“Why aren’t you driving it?” Her annoyance is annoying him. 

“Because it’s too complicated. Touch screen and Bluetooth and heated seats and cameras. I don’t need that. I just need to go from one place to another place!” 

The old car roars as if it is in agreement. Jimin rolls his eyes. 

“You could have told me you wanted something simpler. I would have at least gotten you a car from this decade. This piece of junk’s falling apart.” 

“It does what I need it to. It’s fine. I didn’t ask for a car anyway.” The lights of the bigger city begin to fade. With a metropolitan city so close to where he grew up, it’s shocking how much Jimin’s mother is clinging to the outdated ideas of small town life.

The strained conversation dies out as his mother turns up the volume of the radio. As the final commercial clears the airwaves, the car is flooded with Christmas carols. 

“It’s good to have you home, my little star.” 

Jimin’s chest wrenches with guilt as he hears the term of endearment. His mother always called him that when he was a child. For a long time, he really lived up to it. Lately though…

I’m more like a fallen star. A star on its way to burning out. 

He lets the music do the talking for the remainder of the drive, and as his hometown comes into view, he’s surprised by how little has changed in the time he’s been gone. Everything is just more worn, older than it used to look. The faded sign of the main grocery store still has the same design. 

The bar where Jimin drank his first beer is still open, and he watches as two people leave through the door, a tall, handsome guy who is laughing and smiling while a woman with her hood up hits him with her purse, also laughing. 

For some reason, his stomach churns at the sight. God, what a miserable place to be stuck in. How can anyone still want to live here? How can anyone smile about the idea of being outside in that frigid air? 

He grumbles to himself and folds his arms, hoping to trap some of the heat back in his body while his mother drives confidently to the sounds of jingling bells. 

In the near decade since Jimin has last been home (he doesn’t count the quick stop-ins during longer layovers at the airport or his grandfather’s funeral), his childhood home has gone through enough renovations to disorient him but still create the same pang of nostalgia.

He goes to hang his coat up in the front hall closet and finds that there no longer is one. Instead, it’s an inset wall with a set of drawers tucked away. His parents have a new dog, Bada, who isn’t even all that new. He’s five now, a full fledged member of the family. Bada growls when Jimin walks through the door, but barely lifts his head off the couch cushion to do so before falling back asleep. 

“Are you hungry?” his mother asks as Jimin pads into the kitchen. 

“I ate on the plane,” he replies. His mother turns to him, her face twisted in disgust. 

“Ugh, that’s not food they serve on those things. It’s cardboard! Here, come sit down; I have some rice and mackerel from lunch leftover. And soup. You’re so skinny. It’s time we plump you up.” 

“I’m not skinny. I have a very specific diet and exercise regimen in order to stay light and fast on my feet while on the ice.” 

But his mother has already left to duck into the kitchen, the sounds of the rice cooker turning on making Jimin wonder if she really had leftovers at all. 

When she reappears about twenty minutes later, she comes with an entire filet of hot fish, black beans, radish kimchi, a mountain of rice, some clear broth soup, and cut up pears. 

“Eat! Eat my son!” she orders, and Jimin obeys, his full stomach betraying him over the promise of home cooked food. 

He is about to ask his mother where his father is when he hears the door open, his father bundled up tight with a dusting of snow on his coat. 

“Storm blew in earlier than I thought.” 

“Oh, honey. Come sit. Give me your coat, I'll hang it to dry.” 

With a grunt from his father, he settles next to where his mother was sitting before, casting his eyes across the table. 

“So you finally made it home to see your parents, huh? When’s the last time we saw you in person again?” 

“Uh, I think last summer. When you guys came to visit.” 

A year and a half. That was the last time they’d been partially together as a family. His brother comes home much more frequently, though this Christmas he’s in Hawaii with his girlfriend. 

Lucky bastard. 

“Well, it’s good to see you. How was the flight?” 

“Fine,” Jimin responds awkwardly. 

He and his father haven’t been close since he moved, and he’s gotten used to vague and scripted questions his father often asks. 

His father nods, slurping his soup from his bowl. 

“So did they fire you for being a porn star or is something else bringing you home.” 

His cheeks flood with heat. Of course his father would bring this up. 

“Um no, just suspended for a bit. And I'm not a porn star.” 

His father shrugs and continues eating. “Hey if it’s what you want to do I’m not here to judge. Just wondering what brought you back home after years of trying to convince you. Your mother was so happy to hear from you that she deep cleaned the house.”

A heavy weight of guilt settles in Jimin’s gut. He’s been gone for so long. And while he knows his parents will never wish for anything to be different for him and his career—well, up to this point— the fact still remains that Jimin has been distant and detached since he moved away. He looks over to the curio cabinet that has been filled with his sports memorabilia. A photo of Jimin when he was on his first team, the bulldogs, sits in the back, Jimin’s two front teeth missing as he gives a gummy smile to the camera. 

“It looks great, Eomma,” Jimin says to his mother when she returns, not even blinking an eye to the fact that his father took her spot. 

“Well, thank you. Now eat up, before it gets cold.” 

As the dinner carries on, Jimin learns that his mother has agreed to go to some neighborhood caroling event tonight. 

“Do you even know who is hosting it?” he asks when his mother fails to name anyone associated with the event besides her friend. 

“I’m sure she told me her name but I’ve forgotten. Names are hard to remember when your friend of a friend invites you. Even harder to say no.” 

“But isn’t there a storm happening?” He glances out the window, confirming the heavier sheet of snow blowing around outside. 

“Sure, but that’s no problem. It’ll make it more festive. Walking in a winter wonderland and all that.” 

“We’re already in one. There’s like, a foot of snow out there.” 

Jimin looks to his father, who has since abandoned the conversation for a sudoku puzzle. 

“Well, I need the exercise. If you’re so concerned, you can always come.” 

No. Absolutely not. The idea of caroling in a blizzard sounds like the bottom of the list of his favorite things. That’s just above dying. 

But as he watches his mother bundle up for the snow and move to grab the keys to her dying sedan, something prompts him to snag the keys for the Kia off the hook, and after a few minutes of painfully shoving his body into his former winter wear his mother kept all those years, he walks out into the snow, insisting to his mother that he drive. 

“Hot chocolate has arrived!” you sing, carrying a large steaming carton to the drove of community members who have shown up to bring “Christmas cheer to all”, as your mother has claimed. 

It’s freezing. You have heat packs shoved into just about every nook and cranny of your body. Even as you pour the warm, sweet liquid into cups to be passed around, you have to fight the urge to shiver. 

“Don’t worry, everyone! Once we get our bodies singing and moving, we’ll be warm in no time!” 

“I thought you said there would be a heat shelter we can go to!” someone says among the crowd. 

“Well, not exactly. It’ll be my house! I have my husband getting the snacks prepared now. And a warm, crackling fireplace. So let’s get this carolfest started!” Your mother beams, unfazed by the sour mood that has fallen upon the group.

With a deflated woo, the carolers set off on foot from the parking lot. 

You have been specifically instructed to wait ten minutes past start time in case anyone else shows up. But given how fast the clouds have rolled in to dump more snow on you, you don’t foresee anyone else coming. 

Still, you abide by your mother’s wishes, pulling your hood over your hat and rewrapping your scarf over your nose, hoping that will encourage less heat to escape. 

Just as your timer buzzes for you to ditch the greeter position and catch up to the crowd, you see a Kia pull into the parking lot, two people shuffling out toward you. 

“Did I miss it? Is it over?!” the woman says, panicked. 

“No, no, they just got started. They’re just down here.” You pull out your mother’s hand-drawn map she passed out to all participants at the start, and point to the one block your mother marked with a star for newcomers. “We will be able to catch up to them easily.” 

“Ah, thank you! Thank you! My son is visiting from out of town, so I was a little late.” 

“It’s no issue, really, this is a volunteer activity. I’m just glad you made it in this snowstorm. Would either of you like some hot cocoa? Or hand warmers? I have some extra.” 

“Oh, you’re so sweet. Nothing for me, really, but maybe my son would like some.” The woman pivots her body toward her son, who is still idling by the car, bundled up from head to toe and appears to be staring at you. “Jimin! Come here!” 

The second you hear the name, you freeze. 

No. There’s no way he’s here. Because he never comes home for Christmas. He’s always playing hockey around the holidays. But then you remember. He’s suspended. So where would he be able to hide and wait for his scandal to blow over. Where else could he hide but here?

Slowly, the bundle moves, shuffling his way toward you. You’re prepared for an awkward conversation, for some unenthused hey to leave his lips, but instead he says nothing, just looks at his mother. 

“What?” he asks. His voice is velvety and soft, just like you remember. Even annoyed, it’s a powerless annoyance, one without much heft to sting. 

“Hand warmers. Hot cocoa.” His mother gestures, forcing his gaze to follow her hands and over to you. 

“No thanks,” he says flatly. When his eyes meet yours, they’re empty, and something about how impersonal it is sours your stomach.

Jimin’s mother sighs before turning to you and smiling. “Is this the way we go?” she asks. You cock your head, confused. 

Before you can ask what she’s talking about, Jimin interjects. “Yes, Eomma, it’s this way. Come on. Let’s get this holiday bullshit over with.” 

His mother trudges forward and for a moment you’re too shocked to move. You stand there as the snow continues to float down onto your coat and bare hands, until Jimin speaks again. 

“Uh, hey. You comin’ or…?” 

You blink up at him, still seeing no recognition in his face, no anger, nothing. 

“Oh, uh yeah,” you say, quickly depositing the leftover hot z cocoa and maps into your car and matching your pace to Jimin’s. “So, um, how have you been?” 

You don’t risk looking at him, insteading focusing on placing your feet carefully into the snow. 

“Fuck, it’s cold,” he says, not quite answering your question. 

“Oh. Yeah, it is.” You pull a heat warmer out of your pocket. “Here, take this.” 

He eyes it for a moment, then relents, taking the heat pack from your warm palm. “Thanks.” 

The crunch of snow under you sounds loud, an occasional crack as you step on a patch of ice fills the silence. 

“So, you’re home for the holidays?” you ask lightly. 

He snorts. “Something like that. Although you’ve probably heard everything on the news already.” 

“Something like that,” you parrot, turning the corner of the parking lot to head down the side street you know the carolers will be on. Mrs. Park has outpaced the both of you, already joining the cluster of people on the far end of the block. 

“Are you home for the holidays too?” he asks and you frown, clearing your throat. 

“Oh, um, not really. I live here. Well not here, here, but in town.” 

“Right. Hm. Well…cool. And you grew up here?” 

You stop dead in your tracks, turning toward him. 

“What?” he asks, facing you. His plump lips look even more rosy in the cold, and his nose has gotten red to match. 

“Don’t do this. Don’t pretend you don’t know me.” 

His eyes flick across your face and he furrows his brow. “Why?.” 

“What do you mean why? You know damn well why.” 

He kicks at the snow under his foot. “Well, I mean we were good at pretending we didn’t know each other for so long, Y/N,” he says sharply. “So you’ll have to forgive me if that’s an old habit.”

Your heart sinks, and you shove your tongue into your cheek. “Right. Forget the fact that you were the one who initiated it. But the truth is that I do know you, Jimin. Your mom seems nice, by the way.” 

His head snaps up and he glares at you. “Are we just going to pick up on the same argument from a decade ago? I might have initiated but you’re the one who shut me out and never let me know what was going on. I think then, maybe it makes sense to say I don’t know you. And you may have read everything the tabloids have said about me, but let’s make one thing clear. You don’t know me, anymore, Y/N. You know nothing about me at all. So don’t start acting like you do.” 

His voice is cold, this time a true seething annoyance and anger leaking out of his words. 

You blow air through your lips. “Wow, yeah I guess I don’t. The Jimin I used to know wouldn’t jump down my throat the second that I ask him if he’s home for the holidays. Some hot headed macho temper you’ve got there.” 

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever, Y/N.” 

He begins to stomp off toward the crowd, but clearly thinks better of it as he waits for you to catch up. 

“Temper tantrum over?” you say sarcastically, and he grumbles under his breath. “What was that?” 

“I said it wasn’t a temper tantrum. You’d be pissed too if your hockey career was pulled away from you because someone couldn’t keep shit to themselves.” 

Your mouth drops open, and while your stomach churns, all you can do is laugh, your laughter forcing you to misstep in the snow and land right on your ass, which only leads to more laughter. 

“What is wrong with you?” Jimin says, his eyes cast down on you judgingly. 

“Oof, man, I haven’t had a laugh like that in forever. A good joke coming from you of all people.” 

You pull yourself up from the snow, ignoring his outstretched hand in front of you. 

“I don’t think it’s all that funny.” 

“Yeah, well, you really should learn to lighten up,” you say, dusting the clods of snow from your legs. ”And work on that temper of yours.” 

“You sound like my coach,” he says, lifting his eyebrow. “Did he send you to watch me?” 

You squint your eyes at him. “Huh?”

“Forget it. Let’s get this shit over with so I can go dethaw in the comfort of my own home.” 

“Oh yes, heaven forbid Mr. Heatmeiser is out in the snow for any longer.”

Jimin is pretty sure that he’s a lost cause when it comes to redeeming himself as a somewhat decent person. 

He’s not sure what compelled him to lie and pretend he didn’t know you. Maybe it’s because when he stepped out of the Kia and he realized it was you, his throat dried up. Over the last decade, he’s distracted himself from thoughts about you and what happened when he left home. How much it destroyed him when you stood in front of him during one of the last days of warm weather and called it all off. 

He was so in love with you. So in love even though you were his biggest competition. Someone who had just as much of a chance at going pro as him. Maybe even more so. And while your town was too big to know everyone, but too small to not recognize people, Jimin had always known you. Had watched you on the rink practicing for your figure lessons while he waited for junior hockey practice. And how slowly your movements became less dainty and more powerful, less whimsical and more fierce as you dashed around the ice to be faster than everyone else. 

One day you were tossed into hockey with him, but as you both grew older and your bodies shaped themselves around different figures of puberty, it led to the eventual discontinuation of co-eds. 

His mother wouldn’t remember you. Because Jimin never told his strict parents that he was breaking the rules and went to your home games when his schedule allowed it in high school. That in the spring of his senior year, he finally got the guts to ask you out after he heard you’d broken up with your shitty boyfriend. That nearly every night after the first date he spent sneaking in through your bedroom window or driving you around in his car with the windows down. 

When he said he was going to practice, you always were in the parking lot waiting for him, your skates and gear ready for you two to practice drills and place bets on who could win in a shoot-out, only for him to buy you a blue raspberry slushie an hour later as you glowed from your victory, poking your stained tongue out at him to tease him. 

He loved that flavor when he tasted it on you. How many of those sweet kisses had turned hot and filthy, leading to your little whimpers and cute little sighs as he thrust into you in his back seat when everyone had left for the night? 

You told him you hadn’t told anyone you were together either. Not because your family wouldn’t understand, but because if word got out in this town, the chances of someone telling Jimin’s parents would mean the end of your relationship. It was easy, you said, to let things be private and just for you. 

Which is why the breakup felt like an unexpected death sentence when it happened. You’d both been scouted by Coach, and Jimin was certain you were going to be the one signed to the Bells. 

But then you’d both gone to a grad party for a classmate in August. And much like every other social event, you’d agreed to not be too friendly together, to not rock the boat of parental expectations or be a part of the town gossip. So you went to the party with your separate friend groups, danced around each other but never with each other. When one of the girls drunkenly stuck her tongue down Jimin’s throat, you watched without jealousy. And when Jimin begged on the walk to his car for you to forgive him, you’d laughed and said easily that there was nothing to forgive because he didn’t consent to the kiss.

But after that night, after you showered him with plenty of kisses in many places he did consent to and closed the door to his car, everything shifted. 

Suddenly, you were absent from try-outs and had texted Jimin saying you were sick. When he offered to come over, you replied that he needed to stay away for a bit. He’d tried to talk to you, but you often left his texts on read. After two weeks of pseudo ghosting, he had finally had enough.  

This wasn’t what you did. Something was clearly wrong. And after hearing that day that he’d officially been selected to contract with the Bells, he needed answers. He drove over to your house and snuck into your bedroom when your light was on. 

You were sitting on your bed, hair neat and dressed comfortably, with no signs of ailment despite what you’d said before. 

“So you’re feeling better I see. You don’t look very sick,” he said, bewildered at how normal you seemed. 

“It wasn’t that kind of sickness,” you’d replied, teeth gritted as you turned down the volume of your TV. 

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you lie to me?” His anger had started building, lifting the volume of his voice to above the whisper-level policy that you’d both implemented. 

“Shhh, my parents will hear you.” 

“Fuck it! Let them hear me! It’s stupid to keep this shit a secret anymore!” 

Your jaw had dropped. You had looked at him with venom. “I was only keeping it a secret for you!” 

“Why? Why then was that a secret you could keep between us but you couldn’t even tell me what’s been going on! Are you mad about the party? About that kiss?” 

By that point, both of you were talking loudly, and Jimin had heard your parents call up to ask you who was in your room. 

“Don’t worry about it!” you called back, returning to your argument. “I can’t believe you think I’m mad about that when I told you it was fine!” 

“What do you expect me to think when that’s the last time I saw you? The last time things were normal between us, Y/N?” 

“Nothing between us has ever been normal, Jimin.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“We’re rivals. Competition for each other. You really think that this would hold up if either of us went pro? How would that work? The sore loser just carts themselves behind the other and sits on the sidelines despite their dream being crushed?”

“What? Baby, that’s crazy. Is that how you would feel if I was signed?” 

“Maybe, but maybe you’d feel that way.” 

“Y/N, I wouldn’t. I would be so happy for you. And maybe I would still have my chance too. To get signed for another team or–” 

“And then be on opposite schedules in different places? Really? You think that would work out?”

“It could! Why are you being this way? Did you fake being sick because you’ve been rotting in here thinking about things that haven’t even happened yet?” 

You shook your head. “No, I was sick but it’s whatever now. Anyway, I know you were signed today. Coach called me.” 

An early fall breeze blew through the open window, settling the heat between you. 

“I haven’t signed yet,” he said quietly.

“You will.” 

“Maybe I won’t!” 

“Oh be serious for one fucking second, Jimin. All summer you’ve talked about this. This is your dream. This has always been your dream.” 

“Yeah well that was before you! Before this.” 

“What is this?” 

“Love! I’m in love with you. I want to spend every day of my life with you, don’t you know that? Since we were kids on the ice, when you were a failed ice skater because you were too gruff. Don’t you love me?” 

Tears had welled up in your eyes, but you didn’t move from your bed. 

“You can’t give up on hockey Jimin.” 

“I’m not going to, Y/N. Now tell me, do you love me, too?” 

He sat down on the edge of your bed, looking over at you sadly. He wanted so badly to hold you, to wipe away your tears, but he knew if he moved any closer, you’d be sure to kick him out. He sat anxiously as you silently looked at him, more tears spilling forward. 

“You need to leave.”

“Then tell me you don’t love me. If you say that, I’ll climb through that window and I promise I will never bother you again.” 

“Stop it. Please, just go home.” 

“What is wrong? What happened? I don’t understand. We were fine. Please, tell me.” 

The desperation in Jimin’s voice cracked him open, tears falling down his face too. 

“It’s over, Jimin. I’m breaking up with you.” You didn’t look him in the eye as you said it. Instead your eyes were fixed on your shelf above your dresser, decorated with trophies, team photos, and medals from your years of hockey. Noticeably gone from that shelf was the stuffed purple whale he’d gotten you from an arcade that summer. 

When he looked around, that’s when he noticed every trace of him was gone from your bedroom. The little things you’d put there as symbols of your relationship like postcards he’d written love letters to you on the back of, a small picture you kept by your bedside of your reflections in the water, and the dried flowers from the field off the highway he’d picked for you the day his car stalled on your way into the city. Almost like every trace of him was gone.

“Y/N? I’m coming in.” The sound of your father opening your door pulled Jimin off your bed, wiping his tears as he turned toward the window. 

When your father saw him –and as Jimin assumed, you– he cleared his throat. “I think it’s time for you to go, son.” 

With one glance back, Jimin looked at you, pleading for you to return his gaze. And as he for the first and last time walked out of your bedroom door, you looked up at him. Your eyes were filled with an agonizing sadness. One that answered every question he asked that night. You loved him. But that somehow, didn’t mean anything. 

Now, as he stands in the deep snow looking out across the frozen pond in his parents’ backyard, Jimin can taste the memory on his tongue. Not just of you, even though since he’s gotten home from caroling with his mother he’s been obsessively replaying the memories he thought he put to rest. But he also is remembering his first time skating on the pond. 

Back then, it felt like it stretched on for miles, but back then Jimin was also about half his height and terrified the ice was too thin. Over time, he’s learned how to get a better idea of the ice’s thickness and safety, but even if he fell in, the water in the pond is only 4 feet deep. 

Carefully, he takes the shovel to the surface, trying to scrape away at the layer of snow that has caked over the ice. He knows by tomorrow the snow will just be another layer of thicker ice to reinforce itself, but he can’t wait. 

After shoveling, he returns to the bank and props himself on the old log bench his father put on the edge of the water, replacing his boots with his skates. It feels so natural and right to lace himself back into them, though the missing bulk and weight of his padding feels out of balance. Still, he pulls himself up, shuffling over to the pond and shifting his weight forward to feel it out. 

It takes a moment to get used to the rougher ice. It reminds him of the time the zamboni driver was on paternity leave and the roughed up edges from practice after practice made it harder to glide across. Yet this is the pond he first learned to skate on. He knows its bends, how to steady himself among it. And once he feels the ice glide easier under him, it feels like a giant weight has been lifted off his shoulders. 

“Do you think they’ll want wreath cookies or tea cakes? Or those ones with the snowmen cutouts! Ooh, we should get those while we’re here, too, just in case.” 

Your mother has been leading you down aisle after aisle of the grocery store, nervously questioning every decision she’s made for her Christmas party. After the lackluster turnout post- caroling, she decided she wanted to try again, and for some reason has decided that the selection of cookies was the reason for low turnout, not the record-breaking snowstorm occurring during it. 

Unlike yesterday, when you were forced to carol alone, you managed to lie to Minho about needing to get a few things from the store and wanting to hear about his date, waiting until he got in the car to inform him that you would be meeting your mother at the store. 

You sigh as you turn the heavy cart around, back in the direction of the dairy section from where you just came. “They’ll be back here. I’ll go get them.” 

But her attention is focused more on the list in front of her, so you wheel the heavy load through the masses of shoppers, Minho grumbling behind you about how much he hates you. 

“Listen, now that we’re away from my mother, you can give me all the juicy details. How was the Thai food? How was downtown? Did you kiss?”

“I don’t think you deserve to know,” he pouts, pretending to stall at the discounted advent calendars.

“Look, I have stuff to tell you too, so let this be an equal exchange of tea.” 

“Y/N, I don’t want to hear about whatever some loser said to you on a dating app about hat trick record holders.” 

You arrive at the section with the pre-cut cookie dough. Minho snags two boxes and holds them up, trying to make you pick between the Rudolphs and the Christmas trees. After a second deliberating, he puts both in the cart, knowing your mother will be pleased with his decision making. 

“It’s not about dating apps. It’s about Park Ji-”

“Hi!” A bright voice chirps close by, and you jump, focusing on the source. You whirl around to see Mrs. Park waving with a tree shaped butter mold in her hands. Standing behind her at the handle of the cart is Jimin. 

“Oh, hi Mrs.Park,” you say, your voice strained. “How are you?”

Mrs. Park smiles at the question. “Good! Please tell your mom I had a fun time yesterday. Lots of good singing! Especially you. Are you a professional?” 

Minho snorts behind you, causing you to elbow him in the stomach. 

“No no. I’m really not good. I’m not a professional by any means.” 

“Oh, I see. Well, what do you do for work then? Is this your husband? He’s very handsome.”

Your eyes widen in horror as you realize she’s talking about Minho. 

You try not to look at Jimin, but you do, and he still wears the same blank expression from yesterday, only his jaw is set and the tips of his ears are red. He looks back and forth between you and Minho, almost like he’s trying to imagine you two together. 

“Oh, you’re really sweet, but, no. I’m not her husband. Neither of us are married.” Minho pipes up, his hand gently rubbing up and down your back. Somehow, you know he has pieced what you were about to say together, and the comfort of his touch makes you feel a little less like running at full speed out of the store. 

Jimin’s blank expression has turned into a glare. 

You clear your throat, not only drawing his gaze up to you but also his mother’s. 

“I, um, I own the ice arena. So I am usually there, sorting out bills and repairs. Or driving the zamboni. When I have downtime I play offense in our hockey league.” 

This seems to draw Jimin’s attention. “You own the arena?” 

“Yeah, the Lee family who owned it? Both of them passed away a few years ago. None of their children wanted it, so I bought it from them about two years ago.” 

Jimin frowned. “Oh no, that’s so sad. They always gave me extra time to practice and always had those licorice laces at the food counter. Remember the time we–”

His mouth snaps shut as he realizes his mistake. His eyes flash to his mother, who is looking between the two of you. “Oh! Then you must know each other!” she says ecstatically. 

You raise your eyebrows at Jimin expectantly. What narrative is he going to choose?

“Yes, Eomma. Y/N and I went to high school together. And we saw each other a lot.”

“Yeah, something like that,” you say, quietly challenging him even now to say the whole truth. He responds with a shake of his head. His mother doesn’t notice. 

“Oh, how nice! Such a shame my son never mentioned knowing you before. He could be the one shopping with you now if he had gotten you sooner instead of your husband! But, my son was always so focused on sports. Do you know the UHL? He’s on a team there!” 

Something twinges in you at the mention of the truth. You know Jimin never mentioned you, as that was part of your arrangement. But the thing his mother says about getting you sooner really throws you. 

“She knows, Eomma. She of all people will know about the UHL. She had tried out during the same trials as me.” 

“Is that so? Well, a pity that he beat you then. He’s always been so talented. I guess fate really made things work out for both of you then.” 

You find yourself folding your lips into a thin line, trying to avoid spilling the details about her son’s talent. But just as you wrap your hands around the cart rails until your knuckles pop, you feel MInho reach over you, loosening the cart from your grasp. 

“Hey, uh, you know, your mom is probably looking for us,” he says, introducing the bait that you can take to escape the increasingly painful conversation. 

As if summoned, your mother appears, rambling on about how long it has taken before she recognizes who is standing in front of her.

“Oh, well hello there! It’s great to see you again. Thank you for attending yesterday, it was wonderful having you. Too bad you missed the post-caroling cookies!” 

You sigh, knowing that your mother is sounding passive aggressive to anyone within earshot. 

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry we couldn’t attend. My son had just flown in earlier in the day, so we went home after so he could rest.” 

Your mother’s smile falls a little, no doubt from the guilt. 

“Of course! Well, no harm done. In fact, I’m having a soirée on Christmas Eve, and you should attend! Bring the whole family!” 

You glance back at Minho, whose mouth is pursed to hold back a laugh, much like yours. A soirée. Sure.

“I don’t know Eomma, we still have–” 

“It sounds amazing!” Mrs. Park interrupts, shooting a harsh look at her son. “We would love to attend, thank you.” 

“Perfect, I’ll email you the details then. Well, we should get going. These cookies won’t bake themselves!” 

As you peel yourself away from the Parks, you take a deep breath. 

“Well,” Minho says, “I don’t think I need to hear your story anymore.” 

“Well, there’s something more I need to tell you, but not here.” 

When you first met Jimin, you were seven, though you don’t remember him. While he once claimed he’s known you for forever, it wasn’t until you were both teenagers before you actually remembered him. 

In high school, you’d laid low, avoiding just about every social event that you possibly could. Your focus was on academics and the ice, with 5am wake times to get to the arena to practice, and late nights doing extra cram school sessions to keep your grades in shape despite your busy schedule. You had friends, but they were ones who lived in different cities, most of them commuting to your traveling team. Because co-ed hockey wasn’t an option and your high school had only invested in boys’ leagues, Park Jimin wasn’t someone on your radar. 

Until you’d learned that you were on his. 

It started in the early spring. Rumor had it that major league coaches were scouting for new recruits. Of all genders. There was a special trial process, and the trials would happen during the summer, with a potential for newly contracted players to begin their rookie season as soon as the fall. 

