#he’s good enough that somehow those extra three inches don’t matter (2 me)

[mysterycitrus]

also physically dick grayson should be (at absolute max) 5”7 as a male gymnast who can still actually do aerial work. however for maximum pain i put him closer to 5”10 so he constantly has to reckon with the fact that he’s taller than his father was and has now been changed irreversibly by leaving the circus

[boymeetsweevil]

Call me maybe

Grouping: Reader x Namjoon

Word Count: ~6.59k

Warnings/Themes: Club meet-cute AU, 1% angst +99% suggestive fluff, (legal!) alcohol consumption, language, flirting anxiety(?)

Summary: It all started with a stupid drinking game...

A/N: this is the One Direction wattpad-style fanfic that's been haunting me for so long. beware of that and the fact that this is unedited hahaha...

“You know the rules, girls. Whoever wins this round of rock-paper-scissors is It.”

You and your three friends, warm and bubbly from 2 rounds of shots at this point in the evening, assume your battle stances and stick your hands into the center of your table. Four hands make a square over the scattered layer of empty decorative shot glasses from the bar in the club.

There’s an air of electric excitement that comes with this game, lovingly nicknamed Hunter-Gathering. Whoever is It gets a target and has to pursue that target in hopes of bringing ‘home’ free drinks for everyone the rest of the night. But no matter how attractive the target is, you can't ever bring them home.

“Wait, wait!” Lia chimes in. “I can’t be It this time. I did it twice already and my ass still hurts from the last time.”

Dani nods seriously. “Fair enough. That means the odds are upped for the rest of you.”

“So, we’re just gonna ignore that ass thing,” another friend, Alexa, looks around the table with confused eyes.

“Do you actually want me to give you the details?” Lia smiles slowly at her from across the table.

Alexa’s face brightens with her own smile, worry evaporated. “You know what? I don’t! Never mind.”

The game begins and somehow you find yourself the lone rock amongst two pairs of scissors. Alexa and Dani laugh with relief because they don’t have to put in any work tonight. You roll your eyes to the heavens and silently question your karma.

“Are you ready to pick your target?”

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“Nope!” Dani grins.

She steps forward and grabs a clean face mask out of her clutch bag and wraps it around your eyes, careful not to muss your makeup or hair. Three pairs of hands rest on your shoulders and you let them spin you lightly around a few times. Not enough to get you dizzy but just enough to make sure you don’t know what direction you’re facing anymore.

“Alright,” Dani’s voice sounds out over the music of the club. “Take your pick!”

You stick your hand out blindly and someone unties the makeshift blindfold. Everyone follows the line your hand makes all the way to a tall figure standing by the side of the bar.

He’s probably the most handsome man any of you have seen in a while. There's an intimidating aura emanating from him. You figure it's the understated all-black outfit complete with the heinously expensive watch he's wearing and the sheer height of him as he towers over people near him at the bar.

“Oh my god,” Dani whispers as you all take in the stranger’s face.

“We can finally get top shelf vodka,” Alexa pretends to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye.

“Not bad,” Lia hums in appreciation.

“Okay, why is everyone acting like I bagged him already?” Your voice grows high with nerves. “I'm pretty sure I have, like, a 2% chance of interesting him."

“What are you so worried about?” Dani crosses her arms at you. “Just do whatever you did to get those history nerds to help you out that one time."

"This is not the same thing. Those guys parted their hair 90/10 unironically and thought Diva Cups are for when you don't want to hold your pee when you stand in line for roller coasters."

"You're kidding," Lia gasps. You wish you were.

"Well, just pretend he's one of them anyway." Dani suggests, "Every guy is the same."

You can't argue with that logic.

“I mean, I can try flirting with him, but he’s probably so used to people throwing themselves at him. I don’t think anything I do would, like, make a dent, you know?”

“Babe, no. No—listen to me, okay?” Alexa takes you by the shoulders and forces you around so you can see how serious she is.

“Tonight is the last free night of vacation. After tonight, we have less than a day to get over our hangovers, pack up the Airbnb, and then catch our 6am flight back home to start the spring term. Our last night of freedom lies in your hands.”

“But, what if—”

“No ‘but’s. Do you see yourself? Do you see your skin in this fresh white two piece? Have you seen how your tits look in this off the shoulder top? That poor man doesn’t stand a chance!”

Lia murmurs her agreement in the background and Dani mentions something about fearing for the guy's soul. You think about the freakishly good pictures you all took in the stylish club bathroom when you first arrived.

“I see your point.”

You turn back toward the bar to review your target. He sips from a dark green bottle as he looks around at the people on the dance floor between your table and the bar. As he continues to scan the room, he locks eyes with you. You hold his gaze even though your instincts are screaming at you to duck for cover. Surprisingly, he gives a small smile and raises his bottle in salute.

"See, you got the hardest part down already. Just fake the rest until you make it."

You chance a look back in his direction only to catch him staring in the direction of the table. When he catches your gaze again, he whips his head away, cheeks tinging pink under the soft yellow lighting at the bar.

Alexa cackles and starts detailing all the drinks she wants made with the top shelf vodka. Lia and Dani discuss leaving early to go back and clean up the apartment so it’s clean in case you break the rules and bring this guy back for the night.

“Uh, aren’t you guys moving a little fast?”

“Aren’t you moving a little slow,” Alexa counters.

“Hold on, Lex.” Dani turns to you. “You know you don’t actually have to do this if you don’t want to, right? Hunter-Gathering is just a game, there's no pressure.”

For all their poking and teasing, you're reminded right then and there that your friends would never put you in a situation where they thought you were actually at any risk. The weight you felt on your shoulders lightens somewhat.

“No, no, I definitely still want to play, I just don’t want you guys to get your hopes up.”

“I believe in you.”

Lia bumps shoulders with you quietly. She’s not the most affectionate, so you know she really means it.

“I’ll do my best.”

You let them tweak you a little bit, fixing stray hairs and wiping away smeared lip gloss and hiking up your skirt, giving you their drink orders, before you grab your purse and phone and push in your stool.

When you finally make it to the bar, he’s in the same spot as you first found him in. He spots you once you get close enough and naturally makes room for you. You set your bag on the bar countertop before hopping up on the empty stool immediately in front of him. The movement causes your skirt to ride up even more and you’re glad you only let Lia hike it up one inch instead of three.

Dani's advice about treating this guy like any other scrub from school reverbs in the back of your head right as the nerves start to set in. With the guys in your art history class, your grade was on the line. There was no room for hesitation when you could barely draw a stick figure, much less write an essay analyzing what an old painting style could tell you about the dairy economy in a certain town like some of your classmates were doing. It was because you were desperate that you were suddenly able to transform into a femme fatale. It also helped that these guys quivered at any interaction with an adult woman.

Tonight's drinks are on the line, you tell yourself. As best you can, you try to trick yourself into entering the same mindset you were in when you would lay on the charm extra thick for the art history guys.

You let the corner of your mouth lift up in a coy smile while you survey the bar. The bartender is moving back and forth quickly to handle the high demand. A second later the girl next to you leaves her spot with a tray of 8 bright pink drinks, practically glowing in the dark. You wonder briefly if you should try to get a round of those for the table.

“—one of those before?”

His voice is deep and pleasant. When you give him a look over your shoulder, you have to suppress a gasp. Up close he's even more handsome. You really have your work cut out for you.

“What?"

"That neon pink drink," he nods back in the direction of the girl who'd taken the cotton candy pink drinks with her. "I was wondering if you'd tried them before."

“No, I haven’t,” you smile, letting your lips part slowly. His eyes dart from your painted eyes to the colored stretch of your mouth and then quickly back up. “Have you?”

“No. But I like to try new things.”

You purse your lips as if in thought, something you've seen other girls do while flirting with guys at school. “You must be pretty unpredictable, then.”

“Huh? Well, I wouldn’t say that.” He stammers a bit and nearly drops his beer bottle trying and failing to put it down. All the intimidation you felt coming from him earlier seems to have disappeared.

“I was just kidding.”

Like it has a mind of its own, your hand reaches out to rest on his arm reassuringly while you continue to laugh at him. His features clear up then and a relieved smile blooms on his face, bringing out an adorable dimple with it.

“You’re teasing me,” he realizes with a good natured huff and steps into your touch.

“You seem kinda fun to tease.” You let your hand linger a little longer before finally pulling it back.

“It’s kinda fun. You're pretty good at it.”

Oddly enough, this isn't as difficult for you as you thought it was going to be. In fact, you find yourself naturally tilting your head and fixing him with an intrigued look from under your lashes. He takes the opportunity to look you over as well, a small smile on his lips.

The personal attention does make you a little nervous despite the fact that it’s positive. So you dig in your purse to avoid looking directly at him for too long and to give your hands something to do. You brush up against a tube of lip gloss, pull it out, and reapply some to your lips.

You look back at him when you realize he’s grown quiet, only to find him following the movements of the gloss brush tracing the curve of your lips, cheeks dusted pink and eyes half-closed like he's in some sort of trance.

Experimentally you press your lips together and then purse them to make sure the gloss is distributed evenly. The man doesn't blink once. Suddenly, all his expensive apparel and large stature aren’t so intimidating.

"Is there something on my face," you smirk.

He slow blinks down at your mouth twice before realizing you're speaking again. His eyes grow wide and he raises a ringed hand to rub at the back of his neck. The movement rustles the hair covering his ears, revealing their pink tips. Cute.

"Just looking."

You laugh a little at him again. He marvels at the way the club lighting dances around in your glossy smile.

"So, how come I've never seen you here before?"

"Well...it's the first time me and my friends have come here."

"I see." He pivots to face you and leans his closest elbow on the counter of the bar. "Are you guys new to the area?"

"You could say that, yeah."

He raises an eyebrow when you don’t elaborate. Without looking away, he raises his hand to signal to the bartender that he wants another drink. When the bartender runs right over, you realize this guy actually might be a big deal. Silently you pull your card out of your wallet as the bartender makes their way over. You figure you’ll have to spend some money before you can really ask someone like him to buy drinks for your table.

"What'll it be,” the bartender asks.

"Two of those pink drinks please," he says and before you can place any order the bartender zooms away.

While the bartender starts preparing the drinks, you turn toward him.

"Who said I wanted the pink drink?"

He grins down at you, a dimple now popping up in each cheek. "Who said it's for you?"

"I'm pretty sure it's for me."

"And what makes you so sure?" He takes a step closer to you.

"Just a hunch," you hum before crossing your legs.

The white fabric of your skirt hikes up your thighs again with the movement. You smooth your palms over the soft material.

"Nice skirt."

"Yeah? You like it?"

"I like it," he admits quietly.

"And the top?" You gesture toward the pair of straps on the matching tube top, manicured nails gliding over your décolletage. He wets his lips.

"The top too."

He reaches out one large hand to one of the straps that have fallen over your shoulder. The drag of his fingers against your bare arm as he fixes it makes you shiver. You lament the loss of contact when pulls his hand back.

The bartender arrives with your drinks then, startling the both of you out of the little staring competition that had spontaneously started. The pink drink seems to glow from within, topped with whipped cream and full of little round ice cubes made from some sort of darker rose syrup floating in the liquid like lava in a lava lamp. The color barely prepares you for the thick sweetness that floods your mouth on the first sip.

"Oh, that's kinda..."

He huffs a laugh around his own first swallow and nods in agreement.

"Not what you wanted?"

"It's just really sweet. You like it?”

He shrugs. “It’s alright. But—"

The way he cuts himself off has you confused for a moment before he's reaching towards you cautiously. You're not too sure what's going on until you feel the pad of his thumb swipe over the corner of your lips carrying away some of the whipped topping from the drink. Your eyes widen when instead of wiping the cream on one of the cocktail napkins available on the counter he brings his thumb to his own lips. In a fraction of a second the cream is gone, but you're left feeling a rush of fluttering warmth on the side of your mouth and in the center of your chest.