You’d tried not to get too excited. With an early decision college acceptance under your belt, your future was already looking bright. There was even an athletic scholarship attached. You could play on the women's team. But the potential of playing for the UHL, to be scouted and live out your dream to play hockey professionally was still filling your stomach with butterflies. 

So you kept yourself chill until the rumor became official, and marched into the arena you knew so well with your head high, ready to take on the other recruits. 

It was then that you and Jimin officially met. 

He was a bit scrawny looking then, his mop of black hair almost shadowing his face. It was hard to believe that this kid was the one you knew to be the MVP of the boy’s hockey team at your school. 

But once you saw him move, you understood why. Jimin had the form and movement almost of a dancer, with his build keeping him strong but light on his feet to race forward and snake around even the most complex of defense measures. He instinctively knew how to bend his body and stick away from a targeted maneuver, and cut swiftly enough to throw off the goalie and score. He would have made a great figure skater. 

You, however, were different. From the start, the grace of figure skating wasn’t with you, with your skates sloppily digging into the ice so you could chase after the object of your affection. A little brutish, you were also cunning, and the strategy of hockey and the game board that laid before you made it all the more satisfying. Your patience and ability to unfold a game play before it fully manifested often led to your team’s win. 

It also made playing against Jimin all the more intriguing. 

Because during each scrimmage, shoot-out, and obstacle you faced for the try-outs, Jimin was often neck-in-neck with you, somehow knowing your own plan of attack, and sliding the puck out of your hold as if he was plucking a feather from a pillow. It appeared so effortless, like he’d studied you for so long and knew your every movement. When he would shrug and give you an angelic smile during his wins over you, it made you all the more angry. 

One day after a scrimmage, you were stressed and hormonal and pissed. Some of the other players had gotten under your skin, shit-talking you for being the only woman on the team. 

“You sure you aren’t on some steroids or some shit? Performance enhancement can happen to everyone.” 

“I’m sure your daddy taught you quite a bit when you played on your little ponds, sweetheart. But this is the big leagues. There’s guys out there three times your size who will ruin that pretty little face.” 

“Are you sure you’re cut out for this? The position of Puck Bunny is open. If you want to experience hockey with the pros, might as well be safely bouncing on my cock to do so.” 

The sexism was rampant in hockey, and you knew it. But that was a day where it was too much. With graduation on the near horizon, just breaking up with your boyfriend, and the scouting day schedule being released soon, your nerves were as tired as your body. 

When Jimin found you crying in your car outside of the arena, he’d gently knocked on your window, a light smile warming his face as he held up a protein shake and a Kit Kat. 

You’d let him in, and from there, your whole world shifted. 

The days grew longer, the sun warming parts of your life you’d forgotten winter took away. Jimin was there to listen, to sit and strategize plays with you, to eat Subway sandwiches after practice and walk you to your car after school. 

“Hey, so, there’s this movie coming out. It’s a documentary, actually, about my favorite player, Lee Wonhyuk? Would you, uh, like to see it with me?” 

You knew that was his favorite player. He mentioned Wonhyuk nearly every day, and wore his jersey when he wasn’t in his own padding. You also had learned other things about Jimin during this time, like how the tips of his ears would turn red when he was embarrassed, and that his parents had a no dating policy because he was supposed to have an arranged marriage some day. He dreamed of leaving the town you both grew up in, wanting more for himself and hoping the distance from his family would allow for him to be more himself than simply fulfilling the dreams of his parents. 

He wanted it so badly he repeated it like a mantra to you often, it sometimes sounding like a plea to the heavens as tears fell from his eyes. 

He had a tooth that was a little crooked, and sometimes when he was tired, his voice would lisp a little. When he laughed, it was often with his full body, a cute giggle that scrunched up his face and folded him nearly in half with joy. He was allergic to cats but loved them. He had a brother. He learned to skate on the pond in his backyard. 

But he never bragged. Never let his anger get him on the ice. Was respectful to you and held open doors or carried your equipment bag when your shoulder hurt. 

So of course you said yes to the date. Of course you let him tuck your hair behind your ear and kiss you in the warm night, his breathy finally he sighed when your lips broke apart ensuring you’d made the right call about him. 

“So you were seeing each other in secret,” Minho says, drinking his Americano smoothly, like it isn’t a pile of caffeinated sludge. 

“Yes,” you respond, the cinnamon on top of your gingerbread latte making you cough slightly. 

The café’s window is foggy, but you can still make out the figures of bustling shoppers. For the sake of discretion, you agreed to Minho’s suggestion to go into the big city for “decent coffee and the ability to be strangers in a larger public”. 

He was right. Everyone is either deep in their own discussions or blocking out the world with headphones as they work on their laptops. The soft jazz Christmas music makes it feel safer to speak your secrets into the air. 

“Well, then what happened? What led to you breaking up? It sounds like you two were in love.” 

“We were…I think” you say, correcting yourself immediately after. 

“You think?” 

“Can you be in love when you’re nineteen?” 

“Uh, yes? Nineteen is young, but have you seen the teens these days? I think they have emotional maturity.” 

“Well, I didn’t, I guess. Because that summer was so intense. We graduated, but we were already together. And then we were hanging out with our own friend groups and trying to balance things. But we saw each other just about every day. And then it was almost like an obsession. We were unable to go a singular day without each other. He would sneak into my room to be with me at night and then leave before either of us had to get up to go to practice. We didn’t want to get caught, so we would makeout behind the movie theater in his car or drive to a more secluded part of the woods so we could…you know.” 

“Have sex? Come on, Y/N, don’t get all shy on me now when I know you were eating up the details about me taking my date the other night and eating her out while she–” 

“Shh!” You look around, but if anything, your shushing is the thing that drew attention. 

“You’re such a prude,” Minho laughs. “Anyway, go on. So you would sneak around, make love, and spend every hour with each other possible. Sounds like you were being nineteen.” 

“Well, it was intense. And once the coaches came it was rigorous and terrifying. Jimin was getting better and stronger, but I was constantly getting slower and I felt weaker. At first I thought I was just tired, like I’d overworked myself, but then I was getting more anxious and nauseous. So I just assumed that it was nerves. But I was playing pretty good and I was drawing attention from the coaches in a great way. Well, one in particular. The coach for the Bells. He was the only one who seemed to be interested in signing a woman.” 

“Well, yeah, because we live in a hellish and misogynistic society and you kick ass!” Minho says enthusiastically, pounding his hand onto the table. 

A woman carrying her tiny Pomerainian in her purse whips her head over. “Do you mind? Snowball is trying to get her beauty sleep.” 

“Sorry,” you both say in unison. 

“Anyway, yeah, I was so excited about the opportunity. And so was Jimin. He kept going on and on about playing on the same team as his idol. But Coach approached me one day after practice and told me that despite there being another three weeks in the trial period, he’d already made his decision. He wanted to sign me on for the fall season. And he would see through the process to be fair, but he had already contacted the legal team to begin drawing up my contract.

“And I had to keep it a secret. While it’s kind of known that coaches do this, they usually keep it to themselves. But Coach said that he hadn’t seen the strategy his team needed in their play execution for quite some time and I would be a huge asset to the team. I’d asked about Jimin, too, out of curiosity but he kind of skirted around the details, saying that there would only be one recruit for the team from this area.” 

“Oh my god, that’s incredible! So why didn’t you go through with it? What did Jimin say when you told him?” 

“I didn’t,” you shake your head, fiddling with the cupsleeve of your latte. “I couldn’t. Not only was I sworn to secrecy basically, but how was I supposed to tell the person who adored the Bells that he wasn’t going to play for them? How could I crush his dreams like that? He needed this. Not only because he wanted it, but he was good at it. As much as I hated to admit my shitty opponents were right, I physically was going to be one third of the size of my competitors sometimes and there is a danger in hockey.” 

“Okay, but it’s not like Jimin is some massive dude.” 

“No, but you’ve seen how graceful he is. He slips out of the hold of the other team fairly easily. I’ve only seen him get body checked recently, when he got whatever that temper is he now is known for. He wasn’t like that at all when we were younger.” 

“Did he find out? Is that how things ended?” 

You shook your head. “I never told Jimin about this meeting. Maybe he knows now and that’s why he’s always pissed whenever he sees me, I don’t know. But there’s multiple reasons why I didn’t sign on, and yes there’s that part I just told you about, but there was more to it than that.” 

Minho sips his coffee, gesturing for you to continue. 

“So, as the week went on, my stomach was hurting more and more. And with all the stress and nerves but all the crazy workouts, I’d been skipping my period for a few months. Jimin and I had been safe for the most part, but not always. Sometimes we were too hot and heavy and we’d do the pull-out method instead. But I didn’t ever make the connection. A lot of the time, female athletes who are super physically conditioned have lighter or missed periods. It had happened before, but that was before I was sexually active. Stress, too, can sometimes make you miss periods. So one night Jimin and I went out to this party. Nothing really important happened but some girl threw herself at Jimin and he was worried I’d be upset. I wasn’t, but all-too conveniently I was super sick the next day. I missed practice. And that’s when I started putting the dots together and bought a test that was clearly positive.” 

“Oh my god, Y/N. What?” 

“Yeah,” you chuckled, taking a deeper sip of your drink. “Pregnant. And for a little while actually. When I got into the clinic and they took the blood tests and ultrasound, they suspected I was about 8 weeks along. Which means I had been drinking, getting body checked, and all sorts of shit during that time. But, they said it was still viable.” 

“Did you want it to be viable? I mean, how did you feel? Scared, I can imagine.” 

Your lips curve into a soft smile. “I don’t think I really gave myself much time to decide how I felt besides that I was terrified and that this was happening at the worst possible time. I asked for an abortion right then and there. So they sent me home with the pills, and I just waited. It takes a few days, and god, honestly it was awful to experience alone. I didn’t tell anyone, because if I told my parents I was afraid they would ask whose it was, and I didn’t want that to get back to Jimin’s parents. So, I just spent about a week at home, saying I had a really heavy period this time, experiencing heavy cramps and crying and letting it pass. The following week I had to go back in and make sure it worked, but in that time I just laid low and didn’t talk to anyone. 

“My parents didn’t suspect much, but Jimin was freaking out, thinking I had some infectious disease and threatening to come over every five minutes with soup or a Hazmat suit. I didn’t want him to be there, though. If he knew I was pregnant, I knew it would throw him off. He’d be worried about me even more and start thinking about us having babies together and getting old and staying in this town.” 

“I can understand why you didn’t tell him, I do. But I do wonder what’s so wrong about letting him think about those things too.” Minho reaches his hand out gently, stroking his fingers on the back of your hand. “I’m not saying what you did is wrong in any way, Y/N. It’s your body and always your choice matters the most. But based on how you described him to me before, do you think he would have thrown it all away or tried to make you keep the baby? Do you think that your decision and his wouldn’t be aligned in that way?” 

You think for a minute. “No, I think he would have been on my side. He was really adamant on letting me be independent and pursuing what was best for myself. I just couldn't give him the option at the time. I was too focused on making sure things went right for him.” 

Minho smiles softly and nods. “I just hate that you went through that alone.” 

“I do too. But I’m glad I can finally talk about it. I did end up telling my parents, about a year or so later, that I had an abortion. I didn’t say whose it was, but my mom cried for like three days because she was so sad for me that I went through it alone.” 

“Is that why you turned down the offer, then? Were you okay after?” Minho furrows his brow with concern. 

“Oh, I was fine after about two weeks. I felt completely back to normal. And it wasn’t really that reason that I turned the offer down. I mean, it was a part of it, obviously, but mostly when I was having the abortion and was alone at home I was thinking about how fucked up life is. I was a normal teenager and then shit I was pregnant. I was in love with someone but oh god we were almost parents. We were breaking rules despite being adults. We were living in secret and baby or no baby, life was going to change for us and soon. If I was signed to the Bells, I would be leaving home, but what about Jimin? Would he come with me, stay back? Would he get other offers and we’d play on opposing teams? If I said no and he said yes, would he seriously be okay coming back and seeing me or trying to figure things out while I was away at school? 

“Keep in mind, at that time, I didn’t realize my deferment was me rescinding my scholarship. I just suddenly felt like the world was so, so big and the tiny, romantic solitude we’d coveted was not going to work out. So I made up my mind. I turned down the offer for the Bells. I told Coach the world wasn’t ready for a woman in professional hockey and told him about Jimin and his drive and passion and dreams. I told him to sign him instead. Or at least I hoped I told him. I was really laying it on thick,” you laugh. 

“And then you broke things off with Jimin,” Minho finishes. You frown softly. 

“Yeah. And it was awful. He begged me not to. He didn’t know where all this was coming from. He told me he’d only leave if I told him I didn’t love him, but I couldn’t do that. Eventually my dad busted into my room and sent him away. And that was it. That was the last time we talked or saw each other.” 

“Until now.” 

“Until now,” you confirm. 

‘Well fuck, Y/N, that’s one hell of a story.”

“I’ll say.” 

Your head pivots to the Pomeranian lady, who is turned toward you and Minho, sipping her coffee indulgently. 

“You were eavesdropping that entire time?” you ask. 

“Well, it’s not like you were being discreet. Either way, honey, these kinds of places absorb everyone’s biggest secrets. That’s what makes the coffee so good.” 

When Minho dropped you off at your house, you felt like a huge weight had been lifted off your chest. After years of holding onto something that wasn’t necessarily shameful but still heavy, someone else knowing the full story was relieving. 

However, one question he asked before leaving has been popping around in your head, taking up a residence that you weren’t quite expecting, even as you unlock the doors to the ice arena the next morning.

“Are you going to tell him?” 

Had Jimin not been only mere miles away from you at this very moment, you would say no. There’s no point in bringing up the past if it’s never around to haunt you. But it seems like Jimin is determined to make your small town feel even smaller. 

When he walks through the doors behind Bee, you can’t help but feel like you manifested him. 

“So, Y/N, here’s the deal.” Bee always tells you news this way. A deal, a situation. This is her way of telling you she’s made a decision and you’re probably not going to like it.

“I got a call the other day from the Head Coach of the Bells. I don’t know how, probably Jay gave it to him since he’s the AC but whatever.” Bee suddenly admitting that her long distance boyfriend, Jay–the Jay she has baby talked to multiple times after a game loss– is the Assistant Coach for the Bells is shocking. But not as shocking as what next comes out of her mouth. “He wants us to rehab Park. Drill him, get him back to his roots and all that shit. He’s hoping some time on a familiar rink will help him shape up. So starting today, he’s going to be training with you.” 

You blink silently at Bee, wishing you could communicate “I want to strangle you” through the pattern. 

“What?” Jimin says incredulously. “I thought I was just going to be training with the space, not with her specifically.” 

Bee cocks her head at Jimin. “You got a problem training with women, Park? Because if so, I would be happy to call Jay and let him know you’re not complying.” She smiles viciously. 

Jimin sighs in resignation. “No, ma’am.” 

“Bee,” you say. “That’s not fair. If he doesn’t want to train with us, he doesn’t have to. I have some opening slots since the junior teams and figure skating lessons are on hold until after the new year. He can just come do drills during those times if he wants to.” 

Bee flicks her gaze between you and Jimin, raising an eyebrow. “What’s with you, Y/N? You’ve never disagreed with my plans before. Are you guys ex lovers or something?” 

You suck in a breath, ready to deny the accusation, but Jimin beats you to it. 

“Yeah, actually. We dated in high school.” He says it calmly, with no malice or venom. It actually shocks you a bit. 

“Oh. Well...do you think you two can make it through the holidays without killing each other?” 

Jimin laughs lightly. “I don’t know, you’ve seen her slapshots. I think you know how lethal she can be.” 

Bee smirks, nodding. “Fair.” 

You knit your brows together. Jimin making light jokes to Bee? What reality do you live in? 

“So, Y/N? Can you not enact Kill Jimin at this time?” 

Despite yourself, you find yourself smiling, allowing a light laugh to fall from your lips. 

“Yes, I promise I won’t kill Jimin.” 

Practicing with you feels like a weird dream Jimin is walking through. Familiar because the arena looks about the exact same as it did back when you were teenagers. Only now, you are both older, and when Jimin gets a good look at you without a giant winter parka over your body, he can’t help but notice how good you look. 

Your body has filled in, with wider hips and strong legs that lunge forward with ease, carrying you as you slam the puck into the goal post, chiming in the air before it pivots in. Your ass has gotten bigger, too, and it looks perfect in your leggings you’ve chosen to wear for practice. He can’t see much of your arms due to the bulky hoodie you’ve chosen, but he can tell by the way you bodycheck one of your teammates that they are far from weak. 

It’s almost enough to get him hard. Until he hears you laugh, and then he remembers how long it’s been since he’s experienced your laughter, and the empty ache of his past drags his sulky mood back up. 

Being home sucks. Seeing his parents is great, but he’s been coddled since he got here, being sent off with homemade lunches from his mother and warnings from his father not to stay out too late. He’s almost thirty and he feels sixteen. This morning his mother woke up even before him just so she could corner him in the kitchen and ask if he’d reviewed any of the potential matches she sent him so he can also go on a date while he’s home. 

He’d said not yet, but what he wanted to say was “No, Eomma, because marriage couldn’t be the furthest thing from my mind right now when my career is dying in front of me.” 

Now, witnessing you be still so much of yourself after nearly ten years, Jimin can’t help but feel even worse about himself. 

“Park, you’re up.” Coach Bee whistles for Jimin to begin his drill, handling the puck quicking between a set of cones. It’s a familiar drill he’s done hundreds of times with the UHL, but this time there’s a twist: he must avoid the agitator, a player who will skate behind him tightly, not only trying to intercept the puck, but also piss him off. 

Naturally, you’re the agitator. 

“Before we do this, no low blows,” he says as you glide up to him. “Treat me with the same knowledge any other player would have. Nothing too personal.” 

“Oh, uh, I wasn’t going to, but sure,” you say softly. 

When Coach Bee blows her whistle, he begins, curving his body along the cones, with you right behind him. 

“Pussy,” you say, which catches Jimin off guard immediately, throwing him into a laughing fit and knocking a bunch of cones down.” 

Coach blows her whistle. “Reset! Come on Park, Y/N, be serious.” 

“I am being serious!” you shout back, but Jimin is still laughing hard. 

“Oh come on! Pussy? You’re kidding me!” Jimin wheezes. Your lips twitch. 

“Okay, fine, I haven’t gone into my zone yet. Give me a break.” 

“I know you can be mean,” he says. Your face falls. 

“I don’t want to be mean.” 

“Well that’s your job right now isn’t it? To agitate me? So just suck it up and do it. Or are you a pussy?” He raises an eyebrow. You clench your jaw. 

This is how he knows he’s got you. All it ever used to take was a little bit of a challenge to rile you up. And Jimin knows just what buttons to push. 

“Reset your shit and let’s go,” you say. 

He smirks. 

This time when Coach Bee blows her whistle, you’re practically on top of Jimin, careening your body so your stick is just millimeters away from his. 

“You know, you used to be hard to crack. What’s wrong? All that fame get to your head? Or was it the fake orgasms you gave that girl in your little sex tape?” 

“Oh, baby, you of all people should know those orgasms were real.” 

“Hmm, I don’t know. You were going awfully hard on the poor girl with your needle dicking. Does being shitty at hockey now amount to being shitty at sex these days?” You smack his hockey stick, causing it to rattle uneasily in Jimin’s grasp. 

He chokes up on the handle, reshaping the curve of his arm so the puck tucks behind the stick when you go in for another slap. 

“Aw you’re asking about sex? Has no one fucked you since me or are you just having awful sex?” he retorts. You scoff. With a twist, Jimin begins the second set of cones, this time with a more fluid movement that feels natural to his body. 

“So interested in my pussy, aren’t you. If you were maybe more attentive to the other people you fuck, you wouldn’t be the worst player in the major league.” 

“As opposed to what? The best player in the minor league? I’m not the one stuck at home.” 

He feels your skate sliding between his legs, the force of your body checking, almost knocking him to the ground. He steadies, glaring at you as you coast behind him gracefully. 

“Oops, sorry. Did I almost trip you?” 

“You always played dirty,” he spits. “Come on, babygirl, give me your worst.” 

You roll your eyes and fall into position as he passes the puck back and forth between his stick. 

“Being awfully quiet back there. What’s wrong, big boys got your ego down?” 

“Hardly. I think you’ve got enough ego for the whole fucking town.” 

“And how did I get it, hmm? It didn’t come from sucking, Y/N, it came from talent. Something you didn’t try hard enough for.” 

“And you did? I’m sure Coach really loves to tell you all about your talent.” 

“He does, he said I had drive and passion and that’s why I needed to come back here. To show how far I’ve come from this shithole. How skilled I am and how much I deserve to be there instead of here.” 

“Well lucky for you to have been the top contender.” Your voice drips with anger, and Jimin peers back to see your eyes piercing through him. You drop your stick, shifting to Coach Bee. 

“Bee, I’m done. Send in someone else to agitate.” You skate off the ice, whispering angrily to her as you jab your finger in Jimin’s direction. She nods, blowing her whistle. 

“Alright, reset! Let’s get this show on the road. Wonpil, you’re with Jimin. Minho, go take goalie position. Hustle! It’s Christmas Eve, we all want to get home!” 

Everyone resets, and the player named Wonpil pulls up behind Jimin. As the fellow players begin their drills, Wonpil immediately jumps in where you left off. 

“God, I can’t believe they let an asshole like you in here,” he says, leering over Jimin’s shoulder. 

Jimin snorts, focusing on his positioning. 

“Seriously, you’re the scum of the entire UHL and you really think you’re the shit? Embarrassing.” 

“Well, at least I have a contract. How's a dinky rink going for you, bud?” 

“You know you only have that contract because Y/N turned it down, right?” 

Jimin grips his stick harder. “Nice lie, you almost got me with it.”

Wonpil laughs, empty and cruel. “Oh you don’t know do you? Your coach scouted her for the Bells. She only turned it down because she was sick and felt bad for you.” 

“You’re lying,” Jimin said, teeth gritting. 

“Sure I am. Keep telling yourself that. But facts are facts, Jimin. You playing like a piece of shit is a disgrace to not just yourself, but everything she built for you too.” 

“Stop. Lying.” Heat flares through Jimin’s body, and he pivots on the ice, slamming his body into Wonpil. 

“Oh, I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” Wonpil says, teeth sharp as he smiles at Jimin. “Someone really needs to put you in your place, and I’m more than happy to do it.” 

Jimin grabs Wonpil’s shoulders, jerking him into the barrier. “Go for it, bud. Show me how cool you think you are.” 

Wonpil jerks his arm up to bring his elbow down onto Jimin's face, but something stops him. A hand squeezes his forearm, and as Jimin follows the limb, he sees you.

“Stop it, Wonpil. That’s enough.” Your voice is soft but ragged, and Jimin realizes you’ve been crying.

Somewhere in the background, the whistle is screaming through the arena, and the entire team of the Griffins are streaming forward to break up the fight. But it’s your touch, your voice that seems to break Jimin from his fury. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, but the question confuses you, and you stand there staring at him, your body only looped through one arm of the hoodie, your skates untied. 

You don’t answer, instead skating back off the rink, grabbing your equipment bag and disappearing behind a door marked for employees. 

Jimin doesn’t see you until closing time. While practice ended hours ago, he stayed, doing drills, eating a hot dog from concessions, and most of all, waiting for you. 

Your hair is messy, eyes puffy and red, but when your eyes land on Jimin, you don’t look fazed by his presence. 

“I saw you on the security camera,” you say softly. 

“Ah,” he responds. Your arms are crossed, the long sleeves of your shirt confirming the muscle definition he suspected before. 

“I assume you wanted to talk to me?” you ask. 

Jimin clears his throat, nodding awkwardly. “Um, yeah. Your teammate, Wonpil. What’s his deal?”

“What do you mean?” 

“Does he have it out for me or something?” 

You shrug. “I’m not sure what you mean. Besides you trying to beat the shit out of him. Did something happen?” 

“Well, I didn’t try to beat the shit out of him for nothing. The guy has a screw loose or something. He was saying all sorts of shit.” 

“Didn’t you tell me that this is what the agitator does? Of course he’s going to say shit. Come on, follow me. I need to lock up.” You lead him through the various lobbies and areas around the arena, checking bathrooms and corners for anyone who might be loitering. Jimin saw the last people leave about an hour ago, but he doesn’t say so. 

“Yeah, but this was crazy stuff.” You duck your head into the women’s bathroom. 

“Mhm.” 

“He said that the only reason I’m contracted with the Bells is because you turned it down. Isn’t that nuts?” 

You freeze, your hand on the key that turns off the lights to the south side of the arena. 

“Oh.”

Jimin watches you. Your voice sounds shaken, and when you turn to him, you don’t meet his gaze. 

“Y/N,” Jimin says. 

“Yeah.” 

“Look at me.” You obey. “Is that true? Did you get a contract for the Bells?” 

“I did,” you say. 

Jimin’s chest clenches but he forces a deep breath through it anyway. 

“And did you turn it down so I could go?” 

“Yes,” you say. Tears well up in your eyes. Jimin blinks in disbelief. 

“Why? Why the fuck would you do that? It was your dream and you just threw it away!” Anger pulses through him again, making him flushed and hot. “Why didn’t you tell me? What the fuck, Y/N?” 

“You wanted it more than I did, Jimin! You needed it more than me. What was I supposed to do? Leave you behind?”

“You were supposed to tell me! You were supposed to be honest so I could figure things out for myself! If I wasn’t the first pick, I deserved to know! Now I know I was the pity pick? All this time I was thinking I was chosen because I was wanted, but I wasn’t even good enough for that?” 

He rubs his eyes with his hands, trying to stamp out the burning he feels in them. Despite himself, his throat tightens, and the hot lick of tears begins to fall in mirror to your face. 

“Of course you were good enough! Why else would you have been contracted! He saw in you what I saw!” you yell, a ragged cry leaving your chest. 

“So that’s why you dumped me all those years ago? Was it guilt for what you did?”

“No! No, it was because I couldn’t be the one dragging you down, Jimin. You spent that whole summer telling me how badly you needed to escape. You talked about your dreams, everything. If I went and played for the Bells, would you have been happy for me? Would you have been okay with letting your dream go?” 

“Of course I wouldn’t Y/N! Because you were my dream. You never seemed to get that! All along you were playing with my future like I was your puppet on strings. Did I live up to your expectations? Hm? Is watching me fuck strangers in a threesome that has since ruined my life been a dream for you? Has watching me become the loser that I am been satisfying for your sick idea of reality?” 

“No, it isn’t. It’s been sad, Jimin. It has been absolutely awful to watch! And keep in mind, there’s no way for me to be a puppeteer if I’m not around to pull the strings. You became who you are now by your own hand. Not mine. Yeah, it was wrong of me not to tell you, I know that now. I’m sorry. It wasn’t fair to you. But I’m not responsible for your career failing. That’s all you.” 

You turn the key to the set of lights, shutting the arena down into darkness. 

“Now, excuse me. I have a Christmas Eve party to get to.”

You manage to get the swelling of your eyelids to go down with some cold spoons your mother shoves into the freezer when she sees you arrive at the party. 

You know you’ll have to face Jimin again tonight, but some resolve has washed over you in the time since you left the arena earlier this afternoon. You’ve had time for a shower, and thrown on some makeup so no one can ask you why you’ve been crying. 

With Minho here, things are feeling a little less stifling, as he instinctively knows how to assemble a killer charcuterie board while also wearing a dashing smile on his face when your aunts ask him if he’s single. He’s good for the distraction, giving you more time to mentally prepare for when Jimin walks through the door with his parents, wearing a white button-up shirt and open suitcoat. 

He looks good. Put together, unlike earlier when he and you were crying and screaming at each other. Composed in only the way a celebrity with PR training could. 

“Oh, hello Y/N!” his mother says as you greet them at the door, taking her pea coat into your hands. 

“Hello, thank you for coming. My mom will be happy you’re here.” 

“Thank you, dear. It’s our pleasure to be here. Jimin, help Y/N with our coats while we go put the tapenade on the table.” 

Mechanically, he obliges, taking his and his father’s snow-dusted coats and following you to the spare bedroom down the hall that has become the coat room. 

“You look nice,” he says, nodding in your direction. You chose to wear a sparkly black dress with shooting stars on it. It was one of the few things in your closet you could deem festive enough without being tacky. The only downside is that it’s shrunk in the wash, making your breasts spill over and your ass practically falls out the back when it rides up. 

“Thank you,” you say, trying not to notice too much that his eyes are glued to your chest. You feel a light jolt of warmth in your stomach. “You do too.” 

Jimin flushes, looking down shyly. “Thanks.” 

Without much effort, you turn toward the door, falling back into the warmth of the party. Your mother clinks her glass, drawing the attention of others. 

“Thank you all for attending this party at the last minute,” your mother beams, clearly pleased with the turnout. 

“That being said, we have lots of games at the ready, song sheets with lyrics, and plenty of eggnog and mistletoe to help you feel some holiday cheer.” She looks at you and winks. “So, enjoy! And cheers!” 

The partygoers cheer, and some swingy, festive rendition of “Deck the Halls” kicks on. You retreat to the designated bar table, where Minho is pouring a heavy glass of something. 

“What’s ailing you?” he asks. 

“Jimin,” you scoff, gesturing for him to pour you a shot of vodka. He goes to top it with cranberry juice, but you shake your head. 

“You sure you want to get wasted?” 

“Absolutely. I can’t imagine getting through any of this sober,” you grimace. Minho laughs. 

“Fair point. Cheers.” 

You clink your shot glasses, downing the alcohol quickly. The burn pulls down through your chest, warming you instantly. 

For the next two hours, you and Minho take turns pouring each other drinks before jumping into games like Christmas Pictionary, where your father draws the worst reindeer you’ve ever seen in your life, looking more like a group of sausages on a grill. 

Jimin hovers around, refusing to partake in the fun, and his Grinchy attitude is still weighing on you too. 

When your mother passes out her caroling sheets and your father shoves someone over to the piano, you find yourself stuffed into the corner with him. 

“Having fun yet?” you ask, the alcohol giving you the guts to feel daring enough to speak to him. 

“Is this supposed to be?”

You frown. “God, you’re such a grump. You better be careful, or you’ll be visited by the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future tonight.” 

“I’d say that I’m already experiencing it,” he says, gesturing toward you. “You get to be all three it would seem.” 

You roll your eyes, putting some distance between the two of you. 

At some point, you’re stuck together again. This time near the snack table and you try to pad your stomach with something other than alcohol. As you load your plate with salami roses and lots of different cheeses and vegetables, Jimin reaches over you, grabbing the bag of potato chips and depositing some of his plate. 

“Here,” he says, when he sees you struggle to balance your stash, and he carries it into the kitchen so you can eat against the counter in peace. 

“Um, thank you,” you say, and pop a tomato into your mouth. 

“About earlier,” he says. Something in his voice sounds less tense than before, and it prompts you to look at him, taking in the softness of his face. 

“Yeah?”

“I was being an asshole,” he finishes. “I’m sorry. I just…it was a shock is all. And a bit disappointing.” 

“It’s okay to be upset,” you say, dusting your hands off on a napkin. “And I’m sorry, too. It wasn’t right of me. I know it’s not an excuse, but I was really young at the time and I was scared.” 

“I was scared too,” Jimin says, lifting his eyes to look at you. “God, leaving here was terrifying.” 

The room is warm from all the crockpots still heating the various delights your parents have encouraged others to serve. Jimin’s face is rosy, and he looks almost like a teenager again.

You nod. “I can only imagine. A new place to start from scratch. Trying to get a hang of everything and be independent. You were practically a kid.” 

“I was,” he smirks. “We both were.” 

“Yeah,” you smile. 

“I do have another question, if that’s okay,” he says quietly. 

“Sure.” You bite down on a piece of cheese, chewing softly.

“When you broke up with me, you said something about how if you got the contract you were worried that I would be miserable. Was that why you did it? Didn’t take it.” 

You sigh. “It was more complicated than that.” 

“How so?” 

In the living room someone whoops as the partygoers sing along to “Jingle Bell Rock”. 

“Not here, let’s go somewhere more private.” 

He follows you into the guest room where you left your coats earlier. The room feels colder than the rest of the house, since the door has been closed despite the groups of people warming the living room. 

You sit. Jimin sits, too, though on the far side of the bed. 

“Well, I guess that me worrying about you was part of it. But I think looking back, I was also worried about myself. We had such a hot and heavy summer and this contract felt like a huge question mark over both of our futures. And we’d never talked about it. While I was at home, I just kept twirling the idea of how things would work out over and over in my head.” 

“Did you skip trials because of it? I had no idea you were so anxious. When I saw you and you didn’t look sick, I thought you’d lied. I never considered that you would have made yourself sick with all of that.” 

“Um, well that wasn’t fully it.” His composure takes you by surprise. “The week of the party. The one you assumed I got mad at you for? I was kept after practice by your coach. He said that while the try-outs weren’t done, he had made his choice. He picked me. And I had to keep it a secret from everyone. Including you.” 

Jimin folds his lips into a line. “Ah, I see.” 

“But, I also had been feeling really shitty. Nausea, heightened anxiety, stress related stuff. Missing periods and stuff, which I know I told you some about. But the day after the party, I felt really bad. And then I finally realized what was wrong. Um…I was pregnant.” 

Jimin’s eyes flare wide. “What?” 

“Yeah. Turns out a lot of my symptoms were signs of pregnancy. And you and I weren’t exactly careful a lot of the time.” 

Heat floods to Jimin’s face, and you watch as his ears turn pink. “No, we weren’t.” 

“I knew I couldn’t have a baby. I wasn’t really thinking what you would want in that but–” 

“What I would have wanted doesn’t matter.” 

You smile, some warmth spreading to your chest over your instinct being right. “Well, thanks. I got an abortion. And then I turned down the contract. I was going to go to school but I guess my deferment resulted in me losing my scholarship.” 

Jimin stares at you, unmoving. 

“You okay? I’m not shocking you too much?” 

“It’s not that it’s just. Holy shit, Y/N.”

“People keep saying that,” you chuckle. 

“Because it’s a holy shit situation. Were you okay? Did your parents take you?” 

“No, I just did it alone.” 

“Fuck, god. And I was just off dicking around on a rink while you were going through that”

“Which is what I wanted you to be doing, Jimin. I didn’t want you worrying about me. You had to focus!” 

Jimin rolls his eyes. “God, you are ridiculous. You were all alone having an abortion by yourself, going through that pain by yourself. Something of which I caused and you were still thinking about me instead of yourself?” 

Your mouth opens to speak, but no words come out. You never thought of it like that. 

“I’m not mad you didn’t tell me, just so you know. I don’t think I really have a right to be mad because it’s not my body that had to go through it. I just…I would have wanted to be there for you through it. More than anything. You were my world, Y/N.” 

“But I couldn’t be. I needed you to be your own world. I needed you to go make something of yourself that wasn’t just because of me.” 

He snorts. “But it was because of you that I made something of myself. I got contracted because of you. I played hard to not think about you. I kept myself busy for nearly a decade with my career so I could forget about you.” 

“Well, did you get close?” you ask carefully. The alcohol has made your head feel a little fuzzy, but the conversation has sobered you up. 

He picks up a throw pillow and tosses it at you. You laugh. “No, of course I didn’t. It’s you, for fuck’s sake. You were my every wet dream of my teenage years, do you think I would just forget you like that?”

“Well, you tried to pretend you didn’t remember me.” 

“God,” he runs a hand over his face. “I think I was just shocked, honestly. I thought you would have left here. Gone away to college and got your sports physiology degree and I would run into you one day in LA after a bad injury and I could convince you to fall in love with me again.” 

You scoff. “Oh is that the dream?” 

“Well it was. I really didn’t think I’d see you ever again, actually.” 

“I hope it’s not too much of a disappointment.” 

“Well, we’ll see…it wasn’t because you were pregnant that you broke up with me, was it?”

“Oh my god, no. You’re obsessed with this like there’s a singular reason but there wasn’t. It was a culmination of everything. Besides, I’d had the abortion during the time I was home. When you showed up, I had just gotten clearance from my doctor that it was a success.” 

Jimin frowns. “Were you sad about it? The abortion? Not that you had to be.” 

“I was sad that I was alone. I was sad that I felt like I couldn’t tell you. I was worried that if I did, I would be the reason for you not getting contracted. It was a lot of worrying for you. But also for myself. I worried I wouldn’t be okay. And I worried I would regret it somehow, that I would wake up one day wondering what could have been.” 

“Did you?”

You look down at your hands. “No, I mean, not really. I have since, I guess, but it’s less wondering what life would have been like without an abortion and more what life would have been like if I didn’t call everything off. That decision hurt me. And it never felt completely right. But my fear of things ending kind of ruled over me. I was so in love with you that I couldn’t imagine a lifetime where things would work out. Not when you had an arranged marriage you’d someday have to fulfill, or one of us would go pro and have to figure out how to make both our dreams work.” 

Jimin nods. “Well, thank you for telling me. I’m glad you made the decision that was best for you at the time. It gives me some closure.” He scoots closer to you before reaching over and squeezing your hand. “And I hope that if you ever go through something like that again, you have someone by your side so you feel less alone.” 

“Thank you,” you say. 

The warmth of his hand comforts you both as you sit in the room. Your mother squeals in the other room, shouting at your father for allegedly grabbing her ass. 

“Come on, babe! It’s Christmas!” he replies. 

You and Jimin burst into laughter. 

“You know,” Jimin says behind gasps of air. “I don’t think I hate being here as much as I thought I would. Sure, it sucks being under my parents’ roof again, but god, the sound of a holiday party is a welcome change from a bunch of locker room groans.” 

“You smell better too,” you add. You sniff the air between you too. “I always liked that cologne on you.” 

He smirks. “Remember when I ran out and you drove your car, broken A/C and all, into the city to get me a replacement?” 

You groan. “God, my car was truly an oven that day. When I finally got home I thought I was melting like an ice cream cone.”

“I remember that.” 

“I have a question for you now,” you say. Jimin blinks a bit, taken aback by your abruptness. 

“Oh, sure.” 

“Why are you home? Why didn’t you stay at your place and just see your celebrity friends? Why come back here which is clearly full of bad memories and feelings and experience all of this?” You gesture around you. 

He takes a sharp breath. “Well, it felt like something that I had to do. First of all, I’ve been instructed by our PR team not to be seen out with any of my celebrity friends. I’m not supposed to be seen anywhere near Bells Arena, so practicing locally was out. And with it being too warm there to skate on a natural body of water, it seemed like home was the only option.”

“That sucks,” you blurt. “I mean–”

Jimin laughs. “Yeah, it does suck. But home isn’t the worst place to be, and I feel like there hasn’t been a lot tying me to anything lately. The last few years have been rough. Threesome notwithstanding, but my life hasn’t been exactly private for a while. And I guess that kind of presses you to become someone else.” 

“Like a prick?” 

“Am I really that much of an asshole?”

“Uh, yeah. You lost your drive because you’re too busy chirping on the ice and not focusing on the game.” 

“You’re sounding like Coach again.” 

“Well, he had a good point. Do you have your gear with you by chance?”

“It’s in the car, why?”

“Go grab it and meet me out back.” 

“Why?”

“Just do it,” you roll your eyes and stand up, smoothing your dress. When you turn to face Jimin, his gaze moves from your ass. 

You pretend not to notice. 

“You have a rink in your backyard?”

“Yep, Dad built it back when we were trying out for the pros, thinking that during my break times I could come home and practice.”

Now knowing the truth, Jimin can’t help but feel an ache in his chest for you and the dream you left behind. 

“It’s incredible. But are you sure that you’re not too drunk to skate?” 

You balk at the question, laughing. “You think I haven’t skated absolutely wasted? Come on now.” Fair point. “Besides,” you add, “I feel fine now. The fresh air is nice.” 

You’ve traded your tiny little dress he was admiring in the bedroom for a more sensible outfit. “Now, lace up your skates, Park. Let’s get to drills.” 

An hour later, Jimin is sweating through his button down. He didn’t have an extra outfit with him in the Kia, just his skates, so he’s been sweltering in the stiff button down. A little perspiration is beading your forehead, but you still have a healthy glow to you, and are not nearly as out of breath as he is.

“You’ve gotten sloppy with your passing,” you say nonchalantly. 

A lick of heat prompts Jimin to argue, but he shoves it down. He’s supposed to be working on that, after all. 

“Just a tiny bit,” he says. 

“You’ve got a long way to go if you’re going to be ready to hit the ice in less than a month.”

He pouts a bit, despite himself. 

“Oh come on, you used to love the challenge of beating me on the rink. Did time change that much?” 

“Well, there was a pretty good incentive for winning. Like seeing you naked.” 

“Is not being kicked off your dream team not enough incentive?”

“I mean I’m a guy, Y/N. Of course my career is important, but I’m just saying, sex was always my best motivator. And if I remember correctly, yours too.”

You look away from him for a moment, thinking. 

“Well, then, fine, let’s give you an incentive then. If you beat me in a shootout, I’ll let you see my ass.” 

Jimin stalls. “What?” 

“I know you’ve been checking me out like, all day. It’s obvious. So, you beat me in a shootout, I’ll show it to you.” 

Jimin chuckles. 

“What’s so funny?”

“Y/N, I’ve seen your ass. And while I’m absolutely sure it’s even better than I imagined, I hardly consider that a motivator.”

“Fine, then what do you propose? What is it that you would like to do?”

Heat pools into his stomach. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, Jimin can’t ignore the intense attraction he still has for you. It’s like 10 years hasn’t changed much about his body chemistry. 

He skates up to you, putting his hand on your waist, testing the limits of what in his desires he truly is allowed to ask for. As his hand works up your side toward your breast, you let out a small gasp. And that’s when he sees it in your eyes: arousal. Unmistakable, just as easy for him to spot as it was all those years ago.

“Do you remember that time we went to the beach? And you got vanilla ice cream all over your bikini because it melted before you could even eat it?”

You cocked your head to the side. “Yeah?”

“And so I licked every inch of you? That’s what I want.” 

“Jimin!” you gasp, but as his other hand loops around your back, you don’t fight his touch.

“You tasted so sweet,” he whispers, his mouth hovering over your neck. 

“Stop.” But it’s a weak gesture, mechanical. 

“You fucking loved it, didn’t you?” 

Your heart beats a little faster. “I did.” 

“What else did you like, hm? When I fucked you that summer.” 

Jimin’s voice lowers, a deeper, seductive tone replacing his usual, cheerful one. It’s the same one he used to use on you, and the pressure building in your core tells you that it’s having the same effect. A hand finds its way to the curve of your ass, and you melt into his body.

“Jimin,” you rasp. 

“Yeah?” 

“Fuck.” 

“Tell me,” he whispers. “What used to make you come so hard that I had you screaming?” 

“God.” 

“Do you think about that as much as I do? Do you think about the little whimpers you made when you came all over my lap that day? Do you think about how hard my cock was for you? How desperate you were for it after I told you you’d have to wait?” 

“You’re such an asshole,” you heave. 

“I know. But if I win, I want you under me again. I want to lick every inch of you until all you can think about is me.” 

He pulls away, ignoring the hardening of his cock, rasping a deep breath. You blink at him, confused, before taking in his form as he sails the puck into the net. 

“That’s one, babygirl. Now show me what you’re made of.” 

Sex, it turns out, is Jimin’s greatest motivator. Which is why after he wins in the shootout up to ten, you end up naked in the guest bedroom. 

“Your nipples are so hard,” he says, sucking one into your mouth. “That’s how I always knew how needy you were. How badly you needed to be fucked.” 

A moan escapes you. He squeezes your thigh again, his other hand roaming up your side. 

“You were always so sensitive there. I’m glad to see that hasn’t changed.”

Your hands lurch forward, digging into the open ends of his jacket, pulling him closer. 

“When was the last time someone fucked you good, Y/N?” he asks, and your brain searches through your list of ex lovers, turning up empty handed 

“I don’t know,” you groan, hissing when you feel his other hand land on your breast. 

He clicks his tongue. “You poor thing. Tell me, what do you need, hmm?” 

“I don’t know,” you say again. Your thoughts are jumbled, how you got here, stripped naked while he still hovers over you fully clothed, your focus faltering as you clench your thighs. Jimin pulls away, grinning down at you. . 

“I bet you’re just as sweet as I remember,” he says. “I bet you still get so wet that when you get fucked the nastiest little sounds come out of you.” 

“Fuck, Jimin, god.” 

“I told you I would like every inch of you. Do you think I was joking?” 

“We can’t,” you say, your eyes flitting to the door. 

“Does the door lock?” he asks. 

“Yes, but–”

“Then lock the fucking door and come sit on my face.” 

Heaven. Jimin has died and gone to heaven. As he laps at your clit again, he can’t believe this is really happening. 

“Fuck, harder,” you order, and he finds himself grinning, sucking your bud into his mouth hard. Your legs immediately squeeze around his face, and he reaches up, forcing your thighs down harder, pressing himself deeper into you. 

You really shouldn’t be doing this. He has no idea how long you’ve both been away, but all he knows is that they’ve finished singing the entire “12 Days of Christmas” and someone has been getting your friend Minho to do a rendition of “Santa Baby” that hopefully everyone is too drunk to remember. But he can’t help himself. Couldn’t help the electric feeling when he squeezed your hand, couldn’t ignore how your tits spilling out of your dress had him rock hard the second you gave him a knowing look. 

And now, knowing what Jimin knows about you, about your past and why things ended, he can’t be mad. While yes, he’s frustrated by your positioning of him as the priority in your life, even seemingly now, he isn’t mad. And whatever happens after tonight, he hopes you’ll both be able to talk about it so you can reframe the future. 

Until then, he really, really wants you to come on his face. 

His fingers leave your thighs. You lift off of his face, gasping as you look down at him. 

“Do you have a death wish?” 

“Yes, now smother me with your pussy.” 

You roll your eyes, lowering yourself back down onto him. He laps at you again, this time flicking your clit with his fingers before rubbing them through your slick folds. “Fucking missed this pussy. Do you know how many times I think about this? How much cum have I spilled thinking about this?” 

“God, you’re such a perv,” you say. But he can hear the lightness in your voice, knowing that despite the slight embarrassment, you’re also flattered. 

“How tight is it, hmm? Do you ever fuck your toys thinking about me?” 

“Not often,” you tease before you wail as he bites your ass. 

“Liar.” 

“Ugh, fine. I think about your cock a lot, okay?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes, now are you going to make me come or not?” 

“You know, I could, but now I can’t stop thinking about you thinking about my cock and fuck, I’m so hard.” 

Jimin feels you leaning forward, your hand roving down his toned chest until you reach the tent in his pants. 

“Please, babygirl, don’t tease me too much,” he warns and you chuckle, tugging at the zipper and clasp and reaching into his pants. 

Your hand dips into his briefs, tugging the elastic and pants down his hips to free his throbbing cock. 

“Fuck,” you say, sliding your hand up and down his leaking shaft. “Were you always this big?” 

Jimin groans, sliding a finger into you. You moan. “Shit.” 

“You used to take this cock like such a good girl,” he says, sliding a second finger in. “Though I’m not sure how with such a tight little cunt you have. I think I need to fuck it open.” 

“Oh.” 

“You like that, baby? My fingers fucking you open so you can take my cock? You’re so wet, god, listen to you.” 

The room fills with the wet sounds of his fingers fucking into you, his tongue returning to your clit and sucking hard. 

“Shit, shit, we need to change positions or I’m going to collapse on your face.” 

He obliges, pulling his fingers out so you can lie on your back. You watch as he sucks your juices from his fingers, your mouth slightly parting as he moans. 

“So sweet.” 

“Fuck,” you say suddenly, your eyes once more turning toward the door. “We gotta hurry. Once we get to the cookie shots, it’s only a matter of time before my dad makes us do round two of competitive games, and they’ll be looking for me.” 

 “Aw, but I was just getting started,” he whines.

You roll your eyes. “You can fulfill your fantasy later. Skip the foreplay and fuck me already.” 

“I don’t know if you’re warmed up enough for that–”

“Jimin, I promise you the second I feel your cock slide into me, I will be ten seconds from cumming because of how good it feels. Now you can take your time with me later, but if you don’t fuck me right now, I might lose my goddamn mind.”

He feels precum dribble from the tip, and he looks at you. “Shit, okay. Well, um, I don’t have a condom.” 

“IUD. I’m clean. Please,” Your voice cants into a whine, which makes Jimin feel delirious. 

“Okay, lie back down baby, I’ll take care of you.” 

Despite your desperation, he moves slowly, sucking your nipples back his mouth, giving a little bite to one that makes you whimper. 

“Please, Jimin,” you beg again. He reaches down, taking his cock in his hand and rubbing it through your slick entrance. As the head of his cock dips in, your eyes meet his, and a sigh leaves your throat. 

“Yes,” you say when he seats himself to the hilt. You pulse around him, and Jimin hisses at the tightness. 

“Shit, watch it babygirl or I’ll come right now.” 

“Just feels, so good, fuck,” you pant, your body convulsing around him once more. 

He pulls out slightly and thrusts back in, his cock tapping your cervix. Your whole body quakes and you moan loudly. 

“Shh, do you want to get caught?” 

“Kiss me, then,” you say and Jimin being the fool that he is, he does. 

Your lips meet, and you taste like a peppermint candy cane. He licks along your lip, trying to get more of the taste in his mouth. Your lips part, welcoming in, his tongue tangling with yours as he thrusts fully into you. 

You moan into his mouth, silencing yourself as his pace increases, sharp snaps of his hips making you curl and clench around him, your wetness coating his pelvis and balls as it drips down your thighs. 

On a particularly hard thrust, you come, your body shivering and pussy spasming around him. Your nails dig into his back as you seat him deeper into you, riding out the aftershocks. 

“Holy shit,” you whisper. 

“Mm, feel good baby?” 

“Yes. You’re so big; It feels so good.” 

He kisses your nose.”Well, I want to make you come one more time before I do, so hold on.”

He rolls you over, propping you up on your knees. 

“When I saw you earlier at practice in those leggings, I was imagining this moment. My cock deep in you while I watch your ass bounce on me. Do you think you can show me that, Y/N?”

You moan a yes, thrusting yourself back onto him as he pounds into you. The flesh of your ass bounces against him, and Jimin is hypnotized by it, his hands repeatedly slapping to spank your cheeks as you fuck yourself on him. With each slap, you clench harder, and as he places his hands firmly on your hips and bucks into you with speed and precision, it’s only a matter of time before you’re face down in the pile of coats, moaning freely as he thrusts into you. With one final gasp, you come, legs shaking violently as you succumb to your orgasm. Jimin follows behind, is cock pumping a heavy load of cum into you. You sigh satisfied, holding your hand under yourself to catch it while Jimin watches it leak out. 

“Jesus, Y/N. That’s so hot.” 

“Well, hot and practical. I’m not spilling your cum onto all my guests’ clothes. Now go get tissue from that bathroom over there. I need to clean up.” 

Despite Jimin fucking you within an inch of your life, you manage to make your reappearance with your guests fairly easy, a glass of some concoction your mother has named Jingle Juice in hand. 

“So,” Minho whispers after your father divides up the room into teams. “Are you creaming of a white Christmas with Jimin?” 

“Ew, Minho! No! That’s disgusting!” You slap him on the arm. “How did you know?” 

“Well, first I saw you two go out back and grope each other on the ice. And then you practically ran into the guest bedroom. After about thirty minutes of not seeing you, I figured I’d come check. But then I heard you and that confirmed my suspicions.” 

Your cheeks burn with embarrassment. “Were we loud? Oh god, does everyone know?” 

“I think everyone was too busy drinking or eating or singing to notice. But to answer your question, my god, Y/N, you’re so loud. He should put a muzzle on your or something.” 

“Shut up. Besides, this is no big deal. A little Christmas stress relief. A one time thing.” 

“Sure it is. Well may Santa bring you more stress relief very soon because you’re glowing from the orgasm he gave you.” 

“Two.”  

“Huh?” 

“Two orgasms. With the promise of a third later if I meet up with him."

Minho looks at you uneasy. “I want to be happy for you, but I’m honestly not sure what to think. I thought you hated him. Or at least wouldn’t fuck him at your parents’ house.” 

Heat floods your cheeks as the reality of your decision begins to set in. 

“Yeah, uh, I don’t know.”

Minho takes a final sip of his drink, grimacing as he sets it down. “Well Merry Christmas to you, Y/N. Maybe you can fuck him into a better attitude while you’re at it. Because you’ve only got a few weeks before his suspension ends and if he isn’t ready by then, he can kiss his professional career goodbye.” 

“I think he can do it. We have plenty of time.”

“I hope you’re right. Not to ruin your post-fuck glow, but be careful. People don’t change overnight. While I’m glad you two had a fun little reunion romp, there’s still a lot of work to be done with Park Jimin.” 

©2024 by jooniperbonsai

[shijiujun]

A League of Nobleman | 张公案 renamed as 君子盟 surprise airs today after 10,000000 years

10 episodes are already out! A small win for double male lead dramas and this one has literally been in storage for 3+ years?!! This one isn’t a danmei canonically as the canon is no CP if I recall BUT the bromance is off the charts 😳😳😳

Just to clarify: This is not classified as a danmei or BL - direct from the author herself 😭 technically there is a romance but it’s super subtle so there isn’t much to edit out and honestly I doubt it ‘opens the gateways’ to the other dangais super soon because ZGA was originally in a grey area (and the production advertised it as a dangai inaccurately against the author’s wishes and they were expectedly shelved)

[tears0fsatan]

Hello! I hope you're having a wonderful day/night!

May I request a Lucifer x male reader NSFW?

Dom reader, taking care of Lucifer when he feels stressed/sad, maybe trying to break his pride so he can admit what he wants? You can do any sort of kink you want, but may I ask for a slight choking kink, maybe biting?

I apologize if this is awkward, this is my first time requesting ever. ^^ (p.s. I absolutely love your work!)

𖥻 characters... lucifer x m!reader

𖥻 genre... nsfw oneshot

𖥻 warnings... nsfw!! minors, ageless blogs and fem aligned will be blocked, amab!reader, dom top!reader, sub bottom!lucifer, dacryphilia [a lot of it lololol], reader calls luci a variety of pet names, tons of teasing, dirty talking, begging, praise, choking, marking [biting n scratching lolz], mentions of blood [not a lot but adding jus incase], nipple play? kinda? not too detailed but its there, drooling!!, gets a lil messy, slight dumbification question mark, fingering, edging & overstim <3

𖥻 a.n... oh my, darling ur absolutely fine!! ur politeness is a large contrast to ur req but it's rather endearing LMFAOOO n thank u for joinin in the event!! please don't be shy to drop by again, alright?? <33 anw this is so raunchy i'd have heart eyes if it were possible n i'm sorry if the choking part is inaccurate i'm not well versed in it &lt;/3

🌐 % 3V3NT H3R3 @ __★

the words on the paper were beginning to blur into one another and his fingers felt sore and worn. with eyebrows scrunched together in disappointment, slim and nimble fingers moved fluidly across the expanse of paper as they stamped 'DISAPPROVED' in big, bold, red letters at the request of the student council approving the creation of a human hate club. lucifer sighed for the umpteenth time that night, using his free thumb and forefinger to massage the space in between his eyes.

he dared to take a glance at the mountains of student council work that were strewn all over his desk, the paperwork seeming endless. he felt tears pricking his eyes at the sheer amount of work he had left, just because he was used to doing it didn’t mean it ever got easier.

the avatar of pride harshly pushed his chair back, head in his hands and gripping the ends of his hair tightly. he squeezed his eyes shut to prevent the tears from falling down his face, anything to keep himself from falling apart.

his muscles ached and he could feel the tell-tale signs of his throat beginning to close up. despite his efforts of holding back his tears, a few managed to slip by. he dug the heel of his palms into his eyes in an attempt to stop them from hitting the ground, his last attempt at keeping control.

“lucifer?” at the call of his name, the demon shot up. seeing you at the end of his desk sent him into a panic, he was well aware that he looked less than favourable.

lucifer cleared his throat, running his fingers through his hair to at least try to look presentable in front of you. he looked up at you expectedly, forcing down his stress and shifting all his focus on you.