"You think your friends would like these?” He slides his drink to the side so he can lean on his elbow and turn to you again. Now's your chance.

“Um, I don’t think this is really their style.”

“What is their style?”

You rattle off their drinks of choice, making sure to mention their favorite brands with a sigh. Of course, whenever you play this game, the brands can change depending on the budget of whoever’s buying. This time, you make sure to name drop as much as possible, per Alexa's request.

“Sounds like your friends really know what they like.”

“Yeah, they have really…unique tastes.” You falter a little under his amused stare. “But we don’t always drink that way. I mean, not every bar even carries all those to begin with.”

“That’s true.” He nods. “This bar has every single of them, though. Pretty lucky, huh?”

“Yep,” you chirp. You’re not sure if you’re in trouble or not because he’s still smiling. He seems to be onto the game, but doesn’t seem bothered by it.

“Well, it would be a shame not to welcome you all to the city. Get whatever you want. My treat.”

“Are you sure?”

You place your hand on his arm again and squeeze for good measure. You don’t miss the way his large bicep flexes under your touch. After a beat, he brings his hand up to grasp yours and holds it while signaling to the bartender again. You give him a blindingly bright smile and he strokes his thumb over your knuckles.

He asks the bartender to ‘take care’ of your table tonight on him, and you realize then that you’ve won the game. The victory isn't nearly as sweet as the pink drinks from earlier. The rules prohibit you from bringing him home or going over to his place. And even if it wasn't prohibited, your vacation is basically over.

“Where are you and your friends from?

You take his hand between yours and play with some of the rings on his fingers. They’re beautiful together in an eclectic way and you wonder if someone chose them for him.

“It’s a kind of small city, not like this one. It’s really just our university and then a few surrounding towns.”

“What made you guys move here then?"

"Oh, Right." You feel guilty. "Me and my friends are just here for vacation."

He blinks at you but takes the news in stride. "Well, if you want—I know the city pretty well since I have a place here—maybe I can give you a tour of the town later this week."

"I'd love that, I really would. But we're actually leaving tomorrow."

"For real?” His eyes grow wide and he looks down at your linked hands before looking over your face. You're shocked to see his features fall.

"Yeah, it sucks."

“Damn,” he smiles bittersweet at the floor. “I wish we’d bumped into each other sooner.”

“I absolutely agree," the sound of Alexa's voice rings loud in your ear.

“Uh, hello. Did you need me for something?" Your voice is high and tight as you fix her with an accusatory stare. You're not 100% positive, but it seemed like you and he were having a moment.

"No, babe, I just wanted to come over and show you my beautiful drink. I wanted to come show my gratitude to you both for making sure we have a good last night. The girls will appreciate that. Thank you, kind sir."

“Name’s Namjoon. And no need to thank me,” he smiles at the exchange between you two and sticks out his hand. Alexa daintily lays her hand in his and he lets out an incredulous laugh before playing along and raising it to his lips.

"What a gentleman," she coos before pinching lightly at the skin of your exposed back. It's a clear message just for you, telling you that there's about to be a change in plans. "What were you guys discussing?"

"I was actually about to offer up our booth. There's more than enough room for your table if you wanted to move. Me and my team—friends definitely wouldn't mind the company."

“You don’t have to do that!” You pipe up, suddenly shy. But it's quickly dashed away as Alexa pulls out her phone and opens up the groupchat.

"Let me just ask our friends if they’d like that."

You already know the answer, so you sigh quietly and gather up your card, phone, and purse. You can’t say you won’t miss the privacy from when it was just you and Namjoon, but you’re glad to be with your friends again as well.

The move from your little table to the VIP booth is lightning fast. By the time you get your own drink, Lia and Dani are already clutching their things and vibrating with excitement near the ropes leading to the VIP booth. A few of Namjoon’s friends are chatting with them from the other side of the ropes.

Once your group trickles in, you don't miss how they all arrange themselves in the booth so you're forced to sit on the end next to Namjoon with barely any space. The only options are to let one of your legs hang off the edge of the booth the whole time or sit practically half in his lap. Alexa winks at you over the first sip of her next very expensive drink.

Namjoon's friends are occupied by your friends re-telling some of the more exciting parts of the beginning of your vacation. Some story about how 'someone' lost their top while trying to jet ski. You send a weak glare to Lia as she tries to get them to guess just whose top it was. That's what you get for experimenting with spaghetti strings, you suppose.

"Do you guys like to dance," one of his friends says after a while of vibing to the music once the chatter cools down. Hoseok, you think his name was.

"Yes, definitely." Dani remarks while re-applying lip gloss. "You know who's a great dancer?"

"Who?" Hoseok looks around excitedly.

"She's gonna say me," you groan. "Which is not even true but let’s just all move down there already, no more 20 questions."

"Just one more," she pouts. "Namjoon, do you like to dance?"

He looks down at you once he's also out the booth, that little amused smile back on his lips.

"Well, it's not really part of my day job, but I don't mind it too much."

"What's your day job," you blurt out.

"I'm a...musician."

"A musician!" Alexa rushes over to you to link arms. "Did you hear that? Namjoon’s a musician."

"I don't recognize you," Lia says and Hoseok and another one of his friends burst into quiet laughter behind her.

"You definitely won't find Joon’s pics anywhere, that's for sure," one of his friends says. The rest of them dissolve into another fit of giggles.

The club lights hide the muted pink tinge his cheeks take on, and Namjoon leads the way to the dance-floor with a chagrined roll of his eyes.

"You think he's really a musician?” You whisper to Alexa and Lia. Dani is somewhere up ahead, already dancing.

"Maybe technically. Going off the way his friends keep laughing, he's probably, like, a failed SoundCloud rapper or something."

"No failed SoundCloud rapper wears Gucci like that," Lia motions with her chin to some piece of Namjoon’s outfit.

"That's true," you hum.

"Rich parents," Alexa says simply.

You and Lia consider it and then nod.

As you settle on the dance floor, you feel the rest of your nerves drift away. Lia comes over to take a selfie with you, and the two of you flirt with the camera until she's satisfied with the photos you've taken. She grabs your hand and makes a show of spinning you around and you figure that this is how the night will go before you stumble out around 2 or 3am and drunk pack for the flight home the next morning. You let her lead you back, further into the crowd before you bump into someone.

Namjoon's large hand comes to stabilize you at your waist and Lia acts like nothing happened before dancing away, phone light illuminating her sneaky smile.

"You good?" Namjoon's voice is soft in your ear.

"Y-yeah."

"You wanna dance, or should I let you go?"

Your friends shamelessly all look at the way he curves himself around you, all with their thumbs up in encouragement. You're reminded of the way you did the same a few nights prior when Dani was getting hit on by some cute guy at a different club.

At that time it felt fun hyping her up and watching her make a move, seeing how enamored this random guy was with your friend. Of course he is, you thought at the time, she's amazing. And you remember that this is probably what's driving them tonight as well with you and Namjoon.

You chance a look at him and realize that he's come to rest his cheek lightly near your temple, a soft look in his gaze as he awaits your answer.

"Sure, let's dance."

Namjoon was telling the truth when he said he wasn't all that into dancing. But he put in enough work to be able to follow you and meet you halfway while you were grinding on him to the music.

Even when you shyly stepped away after the first few dances to return to your squealing friends, you loosened up over time with more music and drinks and found yourself naturally ending up on him again. The first few songs turned into more and more and soon you were face-to-face, with his thigh wedged between yours and a heavy palm on your lower back guiding you to the beat.

You're not sure when you decided to abandon your friends and his, but at some point you did return to the booth under the guise of checking your phones. And you did check your phone first. But soon he was crowding you toward the wall by the booth and leaving you with no air of your own.

"You're really leaving tomorrow," he sighed into a bruise he was trying to leave near the hollow of your throat. "Or did you just say that because I was some creep at a bar."

"I never thought you were a creep."

He looks down at you with disbelief before getting distracted by your kiss-swollen lips.

"I mean it. I'm just a little shy sometimes."

"What do you have to be shy about when you look like this, huh?"

"Stop," you laugh lightly and look away from him.

He'd made a comment earlier about how much he liked the pristine white two piece you wore, but you'd been inching his hand up your skirt then. Now, one of his thumbs rubs an idle pattern just below the curve of your breast.

"No, but seriously. Are you actually leaving tomorrow?"

"Yeah. The new term starts for us all in a few days."

"So, leave in a few days," Namjoon whines.

"That's not enough time to get ready for the term."

"But I'll be so alone without you."

He gives you an exaggerated pout that splits into a real smile when you snort at his stupid expression. He pulls you to him just a smidgen tighter then.

"Does this usually work with other girls?"

"I don't know. Never tried it with other girls," he frowns a little at you.

"Sure."

"You know me and the team almost went to Club BigHit last Saturday?"

"Oh, really? That's kinda funny." You try to imagine what might have happened if he'd come to the same club you went to earlier.

"Yeah," Namjoon's voice grows quiet. "If I hadn't gotten sick then we would have met last week."

"Yeah, maybe."

"You sure you can't miss a few days of the term?"

"Yes, I'm sure." You let out an exasperated laugh. "You can't really be this upset that an actual stranger is just passing through your life."

"No, I know. I just—," he lets his head fall forward until he's touching his forehead to yours. "It was like something clicked when I saw you. I feel like I need more time with you."

"Oh," your voice comes out a little breathier than you expected.

The same look that had flashed across his face when you first came up to him finally gets to rest on his features. You want to let him down gently because you really can't play catch up during the first week of school.

"Tell you what. I can't miss the beginning of the term but if you make a song with my name in it and it gets...say, 50,000 listens, I'll buy a ticket that same day and come meet you. Wherever you are."

He pins you with a look then, inquisitive and dark. His eyes scan your open expression for something, before whatever he finds passes the test. He stands up tall.

"And it just needs to have 50,000 listens?"

In your mind you were thinking it would be too lofty for a failed SoundCloud rapper, but something in his tone sounds like he's rising to the challenge and it makes you nervous. You spent a lot on this vacation, you can't afford to actually fly out so soon if he somehow managed to get the listens and call your bluff. Besides, targets are off limits.

"Um, actually make that 150,000. And it has to have my area code in it too." You rattle off the three digits to him and he quickly types your conditions into the notes app on his phone.

"Is that it?"

"That's it, I guess."

"Deal."

Namjoon pockets his phone and leans back into your space. Any worries you had clawing to the forefront of your mind vanish when he presses soft lips to yours once more.

A month passes.

You don't end up having a one-night-stand with Namjoon because it wouldn't be fair to your friends when they'd clicked with a target but didn't take them home. That and because Dani got sick on the dance floor from mixing strawberry daiquiri with one too many pink drinks. But you do pass on your full number after he very nearly begs you to give it to him while packing into a cab.

And then he never used it.

It's not that you were expecting much, but when a month passes with not so much as word from him, you figure he forgot about you and your little bet.

Then 2 months pass.

Even though you know that you only spent a fraction of a day with him, you can't help thinking about Namjoon. Namjoon and his pretty eyes and pretty words that made you think there was some sort of connection there. You realize after the first two weeks back that you don't have his number but by the time 2 months pass, you realize that was definitely on purpose.

4 months pass.

You're over it, swamped with end of term work like finals and grading and putting in hours at work. But every time your friends suggest a little fun and hooking you up with someone, every time someone asked for your number at a coffee shop, you said no. Because you're over it and you're busy and not at all disappointed for how hard you fell for the lies some failed SoundCloud rapper fed you on a vacation one time.

19 weeks pass.

You're all in Lia's apartment, basking in the first few days of the end of classes even if it means finals are a few days later. Alexa is playing her favorite playlist on the speakers and you're taking a break to get some coffee going in the small kitchenette.