“is everything alright?” it was hard to ignore the avatar of pride’s bloodshot eyes and untidy hair, and with the amount of work piled up on his desk, it was easy to put two and two together.

“everything is fine, is there something you needed?” he straightened out his suit, picking up the pen he had dropped earlier to continue where he left off, only to sigh once more upon seeing the paper he had been reading.

“lucifer… i think you should rest, you’re clearly overworked.” you tried arguing, though you knew it would be futile.

lucifer gave you a deadpanned look, wordlessly signaling towards the endless piles of paperwork. you outwardly cringed, understanding full well why lucifer was pushing himself so hard. regardless, you were determined to get him to rest, you had picked up that lucifer hadn’t slept in roughly three days, surviving purely off of coffee.

“It’ll still be there when you get back… i’m sure you’re ahead of all of it too. c’mon, you need to take a break.” you tried ushering him out of his chair, taking a glance at the document he was doing, scrunching your eyebrows in disgust at its contents.

the demon was torn. on one hand, you were right, getting some rest would help his stressed and sleep-deprived mind make better decisions. on the other, he couldn't let himself procrastinate any further, he already had so much work to do, it would only increase if he were to take a break.

"you and i both know you'll feel better if you do, lucifer. i love you, but please don't be so hard on yourself." you begged, seeing him so worn out like this hurt you in more ways than one could imagine. you wanted nothing more than to hold him in your arms and take care of him.

seeing him sluggishly sign his name at the end of the document made you certain you were going to have him relax, one way or another.

lucifer was close to shutting you down until he moved on to the next paper. not only did the words appear to bleed together, but they looked like they were melting off the page. his thoughts were equally as muddled, his thoughts about work slowly dissolving into thoughts about you.

he craved your touch, he needed you to make him feel better. he needed you to make him forget about his work, to forget about all the expectations the world had of him. he wanted nothing more than for you to bend him over and⎯

again, his cursed pride held him back. everything in his body was screaming at him to push you away and finish his work, even if it meant he was damaging his body.

"mc, i appreciate the concern, but i really need to get back to work." the wavering in his voice gave away his hesitation, though the demon pretended as though it didn't happen, most likely to soothe himself. it was clear that there was something he wanted to say but his sin stopped him from doing so.

"lucifer, look at me." you forcibly turned his head towards you, "put your stupid ego to the side and tell me, without holding back in the slightest, what you want."

lucifer bit his lip, tears building up in his eyes once more, gaze dancing from your own eyes to the desk to the ceiling. he shook his head, the beady tears slowly making their way down his face as he tried to fight the temptation.

"i..." you took a deep breath, feeling the hair on the back of your neck stand up from anticipation, "i can't, mc. i really must finish my work." you exhaled, disappointed that his pride got the better of him.

though despite his words, his breathing got noticeably heavier, and you took note of the way he squeezed his thighs together. you licked your lips, feeling your cheeks grow warmer at the effect you had on the demon.

"are you sure, luci? your body's a lot more honest than your words~" you purred, stroking his cheek with your thumb lovingly.

it was so shameful for his body to be so desperate like this, but he couldn't help but feel even more turned on. he enjoyed how you were treating him so softly, though the underlying roughness to your actions was more than clear to him.

your hands trailed down to his neck, gently caressing him before squeezing down on the sides of his neck. you relished in the way lucifer's mouth dropped open in a silent moan, the way he screwed his eyes shut, and the salty tears that trickled down his flushed cheeks.

"cmon baby, don't you want more of this? i can give you more... only if you come to bed with me." you teased while loosening your grip, letting him breathe again. he inhaled sharply, eyes shooting open before refocusing on you. aside from how glossed over they were, there was a needy look in his eyes and they were solely trained on you.

you backed away from him, tracing down his body until he was out of reach. his body unknowingly chased after you, gazing at you with what you could only describe as 'puppy eyes'.

as you neared the stairs, you watched as lucifer kept glancing between you and the work that flooded his workstation, genuinely looking torn at the decision he was forced to make.

after taking a deep breath, he abruptly got up from his chair and made his way towards you. without even sparing you a glance, he grabbed onto your wrist and pulled you with him without a word. you weren't one to complain, it meant you could admire his back without lucifer chiding you.

you hadn't even noticed when the two of you arrived in front of his room until you were forcefully pulled into it. you stumbled into his lavish room, a little surprised that your sweet talking went through to him. the door closed quietly behind you, not wanting to make too much noise as it was late into the night.

lucifer didn't look at you, rather, he was actively avoiding your gaze. you paid no mind to it, already knowing how much self-control it took him to let you take care of him. the avatar of pride stood stiffly near you, shoulders and jaw visibly tense. to those who weren't familiar with lucifer saw the look on his face, they would've naturally assumed he was annoyed, but you knew better. you also knew that lucifer was far from annoyed, you'd say he was feeling pretty excited if anything.

you closed the gap between the two of you, bringing your face close to his. with your lips only mere millimeters away from his, you could feel his quickened breath fan over your lips.

your gaze shifted from their focus on his chapped lips to the steadily growing blush on his cheeks, enjoying the way his eyes kept nervously darting around the room.

"good boy." you whispered, giving him a quick peck as a reward.

that quick peck easily escalated, and before long, you found yourself pushing lucifer back on his bed with your lips still attached to his. he was the epitome of disheveled, his coat was somewhere strewn on the floor, his vest halfway unbuttoned, giving you the perfect view of his broad chest.

you bit your lip, his unmarked expanse of skin looked like it was begging to be marked up you. the demon watched you through half-lidded eyes, observing your every move with his hair splayed around him like a halo. his knees hung off the edge of the bed, with one arm covering the lower half of his face.

you were completely awestruck by his beauty, wanting nothing more than this very sight to be burned into your memory. you took a deep breath, giving his figure one last glance before leaning back down. you gave his lips a peck, peppering kisses down his neck while your hands undid the rest of the buttons.

you hadn't realised how hard you had bitten down until you felt the warm, thick liquid hit your tongue. initially, you flinched backward, immediately unlatching yourself from his neck when the metallic liquid coated your tongue. you were ready to apologise until you heard lucifer whine and felt his cock twitch against your stomach. you blinked a few times, stunned that the demon had enjoyed that.

you were frozen, unsure of how to react. then, your eyes caught on to the drop of blood that seeped through the wound, feeling a strong urge to lick it up. you were lapping it up before you had a second thought about it, soothing the bite and stopping the bleeding. the whimpers you got in response were enough to fuel you on, leaving more bites on the base of his neck, each drawing blood that would trail further down his chest until you could lick it up.

you alternated between leaving kisses, hickeys, and bites on his neck, leaning back a little to examine your work. you knew lucifer would get upset at you in the morning but it eased the feral side of you seeing him all marked up.

you slipped his vest off his shoulders, throwing it aimlessly behind you, uncaring of where it landed, and went straight to kissing his chest. your hands stroked his body, lingering on his pecs and slowly making their way down to his thighs where they rested, massaging and pawing at the defined muscles. your hands inched closer to his growing length, only to change their direction when your fingertips grazed it. the quiet gasps he let outplayed at your heartstrings and you had to hold yourself back from cooing.

just like his neck, you alternated between littering kisses, sucking hickeys, and the occasional nip on his chest. you neared his nipples, dragging your tongue across the expanse of skin until you could latch onto the hardened bud. lucifer's hands immediately clutched onto your head, bringing your impossibly closer to him.

you watched the demon's face rapidly shift expressions through half-lidded eyes, chuckling against his skin at his reaction to you grazing your teeth on the bud. you continued suckling on his nipple while one of your hands moved up to play with the neglected bud.

you relished in the way lucifer's pants divulged into soft moans, his back arching into your mouth. his dewy eyes tried to keep their focus on you, though you suppose the humiliation and embarrassment of was beginning to sink in as after meeting your gaze, his eyes snapped towards the ceiling. however, keeping his eyes off of you proved more difficult than he originally thought, as his eyes kept glancing back at you.

you came off his chest with a lewd pop!, tongue hanging out of your mouth and resting it on the tip of of the nipple, coating the tender bud in your saliva. you made sure to keep eye contact with lucifer while trailing kisses to the disregarded nipple.

you gave it the same attention as you did to the other, only detaching yourself when you felt satisfied with your teasing. you took a moment to catch your breath, seeing that lucifer also needed a moment to collect himself by the growing wet spot in his pants.

your finger trailed down and teased his clothed tip, "doesn't this feel uncomfortable, baby? don't you wanna get rid of this, hm?" you tutted in faux disappointment, relishing at the avatar of pride's tightly squeezed shut. he nodded desperately, though making no move to change it.

you grinned, moving away from him and off of the bed, the demon immediately rising and crawling after you like a lost puppy.

"why don't you move a little higher, darling? get comfortable, 'kay?" you pecked him before leaving to fetch the lube you knew he kept hidden amidst his socks in one of the drawers on his side table. you took the time to strip yourself of your shirt while you were at it, dealing with it now rather than pause your actions later.

you turned back to lucifer, only to have the breath knocked out of you when you saw the way he was sat, patiently waiting for your return. he had done the courtesy of taking off his trousers and you weren't sure if he had taken off his boxers thanks to the pillow he had clutched in his arms.

his face was still red, due to the crying or the shyness you weren't certain. he sniffled, snapping you out of your reverie. you rushed back to him, pecking him once more before laying him down. you moved the pillow out of his hold, pleased to see that he had taken off his boxers as well. you supposed lucifer began to feel you weren't progressing at the speed he wanted, his hands wrapping around your neck and pulling you down to another kiss.

his hands found home on your back, raking his fingernails down with enough force you knew would leave welts, not that you minded anyways.

your hands caressed his body, squeezing the supple muscles every now and then. your hands teased around his leaky cock, touching everywhere but where he wanted you to touch most.

lucifer whined as a response, hands moving away in what you assumed was an attempt to guide your hands to his hard-on. you pulled away with a tsk, "behave... or tell me what you want." you firmly repeated, a hand snaked around his throat, squeezing gently as a warning while the other hand pulled away from his body completely.

lucifer looked like he wanted to oppose you, eyebrows furrowed and looking at you with an unexplainable emotion swirling in his eyes. he kept silent, choosing instead to look away and hide his face from you, though his body gave him away.

you took note of the way his back slightly arched off the bed, as though it was chasing after your touch. the action made you coo, deciding that, maybe, it wouldn't hurt to give him a small reward.

you kept him distracted with a kiss while your hands dealt with the lube. the demon flinched the moment the cool liquid made contact with his sensitive cock, his hands moving to grab your biceps, squeezing your muscles with strength you forgot he was capable of.

you were quick to soothe him, your right hand wrapping around his length and giving him a pump while your left hand went up to cup his cheek.

lucifer instinctively nuzzled his face against your palm, eyes falling shut as he obediently took what you were giving him. his voice started off soft and quiet, though as your speed gradually increased, so did the volume of his moans and whines.

"you're doing so well for me, sweetheart." you praised, grip tightening ever so slightly when your hand glided over his tip.

lucifer's panting got louder and heavier, whimpers mixing in when your thumb teased his slit. his hand flew towards his mouth, muffling the loud, wanton moan that escaped him.

with the more you touched him, the more he unravel beneath you, as though all his inhibitions were thrown out the window. your other hand lowered to his ass, slicked up finger circling around his hole that clenched around nothing. an amused, breathy laugh exited your lips at how needy lucifer was being, like a whore in heat all because he had a finger in his ass and a human was playing with his hard cock.

you thought it would be cruel if you didn't fill him in on your train of thoughts, so you did just that. "you look so pathetic like this, my dear. lookin' so wrecked all 'cause a human's playing with your ass and touching your cock." you cooed in a mean tone, enjoying the whines that spilled past his lips and the twitching of his dick.

you continued teasing him, changing the speed of you stroking him as to throw him off guard, so he could feel his orgasm approaching but never really reach it.

eventually, his hips began to match your pace, thrusting up into your hand when your fingers would graze the spot that made his back arch in the loveliest ways. you were a little impressed with how quick he was to figure out your pattern and use it to his advantage.

you let him continue doing so, knowing that it would ultimately lead him nowhere since he still hadn't been completely honest with you.

the lewd sounds of your actions echoed around the room, the constant squelch! and fap! were loud enough for you to worry that it was audible to the rest of the household. though you were brought out of your thoughts by lucifer's hands pulling you down to bring you into a heated kiss, the worry slipping from your mind as you brought your focus back onto the crying demon.

"need more." he sobbed against your lips, voice so soft you had thought it had been your mind playing tricks on you. yet your demon proved you wrong, repeating the words over and over again almost like it was a prayer.

he only stopped when he came, moaning out your name so loud you were sure diavolo would've been able to hear it from the castle. long, thick strands of cum painted his stomach and your hand, making you pause your ministrations.

you let him catch his breath before beginning up again, pace unchanging from the one before he came. his eyes shot open, looking at you in a panic and shaking his head vigorously.

"can't! 's too much!" he begged, although his body disagreed with his words. you muted him with a peck, the hand wrapped around his twitching cock slowing its pace while the fingers buried in his tight hole kept grazing him sweet spot.

it didn't take long for his next climax to build up, still sensitive from his previous high. you assumed his pride no longer weighed in his mind, his voice going up an octave and volume the longer you wound him up.

a smirk grew on your lips at the look on the demon's face. his face was sticky with a mixture of tears and sweat, his button nose and cheeks still red from his crying. he had his mouth hung open, tongue lolled out to the side and his eyes had a glazed-over look to them.

you stopped your ministrations, moving your hands away from both his ass and his leaky cock, chuckling at the way his hole clenched around nothing and the way he began sobbing harder.

"tell me what you want, luci. it's that easy, darling." you cooed, squeezing his fleshy thighs. the avatar of pride whined loudly, body squirming around uncontrollably atop of his plush pillows. "i can't give you what you want if you don't tell me, baby." you pushed harder, knowing his pride was near its breaking point.

you finally got what you had spent the hour working towards, and my, did you enjoy seeing it pay off.

"i want you to touch me." lucifer mumbled while choking back a sob, "want you t' fuck me 'nd make me forget about work, please, please, please." the demon begged, pride flying out the window and letting himself go.

with a smile, you peppered kisses up his thighs, happy you finally got him to admit everything he was bottling up.

"that wasn't so hard, now was it, darling?" you put your hands back on him, giving his painfully hard cock a few more pumps until he came on your hand. a loud cry ripped from his throat before he bit down on his lip, your eyes mesmerised by the drop of blood that rolled down his chin as a result.

lucifer didn't reply to your teasing, his head was turned away from you so you could see the flush that coated his cheeks and ears. you silently observed the way his chest rose and fell erratically, feeling proud of yourself.

but you weren't done, in fact, you were nowhere near done.

© 2022 TEARS0FSATAN. please don’t repost, modify or translate my works anywhere!

[charnelhouse]

charlie’s king arthur is just so funny to me because he’s definitely how every rough and tough boy that suddenly becomes king would act. but anyway can i request king arthur doing a bad job at being king for the day because he wants to hurry up and have sex with his queen? and then getting yelled at by everyone for leaving “you can’t just leave in the middle of a treaty meeting with the vikings because it’s sex time”

A/N: King Arthur x F!Reader. Breeding. Smut. Really blatant historically inaccurate language.

There are many things Arthur hates about being king.

Most of it really.

But listening to the grievances of the nobility during the Royal Court is perhaps the worst. It is brutal - it drags and half the nobles actively try to trip him up. They think him uneducated - slow. They hand him dozens of scrolls and he always tosses them into a pile - promising to look them over when he knows every single one is a method in trying to steal his lands or his power or undermine his current proclamations.

He relaxes in his throne - Excalibur digging into his hip. His knees spread as his eyes go distant when Lord Harrod tries to yell his case about Baron Devonshire running over the borders of his estate.

“My Lord,” Arthur finally snaps. “Please get to the point and no need to scream. I’m not deaf.”

Harrod colors up immediately and apologizes. Arthur tries to smother his laugh.

He’s pissed - frustrated - deeply bored. His Knights surround him on the dais - William and George - Percival and Tristan. Merlin and the Mage in the corner. Maggie. That pretty bastard Lancelot who appears far more interested in this monotonous activity than the others.

Arthur sighs - cracking his neck as he glances at the empty throne beside him.

“I love you, Art,” you murmur against his mouth. “But I’m not sitting through another one of those meetings today.”

He rumbles - a desperate noise blooming in his chest as he digs his fingertips into the soft flesh of your thigh. “I’ll be so lonely.”

“Hardly. All of your friends will be there.”

“Except the one I enjoy looking at the most.”

You slide down his torso - brushing your tongue across his stomach - the sharp line in his groin. His cock twitches when you cup him.

He raises an eyebrow. “What are you doing, pet?”

“Giving you something to think about during all of your awful kingly duties.”

You’d shoved him to the brink - swallowed the length of him and stroked him off. His muscles bunched under your touch as he bucked into your mouth and then - well - then you pulled off him and left him to his painfully tight balls and desperation.

“I’ll reward you when you finish,” you called over your shoulder as you walked away from him - hips swaying with each step.

“Your Majesty?”

Arthur jerks to find the entire court staring expectedly up at him. Fuck.

“Uh -,” Arthur mutters - too strained - swelling with a desire that was beginning to flood his chest and lower. “Pass the scroll to Sir Percival - I’ll - I’ll look at it later. I think that today’s audience is quite finished. I have urgent matters to attend to.”

His Knights shoot him sidelong glances - fully aware that there are hours left for this courtly session. The crowd of the nobility all sweep to the floor - bowing quickly as he strides out of the room.

***

“You know you can’t just cut short the Royal Court,” Goosefat remarks - sidling up to him as he hurries through the halls.

“I’m King,” he replies - casually. “I can do what I like.”

Wet Stick appears at his other side - expression entirely amused. “Yes - but everyone - including the nobles - know exactly where you’re off to.”

Arthur stops, before turning to him. “How?”

“Because while this castle may be enormous, the gossip travels like wildfire,” Goosefat replies. “You’ve also cut short the royal audience the last four times.”

Arthur blinks - chewing his lip thoughtfully. He hadn’t realized.

He finally shrugs before slapping Goosefat on the shoulder. “Well - fucking the Queen takes precedence, mate.”

He continues down the hall before spinning around as a thought crosses his mind. “Just tell those wankers that we are currently trying for an heir.”

Wet Stick raises an eyebrow in surprise - his lips quirking upward in an elated smile. “Are you really?

Arthur grins. “Of course - only bloody fun thing to do around here.”

***

“Fuck,” you hiss against Arthur’s shoulder - teeth scraping along the sweat-damp skin. “You’re wild tonight.”

He drops his chin - capturing your lips in a hungry, wet kiss. His hips snap between your legs - cock stretching you out with each hard, hurried stroke. He slides his thumb across the crest of your sex - pushing down against the sweet button that makes you clench around him.

“I was tortured for hours without you,” he whines in mock-agony. He’s punching up against the press of your womb - driven by the liquid sounds of your cunt taking him again and again. You’re hot underneath him - the giving glide of your sweet soft body rubbing against his tense muscles. He hitches your thigh higher over his waist - planting his knees so he can really thrust into you. It’s the tightness - the flush of pleasure dipping through his nerves and belly as he begins to crash into his peak.

“I may have told them we were trying,” he pants into your searching tongue. “-for an heir.”

You lie back and he watches your face change - eyes widening minutely. “Did you now?”

“If you would - if you want to?”

“My love - every time we do this - we are trying,” you smile - sneaking your hands to the globes of his ass to force him deeper. “I think you’re incapable of pulling out.”

“You just have such a perfect cunt,” he praises as his pace grows sloppy - the ache splintering through his throat as his breath hitches. “Damn near impossible to not - to not fill you.”

“Then do it,” you urge - bucking up beneath him. He keeps his thumb on your perky little bud - swirling in time with each blunt rut of his cock. You moan and it makes your walls flutter silkily around his length.

“It’ll take better if you cum, I think,” he growls with another harsh pound of his hips.

He presses presses presses until he feels your sex spasm around him - flood him in your slick. “Oh - my Queen,” he teases. “You just soaked me.”

You narrow your gaze - biting your lower lip before you tighten your lower muscles - bearing your weight down upon him until he follows you over the slip. He spurts deep - sealing you in warmth and salt and seed.

“You think that’ll take?” you whisper - threading your fingers through his hair.

“We can hope,” he says - kissing your jaw. “I’ll still be using it as an excuse to get out of court.”

“Naughty,” You slap his ass and he gives you another perfunctory thrust with his softening cock.

“Even when you’re round with my child,” he promises. “I’m telling those daft bastards that we’re working on the second.’

[quokkacore]

son of wolves I [park chanyeol & byun baekhyun]

for @imsoba​, who asked for an angsty, fluffy enemies to lovers au. merry christmas from your secret santa! written for the @exolssecretsanta​ gift exhange.

summary:  your entire life, you've fought bravely to defend the walls of your home from the evil forest spirits of the spearwood trying to destroy it, alongside your family, friends, and your betrothed, baekhyun. until you're infected by the evil that resides in one of these spirits, and you run away from home, before it can spread to those around you. it's in your exile, wandering through the spearwood that you meet the wolf prince, a tall man of hardened eyes, few words, and a fiery temperament, raised by these spirits you've so grown to resent. it's here that you begin to question everything you've ever known, and wonder whether the evil was out here, in the forest, or inside the walls of a place you once called home.

pairings: hunter!baekhyun x reader, wolfprince!chanyeol x reader

genre: reverse princessmononoke!au, angst, fluff, slow burn, enemies to lovers, fantasy epic, slow burn, war au, wolf!au

warnings for this chapter: violence, animal attacks, mild descriptions of gore, mild body horror(?), can you tell i did my best to avoid calling them tentacles but there are only so many times i can use the words “coils” and “tendrils”, language, subtle emotional manipulation, reader feels VERY violent urges but they’re not too descriptive, hypothermia maybe?, intentional starvation for purposes of wilderness survival, chanyeol is kind of aggressive and intimidating, SO MUCH worldbuilding im srry, VERY precarious (and probably inaccurate) medical procedures performed by the reader, chanyeol is a slob but hes literally feral so??

song recs: ateez - hala hala // stevie nicks - rooms on fire // the weeknd - until i bleed out // joe hisaishi - departure (to the west) // howard shore & billy boyd - the sacrifice of faramir + to the edge of night // jorja smith - i am 

word count: 11.5k

a/n: first of all, i want to apologize a little bit to the person this was meant for. i meant to write this in two parts, but due to external factors, i’m going to have to split it into three. i hope you like it <3 second of all, i think i strayed a bit from the original source material, but i hope u guys can enjoy it regardless!! merry christmas to everyone, this is a gift to my followers as well. 

main masterlist  // story masterlist

chapter one: the bite

It was supposed to be a routine patrol just outside the perimeter of Ironbend. You hadn’t been expecting the beasts and the rider to ambush the two of you in such a way. One moment you and Baekhyun were eyeing the treeline, the next the wolves were running up on you, and your reindeers were taking off, attempting to lead them away from the village. 

“Get the others!” Baekhyun called to you, running between the trees, “I’ll lead them away from the wall!”

You nodded, directing the reindeer to veer away from the chase. You looked back, eyeing Baekhyun warily before he and his reindeer disappeared further into the trees, the sound of howling getting further and further away. 

But the sound of large paws against the forest floor did not. Knowing what was coming, you turned, aiming the arrow you’d nocked earlier in your bow, and met eyes with the beast that had been chasing you. 

Immediately, you knew that this beast was different. Its running pattern was erratic, as if it were tired but still euphoric, and you could see a wound on its neck, staining its fur a dark color. Not red, but almost black. You let the arrow fly at it, grazing its side, but it didn’t growl. Its sneer grew bigger, but no growl or snarl left its mouth. You faced frontwards again, watching as you came closer to the treeline, the wall of Ironbend coming into view. 

“THE WOLVES!” You shouted towards the men on the parapets, standing guard, “GET THE RIDERS, THE WOLVES ARE—!”

The bite came both expectedly and unexpectedly, the wolf pouncing on you and knocking you off of your reindeer. You tumbled onto the ground, pinned down by the white wolf, feral and mad. The way your head fell against the ground, plus the cold snow left you disoriented and dizzy. Expectedly and unexpectedly, because in a fight like this, you always expect there to be injuries, maybe even casualties. But deep down, on a subconscious level, you never really expect it to be you. 

Humans cling to hope, and sometimes end up having it pried from their cold, dead hands. No matter how hopeless things become, everyone always has a “maybe”, or a “what if”. And today, your “maybe” had turned sour. Out of nowhere, the white beast had locked its maw around your arm, and was thrashing you back and forth. You could feel an intense pain in your arm as its teeth broke your skin and attempted to rip off your limb. In your disorientation, you began to panic, your other arm trying to beat the animal off of you. You pulled at its fur, and threw punches, but what seemed to distract it enough was when you tugged at the wound, and managed to stick a few fingers inside, gripping whatever was in the wound.

The beast reared back as it let out a pained cry and then a ferocious snarl. You managed to scoot back at least a little bit, putting some distance between you and the wolf, and grabbed the bow, which you had dropped as you fell.

Blood was dripping down your marred arm, and in those seconds that seemed to pass like an eternity, you realized that the wolf’s saliva was, for some reason, a thick, semi translucent black color. 

I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to die. 

The scent of the beast’s rancid blood pierced your nose and the sound of other men shouting were the sensations you could feel around you, but not before you felt something inside of you, a deep, masculine voice echoing in your head.

Your hate infected me, the voice growled, now my hate will infect you, and you will die the same way I will: slowly, painfully and overtaken by rage.

Then the voice was ripped from your head, the same way the beast was ripped away from you as the other riders came to your rescue. You were picked up by one of them, thrown onto his reindeer behind him, and you gripped on tightly to his shirt with your uninjured arm as he turned his reindeer sharply to follow after the wolf, which was most likely returning to its pack, towards the sounds of shouting, howling, and gunshots.

“Are you okay?” He asked loudly, and you recognized the voice instantly. 

“I think so,” You answered Jongdae over the wind, “I’m hurt pretty badly, but nothing Yixing can’t fix.”

With some difficulty, huffing in pain as you did so, you reached for another arrow, nocking it into your bow in preparation to let it fly at another wolf. Jongdae’s reindeer followed the wolf in its tracks, and stopped when you ran through the trees and stumbled across the fight. The wolves were incessant in their snarling and attempts to trample the riders and their reindeers, but your eyes ignored them despite the chaos, falling to Baekhyun, who was now off of his reindeer, his sword pulled out, dodging the rider’s dagger. You could see the anger on Baekhyun’s face, his chest heaving.

You couldn’t see the rider’s face. You never could whenever they attacked. All you knew was that he was significantly taller than Baekhyun, and that his hands were tanned and littered with scars. His face was covered by a red mask, back covered by the pelt of a white wolf, neck accented by a necklace of sharp teeth from different animals. His simple clothes were black, hiding the rest of his body. The man moved aggressively, grunting as he played the offense, repeatedly trying to stab your lover. 

You sneered and let your arrow fly, catching him right in his right shoulder blade, piercing through his clothes. The man stopped, groaning in pain, back arching in pain. He was barely able to dodge Baekhyun, who had taken the hit as an opening for him to strike with his sword. The rider stepped back, letting out a loud whistle before getting onto the largest wolf. He whistled again, and the other wolves began to retreat, dodging the large metal bullets that rained down on them from the guns of the other soldiers.

When the silence settled, Baekhyun’s eyes settled on you, and then he was running towards you and Jongdae, eyes flashing in alarm as he saw the mangled flesh of your arm. 

“What happened to you?” He asked, voice loud and concerned. 

“The wolf that came after me knocked me off my reindeer,” You replied, suddenly feeling lightheaded as the adrenaline began to wear off, “Bit me pretty bad.”

He looked up at you, then to Jongdae.

“Get her to Yixing. Now.”

“The bite left her cursed.”

Murmurs broke out amongst the council of leaders, and you felt your eyes flutter shut at Yixing’s tone. Normally soft and gentle, now his tone was loud as he spoke to the ten members of the council, and you could tell he was angry.

“What do you mean cursed?” Your father, head of the council, asked. 

“The beast was infected with hatred,” The healer explained, “Hatred of that kind stems from war and festers in ways we mortals cannot comprehend. As he’s a demigod, one of the sons of Selyne, it will most likely turn him into a demon.” 

“One of our finest female warriors cursed by a descendant of that wretched she-wolf,” The head of war huffed, her eyes settled on the bandages of your injured arm. “How will the curse work on Y/N?”

“It will manifest as dark magic.” Yixing’s voice was low, and you felt Baekhyun’s hand tighten around your own uninjured one. “It will harm her and those around her when it does, and it will slowly spread through her body. It will kill her when it reaches her heart, or her brain—whichever it reaches first.”

You looked up. “But there has to be a cure,” You quipped, “I can’t die. I refuse to.”

“Y/N.” Yixing’s eyes were sympathetic. “There isn’t. I hate to say this to you, but this is a death sentence. By my estimates you have at best, a month and a half.”

“Can we at least slow it down, hyung?” Baekhyun asked, voice pained. Your eyes squeezed shut at the slight desperation in his voice. “Make it less painful?” “Make it less painful, maybe. Slow it down… I don’t think I can, Baek. I’m sorry.”

You watched him nod, jaw clenching, the hand atop yours clenching slightly. “There has to be something,” You insisted. “What about the story of the wounded warrior—”

“Y/N, that’s a myth.” Your father’s tone was both sympathetic at your insistence, but also angered by your refusal to accept the truth. “And besides, that myth originated centuries ago, before we took hold of our destinies and left The Spearwood to build Ironbend.”

“Do you really think the Pillars of the Forest—do you think Emyr, the proud fool that he is, would heal you as he did the wounded warrior, after three centuries of war against his kingdom? After all of the weapons we’ve created, all the soldiers of his we’ve gotten rid of, ”

“Emyr asked the warrior for a sacrifice, then. I could negotiate something with him, and—”

“And what? What if he asks to give up our weapons, to leave The Spearwood be after everything it’s done to us, so that we may be overrun? Y/N, you may be one of our finest warriors, and you may be my daughter, but I refuse to sacrifice one life over all of Ironbend.”

“Send me on my own, then, papa, but I can’t just—”

“Enough.” His tone was final, and you inhaled sharply as you attempted to control the shaking in your arms. 

“You will stay here. And I promise we will do our best to make the rest of your life something for you to look fondly upon when you pass.”

“It’s bullshit,” You growled, blinking back tears as you sat on the bed in the cabin you shared with Baekhyun. “There’s a perfectly good possibility and they won’t even let me try.”

“Y/N, my love,” Baekhyun whispered, coming to kneel between your legs so he could cup your face, “It’s a suicide mission. Going into The Spearwood, of all places, in the dead of winter, to find those four gods and ask them to heal one of their enemies, I… you have to admit, it doesn’t sound logical. If the cold doesn’t kill you, then Selyne and her children certainly will.”

His hand came to rub at your cheek, nose nuzzling against yours, and you knew he was right. 

In the beginning, when man was just another animal, the ancestors of Ironbend lived in The Spearwood, ruled over by the four Pillars of the Forest: Selyne, the wolf goddess, warden of the forest, Beval, the eagle god, keeper of the weather, Mirren, the bear goddess, guardian of families, and Emyr, the deer god, king of the gods, and ruler of the forest. Over time, humans became smarter: they realized they could build things with their hands that animals could not, and they grew proud enough to rally together and leave The Spearwood and the kingdom of the gods to build something permanent: Ironbend. 

The forest exodus triggered a seemingly endless war, which had been going on for over three hundred years. For three hundred years, your ancestors had attempted to destroy the gods’ uncivilized way of life, to end Emyr’s tyranny and extend Ironbend across all of the Spearwood, so that it would finally be gone.

If the gods were as ruthless as they said, Emyr would never heal you when you were a part of the threat to their archaic way of life.

“Baek, I…” You whispered shakily, eyes fluttering shut. “I can’t die like this. I-I can’t. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. W-we were supposed to get married, and we were going to lead the council, and have children, and raise them to end the war, and then… Baekhyun, do you really want to give that up?”

“You think I want to give that up?” Baekhyun snapped, leaning away from you. “What, you think I want to watch you die a slow and painful death, and not do a thing about it? I—” 

He caught himself when he saw the tears streaming down your face, and your injured arm shaking. You couldn’t explain the despair, the anger that washed over you, but you could see the injured skin warping and growing beneath the bandages. You felt the bandages tighten against your skin as it grew, and you grasped your injured forearm with your other hand to hold it back, because all you felt was the urge to hurt, and you wouldn’t live with yourself if you ended up hurting Baekhyun, the man who made you laugh and feel emotions you had never felt before, who had persisted to push himself up the class ladder because he wanted to be with you and help those around him. 

Not him, not your Baek.

He stepped back cautiously as you took deep breaths, trying to ignore the sudden black liquid oozing slowly out from underneath the bandages, staining them dark and dirty. You began to count, and counted for an eternity, only stopping at 136 before you felt the urge dissipate, burrowing back beneath the skin it had attempted to break free from.

“Are you alright?” Baekhyun’s tone was cautious, and you opened your eyes to find that he was eyeing your arm warily. You nodded. “Better. I just… need to remain calm.” 

He groaned and ran a hand over his face before pushing his hair back. “Shit, my love, I… I would march into that forest right now if I knew for sure that it would save you. But the truth of the matter is I don’t know, and neither do you, and chances are that it wouldn’t. No one has seen Emyr in a hundred years, and even if he showed himself to you, he would likely have you executed for treason.” 

When you didn’t respond, his hands fell to yours, bringing them to his chest. You spread out your fingers, feeling the fabric of his cream drawstring shirt and the firm muscle beneath it.

Your eyes fell on the pendant he’d always worn: a small opal on a gold chain, which had been his father’s. Noticing your gaze, he reached behind his neck, unclasping it and placing it around your neck.

 His eyes were desperate, voice breathless and slightly panicky. “Stay here, with me, Y/N. Where it’s warm, and y-you’re surrounded by people who love you, and we can be happy before you die. We can rush the wedding, I don’t care if it’s a big affair or not. If it means you spend the rest of your life with me, it would make me the happiest man in the world, and I promise I would make you feel loved until the end of your days.”

Your forehead fell against his, and his eyes fluttered shut. “I’m already on my knees, my love. Please don’t make me beg any further.”

“Baek…” You whispered, feeling his steady heartbeat beneath your fingertips. “Hold me, please.”

He nodded, quickly making his way onto the bed, ready to console you, not despite what just happened but in spite of it—he knew you were just as frightened as he was, because he knew you like the back of his hand. The argument was forgotten, and suddenly you were resting on Baekhyun’s chest, listening to him hum a lullaby to you. You let your tears stain his shirt, and he pressed kisses to your hair between beats, until the soft melody lulled you to sleep, dreaming of nothing, basking in the warmth of the arms of your betrothed.

When you awoke, you found that Baekhyun had blown out the candle on your nightstand, because your room was now dark. He was asleep beneath you,  snoring softly. He looked so relaxed now that he was resting. During most of the day, his face was pulled into a grim frown, as the council met to discuss serious strategies and the needs of the people of Ironbend.

He hadn't always been that way. Even now, occasionally bits and pieces of who he was when you had first fallen in love—the brightest, funniest boy you had ever met—shone through. He could still make you and your friends laugh until your stomachs ached, but now that you were all adults, and it was time to take the war from your parents' hands, all of you had grown more serious, and pushed aside the time to simply enjoy life and each other.

You were 11 when you met Baekhyun, himself 13. You met at the training academy in the town, meant to teach children the basics: how to read and do math, the history of Ironbend and the war, . He had been a year older, and wont to make everyone laugh. 

He helped you with your sword fighting skills, and in return, you helped him with his archery skills. A steady friendship bloomed, despite the fact that you were the head councilman's daughter, and Baekhyun was the child of a woman who ran away when he was a baby to be with her lover, and the town drunk. Baekhyun was crafty, however, and as he grew into a young man, he used his wits, natural charm and skill to climb the ranks. 

It also helped that he invented the first prototype for the shoulder guns.

He had always been good at making things, and his prototype for the shoulder guns, small cannons loaded with large iron bullets made from the metal extracted in the mines, were what began to give the town an upper hand against the ambushes the creatures of the forests made. And for him, it was what landed him in junior council, along with all of his other abilities.

You thought of Baekhyun, and the look in his eyes when the curse kicked in. The quake in his voice when he begged you to stay. How much it was hurting him to see you like this, to know you would die. Your hand drifted to the necklace he had placed around your neck, a silent promise.  

What, you think I want to watch you die a slow and painful death, and not do a thing about it?

Except there was a thing to do about it. 

The wounded warrior was a story your grandmother had told you as a child—everyone knew the story as a testament to Emyr’s cruelty. The wounded warrior had gone to the deer god as he began to die from an infected wound, and begged him for a cure, so he could live to see his children and his wife. And while Emyr took pity on him, he asked him for something in return: fifteen years of loyalty, of servitude. 

True to his word, the warrior did as he asked—he tended to the god’s every whim and desire, for fifteen long, grueling years. Fifteen years that, for an immortal, passed by in the blink of an eye, but for a human, were, well… fifteen years. When the warrior finally returned home, he found his wife had died believing he had died after disappearing for so long, and his children, now grown, were resentful of having grown up without a father. The warrior lived a full life, to a ripe old age, but it was a lonely one, for he had no wife or children to take care of him or keep him company.

And finally, you thought of the rider, of the odd red and gold mask that haunted both your dreams and Baekhyun’s. There were no towns around for miles, not unless you passed through the mountains, in the opposite direction of the Spearwood, and no child in Ironbend had gone missing and remained unfound for over eighty years. The man looked too young and had moved with too much energy to be 90 years old. 

Your puffy eyes fluttered shut, listening to Baekhyun’s steady heartbeat.

...And not do a thing about it?

Except there was something to do about it. And while your chances were slim, there was always a chance. 

Slowly, you lifted yourself off of Baekhyun’s chest and sat next to him on the bed, admiring his features as he slept. The bridge of his round nose, the moles on his face, the apples of his cheeks. 

Oh, how you would miss him.

Baekhyun was a pretty heavy sleeper, but you still took great care to dress quietly, pulling on a warm shirt, thick pants and a cloak, along with a pair of winter gloves. You grimaced pulling them on, as you used your injured hand, the skin swollen and irritated, pain prickling every time you flexed your fingers or your wrist. Your heart never ceased pounding.

Next, you grabbed a satchel and went to the kitchen, packing a loaf of bread, some jam, a few strips of dried meats, and some fruit. You could find water in the streams, you figured. 

Quietly, you set your bow and quiver next to the satchel on the floor, and hurried to find some ink and a scroll of paper. As you looked, a glint of silver out of the corner of your eye caught your attention. 

It was one of Baekhyun’s many swords, still partially sheathed, propped up against the wall. Smaller, a bit more lightweight. He didn’t use it much precisely because of that—he preferred something heavier, that could bring down more force. You thought of the rider and his knife, and how you would most likely end up injured if he came close to you; a bow and arrow is only so good up close. You swallowed a lump in your throat, quietly picking it up. Glancing at the bedroom doorway, where you could still see Baekhyun asleep on the bed, dark hair tousled, you took a deep breath, before tying the sheath’s leather band around your waist, securing it tightly. 

Blinking back tears, hands shaking, you wrote down a brief letter.

Baekhyun, my love, 

Please forgive me for what I'm about to do. I can't sit here and die when I know there's at least a chance. Life will find a way. Love will find a way. I will find a way. I will do everything possible to find my way back to you, safe and sound. Don't look for me. It's dangerous enough as it is in The Spearwood, and now with the chance that I might hurt you as well… If these truly are my final days, I want you to remember as I am, and not as what the curse will turn me into.

You shine brighter than the stars, Baek. Please don't stop doing so, ever. That shine will lead me back to you even on the darkest of nights.

Forever yours,

Y/N

Tiptoeing, you set down the weathered paper on your side of the bed, before looking at Baekhyun one last time. Carefully, you leaned over him, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“No matter what happens, we’ll see each other again,” You whispered against his skin, “And after you're done yelling at me, I’ll kiss you the way you deserve.”

Escaping was an easy feat when you knew the standard night patrol route—even easier when you were the one who wrote them. Carrying all of your things, you made your way to the stables, the moon your only source of light. 

There was no one in the stables, which made saddling up Ivan, your reindeer, easier. In the silence as you worked hastily, you began to doubt your actions. Go back, a voice whispered somewhere in the back of your mind, stay with your family, stay with Baekhyun. Hold him tight and don't let go until you die. Kiss him like it will free you from the curse, even though it won't. Be happy. Make them happy.

Your eyes drifted down to the bandage, which you had changed right before leaving, feeling the slight throb of your skin. You were reminded of the things that hung in the balance—or rather, imbalance. The unfairness of it all. Yes, life was unfair, but here you had a chance to take at least something back.

And so you didn’t go back. You continued to saddle up the reindeer, slinging the bag over its side, and finally, you left the stable, and quietly made your way towards one of the side gates. You knew the main gate was the one most heavily guarded, and that the side gates were generally more lax. Given the position of the moon in the sky, which was slowly being covered by clouds, you could also tell that the guards’ shift would be ending, and there would be a brief period where the gate was left unattended.

With baited breath, you waited, holding the large creature’s harness in your uninjured hand, watching from behind a corner as the guards stood at their posts. For about ten minutes, your heart pounding in your chest the entire time, you watched the parapets, and then turned to look at the alleyway you were hiding in. You did your best to hold your breath when you peeked around the corner, knowing that the condensation could give you away if they happened to look your way.

Finally, the two guards walked away, mumbling to each other as they did, and you took this as your cue. You led your reindeer to the gate, and pulled off the thick iron plank that locked the gate, careful to not make a noise. 

When it was open, you hopped onto the reindeer, nudged him slightly, and he slowly walked into the treeline. You looked down at the snow, and hoped that the dark would hide the trail until it started to snow. 

You rode on Ivan’s back for hours, until the darkness started to slowly fade. Somewhere during that time, it had started to snow. Now, the forest floor was covered with a fresh sheet of snow, that looked a shade of light blue rather than white, now during the twilight. During that span of time, as you rode on deeper and deeper into the forest, you realized the sheer magnitude of it. The stories the village elders had told you and the other children to keep away from the woods, and stay inside of the walls: that the servants of the gods were large creatures with sharp white teeth and long nasty claws, that the Spearwood was alive, and knew that humans had abandoned it, so it tricked travelers into going in circles—no matter how close the treeline seemed to be, you could walk for hours and never cross it because of the Spearwood’s magic, playing tricks on your eyes until you succumbed to the cold, or dehydration, or hunger.

Paranoia was trickling its way into your head, albeit slowly. As you stopped to let Ivan rest, you pulled out a piece of cured meat, chewing it until your jaw was sore as Ivan dug his hooves into the snow, only stopping when he found a patch of grass to chew on. You looked up at the sky, and then in all four directions. You knew that the mountains opposite the Spearwood were towards the north, and by going north you would eventually leave the forest and find Ironbend, but currently, with the snowfall and the clouds, you had no idea which way that was.

But you didn’t plan on returning until you knew for sure the gods would listen to you. 

Apparently, the gods weren’t very keen on listening.

Onward you went for days, panic slowly kicking in as you realized that you had no way of actually knowing in which direction you were headed. You seemed to be riding Ivan in circles, and the silence of the forest, save for the sound of Ivan’s hooves against the snow, was beginning to drive you to madness. Every few hours you switched between walking on him and riding, taking quick breaks every time you decided to switch. The isolation was quickly becoming too much to handle. 

You thought of your friends, of your family, of Baekhyun, of everything said that night before you left. You didn’t want to imagine what was happening back home, but you couldn’t help it, what with walking around all day and not having anything to do. 

You knew that your parents must have been heartbroken, and that your friends would likely be losing their minds. But you knew that you were doing what felt right.

You had packed enough small snacks to last you about three weeks if you rationed correctly, but you felt as though you were constantly running on empty, never fully satisfied. You drank water every time you came past streams or snowmelts, because you didn’t know when you would find one again, cupping your hands together and drinking until you were practically full, fingers pained from the freezing water and your throat sore. 

The falling snow would stop periodically, and then start up again. Not very heavy, but not precisely light either. Your face became perpetually cold, your fingers cramped harshly to the point when you would wince in pain when you needed to change your bandages.

The falling snow would stop periodically, and then start up again. Not very heavy, but not precisely light either. Your face became perpetually cold, your fingers cramped harshly to the point when you would wince in pain when you needed to change your bandages.

The wound was getting worse. The curse was beginning to spread. Initially, while it had started at the bite mark in the middle of your forearm, it was now making its way to your elbow and wrist. The tissue seemed to be turning necrotic as well, secreting a sort of mucous substance that was black. The smell was bearable when you had the bandage on, but every time you took them off to change them your eyes watered and you had to hold back the urge to gag. 

When night fell, you slept on Ivan, who was pretty comfortable in the cold, laying down in it and laying against the trees. You had never realized just how dark the world could be without lanterns to light your way, and your small oil lantern barely illuminated anything. It did well warming your hands though, which would cramp when they felt the heat.

Worst of all, the deeper you went into the forest, the more it felt like you were being watched. Which was odd, because you saw no animals. None at all, which only served to put you on edge more. 

The first two days it seemed fine, but after that, it changed. Now that you knew that you were well and truly on your own, the crisp winter air felt tense. Even Ivan became a bit skittish, and you felt bad for bringing your innocent reindeer into such a stressful situation. You were on edge all hours of the day now, eyes darting from side to side always, ears straining as you listened for something, anything. It was as if the whole forest was holding its breath, waiting to release its wrath on you. 

Three more days passed before it finally did.

They came when you came across a lake in the middle of the afternoon, seemingly unfrozen. You got off of Ivan, an odd sensation pooling in your gut as you approached the crystal clear body of water. Oddly enough, you felt at peace, and for the first time in days, the striking silence was comforting. Now, instead of feeling like the forest was holding its breath anxiously, almost angrily, it felt as if it was holding its breath in anticipation.

The water was clear as day and seemed to span for miles. Trees grew out of the depths, and in the center, a small island emerged out of it. When you focused on the island, you felt your eyes widen—there was no snow on it at all. Quite the contrary, actually. It was a lush, beautiful green, with a blossoming tree smack in the middle of it. For such a small island, you were certain it was the brightest green you’d ever seen.

Your dry throat almost burned in anticipation as you kneeled. At this point, it had been about a day since you had last come across water, and your head was starting to ache. When you dipped your fingers in, you gasped. The water wasn’t freezing like it had been in the other streams you came across, nor was it cold. It was tepid, bordering on lukewarm. It felt kind, it felt welcoming, and while the setting lured you into a sense of security, you couldn’t help but feel as if this was wrong, because it was a lake, in a dangerous forest. It couldn’t welcome you, not at all.

That snapped you out of your trance, and you turned just in time to face the rider as he tackled you to the ground, pinning you down against the snow, the sudden cold causing your back to arch. You were vaguely aware of Ivan being startled, and the sound of growling somewhere off to your left, but you were more preoccupied by the red mask hovering above you, and the dagger about to come down on your face. You grabbed the man by his wrists, arms straining with effort as your injured arm flared in pain, wrenching a guttural cry from your lips.  

You pulled him forward, causing him to lose his balance and topple next to you. You took your chance, straddling his chest and knocking the dagger out of his hand with a kick. You pinned his arms down, before pulling off the mask swiftly, sneering at him.

But you stopped when you saw his face.

Somehow, you found yourself entranced; for his features were contorted into rage and pain but you had never seen such a beautiful person. His eyes were large and round, a deep dark brown. His plump lips were curled into a harsh sneer. He had painted three long triangles across his face with what appeared to be dried blood: one below each of his eyes, the third one in the middle of his forehead, ending beneath his eyebrows. 

His large ears, hidden beneath black, shaggy hair, gave him an elfish look. He was wearing large, white, circular earrings.. Beneath you, you could tell he was pure muscle, large and beefy to the point where it left you reeling because, oh, gods, how can one man be so big?

He took the chance and flipped you over, a groan leaving your throat when your head hit the ground hard, but saw an opening quickly and lifted your leg to knee him in the groin. He toppled over, groaning in pain, and for one final time, you found the roles reversed. On top of him, you unsheathed Baekhyun’s sword, ready to subdue the rider. You pressed the blade to his neck, poising yourself to speak—

When one of the wolves grabbed you by the collar of your cloak, dragging you away from him. The wolf stilled even though you continued to struggle against it. You could feel your injured arm bleeding beneath the bandages, and the subtle tremors riding throughout it as you watched the rider stumble to his knees, picking up the sword, and crawling towards you.

He did the same you had done and pressed the blade to your neck, breath heaving from his chest, air puffing into the cold. If he had been angry before, now he was furious, and while a small side of you felt the urge to cower back in fear, you could feel one side of your body heating up slowly, a sensation you hadn’t felt in over a week slowly making its way back into your system.

“Why are you here?” His deep, menacing tone didn’t sound like much of a question, but rather an accusation. 

“Take me to Emyr,” You demanded immediately. “I need to speak with him.”

He blinked. For a second, he seemed taken aback, almost offended. But then his features hardened again, and he pressed the iron even further into your neck. It didn’t break the skin but you felt a sting against your windpipe, grimacing at the sensation. Your fingers curled into fists, your entire body trembling now as you felt something moving underneath the bandages, beneath your very flesh.

“Don’t tell me what to do, human,” He spat, “This is not your forest.”

The wolf behind you growled, and you felt it one last time: the urge to hurt, the urge to kill, a feeling of absolute hatred. This time, as opposed to the first time, you didn’t hold it in, and you didn’t count. When the black goo oozed from your skin, turning the air rancid, you didn’t gag, but rather embraced it. 

And a split second later, just as the man had lowered his gaze to where the smell was coming from, his eyes widening at the bandages stained black, it was too late. 

This being only the second time you had felt it, and this being the first time you didn’t restrain it, you weren’t fully sure what you were expecting. But you most certainly weren’t expecting your arm to bend into a shape it wasn’t supposed to bend into, in a direction it wasn’t supposed to go. And you definitely weren’t expecting black, slimy tendrils to break your skin, pushing the man away with so much force that his back pushed itself into a tree. He yelled out in pain, clutching at his right shoulder. 

The violent coils did the same to the wolf, pushing it off to the side. And while momentarily, you rejoiced in the lack of restraint, it was taken over almost immediately by panic, because you just didn’t know how to make it stop. What frightened you even more was that a part of you didn’t want it to stop. As the tendrils flailed angrily, attempting to reach the man and the wolves as well, you felt the need to let it consume you, and then let it consume the man, and the wolves, and eventually, the entire forest. You wanted them dead, gone, burned to the ground, because none of this would have happened had it been for this disgusting fucking forest.

But you knew that wasn’t the way.

Fury coursed through your veins, and your eyesight blurred, quite literally blinded by anger. Clinging to your logic, you pushed yourself onto your front, pressing all of your weight onto the monstrosity that had once been your arm. The adrenaline had stopped you from feeling it before, but now, as you pressed your mangled arm into the ground, you could feel how broken it was, how the skin ached where the coils had broken through. You cried out in pain, in anger, in sheer terror, praying for it to stop. But it simply wouldn’t, and you wondered if you had come all this way to die because you had pushed the curse too much. 

Your mind went to Baekhyun as you screamed, of the way his eyes sparkled when the sunlight filtered in through the window in the mornings, when you woke up next to him. You started to believe you would never see them again. How you had broken his trust for an irrational decision you had made because of your stubbornness and pride, and how now you would never see the man you loved again, all because you believed you were right when you were so very, very wrong. 

But somehow, the thought of him grounded you, and you felt the curse weaken. Still, it was something, and you squeezed your eyes shut, sobbing as you conjured up mental images of Baekhyun making you laugh, and recalled the sensation of his lips softly kissing yours. You remembered the time he had first held your hand, at fourteen, right after an intense sparring session, and how at fifteen, you had been the one to kiss him, even though he was the one who asked you, because he was too nervous and unsure of what to do. 

The black appendages finally retreated back beneath your skin when you remembered how he had held you that last night before you fell asleep, and only when your free hand found its way to the pendant around your neck did your bones snap forcefully back into place. You were left hyperventilating, struggling to catch your breath as you buried your face into the snow, attempting to hide your weakness from your enemies. You heard footsteps crunching in the snow, coming closer and closer, but they froze when another rush of footsteps came from another direction. 

Even though you weren’t looking, you knew it was a large party. There was simply too much thumping for it to be one person… or whatever they were. All sound stopped, save for your panting, before you heard scrambling, and you lifted your gaze in time to watch the man drop to one knee, bowing his head in submission. 

“My king,” He murmured, and you turned your head ever so slightly to the direction in which he was leaning. Your heart was pounding in your chest, blood roaring in your ears, and your teary eyes widened as you saw what you saw.

The giant deer walked poised mere feet away from you commanded a presence over all of the other animals that had just arrived with him. You saw other deer, more reindeer, foxes, wolves, bears. In the trees all kinds of birds were perched, an eagle resting on a branch almost directly above the large creature. 

Its antlers were large, larger than you had ever seen, branching out in all directions, almost forming a sort of crown. When it took a step forward, you watched in awe as flowers and grass began to bloom where he stepped, peeking out from beneath the snow. 

Emyr, you realized with a chill, the deer god. King of the gods, ruler of the forest.

So, the god rumbled, without truly speaking, voice echoing through your mind, what is the meaning of all of this? 

Come to find out, Emyr wasn’t the only spirit you were in the presence of. Your weapons were confiscated. As the wolf dragged your body—weak from what just happened—through the snow, you realized that the four Pillars of the Forest were all around you. Emyr was leading the animals ahead of you, but the man walked next to the wolf as it dragged you, and next to him, walked the other wolves. The biggest one eyed you with burning distrust, and wisdom beyond your years, and when you locked eyes with her, something within you knew that this was Selyne, warden of the forest and goddess of the hunt. She growled softly, and the man’s eyes snapped to her, ready to listen to what she had to say. 

Disgusting, she growled, the nerve you have, little girl, to march all the way into this forest and injure my sons even more than you already have. I should rip your throat out right now—

Selyne. A giant brown bear lumbered up next to her, speaking gently but cautiously, she came here for a reason. The least we could do is listen before you do so, sister.

Your eyes widened, realizing this was Mirren, the bear goddess of family, matron of the forest. The wolf goddess let out something akin to a scoff, and before they could continue their discussion, Emyr stopped at a clearing not far off from the lake, where it seemed winter hadn’t touched down, grass green beneath you. The sun shone through a hole in the clouds, warming up the atmosphere, and your body shivered as you felt its heat pour over your body. In the center of the clearing, a large rock had three ledges, and a hole in the very bottom.

The Pillars of the Forest settled into the great stone. Mirren walked into the hole, Selyne hopped onto the lowest ledge, Emyr onto the middle ledge. Moments later, the eagle you had seen resting above Emyr’s head earlier flew onto the highest ledge, and you realized that this was Beval, the eagle god.

The animals around you chittered anxiously. The wolf set you down onto your knees, but did not step back. The rider stepped forward, however. He had picked up his dagger after you had been dragged away by the brown wolf, and now he held it forward to your neck once more. A silent threat.

Silence, Emyr said, and the animals obeyed. You could hear a pin drop. 

State your name, child, the bear ordered, and you cleared your throat. 

“Y/N,” You answered, voice raspy and gruff after not having spoken, “Y/N L/N.”

State your purpose in this forest. Selyne’s anger was barely contained, you could tell, but you refused to back down. Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself, and flexed your free arm.

“I was cursed, great goddess,” You stated, “Cursed by one of your sons. I came to plead forgiveness, and ask to be healed.”

Forgiveness? Beval huffed, Healed? After everything your people have done to this forest? Burning your fires, taking our resources, and repeatedly trying to destroy our homes?

You looked down, before meeting the eagle’s strict gaze again. “I understand, my lord, that your kind and mine have been at war for hundreds of years. But I don’t wish to bring any of you harm, not right now into—”

Not now that you need us, Emyr deduced, and you bit your lip. 

“I don’t intend to use you for your powers, great king. I offer my service in return.”

If you don’t wish to harm us, why attack my son? Your eyes turned to the wolf goddess, trying to think of how to answer without angering her further. How do we know you’re even telling the truth?