While the coffee machine starts up you wander back to the main room. Alexa is leaning over to turn the music up, one of her favorite songs just now coming up.

"Who's this again," Dani pipes up from her spot on the couch. "It's that one guy's collab with the Bulletproof Girlscouts, right?"

"Yep," Alexa checks the song title before sighing. "This song is so old now."

"True, but it's my favorite one on the whole album."

"I guess it really has been two years since his last album, huh." Dani muses and then goes back to her practice problem set.

You try not to laugh at how cute Alexa looks sulking because her favorite artist hasn't put out any music in so long.

"Why don't you just play his new stuff," Lia says.

"He's on indefinite hiatus. This is as new as it gets."

Lia picks up her own phone, showing it to the group.

"He released a new single this morning."

"What!"

Alexa scrambles from her seat to grab her headphones and jam them into her phone. You all know how she gets about her music and let her have a moment to soak up the new song while you get up to check on the coffee.

It takes a few minutes to get cups out and put everything together since everyone has different tastes, so you're in the middle of pouring creamer when you hear a chorus of screams.

"Why are we screaming?"

You rush into the main room again only to be bombarded with music from the speaker, this time turned up as high as it can go. What must be the new song comes through the speaker, the bass vibrating on the ground as the speaker pumps.

"Okay, yes, new song. It's good but I don't get—"

"Just listen to the fucking bridge," Dani's voice comes out incredibly shrill as she cuts you off.

The beat surges for the bridge and suddenly the lyrics turn into the artist growling about some girl he met at the club with the prettiest little white outfit he'd ever seen. Saying something that sounds oddly like your name, although you figure that can't be right. But then the next verse has your name in it too, and the next one, and the next one.

Your feet take you to where Alexa's phone is plugged in and you pick up the phone to look at the song. It's indeed a song by her favorite artist, a prolific and mysterious rapper who's never shown his face and who'd been on hiatus from making music. The song title is simple, a small string of numbers that look suspiciously like your area code.

When you let out a tiny gasp, your friends let out more excited shrieks. You ignore them in favor of thumbing through the music app to the artist's page where the new single lies at the top of his discography. To the right of all his songs are the stream counts. Most of his older songs have a few dozen million or so. This brand new one sits at a modest 4 million, but the numbers trickle up as the app updates them in real time.

"What the hell?"

"I know!" Alexa cries, tears shining in her eyes. "I can't believe we sat in a VIP booth with him and I didn't even recognize his stupid voice!"

"What are you gonna do," Dani smiles widely at your stunned face. "Are you gonna call him?"

"I don't have his number," you say simply. Your voice comes out monotone with shock.

"You didn't get his number?" Alexa starts crying for real.

"People are blowing my phone up about this," Lia says once the song ends and begins again on a loop. "You might want to turn off your phone. It's just a matter of time until people start snooping around."

"Right."

You grab your phone from your pocket. On instinct you scan through your socials one last time before turning it off. There's a startling number of texts, calls, emails, and notifications on your social media apps. Curiosity gets the best of you and you open up one of them only to find your name trending as the top hashtag. Clicking on it brings up a bunch of tweets both from fans raving about the new song and wondering who the muse is, to random accounts with identical names in the handle all claiming to be said muse.

"Oh my god, he tweeted!" Dani shoves her phone into your hands.

As of right now [2:38pm] we're at 5.76 million streams. That's more than 150,000...

"What does that mean," she asks you.

"It means...he wants me to fly out to see him. Today."

"Oh my god."

Alexa screams again and at this point you've lost count of how many that is. Lia gets out of her chair and tucks her chin over your shoulder to read the post herself.

"You need to go," Alexa shouts. "I'll help you pack, let's go."

"What about finals?"

"Are you—are you actually thinking of not going because of finals?"

"I mean—"

"If you want me die, just say that," she does something with her mouth that looks like a manic smile.

"What Lex means to say is that this is a once in a lifetime opportunity and I'm sure even the profs would understand."

You're not sure what to say. First of all, you still don't have his number. Second of all, you're not sure how to fight through all the other accounts claiming to be you to let him know you saw the song. Third, you don't even know where to fly to. Fourth—

A Twitter notification chimes from your phone and a deadly hush falls over everyone. You go to your DM inbox with shaking fingers only to find a message request from an unknown sender. When you open the request, it's from Namjoon's agency.

Good afternoon,

You are being contacted today because one of our artists wishes to meet you. If you consent to the meeting, please review the flight information and tentative itinerary below and respond with your address and contact information. Please also note that the travel plans are for today [MM/DD/YYYY], so your response at your earliest convenience would be much appreciated. If you would like to go but cannot make it today—

"Do you think they'll send a car or should I book her a ride to the airport now?" Dani turns to Alexa.

"They'll probably send one to make sure the schedule is followed."

"That's true but what about—"

Lia taps you on the shoulder, startling you out of your stupor.

"There's a convenience store two doors down. Whatever you buy we can put in one of my suitcases and you can just take that. There's probably not enough time to go all the way back to your place."

"I—yeah, okay."

7 hours later finds Alexa, Dani and Lia finished with studying for the night. The entertainment channel is playing on the TV and the three of them have their heads bent over their phones and laptops, refreshing all the major gossip sites for updates.

"Maybe she's not even there yet," Dani sighs when the page she just refreshed shows no new posts.

"Yeah, I mean we still don't even know where she is," Lia says while putting her laptop to sleep. "What if they made her sign an NDA?"

"Even if they did, she'd probably still tell us once she got there. She's probably just busy killing time on the plane."

"She's sleeping!" Alexa screams a second later.

"Huh? How do you know that?"

"Check his instagram," is all she says before frantically typing a message to you about souvenirs.

Lia looks over at Dani's phone as she pulls up Namjoon's page. The rest of the layout is bare given his up until recent hiatus and the fact that he never posted any type of selfie. The video uploaded a mere 20 seconds ago undoes all the previous minimalism of the entire account.

The post isn't even of Namjoon. It's a black and white 5 second video of the top half of your naked back and shoulders, the rest of your body covered by the sheets. One of your arms is raised to cover your head with a pillow. The only sign of Namjoon is the arm that reaches out from the bottom of the frame, making it clear that he took the video himself. His hand reaches out to trace a heart over the skin of your shoulder blade. The caption reads:

Thanks for keeping your promise

[redhawtriot]

Baby Boom (Bakugou x Reader)

Sooo... I think It’s the size of my tag list that was fucking this chapter up so much! Every time I have more than my previous chapter had, this chapter deletes itself from my page/drafts! I’ve contacted Tumblr about it, but don’t cross ur finger’s on that one lol. I am sorry if you weren't able to make the list!

(If you beta read for me you could read the chapters up to an entire day ahead of every else tho! If ur interested in that, just inbox me!)

HnM

Tip Jar ☕- Not expected but always appreciated💞

Month 1, Month 2 , Month 3,

--Month 4--

‘SLAM!’

The front door crashed shut like ammunition through cannon fire. The sharp bang clapped and echoed throughout the small, otherwise quiet living space, and soon, three roommates filed out of their respective rooms. One by one, they inched out to get a glimpse of the oncoming storm: Hurricane Katsuki.

Denki warily removed his gaming headpiece as Bakugou whipped past his bedroom door, “Oh hey, Bakugou! You sure disappeared outta nowhere. We coulda used the backup in squads! Where’d ya go, man!?” 

The others listened carefully for the explosive blond’s answer, but got nothing short of an insult in return,

“None of your business, you damn idiots. GO DIE ALREADY!” and with that, Hurricane Katsuki simply slammed the door shut-- somehow even louder than before.

Kaminari, who had gotten the brunt of the explosion, was left wide eyed,

“Woah…”

Sero gave a low whistle as he shook his head at Bakugou’s shut door, “Looks like a wild Teenage Bakugou has entered the chat.”

Denki gave an abrupt, slightly uncomfortable chuckle at the remark, but soon gulped, giving his roommates a concerned gaze, “So… should we…” he trailed off.

Kirishima fervently nodded, stepping fully out into the hallway, “I’ll go check on him, guys.” He flexed before making his way to Bakugou’s room—a nervous habit he had picked up somewhere along the line to reassure himself before he dived headfirst into rough situations.

He looked back to his other two roommates one last time and threw a pleading glance as if to say “Wish me all of the luck” before giving a few slight knocks to the rage-secreting room, “Bakugou,” he called out, “You okay, buddy? I know that there is something up. There’s no point in hiding it…we can talk?”

No answer.

Kirishima gave a long sigh, “Well, when you finally want to talk about it, you know where to find me...” 

The other roommates sighed as well before both retreating to their rooms and shutting their doors. Kiri turned to make his way back to his room as well, but only made it a few feet before Bakugou’s door sharply yanked open a few inches.

“Where are those other idiots?” Bakugou’s eyes were redder than their usual vermilion as he glared out from the cracked doorway. Kirishima gave a thick blink in surprise. Had he… had he been crying?

“They back in their rooms?” Bakugou said very lowly. His voice had an extra hint of raspiness weighing it down, Kirishima noticed.

“Y-Yeah.” Eijirou quickly replied, startled by the unseemly sight of his best friend, “They’re prolly back on the game by now.” Bakugou did not say another word as he threw his door open a few more inches and marched deeper into his room to stiffly throw himself on the edge of his bed. Kirishima cautiously followed him-- this was as good of an invitation as any in ‘Bakugou language.’

Bakugou sat, glaring seriously at the floor in front of him, as if it offended him, and his leg bounced nervously. The red head uncomfortably cleared his throat. ‘Holy shit, what the hell is going on…?’  Kirishima had never seen him do that before, “You.. uh.. you wanna talk about it, buddy?”

No answer.

Kirishima waited a few beats before releasing another sigh and shutting the door behind him so that he could make his way to the bed. He sat down next to his best friend and simply sat deep in the silence with him. The two waited for what seemed like hours before someone finally spoke up,

“I got a girl pregnant,” Bakugou said very flatly, still glaring at the floor and bouncing his leg.

Kirshima had to stifle the choke that erupted out of his throat as his own saliva sneaked into his larynx, “Ack! Achkaka!” His natural bodily functions were completely forgotten as his brain tried to compute the sudden and drastic information that was just thrown at him.

Bakugou?? Pregnant? He never thought he would hear the words in the same room, let alone the same sentence! The guy hardly ever did anything but work, work out and come home to play video games. He didn’t converse with people. He didn’t get girls pregnant. Girls didn’t even look at him!

In his coughing fit, Kirishima’s speech was also forgone, “I-I- uh.. man that.. wow I…” he tripped and tumbled over his words. He was dreaming. He had to be. Well, either that or he had wandered into some strange episode of the Twilight Zone or something.

Bakugou’s glare at the floor intensified, “I thought she might not be so bad… but I didn’t want to be with her like this,” Kirishima’s eyes widened at the underlying tone of hurt buried under his friend's words, and then they widened even further once he realized what he just said.

Had Bakugou fallen for someone for the first time?? And then his eyes widened the furthest as things finally began to click within his confused mind.

He sucked into a sharp gasp, “You mean that model!?”

Bakugou simply scoffed, finally relieving his glare form the ground and focusing his hot gaze on Kirishima, “Yeah, turns out she’s actually a fucking bitch.”

Kirishima’s jaw dropped, “BAKUGOU! That’s the mother of your child! You shouldn’t—”

“She didn’t remember the night at all. I was just another fuck toy for her,”  Bakugou stood up and clenched his fists over and over again as if they itched to be slammed against something—tears welling up in his red-hot eyes, “Now tell me if the roles were reversed, how shitty it’d be then, huh?” Kirishima immediately shut his mouth from speaking up anymore as he allowed his friend to release his feelings. It wasn’t often that Bakugou built up enough to let things out this way.