“I was surprised,” You said after a few seconds of mulling over your answer, “His ambush caused me to panic, and defend myself. I understand why he’d do so if he didn’t know my intentions.”

“Even knowing your intentions, I’d have done it,” The man grumbled, “You’re a fool.”

You glared at him, but didn’t retaliate. You didn’t need to make yourself look worse.

What is this curse you speak of, Y/N? Mirren asked, And what do you mean it was one of Selyne’s sons who cursed you?

You told the story, choosing your words cautiously. Describing the attack, you watched as Selyne’s ears picked up, and she sat up straight, lifting her head. You described the tendrils, the black substance that secreted from your arm, the anger and hatred you felt when it controlled you. And you described remembering the story of the wounded warrior, how the curiosity drove you to leave home and wander for days until you came here.

Ah, the warrior, Emyr murmured warmly, Doyoung. What a fine young man. Of course, the circumstances were different then. His kind—your kind—was still a part of this kingdom, and he came to me looking to cheat death when he was wounded while he defended the Spearwood. 

“I understand, great king,” You answered, “But my plea still stands. Free me from this curse, and I will work as the warrior did.”

Resilient, determined. Mirren sounded amused. She’s not going to give up, brother. 

And what after you finish your years of service? Obviously, Selyne couldn’t be swayed, You return to your little Irontown, and continue to plot our downfall?

“Ironbend, and no, great goddess. You see, I am the leader’s only daughter. Next in line to inherit his place.”

You had your trump card, you realized, as the four gods took notice, all four of them exchanging glances, leaning forward. You could work around the original terms.

"My kind are tired of this war," You explained, growing more and more confident, "As I expect your kind are as well. It's all I've known, all my father's known, and all his father has known. If I can offer my people a stop to this war, I am willing to negotiate a truce of some sort.”

A truce… Beval mused, What are your conditions?

“I can’t stay as long as the warrior did. They’ll move on from me and pass my claim to the next person in line. Let me go back as soon as I am healed, and when I take my father’s place, I shall return, and we can negotiate a truce.”

Let you go, as soon as you are healed… The deer god repeated. I see what you are trying to do, girl. Don’t think you can fool a god. 

“No, great king, I don’t intend to—”

I am thousands of years old. You think you can fool me? My terms for healing are simple, service and loyalty to my kingdom. You are neither loyal to my kingdom, nor are you willing to serve me. 

You forced yourself to take deep breaths, attempting to remain calm. This had come so close to the way you had wanted it to.

You are too proud and too stubborn. You think that your status will help you now. No. I will heal not heal you… but you will remain in this forest. Learn a thing or two, and maybe then we can negotiate this again. 

"Stay in the forest? I… For how long? My healer told me I only had a month and a half to live. I—"

For as long as is needed. You do this on my terms, or not at all. If you wish to go, then do so at any moment. The war will continue and you will still be cursed. If you wish to be healed, you will stay until you earn your freedom from this curse. 

You swallowed a growing lump in your throat, meeting the god's eyes. "Very well, great king. I accept your terms."

Very well... But you will not serve me. You will serve Selyne and her sons. 

Your eyes widened, darting nervous to the white wolf. She looked displeased with the situation, but said nothing. 

He's doing this on purpose, you thought, he knows Selyne wants me dead so he's making it harder for me. 

Selyne spoke again. Serve me? Well, then. My sons will work with you. Her eyes looked at the wolf behind you and at the rider. As punishment.

The wolf behind you huffed, and the rider tensed. "Mother, I—"

Quiet, both of you. My orders were simple.  You were forbidden from leaving the inner circle of the forest without me, and forbidden from instigating the humans. You did both. You could have been killed, or injured as your brother is now. You deliberately disobeyed me and now because of your foolish actions, we have a human who has seen the inner circle, and knows where the most important part of the forest is. 

As insolent as she is, she has come for a purpose. She is to fulfill that purpose, and you will help her do so. Am I understood?

"Mother, she's—"

Chanyeol, the she-wolf growled, don't test me. 

Chanyeol. So that was his name. 

The princes of the forest, working with a human, Mirren said, this should be interesting.

You could tell that Chanyeol was not pleased with the situation. The other wolves of his pack as well. After the meeting was adjourned, and the other animals dispersed, Chanyeol pushed you to your knees, and he growled at you, "Follow me." 

You obeyed wordlessly, taking note of his temperament. You walked aimlessly, for about twenty minutes. Surprisingly, Ivan, ever faithful, walked behind you, but you could sense some apprehension from him. Your eyes looked at Chanyeol's back, covered by the pelt of a white wolf, serving the same purpose as your cloak. 

Your cloak, which had been dragged through the snow, and was now wet. You did your best to hide your shivering. You could deal with that later.

To distract yourself, you let your eyes stray to the wolves. There were three of them, all smaller than Selyne but bigger than the average wolf. One, the brown wolf who had dragged you along. The second one, black, the third one a classic timber gray. 

You realized that the white wolf who had bitten you wasn't there. 

"Where's the white one?" You asked, voice quiet and curious. Chanyeol and the three wolves stopped walking, and turned to look at you. 

"Resting," Chanyeol answered. You nodded, not answering, and they continued on, trailing behind them. You walked a little longer until you stumbled across a cave. Their den, you realized. You stopped, and so did Ivan behind you. You watched as Chanyeol and the other three wolves made their way into the den, but you couldn’t find the courage to enter. You almost felt as if you were trespassing. 

You turned to your reindeer, skittish and eyeing the den, and walked towards him, caressing the side of his head. “You’ll be okay, big guy,” You murmured, “I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

Your stomach rumbled, and you sighed softly, pulling out your loaf of bread and the little remaining jam there was.

It was a miracle you’d managed to make the bread last this long, you mused to yourself as you spread the jam onto it. 

“What is that?” 

You jumped, letting out a soft squeak. You turned to Chanyeol, who had creeped up on you while his brothers remained in the den. His face remained stoic and bordering on annoyed. “Stop fucking doing that,” You snapped, “It’s bread and jam.”

He tilted his head, and you blinked. “Do… I’m guessing that isn’t a thing here?”

Chanyeol shook his head, his earrings swinging as he did so. You pursed your lips, before breaking the slice in half. Slowly, you offered him one. Eyeing it with curiosity, and slight disdain, he grabbed his half. Then his dark gaze met yours. “You first.”

You furrowed your eyebrows. “What?”

“This. You eat it first.” 

Raising your eyebrows, you wondered if he thought it was poisoned. As if you would be stupid enough to poison the son of the goddess who hated you most, in front of all of his brothers. “Fine,” You huffed, and took a bite, eyes widening and shaking your head at him challengingly. He narrowed his eyes at you, studying your appearance. 

His eyes stopped for a moment when they landed on Baekhyun’s necklace. But a second later, he looked back up at you, and took a bite once he saw you swallow, before making his way back to the den. Shivering, you finished your jam before taking over your wet cloak. It was even heavier now that it was wet. 

Here, in what the gods called the inner circle of The Spearwood, it wasn’t as cold, so you hung your cloak over a low hanging branch and hoped it would dry soon. Now, you were unsure what to do. Chanyeol had gone to lay down with the wolves, presumably, and you stood awkwardly as you were left unsure what to do. You were tired after everything that had happened in the past hour or so—the attack, your meeting with the gods, now this—but you weren’t sure where you would sleep for now. You weren’t sure if you were welcomed in the den.

So you made your way over to a rock opposite the den, sitting on it and resting your head against a tree stump growing right next to it. You thought over everything that had happened, but mainly, how you had handled the curse. Your hand gripped the opal with your free hand, staring off into the trees. 

The curse is fueled by hatred, you surmised, love is what will ground you. 

You wondered what Baekhyun was doing right now, as you watched the forest grow darker slowly. For a horrifying thought, you wondered what could have happened to him that night if you hadn’t managed to control yourself. You quickly pushed it away, not willing to get caught up on what could have happened, but didn’t Your eyes grew heavier and heavier as you thought of home, and beneath your eyelids, the images danced so vividly…

“Wake up.” The voice was gruff, calloused hands shaking you haphazardly. You furrowed your eyebrows, humming softly as your eyes adjusted to the darkness. It had grown colder, and you found that you actually had managed to fall asleep. The sky had finally cleared up, the moon high up in the sky. 

“What’s going on?” You asked, rubbing your eyes, trying to ignore the pain in your lower back. You looked up at Chanyeol, who had pulled his mask back onto his face.

“We’re patrolling the border between the inner circle and the outer one. You’re coming with us.” His voice was muffled from behind the mask.

“Oh,” You answered, “Okay.”

You stood, arching your back to stretch out the kinks. The other wolves were standing behind Chanyeol, and he pointed at each one.

“Junmyeon,” He said at the brown wolf.

“Kyungsoo.” The black wolf.

“Jongin.” The gray wolf. 

You nodded at all of them awkwardly, unsure how to address them. They eyed you with disdain, Kyungsoo pulling off the first ever eye roll you’d seen on a wolf. Junmyeon huffed at him, and Chanyeol shook his head. “Whatever,” He grumbled, “Let’s go.”

The night was rough. Ivan was asleep, so all you had were your feet to trudge through the snow. For hours, you walked through trees and over rocks. 

You were trailing through the snow with Chanyeol, having pulled on your cloak again. He was riding Junmyeon, who was walking slower than the others. The brown wolf seemed to be the most gentle of the three—four? You had yet to see the fourth—wolves, watching you with more indifference than dislike. 

Kyungsoo and Jongin trailed ahead, seemingly content ignoring you.

“You do this every night?” You asked Chanyeol. He nodded. “Our mother is the warden of the Spearwood. It’s only natural that we take after her.”

You nodded in understanding. “Will I be coming with you every—”

“Yes. Stop talking.” His head turned to face forward again, back on alert.

The night was incredibly awkward and tense. You were unsure if the tension was due to the alertness of the wolves on patrol or because of you. 

A few minutes later, you spoke again. “Will I meet your other brother?”

Everyone stopped, slowly turning to face you. The three wolves’ eyes were narrowed at you, and you immediately knew that you had said the wrong thing. Kyungsoo took a step forward with a growl, but Junmyeon growled back at him, and he backed off. 

“He’s injured.” Chanyeol’s voice was clipped. “He was injured by people like you with those—those things.”

“Why can’t Emyr heal him?” You asked, tilting your head. “If he’s powerful enough to heal me, then why can’t he heal—”

“Because we don’t understand his injury,” Chanyeol snapped, getting off of Junmyeon. He began to approach you. “We understand the curse, but not the injury. If we can’t heal the injury, we can’t stop the curse. We understand your injury and your curse. It’s different. You wouldn’t understand. Now—”

“But I want to understand—”

“You could never understand,” Chanyeol snarled, making his way into your personal space, “Your kind never do, the vermin that you are.”

You glared up at the unwavering red mask, even harsher in the moonlight, inches away from your face. “Now stop talking,” Chanyeol demanded, poking you square in your upper chest, “And don’t talk about my brothers as if you deserve to.”

He made his way back up onto Junmyeon, and the foursome continued, not even watching to see if you walked to keep up.

Junmyeon stopped walking at your speed for the rest of the long, cold night.

When you made your way back to the den, the sun was beginning to rise. As Chanyeol got off of Junmyeon, and shooed his brother away, you approached him.

“Why can’t I hear your conversations?” 

You’d realized they were having a conversation pretty early on after your little spat, but didn’t comment on it, mainly because Chanyeol decided to whisper to his brothers so as to leave you out. You found it petty. But now, your curiosity got the best of you.

Chanyeol pulled back the hood of his pelt and took off his mask, scowling at you.“Why does it matter?” 

“Because I might never understand, but I can try.”

Chanyeol scoffed at you, pushing past you. You’d had enough. Your feet were aching, your fingers and the tip of your nose were numb, your lips were close to breaking because of how chapped you were, and you were hungry and dehydrated. 

So yes, you gripped his shoulder roughly, and pulled him back. You weren’t expecting him to let out a pained cry, and you didn’t expect to feel something hard beneath the cloak. 

Immediately, the three wolves stood from where they had gone to lay down, snarling angrily, but he waved them away. They stopped snarling, but didn’t sit.  

“What is—”

“Don’t touch me,” He said, swatting your hand away. 

“Let me help you,” You countered earnestly. “Please.”

“Why should I?”

You made a face. “Because I might be able to figure out what’s hurting you?”

Chanyeol rolled his eyes. “I already know what’s hurting me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Then why haven’t you been able to stop it? It’s a shoulder injury, it’s not that h—”

You stopped midway, when your eyes drifted to his injured shoulder, hidden beneath his clothes, his right shoulder.

The very one you had shot the day you got bitten.

“I did that,” You mumbled, gears turning in your head “...And you can’t have one of Emyr’s healers treat you because… up until yesterday, no one knew you had left the inner circle of the forest.”

A smug grin spread across your face. “Scared of mommy finding out, huh?”

Oh, if looks could kill. 

 You shook your head, your smile leaving your face. “Really. Let me help, Chanyeol. Let me right a wrong of my own doing.”

Chanyeol’s eyes looked you up and down, eyeing you suspiciously. Finally, he grunted out softly, before nodding his head in your direction once. “What are you gonna do?”

You had him lead you to the nearest body of water, a small stream about ten minutes from the den. You sat him down on the banks of the stream, where there was no snow. You set down what you had brought: his knife, plus your bandages and a small jar of ointment Yixing had given you for your cut. 

It wasn’t working on you, but you had a feeling it was more due to the fact that you were cursed by ancient dark magic. 

“Take off your clothes.” You pulled off your cloak and rolled up your sleeves. He made a perplexed face. “What are you—”

“Keep your pants on,” You added hastily, “I need to see the injury.” 

After a few seconds of hesitation, he pulled off the pelt, and set it down gently next to where he was sitting. His tattered black shirt was also removed, and set down on top of it, but he left his necklace of animal teeth on. Kneeling behind him, your eyes settled on the tan skin of his back, before spotting the wound. 

He must have broken the wooden shaft of the arrow as he tried to remove it, because the edge was splintered and the arrowhead was lodged in his skin. The skin around the wound was an angry red, swollen. You could even see a bit of pus caking in the crevice of the cut.

You picked up the knife, mentally noting where you would cut around to pull the arrowhead out. Your other hand rested on his other. “This is gonna hurt,” You told him, voice soft, “I’m sorry.”

You pressed down around the wound gently at first, feeling him tense up beneath you. Then, when you pressed down with more force, he hissed in pain. Finally, when you plunged the knife into the wound, he groaned out.

His breathing turned heavy as you tried to work quickly, but not too hastily as to butcher your work. You used the knife as a sort of separation between the arrowhead and his skin, trying gently to pull it out. 

When you finally did, he let out a harsh, shaky breath, fists balled.

You led him to the stream, using your hands to wash out the wound. It wasn’t hot at all, and it probably wasn’t the cleanest, but it was the next best thing. Trying to remember how Yixing had done it that time you Jongdae accidentally shot Minseok with his bow, and you rinsed out the pus eventually. 

You slathered on the ointment a bit more generously than you probably should have, trying your best to not hurt him too much, before dressing the wound with some of your gauze. You ripped off a bit of fabric from your pant leg, before looping it below his arm and tying it taut, so the bandage wouldn’t slip free.

“Better?” You asked when you were finished. 

“I suppose,” He answered, moving his shoulder to test it out, “...Yes.”

You smiled, even though he wasn’t facing you. “You go back. I need to change my own bandages.”

“You know which way to go?” He asked, pulling on his shirt, and then his pelt. 

“Yes,” You answered, watching as he picked up his knife before he stalked off. 

He didn’t even thank you. You wondered vaguely if he knew how.

When you returned, now with fresh bandages, Chanyeol had curled up in the den with his brothers, and you went over to Ivan, who was chewing on some grass he’d found to put away your bandages and the ointment. Wordlessly, you flexed your fingers, watching how the skin had turned a black, necrotic color that would look unnatural on any skin tone. You wondered vaguely how much longer you had, before shaking your head. 

You fell asleep again on the hard, uncomfortable rock, sleeping for hours upon hours.

You woke again in the late afternoon, around the same time you had first been attacked by Chanyeol and his brothers. The wolves were awake, some milling around the den and the others sitting in a circle. You could smell blood, and you perked up, figuring it must have been a catch. 

Slowly, you made your way over to them. Jongin noticed you first, gaze hardening. His snout was stained red, and you looked down between his paws to see a piece of red meat. Chanyeol turned around when he realized Jongin was looking at you, looking you up and down before turning again. You pursed your lips at his face, the skin around his mouth stained with blood—he'd obviously been eating the meat raw like the others.

"Can I…?"

"You have your own food."

You sighed. "Not really. Not enough to satisfy myself for a whole day."

Chanyeol stared at you for a few moments, looking disinterested, before sighing. He pulled out his knife, before cutting off a sizable chunk of meat from the deer. He handed it to you, and you nodded. "Thanks," you mumbled, before walking off, sitting on your designated rock.

You needed to figure out how to cook this thing.

Thankfully, they hadn't taken your oil lantern, which you quickly uncapped and lit, before breaking a small branch off of the tree. You used the branch to pierce the meat, before letting it hover over the flame. 

The flame was a bit small, but you knew it would cook eventually. At least until the exterior was cooked. 

While you'd been working, you didn't realize that Junmyeon had made his way over to the circle, all of the wolves watching you. 

What is she doing? Jongin asked, perplexed. She looks insane.

"I don't know," Chanyeol answered, leaning over to the gray wolf, "Maybe it's a human thing."

She's gonna burn it, Kyungsoo huffed, before spitting out a bone. If she doesn't burn down the entire forest first.

Chanyeol rolled his eyes. Yes, you were foolish, but he doubted you were incompetent enough to burn down an entire forest.

No, he's got a point. Junmyeon's tone was serious. Yeol, go see what she's doing. It could be dangerous. 

Chanyeol set down his chunk of deer, wiping his hands off and making his way to you. Your eyes met his once he was standing in front of you. “Can I help y—”

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m cooking my meat.” You sounded matter-of-fact. “I don’t want to get sick by eating it raw.”

Chanyeol tilted his head, frowning. “We’ve never gotten sick like that.”

“You’re used to raw meat, and they’re wolves. I am neither. So I have to.”

He pointed at the lantern, eyeing it warily. “What’s that?”

You stared at him for a second, before realizing just how isolated he had been from the human world. He didn’t know what bread or jam was, nor did he know about lanterns. He called guns those things, and he eyed you like you were other, as if you didn’t have the same shape of limbs, the same joints, ligaments and bones. 

“I-it’s a lantern,” You explained, snapping out of your thoughts. You explained how it worked, how it was lit, and how you had to wait for it to cook the fire before you could eat it.

You didn’t notice how your bodies scooted closer every few seconds. 

Neither did Chanyeol.

[fandumbstuff]

The DC Extended Universe, Ranked Best to Worst.

1. Wonder Woman Directed by Patty Jenkins

Wonder Woman might be the only good movie that DC has made. Patty Jenkins really hits the nail on the head and perfectly captures the voice of the character. For a character so old and so iconic, there are many versions of Diana’s story, but Patty Jenkins really manages to deliver a definitive version. Gal Gadot, like Christopher Reeve or Chadwick Boseman before her, is perfectly cast in a role that is so much more than just a movie character. Diana is as strong as she is compassionate. The character flaws she needs to overcome is her own naivete, rather than the misguided angst so many of DC’s other characters grapple with. While other action sequences in the franchise have been overly cluttered, Wonder Woman’s cinematography offers some of the slickest, most iconic action scenes in the genre. It’s an altogether incredible achievement and a milestone for cinema in general.

2. Wonder Woman 1984 Directed by Patty Jenkins

The greatest fault I could find with this movie is that it didn’t lean into the 80s setting more. It does tread the line of a rather schmaltzy central plot, but solid performances from cast members like Pedro Pascal make it believable. It’s an absolute joy to see Gadot and Pine return to their roles, and an even greater joy to see ther choice of outfits for every scene. Solid. While Kristen Wiig is expectedly brilliant like with everything she does, she’s handling a character arc that seems derivative and outdated. Like it’s predecessor, WW84 showcases some pretty stellar action sequences, with Jenkins once again showing a knowing eye for big, impressive set pieces paired with frenetically paced fight sequences.

3. Aquaman Directed by James Wan

After the convoluted mess of ensemble films like Suicide Squad and Justice League, and even some of Marvel’s recent fare, it was refreshing to see a more traditional origin story. This was ultimately what drew my interest to superheroes in general, and while this film doesn’t have the same elegance of a Superman (1978) or Batman Begins, it’s an origin story that modern audiences can sign on for easily. It’s strongest scenes are in the lore-expanding quest that Arthur and Mera go on, simultaneoulsy a National Treasure-esque adventure and a showcase for solid chemistry between Jason Momoa and Amber Heard. And while Ocean Master does seem like an exaggerated villain at times, It’s Patrick Wilson’s solid performance that manages to sell it and make him arguably the best villain DC’s had.

4. Shazam! Directed by David F. Sandberg

Obviously, an inordinate amount of fun. Shazam doesn’t try and be something it’s not. Ultimately, more than any other superhero film, Shazam understands that this genre was always intended for children. And while at times the plot might seem thin or the conflict inconsequential, Shazam never loses sight of it’s heart. A capable cast of child actors make this believable, and subverting the genre tropes makes the film charming and witty. While it seems overly simplistic in terms of it’s storytelling, in DC’s world of confusing plots, this is a welcome change.

5. Man of Steel Directed by Zack Snyder

Perhaps the strangest portrayal of Superman to date, Zack Snyder honed in on the mythos of the character and what makes him “super” Unfortunately, it seems to completely ignore what makes him a “man”. We’re left with a wholly alien representation of the character- a gross misunderstanding of who Superman is supposed to be. Horrible character choices for both Jor-El and Jonathan Kent leave Clark a shell of the hero he’s supposed to be. We’re left with a character more willing to grapple with moral dilemmas and his own inner angst than actually step up and do the right thing. Henry Cavill has an undeniably affective presence, and he certainly feels right for the role, but he’s never given a chance to actually play the part. Aesthetically pleasing to look at, and generally quite entertaining, it’s unfortunately the way Man of Steel fails its character that makes it so unbearable.

6. Birds of Prey (And the rest of the title) Directed by Cathy Yan

I mean, this is basically just a Harley Quinn movie with some other random characters thrown in. Considering Margot Robbie wrote the film, I find it particularly bothersome that the most work she does for character development is for her own character. We see brief intriguing glimpses of some of the other Birds and unfortunately never get more than a taste. Some of the fight scenes are handling quite capably, trading in the more grittier feel of the standard DC fare for more amusing prop and set work. However, much like Suicide Squad before it, I feel like the movie suffers from “soundtrack vomit”-  a post Guardians of the Galaxy symptom in which a movie tries to assemble catchy songs and them slot them into the edit with no real motivation. 

7. Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice Directed by Zack Snyder

An absolute misfire from DC in a sad attempt to make themselves relevant amidst Marvel’s runaway success. A focal point in the movie is the collateral damage caused by Superman in Man of Steel. And apparently the best way for the movie to deliberate on this is by exhibiting even more collateral damage. Showcasing the conflict between these two iconic characters seems like a good idea on paper, and it’s certainly been captivating in past comics. But the movie seems to devolve it into nothing more than a bar fight between two dumb jocks. We see Batman get cyber bullied by Lex Luthor, and Superman get coerced by a stupid plot hole. Then they beat each other up like idiots. A movie that spawned a thousand jokes, it’s really only worth watching to make fun of.

8. Joker Directed by Todd Philips

Apparently, this movie isn’t supposed to be counted as part of DC’s Film Universe. But I couldn’t resist the opportunity to remind you what a steaming pile of garbage it is. It would be inaccurate to even call this a movie. It’s really just a desperate actor trying to win an Oscar from an Academy that continues to be woefully out of touch. And an even more pathetic attempt by a incel director to stay relevant. The talented work from it’s cinematographer and composer force me to show some restraint from putting it at the bottom of this list, but rest assured- while there might be films I put below this, there are none I hate more. 

9.  Justice League  Directed by Zack Snyder(?)

Painful to watch, I went into this movie with the lowest of expectations, and they were somehow not met at all. It feels altogether rushed, poorly constrcuted and boring all at the same time. They forego any need for world building and instead toss us headfirst into a horribly convoluted storyline. They rush through an origin for Cyborg and introduce Aquaman like he’s the douchebag you never invited who shows up to your houseparty. Batman over-compensates for his eye-rolling seriousness in the last movie by being overly witty in this one. And they solve Superman’s death by having a hilarious grave robbing scene that I guess is supposed to be funny but is so ridiculous to watch that it felt more at place in an Adam Sandler movie. And to top it all off, the movie in general is one big eyesore. It’s honestly painful to watch the shoddy CGI that constitutes the main antagonist and the waves of enemies we watch the JL plow through. And while the opening scene I think is supposed to be a last ditch effort for them to make Superman relevant, it would be promising if I could look past his god awful CGI lip.

10. Suicide Squad  Directed by David Ayer

A hilarious comedy where the characters don’t actually have any dialogue and instead just speak in one-liners. A touching romantic drama where the Joker abuses Harley Quinn. A moving character study where Deadshot just wants to be a better father by killing Batman. A thrilling action movie where we hope the heroes can overcome Cara Delevigne’s dumb dancing and blow up the generic pillar of doom she’s summoned in the middle of Gotham. Suicide Squad is all of these things and more- so there’s my rousing endorsement.

[inkribbon796]

The Bee ‘n Boo Ch. 1: The Apiary

Summary: The Core Sides go to a nice vacation at a nice bed and breakfast along Brighton beach. But there’s something about the place that doesn’t sit well with Virgil.

Chapters: 1, 2

It began a couple weeks ago, just as Logan began getting less tense around the Sides. It was a mixture of not being attacked by Phantom after the initial scare, and Logan getting some actual decent sleep for the first time in months. Roman was bored and creatively stifled and complained about it to just about anyone who was in ear shot to hear his plight.

Needless to say that everyone was fed up with it and thought it was a good idea to get the Core Sides away for a bit. Joan rather helpfully gave them a link to a bed and breakfast in Brighton and they booked a trip for the weekend to stay there.

Logan and the Sides packed their bags into Logan’s fully fixed car, and drove for an hour or two to Brighton. Virgil in the back seat with Patton, and Roman in the front with Logan.

“This trip will be exactly what the doctor ordered,” Roman sighed, sunglasses perched on his head.

“Interesting enough, Dr. Iplier helped us find reservations,” Logan agreed as he kept his eyes on the road, “so that statement is not inaccurate.”

“Exactly,” Roman grinned. “Warm sun—”

“We’re going to burn,” Virgil warned.

“That’s what the sunscreen is for, you will all wear it,” Logan reassured. “There are no exceptions.”

“—the beach,” Roman continued to list off.

“We’ll be eaten by killer sharks,” Virgil cut in.

“Statistically unlikely for them to kill us,” Logan reminded. “We do have superpowers, after all.”

“Why can’t you two just enjoy this, it’s a vacation,” Roman huffed in exacerbation.

“There are some crazy mixed reviews for this place,” Virgil said instead of answering his boyfriend. “Apparently it’s been up for a couple months now.”

“What’s the name of this place again?” Patton asked, leaning over to get a look at Virgil’s phone.

“The Bee ‘n Boo,” Virgil instinctively tilted his phone away. “And that’s with an apostrophe-n, not the word “and” for all the grammar freaks in the car.”

“I saw the name in the email,” Logan reminded through clenched teeth, glancing at Virgil’s smile in the rearview mirror “I know how it’s spelled.”

“I think it’s cute,” Patton was on his own phone looking at pictures of the place online. “The little bees are adorable.”

“Yeah, apparently it has amazing atmosphere but is awful if you’re allergic to pollen or bees, or are afraid of bees and wasps.” Virgil rolled his eyes.

“So long as they don’t sting my gorgeous face, it’ll be fine,” Roman gestured to himself.

Logan hummed in recognition. “I had to make sure and sign three different waivers that none of us were allergic, apparently there are live bees on the premises.”

“Awww,” Patton said.

The Sides continued traveling until they got to their destination, a little bit off schedule because of traffic but not missing their check in time thanks to Logan’s anal retentive planning.