Bakugou scoffed again as he began pacing the room, but Kirishima swore that it had the hint of a cry layered within it somewhere, “they might not even be mine since she likes that ‘fuck toy shit’ so much. That night meant nothing to her…” he threw his arm against the wall, effectively tearing a hole into it

Kirishima jumped a bit from the action as his mind briefly wandered to the security deposit on their lease. He pushed these thoughts away as Bakugou stiffly returned to the bed, his leg bouncing even more fervently than before.

Kirishima simply watched for a moment to allow his friend to simmer down before he spoke up very softly, “But you think it is yours though…”

Bakugou’s eyes snapped up to Kirishima’s, whose eyebrows were furrowed deeply into each other as he stared back.

In all his years of knowing Katsuki Bakugou, Kirishima would have never described his best friend with anything even resembling ‘gullible.’ His gut feeling and instinct were as sharp as ever and hardly ever wrong,

“Must be for a reason then…” he tried to look past the tears that filled up within his best friends eyes but they still left his heart feeling a little heavier than usual,  “If you think it’s yours then I’ll have your back no matter what buddy. You’re not alone in this.”

“They.”

“What…” Kirishima eyebrows folded toward the center of his expression.

“She’s having fucking twins.”

“Holy Sh…” Kirishima quickly swallowed his words as he took in the forlorn expression plastered onto his friend’s face. There was no room for him to be shocked right now. He had to be Bakuous ‘rock’ so to speak, “I-I mean congratulations!”

Meanwhile you found yourself studying the woman in the reflection of your mirror. Your eyes trailed every detail of her swollen, red eyes. Then to her hair that was fuller than you had remembered—the beauty of bottled color maybe? You danced over the way that loose strands stuck to the slimy mess of tears and mucosa that had accumulated on your cheeks.

Nasty.

A sharp chuckle came out of you, spittle following not too shortly after, but as it reached your ears it resembled more of a cry.

Okay, that’s enough self loathing for one lifetime.

And with that, you moved away from the mirror; however, as you did so, your sight basically smacked the open cabinet of liquor bottles that you were eyeing earlier.

Okay…. Maybe not quite enough self loathing. Your mouth began watering at the delectable sight. It was a desert after a delicious four course meal.  There was always room for more…

With a shake of your head, you brought your hand up to smack these thoughts out of your mind. What was wrong with you? You had been a lot of things in life, but were you really so low to bring yourself to effectively murdering your own children?

That’s what would happen if you drank, right?

You loudly groaned as more tears slipped from your eyes. You really didn’t know shit when it came to this pregnancy thing.

Your mind briefly wondered to Baby Notes Vol 1. You should probably take the time to actually read through it a little. Skimming it wouldn’t kill you.

Physically.

The sudden pounding at your door snapped you almost immediately out of your thoughts.

“Y/N?? Y/N, it’s me!”

With a final pathetic sigh you found yourself gathering up all the alcohol from the cabinets that you could into your arms and placing them in the bathtub before jotting over to the door.

As soon as you opened it Deku barged in and gripped you softly,  “I came as soon as you called! What’s up, what's wrong?! Are you okay??” His eyes frantically danced around your wet eyes and red sockets before he allowed them to roam all over you, checking for injury.

He wouldn’t ever think that Kacchan was the type of guy to put his hands on you, especially with how much he’s grown since high school, but the nagging voice in the back of Izuku’s mind fervently reminded him of all of the bruises and burns and numberless emotional scars he accumulated with he was quirkless from his childhood friend.

And here was a woman he deeply cared about-- quirkless—having to spend time alone with said childhood friend.

“What’s wrong??” Izuku found himself repeating as his hands mindlessly wiped the fluid from your cheeks. As soon as he committed the action, however, his face ran completely red and he quickly released you from his grip, so that he could get a grip of himself.

You didn’t notice his slip up, and if you did you sure as hell didn’t care at the moment. There were more pressing matters at hand. Two to be exact, “Twins,” you simply said to him as tears began flowing down your cheeks more furiously.

“Huh? Oh… Oh.” Izuku’s eyes went wide as your words sunk in. As soon as he threw you an obviously apologetic glance you threw yourself into his chest and sobbed throwing him a bit off guard as he barely caught you in his arms.

Izuku’s eyes nervously roamed around your home as if he were searching for the right thing to say to you, but as he made contact with an open pantry in your kitchen, his jaw dropped-- your alcohol pantry.

It was far less full than it had been the last time that he visited, “Y/N… What’s with the… have you been drinking?” he pulled you away from his chest and looked seriously into your eyes.

The sight honestly kind of scared you a little—like a 15-year-old being caught with their first beer-- that is, until you remembered that you were innocent as fuck, “No,” you gave a slight chuckle through your tears at the sudden surge of intimidation, “I need your help getting rid of it.”

You walked away from Izuku for a moment, leaving him confused and a bit wary of where this was going, until you returned with a hammer—leaving him even more concerned,

You were aiming for bad ass Harley Quinn vibes, but you were sure that with a dried trail of tears on your cheeks and the force smile splitting your face you came across like more of a psycho ass Harley Quinn. Furthermore, the look on Deku’s face screamed that you were correct (also it screamed ‘GET THIS GIRL IN A STRAIGHT JACKET!’).

“What are you gonna do with THAT?” Izuku squealed.

“I need to get my favorite bottles out of the house. Stat. and you're gonna help me.” At your words, Deku gave a gigantic sigh of relief, but still kept his eyes glued on the hammer in your hands. You noticed and shrugged a bit, “Smashing things is also really cathartic. I am sure you of all people can agree with that.”

“Heh… Yeah. But are you sure this is okay? I mean, I don't want to raise your blood pressure or anything because--”

“Deku. Less talk, more smash,” you threw a towel in your tub to make clean up a little easier, and so you didn't knock a chunk of tile on your bathtub. You gave Deku one last glance. He was still looking very uncertain, but you threw him a short smile before bringing the hammer down onto a bottle of tequila. The bottle instantly shattered, sending bits of glass throughout your tub. You looked up to give Deku an excited glance, and surprisingly, he returned one right back.

“See? Not so bad!” 

But you spoke too soon as the scent kicked you in the fucking nose. It was too far to turn back now. You choked down your nausea and handed Deku the Hammer, “You go ahead and get started. I’ll go get another weapon-- I mean… tool,” you corrected yourself after he sent you a terrified stare.

As you made your way back to the after grabbing your second weapon-- I mean tool a sudden thought crossed your mind. Without hesitation, you pulled your phone out and dialed in,

“Hello?”

“Yes. How may I help you today?” Dr. Yamakawa sounded from the other line.

“It’s Y/N…Y/N L/N…” you trailed off, hoping that you wouldn't have to say the ‘p word’ or anything relating to it.

His old ass better take the hint. To your dismay, his old ass did not take the hint, and a long pause of awkward silence filled the air.

You pursed your lips together in annoyance, “Mama Bakugou,” you clarified through gritted teeth, still dancing around the fact that you were a maternity patient of his.

“Ohhhhh!” He exclaimed, causing your face to fall into an expression of disappointment as he continued, “What can I do for you, Mama Bakugou?!”

This mf. You internally ground and fought the urge to facepalm, “Well. I need you to write a doctors note for me.”

“For…?”

“Work?”

“For your pregnancy? Dear, why don’t you just take maternity leave for that?”

“No.” In the moment you shook your head even knowing that he couldn't see you,  “I need a few weeks more before I can tell my job about this… situation. I’m a model. They own me through a contract and I didn't exactly add two roommates to the lease on my body...”

There was a pause on the other line, causing your heart to lurch a bit, but things soon went back to normal when he finally spoke up, “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll email you something.”

You gave one final thanks (and an internal ‘yessss’) before making your way back to the bathroom, “Hey Deku, sorry it took me so long I was just--” you froze at the sight in front of you. The shirt that Izuku wore was completely drenched in liquid and your tub had a gigantic hole on the side.

Your lips fumbled over themselves as you gawked at the spectacle. Deku could only send you a nervous laugh,

“Uh, hahaaa… Can we be done now? This… this burns,” he rapidly blinked the liquid from his eyes as he glances back down to the lot of broken bottles in your tub before throwing your one more pleading glance.

You choked down a laugh, causing it to flee from you in the form of a snort, “Someone had some pent up aggression, huh?”

In response, his face delved into a deep shade of red, “I.. uh..” he had no idea how to answer you when you looked at him like that-- your lips curved into a stunning smirk of a smile. Izuku promptly cleared his throat, “C-can I take a shower?”

“Obviously not that one-- you're totally fixing that by the way Mr. Big Shot Hero,” with a laugh you swiftly made your way to him and carefully grabbed the hammer from his grasp, looking up to see his face dive even deeper into crismon. You flashed a smile at the display. He really was adorable as hell.

You took in his face bit by bit-- his soft, blushed skin, his freckles cheeks, his round eyes. As you digested his expression you swore you could see an entire forest within his stare. Suddenly your heart pinged.

“Uh, Y/N,” Izuku interrupted your thoughts, causing your heart to throb for a different reason as you suddenly realized the proximity of the two of you. You stepped back so fast that your head spun. At least, you hoped that was why your head was spinning,

“You can use my shower.” you said very abruptly as you turned away from him,gesturing him to follow you to your bedroom.

Your bedroom. Your hear throbbed once more. Deep down, you hoped that you were about to have a heart attack or something; however, something  within you told you that that probably was not the case. You swallowed hard.

What the fuck was happening?

‘KNOCK kNOCK KNOCK’

The next morning you found yourself stirring awake to a loud succession of banging. Your eyes fluttered open for a moment only before they snapped back shut. The magnet drawing them together and you closer to sleep was much stronger than whatever noise was trying to wake you up, “Mhmfmfm…” you muttered as you rolled over on the couch and pulled the blanket over your head.

Izuku, however, was not one to ignore such an obvious noise and he found himself trudging off of the other sofa he slept on to answer whoever was banging on the door.

‘KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!’

“Coming!” the green haired man tiredly called out as he launched himself toward the front door and swung it open.

The astounded face on the other side of the entrance soon mirrored his own.

“Kacchan!” Izuku exclaimed.

Bakugou’s shocked expression very quickly contorted into one of pure rage, “What the hell is going on here?!” He screamed causing you to jolt awake as you threw the blanket over your head. You found yourself fumbling up as Bakugou continued to scream pointed to Deku, “The fuck is he here for??”

You made your way over to the two men- one seemingly terrified, and the other obviously enraged. As your head began lifting from the daze of sleep, you crossed your arms and glared at Bakugou, “He spent the night helping me with something,” you shook your head, trying to free yourself from the oncoming headache, “Hey, better question: why are you here?”

Bakugou seemed to swallow his own tongue as his jaw clenched shut, “I wanted to… uh…” he glared at the ground as he tried to find his next words. Shit. why was this so fucking hard? He should have never listened to that Shitty Hair and come over here. Bakugou scoffed to himself before redirecting his stern gaze back toward you, “Come with me.”

You could only blink.

What kind of caveman talk…You tilted your head as you fleetingly threw a confused glance toward Deku, who only shrugged in response.

Bakugou quickly grew tired of yours and Dekus silent conversation, “You wanna hang out or not??” he growled before throwing another heated finger toward Deku,  “And he can’t come.”

“I was just heading out anyways. It’s no big deal really!” Izuku defensively threw his hands up as if to show Bakugou that he was no threat at all. He went to gather a few of his belongings from the sofa he slept on before throwing Bakugou one more gaze-- this one a lot more astute.

A majority of Midoriya’s mind told him that there was nothing to worry about at all, but there was still a small section of him that couldn't shake the memories of how Bakugou treated him as a quirkless child. Izuku knew that he would never hurt you! But… just in case…

“You take care of her Kacchan,” the tone came off pleadingly but the look in his eyes was a  bit stern. You had never seen this portion of Deku before and it almost instantly caused your chest to thud, harshly reminding you of last night’s sensations. Shit.