“Alright I’ll check in and grab a luggage cart,” Logan told them. “We’ll start with the essentials and then come back for the rest of Roman’s belongings he insisted on bringing.”

“Excuse you,” Roman huffed out as he began pulling out three huge red suitcases full of clothing, makeup, shoes, and his hair care products. “I only packed the essentials. The rest of you philistines came Spartan at best.”

Logan stared at him, arms crossed, not commenting that Roman wasn’t even going to use a third of what he had packed. “I’ll be right back with the keys.”

The logical Side took a deep breath and surveyed the bed and breakfast. It was a couple floors and the doors had an emblem of a bee with two horns going upward, and another set curved underneath the bee like ram horns. Etched in gold was the establishment’s name.

Walking inside Logan came to a halt. He wasn’t sure what he expected when he saw pictures of the place. He knew there was an apiary. It was a huge selling point of the bed and breakfast.

But right in the center of the first and second floor with skylights towards the roof was a huge apiary, the receptionist’s desk right in front of it. Colorful and fragrant flowers carefully laid out and bees buzzing around inside the protective area.

Logan walked up to the receptionist desk, the person at the desk cordial and professional.

“Hello,” they greeted with a warm smile. “Welcome to the Bee ‘n Boo, are you here to check in?”

“Yes,” Logan tore his attention away from the apiary. There would be time to observe it later. “It’s filed under: “Sanders”.”

There was a bit of typing from the receptionist and Logan’s attention drifted back to the apiary. The bed and breakfast was well designed, but it was the apiary that held Logan’s attention. It was clearly a labor of love and the entire floor was covered in flowers. It housed a couple beehives, all with the establishment’s emblem carefully erected into the front of every hive. A thin wall of magic barely visible that kept the bees inside the enclosure and the humans out. There were walls of pure magic with a sign on a pillar that read: “Do not interact with the bees. For your own personal safety. -Bee ‘n Boo Management”.

“Logan Sanders?” The receptionist called out and Logan’s attention turned back to them.

“Yes,” Logan answered.

“Everything seems to be in order,” the receptionist hummed and began preparing four keycards. “We just need you to look over and sign this final document. It’s standard at this time of year, with the fireworks and everything,”

The receptionist slid a paper towards him.

Logan sped-read the document. It was a single page front and back with the usual information about the pool and the breakfast bar. But there were three whole paragraphs that immediately drew the logical Side’s attention. It read as follows:

Fireworks and other incendiary type explosives are NOT permitted anywhere on the Bee ‘n Boo premises irregardless of any religious or national holiday. Either within the building or in the parking lot of the premises. This excludes cigarettes, vapes, and cigars that are allowed in the smoking sections of the Bee ‘n Boo. Along with the lighting of candles are permitted both in and around the Bee ‘n Boo premises.

Failure to follow this regulation may result in police and other law enforcement being called and the fireworks will be seized.

The owners and operators of the Bee ‘n Boo, Mr. and Mr. Underscore-Beloved, apologize for any inconvenience this may cause.

The document was signed with two signatures that were the owners’ names: Tubbo and Ranboo Underscore-Beloved.

Logan found the terms agreeable as they had no plans on lighting fireworks or flares, so he signed the document and a copy of the document was given to him.

With that he was given four keycards for the room and Logan thanked the receptionist, remembering to grab a luggage cart on his way back out.

When he got out there he was watching Virgil and Roman lightly bickering about the suitcases. Virgil looked over to Logan as he approached with the cart and immediately noticed the paper with Logan’s scrawl on it.

“What’s that?” Virgil asked. “Thought you signed for everything before we got here?”

“I did, this was just an agreement not to light fireworks or road flares,” Logan said.

“Shame,” Virgil commented, “Patton was excited for a fireworks show.”

Logan picked up his duffle bag and followed Virgil to where Roman and Patton were moving their bags, “Well we are in Brighton so we wouldn’t be seeing any big shows here, we can make a short drive on our way back to Gainesville on Sunday.”

“Yay,” Patton cheered and the group began taking several trips to take all their things upstairs, Logan pausing a bit when they paused the apiary. Expectedly the other Sides froze in awe of it, but Logan was truly captivated by it. After they’d gotten all their stuff upstairs and the car locked, Virgil checked the fob twice to sate his own caution.

Logan went back to their room and barely had the self-control to unpack his computer before he was walking back down to the apiary.

He sat down on a bench and just stared at it. He had never considered magic to be used for such a purpose, but he supposed it was a mistake on his part to assume that magic was so fleeting and bombastic when all he had to go on were the heroes and villains that made up the city.

The logical Side wanted something like this, but not with bees, they didn’t currently have the space for a suitable habitat for them. Maybe ants would be better suited, and he supposed with enough bribery he could get Roman to help him construct it. But for that he needed to know how it was constructed. Did he need materials or was it a purely magical creation from the ground up?

So he requested an audience with one of the owners, figuring that if anyone would know that information it would be them.

A request that was only answered with a half-promise from the receptionist. “Mr. Underscore-Beloved should be in today, I can ask him if the owner is still here.”

“That is more than amenable,” Logan told them. “If they are too busy, I understand.”

After the conversation he waited a few minutes before he was told one of the owners was able to talk with him and it would be another couple of minutes before he was able to come down.

Logan was too busy observing the bees when the owner did come down, but Logan heard the conversation from where he was sitting.

“Hey, Lee, you said someone wanted to talk to me?”

“Yes they’re right over there.”

Logan looked over at the young man talking to the receptionist.

“Hey there,” the tall man greeted Logan as he walked over, he didn’t meet Logan in the eyes. “Ranboo Underscore-Beloved.”

“Sanders,” Logan greeted in return. The young man had a face mask covering his mouth, he looked human with one green eye and the other was red. Logan figured the man had to be around seven feet tall and had hair that was white on one side and black hair on the other. “I wanted to speak with you about the construction of the apiary you have, it’s quite well made.”

“Oh yeah, my husband constructed the enclosure,” Ranboo explained. “He loves bees.”

That surprised Logan, he hadn’t noticed a ring. But it was clear from the expression on Ranboo’s face that he was fond of his spouse so Logan held his tongue about marriage statistics and causations with age.

“Built the hives himself, cast the magic himself,” the young man explained, smiling at the enclosure as if his husband was standing in there.

Then Ranboo’s phone trolled and he immediately dug it out of his pants pocket.

“Pardon me,” he held up a finger, pulling out his phone and turned away. “Hey Bo, you saw my message?”

He paused at whatever answer he was receiving, “Yeah he is . . . no, yeah I’m in front of it . . . yeah, got it.”

Ranboo pulled away from his phone, “He’ll be here soon, he had a couple errands to run.”

“Oh, I don’t mind the wait,” Logan reassured. “I quite like looking at the apiary.”

“Yeah that’s,” Ranboo looked around. He reminded Logan quite a lot of Virgil. “Alright, we’ll just wait.”

And so began one of the most uncomfortable stretches of waiting Logan had dealt with in some time. If they’d just been waiting in silence it would have been fine but there were moments of quiet where the proprietor — or at least someone who Logan thought was the real owner’s son — was quiet and Logan got to concentrate on the apiary and the calming magic that came from it. But then there was the rest of the time where the young man tried to fill the dead silence with nervous small talk.

If Logan hadn’t been so used to communicating with Virgil and Eric he wouldn’t have known how to handle the situation.

After fifteen minutes of awkward, stilted waiting, the other owner showed up. He overlooked him at first because he was expecting someone older.

Someone much older. But Logan had been very much mistaken.

Wearing the same outfit as Ranboo, was a young man with dark brown hair that covered his eyes, and burns on the right side of his face. Where Ranboo was nervous, this young man was the opposite. His gait and stance betrayed someone with experience and confidence well beyond his years.

Logan thought the tall owner looked young but this shorter individual didn’t have the benefit of height to pretend to look older. He didn’t look older than nineteen, and Logan thought that he was probably much younger. This was a minor. Whoever had given these two a business license must have seen something great or lost their minds.

What caught Logan’s throat in his stomach was the papery-looking burn on the right side of his face. They looked old and Logan had to fight his more scientific mind to determine the origin of the burns.

He didn’t want to pry into the young man’s personal affairs.

“It’s, uh,” Ranboo paused. “Mr. Sanders, I believe?”

“Yes, that’s correct,” Logan answered.

“Thanks, bossman,” the shorter man walked over. This made the pair an Englishman and an American, which wasn’t an unexpected pairing in a city like this. “I’ll take it from here.”

“Mr. Underscore-Beloved?” Logan forced himself to say, he thought it was a completely ridiculous name but if it was his legal and more importantly preferred name, Logan had no choice.

“Yeah, you like my bees?” He asked. “They’re my best creation.”

“They certainly have the mark of an expert’s skill,” Logan complimented.

“Oh yeah,” the owner smiled. “Gettin’[1] the queens was the hardest part, actually.”

“You certainly spent a lot of time and energy into the habitat,” Logan commented while abjectly staring at the apiary. “Is it all magic or did you have the beehives constructed?”

“Built them myself,” Tubbo boasted proudly. “Planted the flowers with my husband. Poppies, mint, basil, foxgloves. The bees love them. Built this place so the bees and flowers can get some fresh air without makin’[2] the place drafty or lettin’[3] ‘em[4] out.”

“That’s quite ingenious,” Logan told him, looking back at Tubbo.

Ranboo had stepped away from the conversation when the receptionist called over to him, and then stepped outside for a bit while they were talking. Tubbo occasionally glanced over to keep tabs on where his husband was.

When Ranboo came back in, he was hot on someone else’s heels, another individual following the two.

“He’s talking with someone right now,” Ranboo warned loudly. He was talking to Quackity, a young man with a purple hoodie following close behind them, his hands buried in the pocket of his hoodie.

“I just wanna talk to the kid,” Quackity smiled. “Been ages since we caught up.”

“Quackity, you know you can’t just waltz in here,” Tubbo spat back, stepping in front of Logan. “If you want to talk then you’ll have to wait, I’m in the middle ‘a somethin’.”[5]

“Is it business?” Quackity smiled, staring right into Logan’s eyes. “I love talking business.”

“Not that type ‘a[6] business,” Tubbo glared at him. “We were talkin’[7] about my bees. I don’t step into your casino and talk about my bees there do I?”

Quackity frowned, finally looking away from Logan to Tubbo, “No, I guess you don’t.”

“Come on, he’s—” Purpled began before his companion cleared his throat.

“No,” Quackity interrupted. “Tubbo’s right, this is a paying customer and we are here on other business. I’m sorry we interrupted your little conversation.”

Logan wasn’t sure what to actually say at first but eventually managed, “It’s quite alright, a misunderstanding, I’m sure.”

“Yeah,” Quackity agreed, but with a tone that reminded Logan so much of Janus, but in all the wrong ways.

So Logan excused himself and left, trying to be calm but the instant he was out of sight of the group, he found himself running and hurried to their room. After a moment of fumbling with the keycard, Logan threw open the door and loudly shut it behind him, trying to steady his heart.

“Logan, what happened?” Virgil immediately demanded, looking Logan up and down for any signs of a fight.”

“You okay, Lo?” Patton asked at almost the same time.

“I think the owner of this establishment just saved me from the mafia,” Logan admitted.

“What?” Roman shouted in alarm. He and Patton just stared at him.

“I was talking with one of the proprietors of this establishment and another individual walked in to talk with him as well and he began to get . . .” Logan paused, unsure how to phrase his next words. “He began to get confrontational before the owner made him back off.”

“When was this?” Virgil demanded.

“Just now,” Logan answered. “I thought it was best for me to come back with the rest of you. The apiary is quite lovely, however.”

“Were you accosted? Does your honor need avenging?” Roman demanded.

“I am undamaged, but I feel it’s best if we remain together for the time being,” Logan told them.

“Of course, of course,” Roman smiled, walking over to stand next to Logan and hold out his elbow. “A nice, romantic vacation together, however will I cope?”

“Are we even ready to leave yet?” Logan asked as he linked arms with Roman.

“Nope,” Roman smiled. “But you’re mine now, come along my dear, we’ll go to the beach first and then what say you do some people watching. I know you love it.”

Logan and Virgil initially rolled their eyes, but neither of them could wipe the smiles off their faces. The logical Side felt safe and protected with his boyfriends around him, and that was all he needed right now. They were together, safe, and most importantly: alive. Logan could feel Roman’s pulse under his fingertips, hear him speaking. He was content. They were together and that was what mattered.

After they were finished packing their swimming bags, they went to the beach. Patton was quick to rush into the water as Logan took a seat on one of their towels and just watched Roman and Patton roughhouse in the water. Virgil flipped next to Logan, sprinkling some sand on Logan who gave him a look and dusted the sand off of the book he was reading.

“Have you put on sunscreen yet?” Logan asked. “Your skin is so pale you’re sure to burn.”

“Yeah, just want to make sure you were alright,” Virgil told him.

“I am sufficiently calm,” Logan answered, Roman and Patton walking over.

“You sure?” Patton asked. “This vacation is as much for you as it is for us.”

“I find it hard to relax,” Logan admitted as he leaned back on the beach towel, his book propped on his chest. “After the attacks and everything it seems like I should be braced for some attack . . . some adversary. And the illogical aspect of it is confusing me.”

“You’ve been our pillar for so long, maybe you need a bit of a break?” Patton reminded.

“To let you all do whatever you want with no voice of reason?” Logan chuckled, “as if.”

“Ehhhh,” Roman smiled, chewing on one of the ends of his lens frames. “We tried.”

Logan gave a little chuckle and all the other Core Sides felt at ease at the sound. It had been quite some time since they had heard the logical Side give an honest chuckle.

“Maybe this vacation is a good idea,” Logan decided, sighing deeply. “Perhaps I am tense because I’ve been on edge for too long?”

Virgil ran his fingers through Logan’s hair, “Leave the worrying to me, nerd. You can tell me all about how things are fine and we’ll both feel better.”

Logan smiled warmly at him, closing his eyes softly, “That seems like a good use of our time.”

The other three Sides smiled back at Logan before they began to well and truly relax for the first time in a long time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Accessibility Translations:

1. Getting

2. making

3. letting

4. them

5. If you want to talk then you’ll have to wait, I’m in the middle of something.

6. of

7. talking

[365days365movies]

March 15, 2021: Clash of the Titans (Review: Part Two)

So, now that I got that off my chest...

Let’s talk about the actual movie, huh? Because I don’t hate it...but it’s not my favorite adaptation of Greek myths at the same time. And OK, let’s get off of the classics horse for a little bit, and I’ll think about this in terms of a movie on its own merits. It’s...fine. It’s OK, it’s actually not bad at all. I guess ignoring Greek mythology here is a little hard for me, but I’ll work through it.

In truth, I kind of just want to jump into it. Said most of what I needed to in the first part of that review. Check that out here if you want to read my version of an adaptation of the Perseus story. If you want, obviously, because it’s REALLY LONG, fair warning.

Review (2/2)

Cast and Acting: 8/10

OK, HOW is this movie go goddamn stacked with talent? Like, holy shit! Harry Hamlin as the lead is OK; he does a decent job as Perseus, but he doesn’t really give the character any memorable personality, if I’m gonna be honest. Judi Bowker manages a little better with Andromeda, but in both cases, I think it’s just the material the actors were given, rather than their actual talent. Oh, and Neil McCarthy as Calibos was also pretty good! Almost forgot him, to be honest. He’s weirdly one of the standouts, performance-wise. But yeah, back to that whole “stacked with talent” thing...Maggie Smith, Jack Gwilim, and Burgess Meredith are all in here, and they’re expectedly great. I mean, Gwilim doesn’t really get a chance to shine that much, but he’s still fine in this movie. And Maggie Smith is pretty fantastic, as is Meredith. Didn’t expect either of them in this movie. So, imagine my surprise when FUCKING LAURENCE OLIVIER WAS IN IT! Like, holy shit, dude! And Olivier is sort of dialed in, and sort of...not. This is later in his career, sure, so I wasn’t necessarily expecting him to be on, but he was still Laurence Olivier, he was still very good! But was he perfect? Eh. His grandiose performance doesn’t quite fit with the movie, and I really couldn’t see Zeus as much as I could see Olivier. It’s an issue, but not a monumental one.

Plot and Writing: 6/10

...I AM SORRY. I know, I KNOW, I shouldn’t be judging the writing and plot of this movie this harshly, but I just think it could’ve been done better, seriously. And beyond that, the writing of this movie (done by Alan Beverley Cross) is fine, but it fells...dated. And yeah, obviously this is essentially a period piece, but this movie feels like it’s been ripped out of the 1960s, not the early ‘80s. And that might be because this is the same writer as Jason and the Argonauts, WHICH DEFINITELY SHOWS. This movie feels like a slightly updated version of that one, and I’m not a massive fan of that. Also, his wife was Maggie Smith, so that’s interesting. But yeah...I dunno. I think this could’ve been better, is all.

Directing and Cinematography: 7/10

Gotta be honest, I thought Desmond Davis’ directing and Ted Moore‘s cinematography were both...OK. Nothing spectacular, not gonna lie. I really only thought that they were OK, not great. Competent, not excelling in the field and all that. Once again, it could’ve been better, is what I’m saying. Most of the better aesthetics of this film some from what’s in the shots, not how it’s shot, and not the position of the camera. Which means...

Production and Art Design: 9/10

Yeah, this movie LOOKS fantastic, absolutely no question there. This is a great-looking film, and Ray Harryhausen is a huge part of that, obviously. I mean, come on, it’s Ray Harryhausen, he’s awesome. But outside of my obvious fan-crush on Harryhausen and stop-motion animation, the film also does look legitimately good! Calibos’ makeup, alongside that of the Grey sisters, is pretty solid. The outfits are good, the sets look great, I love Olympus’ simple set-up...it’s just a great looking movie! I have a lot of issues with this movie, but the look isn’t one of them. If I had one problem, though...the Kraken looks goofy. THE KRAKEN LOOKS GOOFY, OK? He just does, to me.

Music and Editing: 8/10

This is some great music. Really, Laurence Rosenthal did a wonderful job here. It’s RPG background music for sure, even though I don’t consider it playlist caliber for me. It’s a diverse and sprightly soundtrack, and it’s a memorable score for sure. Editing is pretty good as well, as done by Timothy Gee. Not necessarily something that I’m writing home about, but it is good. Honestly, no specific comments with this one, in terms of editing.

I am weirdly OK with a 76% here.

And that’s not even slightly related to the inaccuracies to the original myths. I genuinely think this movie is only OK. DEFINITELY a worse movie than Jason and the Argonauts and Disney’s Hercules, and both of those are extremely inaccurate to the myths. I just think this is a mediocre movie with some fun nostalgic effects. That’s just how I feel about it.

But if this movie did anything, it’s put me in the mood form films with good effects and makeup! Let’s keep the trend up, huh? Maybe even get a good movie out of it.

March 16, 2021: Legend (1985)

[quemedicen]

https://www.theschooloflife.com/thebookoflife/charm/

The ideal flirtation is a small work of social art co-created by two people; a civilised artifice that acknowledges limitations, worries about consequences and knows the importance of not letting momentary impulses damage long standing commitments. It knows that avoiding sex is usually very wise, but is intelligently invested in sharing some of the benefits of sex without the act itself

Good flirting is in essence an attempt, driven by kindness and imaginative excitement, to inspire another person to believe more firmly in their own likability, psychological as much as physical. It is a gift offered not in order to manipulate, but out of a pleasure at perceiving what is most attractive in another. Along the way, the good flirt must carefully convince us of three apparently contradictory things: that they would love to sleep with us; that they won’t sleep with us; and that the reason why has nothing to do with any deficiency on our part.

Good flirting exploits – with no evil intent – an important truth about sex: that what is often most enjoyable about sex is not the physical process itself so much as the idea of acceptance that underpins the act, the notion that another person likes us enough to accept us in our most raw and vulnerable state and is, in our name, willing to lose control and surrender aspects of everyday dignity. It is this concept, far more than the deft touching of skin, that is what contributes the dominant share of our pleasure as we undress someone for the first time or heed their request to call them the rudest words we know.

The good flirt is an expert too in how correctly to frame the fact that there won’t be sex. By a deeply entrenched quirk of the human mind, it is generally hard for us to hear such news without at once reaching one overwhelming and crushing conclusion: that it is because the seducer has suddenly found us deeply and pervasively repulsive. The good flirt loosens us from such punitive narratives. They powerfully appeal to some of the many genuine reasons why two people might not have sex that have nothing to do with one person finding the other disgusting: for example, because one or both party already has a partner, because there is an excessive age gap, a gender incompatibility, an office that would disapprove, a difficult family situation or, most simply, a lack of time.

The ideal flirtation is a small work of social art co-created by two people; a civilised artifice that acknowledges limitations, worries about consequences and knows the importance of not letting momentary impulses damage long standing commitments. It knows that avoiding sex is usually very wise, but is intelligently invested in sharing some of the benefits of sex without the act itself

The good flirter isn’t making things up; they are not merely flattering or manipulating. They are offering us a view we very rarely get of ourselves as desirable. A few people, of course, have an excessive belief in their own attractiveness. But mostly, we suffer gravely in the opposite direction. We generally learn – through a rich sequence of rebuffs and criticisms and via intelligent modesty which quickly alerts us to our own shortcomings – to see ourselves as far from ideal. We know we’re in some ways not terribly lovable or exceptionally alluring. This picture of ourselves is not inaccurate but is isn’t entirely true either. So the good flirt carries out an important psychological mission: to restore balance to our view of ourselves. They remind us that, for all our failings of character and bodily liabilities we are, in fact, in certain ways, properly appealing and in a better situation than the one we find ourselves in, a truly interesting person to want to spend a night with. The flirt supplies an antidote to a characteristic sickness of maturity: an excessively negative view of ourselves. It is because we are so prone to self-hatred, so liable to forget how to appreciate ourselves properly, that we need more vigorously, and with fewer qualms, to engage in the important business of flirting with one another.

The good flirt is doing (via a well timed smirk, a coyly arched eyebrow, a quiet observation or an expectedly warm remark) crucially important social work. They understand that being recognised as erotically appealing is a hugely beneficial and ethical need of the soul, for feeling desirable is key to rendering us more patient, more generous, more energetic and more content. It is a quiet tragedy that this widely consequential need should so often be expected to pass through the desperately narrow gate of sex.

The good flirt is wisely and liberally rebelling against such a stricture. Their mission is to give erotic endorsement (and all the benefits this brings) a larger opportunity in life, liberating it from the tiny, difficult window of opportunity offered by an actual requirement to start to make to love. The flirt knows how to broaden the circle of attractiveness, they know – in essence – how to love someone without needing to give more than they should ever realistically be expected to. The ideal flirt is a pioneer in a crucial democratic science: they are attempting to correctly identify attractiveness in a way that will serve the many rather than the few. We should not only be grateful to good flirts; we should try to become good flirts ourselves.

[omegawizardposting]

God, PLEASE full view, this basicass map took me three hours, I am NOT a cartographer!

Anyway, I’ll be posting this on my art blog too, but I wanted to share it with y’all, because I’ve been thinking about this setting for a few days now. Technically, my idea for it started, God, years, probably over a decade ago, but I never gave it much thought beyond, “I’d like to do that.”

This is Animalia, a continent divided into fifteen regions (sixteen if you count the Spire as its own region), each ruled by a separate species or Order of (humanized) animal. The stars are each region’s capital, excluding the Burrows and the Chrysalis, which have none.

More under the cut!

The regions are as follows--

The Crown of the World: The cold, mountainous home of the birdfolk. Ruled by Aurelian, whose golden feathers are said to be holy, the birdfolk are reclusive, and guard their borders zealously. Though not an isolationist region, they are picky about who they ally themselves with. Due to their skill at aerial combat, few dare to cross them.

The Spire: Little is known about Animalia’s highest peak, save that the dragons have long sequestered themselves there in study and reverence to the gods. The Spire and its residents are protected by the birdfolk, who view dragons as the next logical step in their evolution, and thus, godlike themselves.

Newpaw: Coming down from the mountains, one finds themselves in the dry, hilly region of Newpaw, home to the catfolk. The catfolk are the fastest of all Orders, as their environment is largely open tundra, and so requires great speed to cross safely. They were once ruled by the lions of Goldpaw, but when the previous dynasty began to cruelly cull their numbers for fear of an uprising, they were able to escape to the western coast.

Lotus Spring: This region extends far into the sea, but is named for its coastal springs, which are purported to possess divine powers of healing. The most famous, and populous, of these springs is Lotus Spring, where the fishfolk, known as mer, gather in large numbers to celebrate important events, such as the changing of the seasons. The mer are a friendly Order, but their largely aquatic lifestyle lends little to socialization with their land-bound neighbors.

Ginseng Jungle: Named for its abundance of medicinal flora, Ginseng Jungle is home to the primates, the Order closest to nature. With open, easygoing dispositions, the primates involve themselves freely with any who seek friendship. However, those who instead seek enmity will find that even pacifists can only be pushed so far. Their main exports are medicines, as well as rare cuisine that can be found nowhere else on the Continent.

The Burrows: As one travels east, the tundras of Newpaw climb to windy highlands, where the rabbitfolk carve out their immense warrens. They are beholden to no singular leader, and so possess no capital, but all warrens obey a code of conduct known as Burrows Law. Those who do not are quickly stamped out and taken over by other warrens. It may seem unkind, but the rabbitfolk have been able to live comfortable, peaceful lives because of it.

Timberfell: Further east still, the highlands gradually give way to coniferous forests, and to the north, vast tracks of frozen tundra. This is a regions ruled by canines. Most are nomads, living off the land by following herds of caribou along known migration routes; as such, permanent settlements are rare, with Timberfell’s capital being the largest. The canines have historically served as a neutral party to conflict, but when pushed, will almost always side with the underdog.

The Meadowlands: A variety of ungulates call this seemingly endless stretch of temperate grassland home, but none are so populous as the centaurs. Powerful and highly intelligent, they have protected the Meadowlands for centuries without fail, and view any attempted passage through them a crime punishable by enslavement. Travelers may request passage at one of several border outposts, to be granted or denied as the centaurs see fit. (Understandably, they aren’t a very popular bunch.)

Honeygrove: This serene stretch of autumnal woodland and golden grasslands is home to the gentle deerfolk. Due to their crippling shyness, not much is known about their society or its inner workings, and even those rare few who travel beyond the Grove guard their people’s secrets with frantic fervor.

Goldpaw: An expansive savanna, flat and sun-baked. Ruled for centuries by a tyrannical royal dynasty, the lions of Goldpaw have recently chosen a new leader, a maneless male whose progressive ideas have revitalized both the region and its people. His hope is that Goldpaw and Newpaw may one day be at peace, but lions are a haughty species, and it will take more than a desire for equality to sway them. Expectedly, the lions have historically been Animalia’s most warlike species, their conquest halted only by the strength of the centaurs, the great numbers of the canines, and the harshness of Rot Hollow.

Rot Hollow: Known by all as a badland of disease and famine, Rot Hollow is home almost exclusively to rats, whose hardy natures and clever minds serve them well in an otherwise uninhabitable region. Rats are born scavengers, as well as skilled craftsman, and so have been able to build sprawling cities out of almost nothing. Much of their society, like the rabbitfolk, has been moved underground, to provide shelter from the scorching sun.

Dewdrop Down: Founded as a refuge for softer, less sturdy rodents. Guinea pigs and hamsters comprise the largest part of its population, but you will also find mice, squirrels, gophers, and even mustelids among them. The region is characterized by its mild climate and abundance of resources.

The Ashen Waste: Marred by near-constant volcanic activity, this region is home to the cold-blooded reptiles, who migrated east long ago in search of warmer climes. They are known as sly salesmen and great lovers of mischief, and are not particularly fond of living in large groups. Their capital exists solely because it is a prime nesting location, on the slopes of the Waste’s largest and most active volcano, and so reptiles flock there in the breeding season.

The Webwound: A bleak region of dead forests and ash deserts. Spiders rule this land, though to call their habitation of it a rulership may be inaccurate. Like their neighbors in the Waste, spiders care little for the building of societies, preferring solitary existences. Those that have grouped together in the capital prey upon the weak, and fight amongst each other daily to gain greater standing. A warning: they aren’t picky about what they eat, so travel through the region is ill-advised.