“Don't tell me what the fuck to do, Deku. Those are my kids in there. Not yours. You just remember that,” Bakugou scoffed, causing Izuku’s expression to falter ever so slightly before he fixed it again.

Your jaw dropped at the sheer bluntness of his statement, “Kacchan, what the f--”

“I guess you’re right, Kacchan,” Izuku began, “Sorry if  I crossed a boundary,” he smiled at Bakugou-- who only huffed in return-- and quickly turned to you, making the tightness in your chest worse, “Bye, Y/N!” Izuku smiled, almost too innocently, considering the raging war in your gut at the moment.

You smiled back-- a feeble attempt at masking the inner turmoil ravaging your insides. “Peace, bb,” you gave him a weak hug before gesturing him out of your home. You threw him one final smile before shutting the door. You instantly whipped your head back around the the blonde brat behind you, “What. The. Fuck!?”

“I already told you. I want to hang out.”

“Are you fucking allergic to texting or some shit??” you yelled, “You just waltz in like you own the damn place and demand me to ‘Ohhh ahhh wo-man! come with me, wo-man’,” you renacthed his prehistoric behavior. 

Bakugou felt his muscles tighten in response to your taunting. Your loud nature, mixed with the confrontational behavior was reminding him way too much of his own mother. He swore on his life that he would never end up with  a woman like her and yet, here he was standing in front of her fucking carbon copy. The thought made him sick as he groaned in frustration,

“Shitty hair was fucking wrong!” Bakugou spat, causing your eyebrows to furrow in confusion as he continued, “The last thing I want to do is hang out with a bitching hag like you!!”

Your jaw dropped, “Excuse me??” You have heard pretty much every other insult in the book hurdled at you, but ‘hag’ was never one of them. You laughed, “I wasn’t a hag when you fucked me all night, huh?!”

“Yeah? I don't know what was wrong with me then. You are way different when I am not pumped full of alcohol, apparently.”

Your laughter immediately ceased, “Whatever. you came up to me and confessed your love like a raging SIMP, and now all of a sudden I’m a bitch?

“Fuck! Well, I got to know you past a pretty, stupid, fucking face!”

You blinked in shock. The unfamiliar feeling of your heart sinking into the pit of your stomach overwhelmed you as hurt surrounded your face. Practically your entire life, being beautiful has been a mask of sorts for your overwhelming failures. Still, here this man was-- practically a stranger-- seeing past your facade, looking directly into the steaming pile of shit that you truly were. Your eyes suddenly became warm as tears filled them,

“Then why the fuck are you even here, asshole?? TO PISS ME OFF?” you shouted, throwing your hands by your side and clenching them so tightly that your nails dug into your skin.

“BECAUSE  I WANTED TO KNOW ALL OF YOU!” he screamed back. The shocking words fled out from under his harsh tone and stunned you as your brain processed them. You felt your fist unfurl a bit as he continued, “I wanted to know you. Good and bad. Bitchy and not. You're carrying my children… I want to know them,” he finished, almost defeated. This tell of emotion was obviously the last thing he wanted to be doing, you could tell.

Still, it meant a  lot for some reason that he felt that he could do this with you “Oh,” you breath out, unable to articulate much else.

“Oh?!” he angrily repeated. Bakugou felt his face shrivel in disgust. He just poured out his being to you once more for you to trample on it like a fucking gymnast mat. However, as Bakugou formed his mouth to say something else, you halted him,

“Go… have a seat,” you gestured to the couch, blinking the accumulating liquid in your eyes away. The blond could only shoot a lone eyebrow up in response, causing you to sigh in exasperation,  “Well, Are you just gonna stand there looking like that, or what?” he gave you one final scoff before making his way to one of your couches and seating himself comfortably, propping one of his feet on your coffee table as he glared at the non functioning television.

“Welcome, I guess. I am sure you’ll have no issue making yourself comfortable,” you deadpanned, eyeing his propped up legs,  “I’ll go make us some… tea?” you suggested , but no answer came from him, “Tea it is.”

You rolled your eyes before trudging away. You always loved green tea, but for some reason the smell had been killing you lately, so you opted for peppermint tea instead. It was inferior by, far, but it matched the inferior, pathetic life that you had adopted recently.

Jeez. How much self deprecation can you fit into one week? Would this have any effect on the babies? If so, they’d probably come out singing RnB or some shit in the maternity ward. They’d have already stressed dyed hair and an entire Tumblr dedicated to sad aesthetics before they reached their first birthday, for god's sake.  

You vehemently shook your head to once again get rid of the oncoming headache that snuck in with these disgusting thoughts, “So Kacchan!” you called out as you walked back to the living room, “What do you wanna know?”

“Don’t call me that,” he simply barked.

“What?”

“Don’t call me that name. I fucking hate it.”

You snorted and took a seat next to his glaring figure. You tried not to notice how he shifted further away from you as you sat down, “I am sure Deku disliked being called worthless his whole life too,” you smirked up at him, “I bet he fucking hated it.”

The atmosphere seemed to once more shift into a much heavier tone after your statement and the room fell quiet for a few beats. Bakugou’s small glare morphed into a much more forced one. It was as if he was trying to use the glare to hide another feeling, you noticed.

Finally, he spoke, “How much do you know.”

You tilted your head into another shrug, “Enough to know that you probably hate the fact that I am quirkless.”

His face contorted into one of pure disgust as the glareful mask he wore faded away like yesterday’s lunch.  “I don’t give a fuck,” he argued, but the look you sent him showed no sign of believing it. Bakugou’s disgust deepened, but he made sure to control it enough to where you didn't know that it was directed towards himself.

“Oh really? Let’s see if you can keep that same energy when one of your kids pops out without that flashy quirk of yours,” Of course his face fell, just as you suspected it would. Just like it had for multiple other men you had told.

Most men’s pride utterly shrivels into dust as soon as the pretty girl in front of them-- the one that they fantasize about having a dream life with-- ends up telling them that they are quirkless. As soon as the words fall out of your mouth, the men's dreamy gaze effectively shatters alongside their hopes and dreams concerning you.

Nobody wants to pass weakness onto their children.

“You know what? I think I’ll go first,” you snapped him out of the uncomfortable, uncharacteristic silence, and he gave you an irritated, questioning glance, “You wanted to play 20 questions with me, or whatever. No limitations, okay? And I have the first question for you,” you explained before sending him a challenging gaze, “How could someone so full of hate truly aspire to be a hero?”

You expected him to blow up at you-- to scream, and yell and argue that you were wrong.

Yet.

The slightly apologetic, yet stern look on his face threw you for an absolute loop, “I wanted to win.” he simply answered. Somehow his matter of a factness was worse for you than any furious defensive scenario you had conjured in your mind, but as you went to open your mouth with a roll of your eyes, he halted you,

“That was when I was younger, “ he sharply clarified, “I wanted to win more than anything. To be better than everyone else—and that hasn’t changed but there's more to it now. I have to protect the people I care about—like my idiot roommates—I want to make sure we all come home safe by the end of the night.”

Once again he had thrown you off with a surprisingly normal non-caveman response, “That was actually…”

“My turn,” Bakugou abruptly cut you off, “How many men the you fuck this past few months?”

Your jaw dropped. 

And back to Neanderthal you mother fucking guess! “Are you fucking kiddin—”

“You said no limitations,” he gruffly stated.

You bit your tongue and shot him a glare that could match his own before giving a sharp sigh, “Four during the last year. You were the last and the only one during the month I… conceived,” you swallowed as the word left a bitter taste in your mouth, “My turn. What about you?”

“What.”

“How many women the past year?”

“Why the hell does it matter?” Bakugou argued. Your eyes shot down to his body as it shifted around even further from you. From his body language you could tell that his answer was sure to be outrageously high.

He was an extremely attractive guy after all. Those rippling arms were nothing to fuck around with. His red hot eyes could melt steel beams with a passing glance. The chisel of his permanently hardened expression could slice through even the most secured of panties. 

Yes. and there was no denying that he was a sex god in his own right.

It also didn't help that his temperament sucked, so you doubted he had had many long term relationships. He had all of the ingredients of a man whore stirring within him.

“I’m just curious,” you shrugged.

Bakugou threw his glare away from you for a moment as he contemplated on whether or not to answer your stupid question. He had his own questions to ask you still so he guessed that he didn't really have a choice if he wanted his answers,“...One.”

Your jaw dropped, “Seriously?” as his face fell into a furious shade of red you were smacked with a sudden realization,

“Kacchan, did you... lose your virginity to m...?” He glared even further away from you, but you could still see his ears falling even deeper into red-- effectively giving you your answer, “Oh my…” he trailed off. No wonder he was so fucking head over heels for you! Through your discomfort a horribly timed joke flew past your lips, 

“You knocked her up on the first try huh? You’ve got some super swimmers,” you half laughed, but Bakugou obviously didn't find anything funny about it as he snarled angrily as you,

“Shut up!” he barked, throwing a pillow at you, “My turn. What’s up with you and that shitty Deku?”

The pillow hit you, but it was really his question that had smacked you in the face. Your chest thudded, and you prayed to whoever was listening that he couldn't see the racing of your heart, “He’s just a friend! A really good friend to me. Probably my first actual friend ever,” you said this as a joke, but obviously forgot who you were talking to.

“You didn’t make any in high school?” Bakugou’s face twisted up disbelievingly.

“Never went. Couldn’t afford the tuition...” now it was you who was uncomfortably shifting from him. 

“Your parents didn’t help you out?”

“Slow down there, buckaroo,” you laughed, but his face remained as stern as ever as you continued, “That’s like three questions In a row for you. My turn.”

Luckily he caught the hint and didn't press upon the subject any further.

Through the night, you found out a lot of things about him. He was actually younger than you by a few years at twenty years old. His parents were both fashion designers (probably the biggest fucking shock to you considering his choice of black shirts and flannels) and that he was working on making his own hero agency since he had already climbed up the ranks in Japan.

Your game, however, was cut short by the growling of your stomach.

Bakugou almost immediately stood up, surprising you as he walked to your kitchen. Well, you did say ‘make yourself at home’ but this was a little upfront wasn't it? He soon yelled to you from the kitchen as you sat in shock still, “What do you have to eat in this shit hole?!”

Shit hole? You glance around at the decorations and clean atmosphere that you pride yourself on. That jerk. Your house was not a shit hole! “You can eat shit if you want. I’m not hungry.”

“The hell are you talking about? I just heard your stomach growling.”

You shrugged, “Just indigestion. I get a lot of stomach issues with these things inside of me,” the sudden clanging of pots and pan in your kitchen startled you,  “What the hell are you doing??” you called out before marching to your kitchen.

You found him rummaging through your cabinets, stopping momentarily to judgmentally eye your still plentiful liquor cabinet for a moment before moving on, “You can starve yourself all you fucking want, but you're not fucking starving my kids.”

Your breath hitched in your throat at his accusation, “I’m not starving.”

“You think I’m fucking blind?”

“I have to stay in shape for work. Just like you I am sure,” you walked up to him and grabbed a bicep for demonstration, but he quickly threw your hand away from him as his face fell into a bout of shock. He quickly regained himself,

“Whatever,” he grunted before swinging open your refrigerator.

“What are y—Hey!” you yelped as he began haphazardly throwing food onto one of your counters.

“Is all you have in here rabbit food? Jesus fucking Christ,” he ignored your cries and began throwing certain items together and heating up a pot of water.

You couldn't help but blink at the display. He seemed pretty natural in the kitchen and that in itself was unnatural considering his caveman persona, “You... cook?” you felt uneasy.

“You don’t?”

Honestly, your diet consisted of salads and ramen since you were 15, so cooking wasn't a necessity. You reluctantly shook your head at him.

He looked completely disappointed and disgusted with you but, hey, what else is new? Bakugou scoffed, “Well you’re gonna have to learn how now. Pay attention.”

You rolled your eyes at him. If you wanted fucking Gordon Ramsey bitching you around in the kitchen you would have clicked on that stupid ad that always popped up on your Youtube. Then again, Bakugou was more of a Guy Fieri with that spiky hair of his.

Whatever.

You guessed learning how to cook one meal wouldn't be too terrible,  

“What are you stirring the water for if you didn’t put anything in it yet?”

“It helps it heat up faster, idiot.”

“Do you actually throw the noodles on the wall to see if they’re finished?”

Bakugou threw you a frown, “If you’re a fucking dumbass,” he said, moving you aside as he began stirring a saucer filled with vegetables. He completely disregarded your yelp as he moved you as a parade of thoughts bombarded his mind.

He would have to come over more and keep you and his kids fed if you truly didn’t know how to cook. He scoffed and his stirring hand more slightly more erratically with frustration. What kind of grown woman didn't know how to cook pasta?

His thoughts were halted by a loud squelch that sounded through the air. He immediately threw his gaze up to the wall in front of his face and his expression fell at the sight. He growled, snapping his gaze back toward you by the pot of pasta, “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” his furious glare danced between you and the wet noodle that stuck to the wall.

“I wanted to see if it would actually stick! Don’t get your balls in a twist, it was one noodle!”

“So damn wasteful,” Bakugou ground his teeth as he frustratedly scrapped the starchy pasta off of your wall. He opened his mouth to tell you just this, but immediately snapped it back shut as he felt something being thrown at his head, “that better not be what I think it is…” he snarled through his teeth as he eyed food dangling from one of the spines of his hair.

“Don’t worry, Kacchan. It’s not a worm,” you laughed, but your giddiness was soon cut off as a hot noodle was thrown back in your direction. You could only blink as it stuck itself on your nose.

“Hmph,” the corners of Bakugou’s lips slowly curled into a smirk, “It’s a good look on you, noodle face,” You laughed but once again was cut off. The brief sound of his laugh coinciding with your own shocked you.

His smile slowly died down as he caught wind of you gawking at him. He cleared his throat, “Are you done being a child? I’m ready to enjoy my good ass cooking.”

However, you didn't answer him as you once again found a smile creeping onto your face. He rolled his eyes and began making himself a plate of food, but he quickly grew tired of you smiling at him like some bimbo,

“What?!” He snapped, “You want another noodle to the face.”

You shook your head as you shuffled past him to serve yourself a plate, “No.. just you have a nice laugh.”

He scoffed, “That all you're eating?” he completely disregarded your comment but you decided to let it die too,

“I don’t see you with any food on your plate,” you shrugged, “I’d be more worried about yourself if I were you,” you winked at him before setting down at the table.

The night went pretty well after that. So well, in fact, that the two of you decided to have “parental meetings” every few days so that Bakugou could teach you how to cook. You ended up learning how to make 10 more dishes within the next three weeks.

Bakugou and you didn't exactly become close, but there were far less screaming matches than there had been in your first few meetings. You still didn't know him very well, but he wasn't necessarily a stranger anymore.

It was… nice.

The next check up came very quickly because of your lack of employment and your dates-- err um… “parental meetings” with Bakugou.

“Your twins should be about the size of avocados now! We’ll check again with a routine ultrasound. We do have the DNA tests in for you all so I’ll just go and run for those real quick.. well walk briskly. You don’t do an awful lot of running at my age.”

“I don’t do an awful lot of running now,” you joked, and Bakugou sent you a stern glare that screamed, ‘don’t encourage him.’ you shrugged as the doctor walked out of the room.

It was silent for what seemed like forever. You and Bakugou still weren't very good at sparking conversations, but eventually he spoke up as you laid back on the exam table, “You're really fucking showing now.”

You brows instantly came together, high fiving each other in your state of being roasted, “Thanks...” you deadpanned.

The look on your face sent a wave of hurt through the blond’s heart.

What the hell. It was like he felt your hurt. For the first time in a long time, Bakugou actually regretted his choice of words. He glared at the ground as he attempted to change the subject, “You’ve been eating, right?”

“How else Would I be sitting here, looking fat and talking to you, Kacchan.”

“I told you don’t call me that,” he paused, as if he were really considering his next statement, “Call me Katsuki,” he finally dragged out.

You rolled your eyes, “Okay, Kacchan.”

Just as Bakugou open his mouth the no doubt scream at you, Dr. Yamakawa entered the room, 

“Mama Bakugou! We have some really good news. Everything seems fine with the twins according to the DNA testing. One is a little small right now, but it’s completely normal for there to be a dominant twin so to speak. No genetic abnormalities or health concerns,” you saw Bakgou visibly stiffen at this before relaxing as the doctor continued, “’Cept for you.”

You shook your head, blinking heavily as if you’d just been punched in the brow, “Me?”

“You do have a concerning BMI—you tend to lean a little towards underweight. I understand you are in the profession of modeling correct,” he said very, curtly, “You need to add more calories to your daily intake. You wont need to ‘eat for three” as they say, but you do need to put on some substantial pounds or you will risk a premature birth..”

You had no fucking idea what to say to that. ‘Nice?’ ‘Cool beans.’ ‘fucking just give me the mother of the year award already!’ You felt your chest tighten and suddenly you realized you hadn't been breathing. You sucked in abruptly, causing the doctor to take a step towards you,

“You're looking a little flushed there, Mama Bakugou.”

“Well how else is she supposed to respond when you tell her like that, old man?!” Bakugou snapped, causing both you and the doctor to gawk at him. 

“Kacchan! What the fuck don’t talk to him like that, jerk!”

Bakugou scoffed, throwing his glare, much more pouty this time-- to the jar of cotton balls on the counter of the office.

“It wouldn't help either of you to sugar coat this, son,” the doctor sighed, “You have made it this far along in her pregnancy. Miscarriage is substantially less likely but if you want to give these babies a better chance, I’d suggest higher caloric intake.”

Needless to say, Bakugou did not leave the doctor's office that day a very pleasant man. He would angrily stalk ahead of you a for a few moments before pausing and grumbling about how ‘fucking slow’ you were as you caught up before the cycle would start all over again. You could only take this for so long, however,

“What!?” you yelled suddenly as the grumbling phase of his cycle began once more, “Will you stop fucking brooding already and speak your mind—”

He instantly snapped his face towards your own to stare into your eyes. You fumbled back a bit as the intense vermilion bore into you. You opened your mouth to speak but his serious expression exclaimed something before yours could,

“I wanna move in with you.”

You paused. You couldn't have fucking heard that right.

He… wants to...

“What…?” you mouthed.

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[justanotherblonde23]

The Silvertongue and the Professor - Chapter 2

Author’s Note: Hello my internet buddies! Here’s the next installment of my Loki story. I was on vacation for a week, so it took me an extra little bit to put this up, but I think it’ll be worth it. Igna and Loki finally meet! Please let me know what you think. Your feedback is super helpful to me and gives me a chance to know if you all like where the story is going. Enjoy, friends!

Warnings: Maybe some language, definitely some violence

Chapter One                                   Chapter Three

The God of Mischief looked up as he heard the door open and close. His eyes tracked the woman that entered. Well, this was different. The woman walked towards him; there was no fear in her eyes, no wariness. It looked as if she was almost...excited? She stopped in front of his cell, sizing him up. Loki did the same to her.

This woman was obviously mortal that he could be sure of. She had a petite build, with extremely pale skin; he thought she might even be as pale as he was. Her hair was, well, strange, to say the least. It was pink. He had never witnessed anyone of the Midgardian realm with pink hair before. He assumed that it must be some sort of enchantment to make it thus. Her hair was long, hitting just above her elbows in soft curls. That pale skin was covered in tattoos, all different, and yet all somehow seemed to meld together, turning her into a piece of living art. Her face was beautiful with her large deep grey eyes, the color of the sea before a raging storm. Those eyes were following his every move, taking in all he did. She had a button nose, plump lips, and high cheekbones. Her expression was serene yet intense. His eyes roved over the rest of her body, feminine curves encased in a grey professional dress, topped off with red heels that added about three inches to her petite frame. His eyes stopped midthigh; she was armed. He could at least see the slight shape of a gun, maybe a knife as well. My, my, he mused, this one is feisty. This should be at least mildly enjoyable. His eyes bored into hers, the vivid green meeting her stormy grey. He quirked a brow, waiting for her to begin.

“Loki of Asgard, God of Mischief and Lies,” the woman began. 

Loki tilted his head as he listened to her words; she was speaking to him in Swedish, remarkably similar to his native tongue. She spoke like a native Swedish speaker, yet something was off. He couldn’t quite put words to it, maybe something in the accent, which confused him greatly. Perhaps she had learned it at a young age but was from elsewhere?

“Where are you from, mortal?” he queried with a sly smile. 

“Sigtuna and Igna is fine; it’s a little more specific than calling me mortal,” the woman replied. 

“Ah, Sigtuna, Sweden’s very first town from the last age of the Vikings, how fitting that they send you here to me. You speak like a native, but your accent is ever so slightly off. Where are you truly from?” he pressed. 

“I was born and raised in Sigtuna, as I have said. I may sound different than the others, but I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been able to hear myself speak since I was five, or anyone else for that matter.” 

The God of Mischief paused, he had heard rumors of such a thing, but it was a Midgardian ailment, not one of Asgard. He wondered what it was like, living in the silence. It occurred to him to ask, but he didn’t want to seem too interested in the woman standing before him. He would refrain from his line of questioning; there was a reason that she was here, after all. 

“Interesting,” he murmured, studying her face. “Well, Igna, I suppose Fury has sent you here for some reason or another; best get on with it.” 

Igna walked closer to him, stopping only a foot or so away, still watchful as ever. 

“You let them catch you; you let them put you in this cage. It’s all too easy, far too easy. Three against one? Even with the enhanced strength of Captain America and the Ironman suit, you still could have easily won without breaking so much as a sweat. I’ve read about your kind, the Aesir; you possess far many more abilities than humanity. We used to worship you as gods, yet you are still flesh and blood as I see you standing here. Made of sturdier stock, of course, but still flesh and blood. I wonder why you let them take you, why you allowed them to throw you into a cage not designed for you. And I think you’re going to tell me.” 

Mischief sparkled in his eyes as she talked. He was only killing time talking with her, staving off boredom until it was time for him to go. 

“Clever girl, you see things that the others have missed. You do not underestimate me, and I wonder why. Did they send you from the lab to take a look at their newest experiment? Did they pluck you from an office to manipulate my mind? What good can you do here, mortal? At what do they think you can best me, Igna?” he hissed. 

“I know more about you than anyone on this planet. I specialize in all things of the Aesir; I am a scholar that shares my knowledge with others. I do not simply see you, Silvertongue; I observe where others miss. There is a reason you chose to be here on this ship, and you are the reason that I chose to be here. As long as you are here, as I am I,” Igna replied. 

“And what happens when I depart this ship, as you say I shall?”

“Then I will do everything in my power to find you once more. If you’re here, you’re up to no good. Not that I won’t be the first to admit your actions intrigue me. Have you come to rule humanity? To force us all on our knees?”

Loki smiled, almost like she was his prey, “Precisely, darling. I have come to give you the gift of subjugation. I will eliminate your needless wars, your manipulations of each other, your senseless slaughter in the name of freedom. I shall bring you all together, regardless of race, religion, or creed, and rule you. You, Doctor Andersson, will kneel before me, just as everyone else. Your mind isn’t too hard to skim, you know. I will admit that your mind is stronger than the others, but it can still be read.” 

He smacked the glass close to her face, causing her to startle a bit. 

“Oh, how I’ll enjoy seeing you kneel in front of me to watch you break and crumble. And once you’re broken, you shall come to me. You will come; you and I both know you will.” 