Darknest: Almost nothing is known of Darknest or its residents, save that it is home to the foxes, Animalia’s most fearsome thieves and assassins. Darknest is a black, tangled wood so dense with thorny brambles and thick fog that only those native to it can safely traverse its depths.

The Chrysalis: An isolationist society of winged canines, thought to have been blessed with magic by the fae as thanks for their loyalty. All that is known of them is that they are talented magic-workers, as their island is shrouded in an enchanted mist that wards against intrusion.

[jhunvilcacho-blog]

My First Tooth Drawing Experience

As a second-year dentistry student, it is part of the activities that we must draw and carve teeth. As simple as it may seem when I watched the tutorial videos, it was frankly hard to imagine the tooth model in a two-dimension form with specifically just the outlines, strictly without shading and other three-dimensional aspects of the tooth. As someone who has not even practiced sketching in months, it really was a struggle to draw even the first side I started with.

While trying to follow the videos, it made sense to me that drawing a tooth is indeed a systematic process. First, the measurements of the tooth should be taken into account in an accurate manner. It is then followed by the indications of reference points from the measurements, and finally the consideration of curvatures and lines of the whole tooth from the plot marks. Both the tutorial videos were effective in guiding me since it was a thoroughly explained step-by-step process. They both served their purpose well and were already sufficient that I did not need to look for other references.

When I was working on my draft of the labial aspect, the size of the boxes honestly hindered my pace. I had to squint my eyes, and take some time before I could plot the necessary points that could form the tooth.  Also, I realized that the force and pressure in using the pencil, as well as the eraser, should certainly be just light at first. It would be hard to erase if the stroke pressure is heavy and the lines were already dark. The cross-section paper also gets easily erased at some point if you constantly draw one area inaccurately. It is frustrating when one part of the paper looks too scratched and whitened, because it’s the first thing that stands out when you look at the whole output.

Additionally, the aspects that I really found difficult were the mesial, distal, and incisal view. It was hard to copy the features, like the curvatures, the bluntness and grooves of the root, and the formation of cingulum. It took me nearly three hours to draw the five aspects of the maxillary central incisor. At some point, I wondered why my classmates and I have varying measurements when we all have the same tooth model bought from the same store. I tried to make sense of the proportion of my measurements as I followed the videos over and over.

Drawing a tooth was like one of the ways to rigidly exercise my dexterity skills, and a factor that can make me familiarize the feature of the tooth. During the process, I found out that it works best for me to plot the reference points in a line manner instead of points, for it to be easier to erase afterwards. In all four aspects of the tooth excluding the incisal view, I also drew in pattern the necessary reference lines, like the total length of the root and crown, so that it would not consume my time later on. Another strategy I practiced was that I took pictures of different sides of the tooth sample, and I used it as reference while drawing the structures. Furthermore, noticing that the labial and lingual views, as well as the mesial and distal views are like mirror images of each other, I worked on both sides one after another. I have left the incisal as the last aspect to draw, since I find it much difficult than the other aspects. Lastly, I had to examine my measurements more than twice, after I finished drawing, because I think the precision matters significantly in this activity.

After I finished with my draft, somehow, I felt proud with my output. The whole process was challenging yet amusing at the same time. It felt satisfying to finish even just one aspect of the tooth, and much more gratifying to finish all five. I worked on the cross-section paper afterwards, and I felt the need to rest for some minutes at my completion of the five aspects of the maxillary central incisor. It was overwhelming during and after the process, but it was worth the stress. I took photos in different angles after I was done, because it was an accomplishment for me to manage drawing a tooth. Later that afternoon, however, I felt reasonably terrified of the comments that I would garner with my first output. Expectedly, the incisal view that I had drawn was said to be in need of improvement. Despite that, I am thrilled as I wait for carving, which is our next activity that seems to be more challenging than drawing.

[profoundyetinarguablyuseles-blog]

The Crux of Deserving.

There has been a lot of talk about deserving lately. It has all been about who deserves what or who, and how there's some people that will never deserve the unconditional love others are offering up at no price. You can talk endlessly about deserving really, but I've found that it has never made much of a difference to simply talk about it or comment on it briefly, as is so often the case. He may not deserve her, but she still wants him despite his many flaws and abuse. You can even tell her that he doesn't deserve her, and you can absolutely bleed yourself to the point of exsanguination just trying to convey to her the extent in which she deserves more than someone who will hurt her and use her and make her feel like she has less worth than actual nothingness, but it may never make a difference. The worst part is that she might even come to agree with you eventually. There's even a chance she will admit she's worth more than how she allows herself to be treated, but don't think for a moment that this epiphany is going to be enough for her to actually make a change. If there is anything I have learned in the seemingly ceaseless conversation about deserving, it's that the people who do not deserve us are often the people who we wish did. This is perhaps why people are so apt to wait with wasted hopes for the day when the undeserving bunch finally prove that they are, in fact, deserving of the pathetically desperate efforts put forth and proverbial miles walked just to keep smiles on their faces. They wait, and they do so through unappreciative stagnation, unrequited affection, and cyclical disappointment and neglect. And for what? There is often no resolution to this plight. It is all ruts and toxic patterns. Another thing that I have discovered in these repetitive comments involving deserving is that there is no precise quantification or exact qualification for deserving, but it seems to me that we can begin to rudimentarily define it by whomever seems as if they are always the ones who have lost while the other party continues to gain at the other's expense. Most people know when they are being used, but if they are truly unaware, there is a good chance an outsider would be capable of identifying the abuse occuring. Therefore, lack of deserving cannot be a factual science or an absolute calculable factor, rather something that can be commented on as an opinion if observed. That's why it's hard to really say who deserves what or who and why. Maybe it's also why simply commenting that someone deserves better has a less than expectedly substantial effect. The concept of deserving is just an opinion that can be accepted or rejected, as everyone perceives situations and instances separately. We must each individually define the rules of deserving as they apply to ourselves. Unfortunately, the crux of deserving is that more often than not people have such low opinions of themselves to the point in which they feel they don't deserve all that much whatsoever. As a result, they become complacent with being treated like a projection of how they view themselves. This is the genesis of a specific type of abuse that goes unresolved as a result of lack of action. Honestly appraising and valuing oneself properly might be the most important key in preventing the entire circumstance of abuse and subsisting in situations and relationships in which more is deserved but never sought out. My conclusion regarding deserving: significantly more might be accomplished by emphasizing self-worth in a non-abrasive manner than by exclusively drawing people's attention to the potentially unshared opinion that they deserve more. However, I'm unsure whether there is a remedy for this issue when so many people have fallen into these traps because of their pitiful and small opinions of themselves. I fear the conversation about deserving will continue as long as people are willing to put up with less than they deserve because they inaccurately believe it is just.

[altobrandy31-blog]

Resetting the Cubs Payroll Situation After the Cole Hamels and Drew Smyly Moves

Last week, we took an in-depth look at the Cubs’ projected 2019 payroll to get a sense of where things stood heading into the offseason – both from a total dollars perspective and for luxury tax purposes – as we head into an expectedly busy offseason.

In short, at the time, we determined that the Cubs luxury tax payroll (which is calculated differently than the actual 2019 payroll, and is likely more important) was right around $210,907,143. That figure included $14.5M in health and pension benefits, as well as $2.25M in miscellaneous 40-man salary, and $42.25M in arbitration raises. There is certainly some estimating going on there, but the numbers are pretty close to a reality.

And remember, that luxury tax number matters quite a bit for the Cubs this winter, because they appear to be already over the first threshold:

Tier 1: $206M Tier 2: $226M Tier 3: $246M

You can check out that post for the full details on the penalties for exceeding each limit, but in short, once you to over the first tier, there are draft-related consequences (and obviously a tax), the second tier just costs you more money, and the third and final tier gets taxed at a disproportionately high rate *and* drops your first pick in the next draft ten spots. Whether the Cubs really believe those penalties are too significant to mess with or not, that third tier feels like a limit they’ll (at least try to) respect.

But even with those numbers in mind (roughly $210M spent and $36M to go), we figured the Cubs had enough space to make some significant moves this offseason. But things have already changed.

In case you missed it this morning, the Chicago Cubs traded Drew Smyly to the Texas Rangers and picked up the option on Cole Hamels. And with those moves, our numbers changed dramatically.

Smyly was scheduled to receive $7M in salary next season, but because he made only $3M last season, his overall hit for luxury tax purposes was just $5M ($7M+$3M = $10M/2 years = $5M in AAV). So by trading Smyly to the Rangers, the Cubs received $5M in luxury tax relief. But that move wasn’t done in isolation.

Simultaneously, the Chicago Cubs picked up the $20M option on Cole Hamels for 2019, which added $20M in actual dollars *as well as* luxury tax dollars for next season. If you’d like to get into the nitty gritty of why, Brett has you covered in the tweet below. But you can skip past that if you just take our word for it.

So with *this* move, the Cubs took a $20M hit to the luxury tax calculation. Which means, in total, the Cubs went to bed last night with a luxury tax payroll of $210,907,143, but are now sitting somewhere close to $225,907,143 – which is right up against that second tier, and would leave about $20M in space beneath the upper-most tier, which we think they might respect.

But here’s the thing: it’s not really $20M, at least not in effective terms. As we’ve learned over the years, the Cubs front office likes to leave about $5-$10M in space beneath whatever threshold they’re respecting for in-season additions and bonuses, because whatever you spend during the season counts against the luxury tax threshold, too. So if you’re conservative, you might say that the Cubs really have only $10M more to spend this winter (in terms of AAV, at least), which … is just not a lot.

Hence, reports like this are not necessarily entirely inaccurate:

But that doesn’t mean they’re stuck. The way we see it, they have a few options. Brett, take it away:

The Cubs can either stop spending altogether (eek!), forget about the consequences altogether (ooh!), or make some trades to relieve more salary. I don’t think the first option is likely, and as neat as that second option sounds, I think the Cubs might explore some trades to shed some salary for other moves first.

Now, don’t get me wrong: I think they definitely could (and arguably should) just say screw it and blow past that last threshold with no regard for the penalties, but I’m just not sure that’s what’ll actually happen. The third tier threshold offers a convenient reason to stop spending at a certain limit (and, let’s be fair: if the Ricketts are spending $246M in payroll, it’ll be hard to call them cheap). At the same time, I don’t think you’d pick up the Hamels option at all if you were really trying to cut salary or stay under the luxury tax threshold – especially, given how many other pitching options they already have in-house.

So basically, the headlines for today are simple: Smyly to Texas, Hamels stays in Chicago, the Cubs luxury tax payroll takes a $15M bump, and the rest of the Cubs starting options as of today (plus Adbert Alzolay, who missed most of 2018 with a lat injury) look like this:

Busy morning. I love the offseason.

Source: https://www.bleachernation.com/2018/11/02/resetting-the-cubs-payroll-situation-after-the-cole-hamels-and-drew-smyly-moves/

[queernuck]

Undressing Gender

When it comes to gender, many popular discourses collapse a vast constellation of experiences into terms that are derided as immature, as products of decadent liberalism (from reactionaries on the right or on the left) or as not only objects within a colonial system but as already being artifacts of a post-gender socius, of an ungendered body understandable through other means. The overwhelming means by which matters of convenience and circumstance have shaped thought on this and resultant politics of positionality is a sort of ironic reflection of the very structures themselves: it is easy to demean an Other, but far harder to demean those we consider close, those we believe to have a cultivated validity in their experience. The abundance of this realization spreading through a sort of rhizomal network built from broken and scattered branches of gay and lesbian communities, trans communities, and how the two have been so paradigmatically interlinked, have been interpolated for decades only to be part of a process of individuation that denies the rhizomality of experience in order to create the new, schizophrenic affinities found in late capitalism. This is not, of course, a bereavement of lost possibilities nor a condemnation of those who have been caught in these articulations: part of their violence has been the creation of reversed acts of articulatory power that in fact make real the act of semiotic structuring necessary for the individual to be created within these terms. Rather, I wish to seek a means of both recognizing experiences in individual language and allowing for more revolutionary efforts at a process of critique along lines of anticolonialism and antifascism.

First, I wish to offer a means by which we can realize the lack imparted by the title of “offensive” and to realize that as a specific relationship between sign and signifier that is only found through deconstruction rather than a stable state of being. Offense is described as being “taken” in a way that implies a certain sort of agency, an action such that one must act in order to be offended meaningfully. The implication of many discussions to this effect is to minimize the means by which one encounters these structures, to make them appear insubstantial or inconsequential. However, this is a specific turn that takes the entire semiotic structure as merely being the sign in-itself and for-itself. While the use of the word in popular and psychological parlance is fraught with pathological underpinnings, the usefulness of conceptual discussion of being “triggered” appears here in that, through it one can meaningfully draw out the structure a discussion opposite that of the model often offered when discussing offense. Being triggered is largely related to trauma, and moreover to the means by which that trauma is realized and repeated through a sort of phenomenological present, where part of the memory of that trauma is realized. However, this does not require traumatic experience in the usual sense: rather, it can additionally structure itself around trauma that has been imparted through indirect structures, traumatic experiences that have not been experienced. One can be triggered by discussion of that which is feared, or that which one worries of being subjected to. 

The commonality of being triggered and experiencing anxiety and fear is incredibly common, and so often linked to already-experienced trauma which has in turn been developed by other structures of violence is incredibly important. A trans woman who has not faced strictly defined, physical harm because of her transness can still fear this violence when she is triggered by the violence contained in the semiotic act of misgendering. Additionally, this is true for many people who are, due to the structural means in which libidinal flows are developed through sexual menace, through the development of a sort of ideological rationale for sexual assault, wary that misgendering will result in such on the basis of structures of gender as sexualized and then made into repetitions of violent means of control. That there are trans men who experience misogyny is an important statement because it removes the “politically correct” recognition of identity that hides the structural presence of misogynist violence present in the act at hand. Conversely, that blasphemy can be considered offensive and is often ill-defined by reactionaries who propose its imposition as a sort of fetishized arbiter of justice, as a means of ordination, and moreover leads to ridicule and its performative exhibition even among fellow reactionaries shows that not all offense originates in the same structural response. Offense is not identical.  

Should we offend, then? Is exposing the structural violence behind the preservation of “political correctness” worth the violence that can be contained in offensive conduct? Žižek believes so, and through this I wish to explore concepts surrounding the structure of discourses on identity as interpolated through liberal structures of ideological limitation intimated through the apparatus regarded as political correctness, as well as the ways in which discussions around it have anticipated a larger, reactionary politics of semiotic exchange around concepts such as “triggers” and “triggering” such that both the reactionary impetus and the supposed reclamation from liberal, politically correct sources have structured a dual force of reaction, a sort of rabattement of violence that itself disguises the structural nature of the violence at hand. Political correctness is indeed to be condemned, but one must not assume the opposite and reject a notion merely because it seems to attenuate itself to structures of political correctness, specifically because of how this drives reactionary ideological turns justified by a recourse to materialism that in fact rejects materialist holdings entirely.

First, then, what must we call politically correct? Žižek largely takes it as the obfuscatory tendency of neoliberalism as expressed in euphemistic language but that is not the entirety of what I wish to explore, nor the totality of neoliberal obfuscation. Žižek discusses it as a sort of structural component of certain neoliberal turns of phrase, in that by claiming to be “politically correct” and thus more meaningfully attenuated to the needs of those described by the language in question, these semiotic structures, the assembled signifiers and the signs placed upon them, are a continual obfuscation of the violence that is not only repeated, but magnified by these turns of language. Why, though, does Žižek concentrate upon political correctness? Is there a necessary means by which his rejection must be recognized, or is this part of a genuine and irreconcilable turn to reactionary ideology? Of course Žižek is reactionary in many ways, but to dispel reactionary thoughts they must be recognized. That reading Žižek so often leads to a process of questioning that includes even those who support his position is in part intentional (for example, his joking about SYRIZA and an imaginary gulag) but moreover is cultivated through the means by which Žižek so often gestures towards a notion moreso than he actually supports it, and that this process of semiotic gesticulation creates a great instability within his work, and indeed within any coherent description of it that goes far beyond quoting it. 

If you disagree with Žižek, the easiest thing to do is keep reading, he will eventually support your beliefs, even if only in irony or as part of an act of reversal. The laying-bare of the violence he speaks of is in itself at least potentially useful, if often misdirected towards relatively masturbatory ends, and the means by which he questions political correctness can be understood to largely entail the same. Moreover, to develop the way in which neoliberalism spreads beyond political correctness, one finds the insidiousness of the democratic measuring of politics that Badiou describes: the use of euphemism through particularity, the way in which without acknowledging it as-such one finds even the military creating notions of the politically correct, complaining that the description of “drone” is “inaccurate” and that “unmanned aerial vehicle” is more appropriate while communicating a semiotic response identical to being offended is notable. The way in which these discourses specifically create their own terms of engagement and operate upon them is part of neoliberalism and while it is accurately described as “political correctness” in some means, it does not generally come under scrutiny as such even if Žižek presents the opportunity to scrutinize it in this manner. Similar obfuscations take place through the use of “buzzwords” or similarly-shifting signs that share common signifiers, largely used within the schizophrenic exchanges of late capitalist globalization. They are decoration, so many pieces of confetti falling to the floor of an inevitable crisis, but again they are hardly that which is thought of as politically correct. Žižek goes further, into a sort of expectedly reactionary turn, whereby he endorses the notion of using racist or otherwise violent humor in order to break from the structures at hand: apart from being a display of the tendencies toward reactionary nostalgia seen in Žižek’s work, it allows for a sort of intrusion whereby the supposed deconstructive act in fact works far more meaningfully as a machine amplifying the flow of violence. Moving from postmodern structures of reckoning to existentialist ones, the roots of postmodern deconstruction in Heideggerian thought are well known, and often a part of a larger and uncritical (if not reactionary) rejection of postmodern reckonings of meaning in favor of prescriptivisms that in fact are described within the postmodern vocabulary as such, as these reactionary means of description. Heideggerian concepts of Dasein, of Being, even the vocabulary of Heideggerian angst produce incredibly poignant realizations of the precarity of self, the means by which one contrasts this to a Levinasian concept of the Other and how the two are based upon paradigmatically different means of reckoning our "self" despite having phenomenological frameworks which anticipate comparison, even in difference. Historically, and within his work, one often finds moments where Heidegger is rightfully viewed with skepticism by those who admire his work, not to mention how his critics question those who have even read him, let alone taken or claimed influence. Heidegger’s willing collaboration must be dealt with in one way or another, and far too often this way is excusing him, of turns to shelter the notion of Heidegger from being stained by the blood of fascist violence. Of course Heidegger was a fascist, and to differentiate between them in commitment specifically allows for the sort of reactionary ideological structuring vital to neoliberal reclamation of fascist libidinal impulses, of using fascism as a generator of neoliberal power that deals with enormous flows of desire. 

But to adopt from Žižek a much more dramatic claim that I find useful, Heidegger indeed is a fascist in the present, rather than merely being a historical figure with some sort of relationship to fascism, and that in dealing with his legacy, with Heideggerian thought, one must acknowledge this openly and repeatedly. Žižek claims that Heidegger’s contradiction between his own personal politics and those that follow from a great deal of his work is reflected in the moments when Žižek most clearly situates himself as a Hegelian and as a Marxist, even a Stalinist, and how this is expressed through his supposedly joking or exploratory interactions with nationalism, with reactionary thought, with specific characterizations of national identity that go beyond mere structuralist description and turn toward a sort of characteristic fantasy. The structure of the measuring of politics exists within their works, and this must be realized in any application of their thought, it must be part of how one interacts with them, with a guarded critique that specifically names these violences. In turn, naming of violences is important if one is to discuss the coloniality of gender while still attempting to meaningfully recognize the individuality of experience and its description within structures of gendered experience. Gender is a structure that has many definitions, specifically because there is no singularity of gender. Rather, it is a hyperobject: it is a sum of relations that have been entered into assemblages of power through the realization of a certain capitalist structure upon them. Gender before colonialism is only able to be referenced as part of demarcating and affirming the colonial act of gendering: the way in which structures are continually made to refer to an origin within coloniality shows this. That so many discourses rightfully acknowledge the violent and colonial origins of ordinations on structures of gender can involve in turn enact a process of turning toward the colonial as reference, even when apparently divesting from it. The question is not to ask what gender can mean without structures of colonial control, as these are the prerequisite for gendered norms of relation. Specific acts of reversal realized along gendered lines can be a meaningful assertion of individuality, but especially given that colonialism is specifically a process of embodiment, of assembling together bodies which may be subjected in turn to violence, it leads to a process where one must question what can gender mean for the colonized. That asserting the incoherence of gender often means taking up the language used to direct violence and twisting it, turning it upon itself, to create identities that are not only in defiance of gendered structures, but moreover in defiance of the relationships these structures require and their relationship to other colonial violences, such as the means by which the libidinal content of heterosexual readings of gender in nations like the Philippines are directed through a shifting Orientalist gaze in order to not only structure American colonial norms as reflected for the American audience at hand, in the American gaze, but additionally form a process of rhizomal spread such that the commonality of expression is reclaimed by an anticipatory neoliberalism. There cannot be a meaningfully “comfortable” womanhood or even existence under the structure of gender so long as the measure of coloniality exists, and reactions to that which can be apprehended by, that do not even originate in, neoliberalism, are often wrongly attributed to the neoliberal sublimation itself.

That this anticipatory neoliberalism includes structures of transness is hardly surprising. Moreover, that reactionary responses include creating a realization of blame upon the bodies of trans people rather than a recognition of the structure at hand is a means of reproducing the very norms which are critiqued, the very means by which these structures of violence are realized. Critique of nonbinary identity as the domain of liberal high schoolers, the insistence upon a politics of identity identity that recognizes the overlap between communities of men and women (both for lesbians and gay men) as an ontic realization of gender rather than a contingent repetition of the already-present tensions of violence and the incredible relief that community provides as well as the incredible amount of love and desire and longing that flows through these communities, these are not radical positions, they are reactionary. They contain the same ontic necessity of sex as a biopolitical structure, as a means of dividing labor upon lines of reproduction that are themselves structured by a certain notion of what constitutes meaningful biological filiation, and that these structures must themselves be critiqued and in fact can be critiqued from the positions that these reactionary ideals reject. There is a repetition of notions about homosexuality in college repeated now about nonbinary high schoolers with the exact same intention, the notion that an increased awareness of identity, a slightly greater deal of reliance upon the repetition of trauma and the assumption that those who are able to build outside this trauma will not even if given the opportunity (however fleeting) is contained within notions of the “lesbian until graduation” or the reclamation of homosexual and homosocial patterns within fraternity life through its repetition in the conceptualization of a nonbinary person as a white scene kid with poorly-dyed blue hair. The means by which this uses signifiers of unacceptability coupled with their redoubling in making this arbitration with coloniality into a repetition of it is specifically structured by the libidinal impetus of gender as a means of creating sexual bodies for capitalist consumption. It is part of collapsing certain ways of relating that violate prohibitions of homosexuality into identities that can be tied to a sort of Occidentalist reversal, claimed by neoliberalism as part of itself in order to further colonial ideology.

This does not mean recognizing nonbinary identity as inherently revolutionary, as to do such would imply that it takes a certain precedent which is itself tied to a reactionary articulation of gender as entirely distanced from the violence which it arbitrates. Moreover, this must be part of recognizing the structures of commonality that overinscribe upon the act of gendering oneself in order to recognize the larger colonial structures of violence at hand. The incredibly individual means by which gender is realized thus create a risk of repeating trauma, of “offending” others, through describing identity in a means that does not align with their personal conceptualization of gender. Moreover, it means that there must be an affirmation to conceptualizations of gender that appear in some way offensive, that are in fact linked to structures of violence through experience or an attempt at amelioration in order to preserve a sense of self which can realize a meaningful revolutionary consciousness. Reversing the judgment of Žižek, who describes a violence imparted by the denaturing of sex markers on legal identification, we can instead ascribe a violence to the process of collapsing implied by these static markers, a violence related to an evershifting body that is in fact rightfully described by Žižek, but only in reversal. Effectively, by offering what I would call a genuinely offensive characterization of trans experience, he accidentally unveils the violence of biological essentialism and its reflection in the politically correct devices of recognition provided by neoliberal structures of appearance, by the neocolonial nature of globalized experience. 

There is a risk of offense regardless of the means in which one describes gender. This does not excuse reactionary holdings on gendered identity or violence, this does not allow one to repeat the sorts of mistakes made by radical feminism or by Žižek himself. Rather, it must be a means of continually renewing an exploration of these structures.

[5hit-i-l00k-at]

2018 Volvo XC40 Rumor, Review And Release Date

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2018 Volvo XC40 Rumor, Review And Release Date

2018 Volvo XC40 Rumor, Review And Release Date –  Volvo is the actual route for reinventing on its own, and its SUVs usually are the most significant component of it. Very last year apparently dated XC60 was able to outsell all things in its own better component about compact deluxe CUV surroundings around The European countries. Which also provided German group of 3, that will always positive aspects particular boost from figures provided by its populous homeland.

2018 Volvo XC40 Future

Usually willing about adding patriotism right into the actual automotive buy. Which in turn can make the Swedish fulfillment even more. Simply no halting have a look at Volvo, simply because major XC90 seemed to be well acknowledged by way of purchases within typically the current iteration, in addition to new XC60 only arrived. Continue to, SUV segment hides extra racks and why shouldn’t one attempt to fill up all of them all, when warmth is without a doubt on. And therefore prospects all of us to Volvo XC40.

2018 Volvo XC40 Exterior And Interior

Brand new XC60 came because of shrunk XC90 so that we ought to probably expect these days dimensionally lowered XC60. Nevertheless, we all never currently have at this point Mercedes type for copy-paste, as finished with the automobiles, so each one for them will be to hold it has the unique pizzazz. Last year Volvo XC40 idea presented a crystal clear snapshot regarding what precisely ought to be predicted, and spy photos involving check mules don’t stray much from that. Rectangle-shaped, vertically slatted grill is any should, although unique feel here is it is curvature inward. Thor’s front lights and boomerang shaped raise types usually are on top of that inescapable handle Swedes, in addition to crisp, thoroughly clean, however stylish design facial lines. When you considered using a very first glimpse that unique XC60 simply just loaned even bigger brother’s cabin, you will be inaccurate.

Get another appear, in addition to you’ll recognize that, so Volvo XC40 is indeed even arriving using it’s personal. Spy photos reveal that small SUV is established to reach you with the familiar condition about infotainment display screen encompassed by superbly designed vents when Heating and air conditioning controls and controls are freely obtained out of larger siblings. Contours of typically the dash and minimize gaming system will be complete to the correct. In any case, most people can be prepared to be swayed again by using Swedish sublime build quality, attention to details and fresh and very enhanced classiness, as well as you must be too.

2018 Volvo XC40 Engine

No, not all the platform is likely to be loaned from XC60. Smaller CMA structures are established to successfully fill the particular skin area, very same mainly because for the come back of S40; not to mention it comes with remarkably optimistic perspective in the direction of power packs features, hinting the actual work with in hybrid and EV kinds. The truth is, Volvo stated the fact that no manufactured by itself soon after would likely reveal without having the use concerning electric power. For that reason which makes Volvo XC40 rather clear, therefore. Simply because for people old-school bangers within contemporary performing art in solitude or together with AC, simply no a lot more than four-cylinders will be Volvo required narrative. Many XC60 not to mention XC90 motor lineup, whether diesel, petrol or possibly crossbreed make use of 2.0-liter with some other outcomes; just as accurately while miracles regarding supercharged, occasionally associated with supercharging relating to a top in this. Achievable displacement is evident when sensing liberated to add turbocharged petrol via V40 towards an upcoming blend not to mention anticipate from about 120 to help you 250 horsepower.

2018 Volvo XC40 Price And Release Date

Volvo XC40 first appearance is expectedly set located at the conclusion in this unique yr, significance we all seem to be not even far from it. Beginning price label positioned inside of a span from $31k is supposed as the majority of competitors dwell there. Therefore, it again is crystal clear! Innovative Swedish flavoring is about to penetrate lower SUV echelons, maintaining you all here when it comes to higher eagerness.