“I think you may be mistaken; I have no desire to kneel, to submit, not to you, not to anyone. Enjoy the thought, though.” 

A dark chuckle reverberated in his chest, oh how truly wrong she was. 

“ Your defiance is amusing, my dear, but it’ll pass. In the end, there is no escaping me, you’ll see.” 

Igna nodded, her eyes brightening as something flew into her mind. 

“Well, I do believe I have all I need at present. I know who’s coming for you, and I know it’s soon. You’re simply wasting the clock with me. As such, I’ll be going now and see if we can’t modify and improve security around here. I’m sure Agent Barton will be here soon enough. Possibly with reinforcements too? Yes, I thought as much. It’s been a pleasure to encounter you in the flesh, truly.” 

As she turned and began to walk away, a voice, an actual voice, something that she had not experienced since childhood, reverberated in her mind, filling her with icy foreboding. 

“Do not fret, Igna Andersson; this will be far from our last encounter. You have my word.” 

Loki watched her stop short as the words filled her mind. He saw the shiver run down her spine; he could practically feel her emotions coming off of her in waves. He would come for her; she was far too interesting to slip through his fingers. As she began to walk away, the ship shook. Igna grabbed onto the railing, attempting not to fall as the world moved around her. She turned back, catching the Prince’s eye, he smiled wickedly. 

“Don’t worry, darling; I’ll be coming for you.” 

The professor pulled herself forward, up the stairs, and out the door. She barreled into Steve, who caught her before she could bounce right off of him. He stooped down a bit, getting her eye contact. 

“Ma’am, I’ve got to go suit up; something isn’t right here. I have to see where I can help. I don’t feel right leaving you here, though.” 

She nodded, understanding his predicament. 

“Captain, go, I’ll be fine; I know how to handle myself. I’ll make my way up and see where I can help, as well.”

Steve squeezed her arm gratefully before running off to do his part. Igna paused for a moment; she knew what her part was, for now. She kicked off her heels, abandoning them next to her purse; she needed to be fully able to run if necessary. Her gun came out of her holster, securely in her hands as she walked back into the room containing the god. She stood steady, careful of her step as everything shook. She looked around, scanning the area for any threats while she made her way down the stairs towards Loki. He was still in the cell, smiling delightedly, fully aware of the chaos and havoc that was happening around them. 

She warily watched him; she knew someone would be here for him at any moment. Something moved in the corner of her eye, but before she could fully react, a hand shot out over her mouth, and a powerful arm snaked its way behind her arms, pulling her tight. The gun fell from her hands; the more she struggled, the harder the hold became. Fuck, she was trapped. 

Loki smiled mischievously while he put a finger to his lips, motioning for her to hush. She watched as men clothed in SHIELD defensive armor made their way into the room. Her eyes widened as the God of Mischief duplicated himself, strolling out of the cage, leaving a part of himself still in there. Then it dawned on her whose ice-cold fingers were solidly clamped over her lips. It was the god himself, or at least a piece of the god. Fuck magic, fuck the spells he had woven so precisely to make all of this fall into place. This would not end well. She felt herself being backed into a corner, the world shimmering ever so slightly around her. It was transparent but felt different; there was clearly magic surrounding her. She could see out; everything was somewhat hazy, though she realized there was a distinct possibility that others were unable to see her. 

Igna could do nothing but watch in horror as Thor was deceived by Loki’s apparition, effectively trapping him inside of the glass cell. Her horror overflowed as the scepter the Trickster wielded made its way through Agent Coulson, impaling him. She fought harder against her captor, utter despair rushing over her in waves as the man fell, blood making a steady stream down his mouth. She knew, in her heart of hearts, that he would not survive that wound. She was sure the scepter was woven with dark magic, dooming the one that was unfortunate enough to be at the receiving end of that weapon. Even as he gave his last hurrah by blowing Loki through the wall with that huge gun-like contraption, she knew it was the end. There were men littered around the floor, dead. Thor was blown out of the helicarrier in a prison not designed for him. Everywhere she looked, the professor saw death and destruction. Her legs began to buckle, but the presence behind her forced her to remain standing against her will. 

Before she had a moment to register it, she was partially carried, partially dragged through the ship. Her bare feet repeatedly stumbled, leaving her to be dragged on her knees. She could feel the burning pain from each scrape as she was pulled along and then hoisted back up again. She kicked, bit, screamed, and struggled with everything in her, but it was no use. The god that had her in his clutches was far stronger than her mortal self. She was destined to lose this game before it had even started. As they reached the deck, Igna tried harder to fight back, struggling against his hold. He gripped her harder, those freezing hands digging into her skin. She turned with her shoulder, trying to regain some type of control, but it was as if Loki could see what she would do before she did it. He yanked her arm in the other direction, she could feel the shoulder dislocate, and her bones crack in half like a twig. She let out a scream of utter agony as the edges of her vision became fuzzy. The last thing she saw before she blacked out was Tony Stark suited up with his mask off, looking in her direction in a complete panic as she lost consciousness and was hauled onto the waiting quinjet.

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[albapuella]

Getting the Laundry Done

AO3 Link!

Fandom: Homestuck; Homestuck 2: Beyond Canon Pairing: Davekat Summary: “The scent of laundry soap was in the air, and the dryer vibrated in a way which indicated that perhaps some belt or other inside was loose, but no one on that ship knew dick about machines, so it was just going to have to vibrate loudly in the appliance version of a wail of pain. Which was quite unlike the wails Karkat was making." Tags: spoilers for 8/23 update, Established Relationship, Porn with Feelings, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Bulges and Nooks (Homestuck), Sex on a Dryer Author’s Note:  I ask for your indulgence on this one. This fic was born out of a discussion on the davekat thirst server where a bemoaning of a lack of dryer fics after the update took place. So, here we are. I wrote this in about 2 and half hours. I hope you find this fic to your liking.

The scent of laundry soap was in the air, and the dryer vibrated in a way which indicated that perhaps some belt or other inside was loose, but no one on that ship knew dick about machines, so it was just going to have to vibrate loudly in the appliance version of a wail of pain. Which was quite unlike the wails Karkat was making.

Dave had done extensive mapping of Karkat's body these last three years. He knew where the sensitive spots were: the parts to touch to make him laugh; the parts to make him moan; the parts to make him flush. His beautiful best friend.

Karkat's shirt, Dave's shirt, was already off, tossed onto the floor, exposing the expanse of his chest and the flushed grub scars. They were one of the more sensitive spots, and Dave enjoyed the sounds licking them elicited. "Dave," Karkat wailed, half-laughing, "stop teasing me, you—!"

Dave chose that moment to slide his hand down to the front of Karkat's shorts.

He could feel the bulge already writhing under the fabric. While he could take most of the credit, some credit was probably also due to this loud as fuck dryer. Maybe he could get Roxy to look at it? They already could do computers, right? How much more difficult could a dryer be. A moan from Karkat made Dave remember his priorities.

His fingers danced with the bulge through the fabric. "Looks like someone's ready to come out and play, aren't you little guy?"

Karkat groaned in a way which indicated his annoyance. "If I've told you once, Dave, I have told you a thousand fucking times: stop talking to my bulge."

"I don't know, Karkat," Dave returned, grinning, "I think he likes it when I talk to him." He leaned closer, his mouth almost touching the fabric of Karkat's shorts. "Isn't that right, little guy?"

Another groan from Karkat: acceptance, or at the very least, impatience. "Fine. Go ahead, waste your time chatting with my reproductive organ. Just get on with it. Before I—" he cut himself off, and Dave spared him a glance from his position between Karkat's legs. "Never mind."

Dave looked at him a moment longer before shrugging. "Okay." He turned his attention back to Karkat, Jr. "Okay, let's get you out of those nasty shorts." He pulled on the waistband, and Karkat obligingly lifted up his bottom to help. Dave didn't bother pulling them down any further than his knees.

"Do whatever you're going to do before I stick to this thing," Karkat commanded. Or tried to: he was starting to sound a little breathless.

Dave saluted. "You got it, boss." Karkat's answering scowl made him grin even wider. The bulge was writhing, but the nook was clearly feeling the effects of the vibrations, too. "I should talk to your nook, too," he said as he leaned in closer, rubbing the outside with his finger. "It's not fair to only chat up your alien dick--the nook needs love, too, right?"

"Oh my god, Dave," Karkat moaned. It was hard to tell if he was moaning because he didn't like the idea of Dave talking to his nook or if it was because Dave had slipped a finger in while he'd been thinking out loud. Nah, it was definitely the latter.

His finger slid inside easily enough that he added another right away. Usually, he was working from a different angle, but he knew he'd find them if he felt around long enough. Ah! There they were: he'd found the shame globe jackpot. He rubbed them the way he'd found Karkat liked the most.

Karkat gasped, and his legs closed just a little bit in reaction. His hands came down to rest on Dave's shoulders. "Fuck," he breathed.

"Maybe later," Dave said airily. He twisted his fingers, making Karkat shake. "Is this working for you?" he asked, continuing his ministrations. "Do you want something else? Whatever you want, you got it, baby. Just say the word, and it's yours."

The flush on Karkat's face was beautiful. "If-if you're going to ru-un you-your mo-outh anyway, at least, uh, put it to good use."

Honestly, Dave was surprised Karkat was managing to talk at all. Must be losing his touch. He guessed that meant he needed to up his game. "On it." Still working his fingers in Karkat's nook, he took hold of the bulge with his other hand.

Now, the bulge wasn't always a team player when it came to oral (it had a tendency to try going up to the sinuses if you weren't paying attention), but Dave had learned a few tricks over the years. Mainly, as tempting as it was to try to go full porno on the thing, the safer option was to only take in a mouthful.

He put just the tip of the bulge in his mouth and sucked hard.

Karkat wailed louder than the dryer. "FUCK!"

That was more like it.

The hands on his shoulders tightened to the point of pain, but Dave was too focused on Karkat and his shuddering movements to care much. If he mouth wasn't occupied with alien tentadick, he'd have started rapping about how beautiful Karkat looked with his head thrown back in pleasure. Karkat's legs were hooked around the middle of Dave's back, pulling him closer.

"Dave, Dave, Dave," Karkat hissed between his teeth. "Dave, please."

Dave gave the bulge one last hard suck before letting it free. His other hand remained busy despite the cramp it was starting to get. "How do you want me, baby?"

It took Karkat a moment to get his breath back enough to answer. "In me. Please, Dave."

He loved when Karkat got like this. "Your wish is my fucking command. Because we're gonna fuck, and you commanded it."

Karkat rolled his eyes. It didn't have quite the same impact when he was flushed and his eyes were blown. "Just... just fuck me already."

Dave stepped back long enough to pull off his pajama bottoms. He was a little too short to fuck Karkat if he stayed on the dryer while standing on the ground. Waiting until he got close to Karkat again, he let himself float the extra couple of inches he needed.

His dick had been hard for a while now (touching Karkat, hearing Karkat, smelling him, tasting him, all of that had a pronounced effect on Dave, Jr.), and he searched Karkat's hungry expression. "You ready? All systems go?"

A quick nod. Arms looping around his neck; legs hooking once more around his back.

"Time for blast off, then." Dave eased himself into Karkat's nook. The first few times they did this, he'd gone in too hard. Karkat hadn't complained, but Dave had seen the pain in his face and had forced him to come clean. He knew better now. Slow and steady and deep won this race.

He'd done this so many times, but each time still felt special. Like Karkat's nook was embracing his dick like Karkat was embracing the rest of his body: tight and desperate, but loving and sweet. This time, there was more vibration than usual. He grabbed the edge of the dryer to give him the leverage he needed so he could start moving.

Karkat melted against him, moaning hotly against his neck. "Dave, Dave, Dave."

Dave didn't think he'd ever get tired of hearing Karkat saying his name like that. "I've got you," he managed somehow. This was the part that took his breath away. "I've got you."

He was vaguely aware of Karkat's bulge trying to make time with his belly button, but he'd gotten used to that sensation in this position. There was a time when it used to make him laugh uncontrollably. There was a time when he'd worried that Karkat, Jr. might be strong enough to make his own entrance. He'd learned a lot since then.

Best to just let Karkat, Jr. do his own thing.

Karkat was kissing him now, and that was a lot more fun to focus on.

Dave had gotten good at not cutting himself on those teeth. A bit of a learning curve for both of them, really. Now, he barely had to think about it; he could just focus on how it felt to have Karkat's tongue meet his.

Karkat was clinging so tightly to Dave now that Dave could only roll his hips. Each roll elicited another gasp or moan. Each sound was like another shot of blood to his dick. Luckily, Karkat's mouth was so close to his that he could still hear him over the sounds of the dryer.

Dave was never sure if it was his fault (if he didn't have the stamina) or if it was Karkat's fault (Karkat was just too insanely hot), but he never could last long when he had Karkat like this. "I'm close," he warned.

Karkat huffed a laugh. "I-I think I might be, might be close, too." He buried his face in Dave's neck. "I love you, Dave."

No matter how many times he heard it, there was still a part of Dave that couldn't believe he was lucky enough for it to be true. "I know."

For a long moment, the only sounds were their harsh breathing, the slick sound of Dave's movement, and the dryer, wailing away.

"Did... Did you just quote Star Wars at me?" Karkat asked, incredulous. "Really? Now? Of all fucking times?"

Dave grinned. "I love you, Karkat."

"Well, I don't love you," Karkat mock declared even as he held Dave closer. "I hate you so much."

It was difficult to laugh with Karkat squeezing him so tightly against him and his nook still hugging his dick, but Dave was just able to chuckle. "You're stuck with me now."

Karkat's long suffering sigh was undercut by the moan it ended with. Then he did the swearing thing which meant Mt. Vesuvius was about to blow.

Dave increased his pace just a little, just enough to put them over the edge. "Come on, Karkat, come on." A tightly wound spring coming suddenly loose. Luckily, Karkat didn't mind cream pies curtesy of Master Chef Dave Strider. He kept grinding for the half minute it took Karkat to catch up.

Karkat finally released Dave to decaptchalogue a bucket. Then he slid off the dryer on wobbly legs.

Dave floated backwards a little and watched Karkat empty himself. The slurry hit the bottom, making a tinny noise he could only just hear thanks to the dryer. Then the bucket was gone.

The few times they'd done it on Earth C before everything had gone down, Karkat would give the slurry to Kanaya. He had no idea what he did with it these days. He didn't ask. They had few secrets anymore, but Dave figured he was enough in Karkat's business as it was.

"Did I do good?" Dave asked, lowering himself back to the floor.

Karkat smiled, his teeth jutting out over his bottom lip. "Yeah, Dave, you're the best."

"Cool," Dave returned as blandly as he could, which was not very when he was smiling so widely. Then his smile dimmed. "I mean, I'm kind of best by default. Since you're not, um..."

Karkat shook his head with tolerant amusement. "You are ridiculous, Dave. Just take the compliment. Like this: Dave, you did a good job. Oh, really? Well, thank you." He picked up his shirt (Dave's shirt) and slipped it back on. "Now, you try. Dave, you did a good job."

"Oh, really," Dave repeated dutifully. "Well, thank you."

"Much better." Karkat pulled on his shorts. "Go wash your hands and maybe no one will realize why we took so long doing laundry."

Dave made a pair of sticky finger guns. While he was over at the sink, he took a moment to wash his face off, too. They'd probably still know, but at least Karkat could think that they didn't. Karkat wasn't embarrassed to be having sex with him, Dave was very nearly certain, but he was still embarrassed when other people brought it up.

Once he was fully clean and fully dressed, he wrapped Karkat in a lazy hug. "I'm glad you're here with me."

Karkat pat his back. "You already know I'm ecstatic to be here with you."

They settled against each other, the moment stretching, lasting forever. Warm and loving. Then the sudden silence after the noise of before startled them both.

Dave turned to look at the now silent dryer. "I guess the laundry's done."

A disinterested hmm. "It can wait."

Dave smiled into Karkat's hair. "I guess it can."

[spaceskam]

our fainted thrill carries on (8/13)

another part of my season 2 fix it! enjoy the pain! warning for sexual content and angst

ao3

Michael was lured back to life by soft kisses on his chest.

A soft, slightly confused hum vibrated in his throat as his eyes slowly opened. The window, though it was covered with a thin curtain, showed that it was still dark outside. That didn’t stop those lips from moving up to his neck or those fingers from gliding across his stomach. His eyes left the window and went to Alex. It took him a few seconds to remember how exactly that happened.

“‘S early,” Michael grunted, voice hoarse and mind still a little foggy. It was hard to remember anything with Alex pressed up against him and kissing his skin.

“Yeah,” Alex whispered softly, pulling away just enough to look him in the eye. He was soft from sleep, eyes still a little tired and cheek red from being pressed against Michael’s skin all night. It was like he’d just woken up only a few seconds before Michael and immediately wanted his attention. That made his heart beat a little harder. “I’m sorry, you can go back to sleep if you want. Just, I have work and you have work and I wanted‒”

Michael silenced Alex by flipping them over, laying on top of him as he slowly woke himself up more. Alex smiled so wide, stretching just a little and using that as an excuse to arch his bare body into Michael’s. He was so relaxed, so happy, and Michael could hardly make sense of it. Did he always look like this when they hooked up or was this special somehow?

It didn’t really matter though as Michael nudged his nose against his cheek, pressing feather-light kisses to his jaw. Alex craned his neck to give him more space. Michael could hear him breathing, feel the way his arms wrapped around him, taste his skin. Everything was Alex. Everything was always, always, always Alex.

He kissed every inch of his skin that he could reach before dragging his tongue across the length of his jaw. Alex hummed, weaving his fingers into his hair and giving it a little tug to show his approval. Then Michael paused for a minute, letting himself enjoy the stillness of just being pressed against him and being allowed to have this. He wanted him so badly, he wanted them to be able to be in love and happy. He had been in love and happy. He trusted Alex to have good reasons to keep something from him. Part of him still trusted that he did.

But, fuck, that was harder to convince himself of when Alex was basically the only one he trusted.

Michael’s hands went to his thighs, hoisting them up to his hips and earning a little surprised gasp from the man himself at the escalation. Alex still held him close, though, and his thighs tightened around his hips as Michael dragged his teeth over a sore spot he’d made on his neck the night before. He was usually pretty good about not leaving marks, but last night he couldn’t help himself.

The mix of betrayal and absolute desire for Alex again made it hard to control himself.

Alex tilted his head, nudging Michael away from his neck to capture his lips in a kiss. Considering his mind was still hazy and the mood felt just right, Michael kissed back and let himself enjoy it. No matter what happened, no matter how bad he felt, he always enjoyed kissing Alex. Even last night when he felt like everything was shit, he could bury himself in that feeling. 

“I love you,” Alex whispered into his mouth as Michael mindlessly tried to bury himself again and it made it harder. It felt wrong hearing that. Everyone lied to him about everything, what did love have to do with that?

So, as a way to silence him, he slid his arm between them and took Alex in his hand. He sucked in a breath, but he kissed him back just as fervently. Michael tried to forget everything except for his breaths, except for his skin, except for his lips, except for the whine he gave when he bit the bruise on his neck, except for the way his eyebrows met in the middle and his jaw dropped when Michael did that thing he liked. Because he knew what he liked. Because he knew Alex.

Or did he?

Because it didn’t seem to matter. The more he tried to silence him, the more he swallowed the confessions that felt hallow and made him feel even more unwanted than before, the more they came. Alex liked to give affirmation, but what had once been ‘god, you’re hot’ had turned into ‘fuck, I love you’. And how was he supposed to take that? Why did he have to change it?

You don’t lie to people you love. 

Alex finished with no warning, messy and hot and all but plastering their chests together. He cursed and apologized with his hands still weaved into his hair, but Michael didn’t care. He had a lot of bigger worries than something like that. This was nothing new. Alex put his hand on his cheek and pulled him in for a kiss, sharing breath as he moved to reciprocate. Michael stopped him by pushing to his knees and letting Alex’s legs slide off him.

He stared down at him. Alex looked slightly confused, but too blissed out to really put it together. When was Alex going to tell him the truth? What happened to honesty?

“I’m gonna go take a shower,” Michael said. Alex grabbed his hand.

“Wait,” he breathed, sitting up and reaching for a kiss. Michael accepted it. “Let me join?”

And wasn’t it impossible to tell him no?

-

“Well, aren’t you bubbly.”

“Sorry,” Alex said, but he couldn’t deny it. His leg had been bouncing all day, vibrating with excited energy. Things were going good. Better than good. Not only had they had a massive fucking breakthrough, but he had Michael.

“Don’t apologize, happy looks good on you,” Cam said, giving him a smile.

They’d all met up after work to head to the school together, but Alex knew he was annoying. He’d been annoying all day and he didn’t give a shit. He’d never been so goddamn happy in his life. Finally, things were good. Finally. 

“Wanna spill what’s got you so giddy? Because I know it’s not just what we found out last night,” Kyle pointed out. Which was true. They decided to let Cam do a little digging into her father’s side of the family and see what she could find. She apparently didn’t get along with her parents and hadn’t spoken to them in a very long time, so it made sense that that was why she hadn’t been pulled into M.V.C. by them. Point is, that meant there was a possibility they had no idea what she knew. Shit was going to be great.

“Well… I don’t know if you wanna hear about it,” Alex said, chewing on his bottom lip as he replayed the night before and the morning. They still needed to have a good, cohesive talk, but it’d been years since he had to use foundation to cover up a hickey and he felt too young to care for the time being. 

“We’re your friends and you clearly wanna talk,” Kyle said. Alex didn’t need much more of a push.

“Guerin and I hooked up last night. And this morning, but, yeah, last night. Like, for real. Like, a thing. A thing, us,” Alex said, laughing to himself. He couldn’t wait to see him again, to kiss him. He couldn’t get enough. They were finally on the same page in the same book on the same sentence.

“That wasn’t already happening?” Cam asked at the same time Kyle asked, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“No, it wasn’t happening, we were trying to navigate things without sex,” Alex said, squirming slightly as he continued to think about it. How the hell had he actually even gone that long? He’d been without him for hardly a few hours and all he wanted was to fuck until they were both numb. “But I think we’re in a good enough place where we can separate it and be adults about a relationship and alien bullshit.”

“And you’re sure?” Kyle clarified. Alex nodded.

“I’ve never been so sure about something in my life.”

“Well, then I support you.”

“Not gonna lie, it’s kinda weird seeing you so excited,” Cam said, “But I’m happy for you, Cap.”

The drive seemed to drag on for way longer than it needed to be and Alex was nearly crawling out of his skin. He felt so young and stupid, checking his phone over and over to see if Michael had texted him. He hadn’t, but he knew he was busy. Alex just couldn’t wait to see him.

To keep his mind distracted, he made a mental checklist of all the things they needed to talk about once they got home that night. The revised boundaries of their relationship, the third head of the trident, who the little boy was, and making sure they both wanted the same thing going forward. They’d been doing good, but they’d been known to let sex cloud their judgment and Alex was determined to avoid that.

They were going to be better.

Michael was already there, rummaging through his truck, whenever they pulled up at the school. Kyle and Cam gave Alex a little look that caused him to roll his eyes, but they both quickly went inside and left Alex alone with Michael. He was more than a little grateful for that.

“Hey, Cowboy,” Alex called as he walked up to him, taking off the hat of his uniform. Michael looked over at him and sighed before turning back to his truck, pushing himself up and into the cab more. Alex took slow steps towards him, trying to gauge his body language. Had he had a bad day? “Hey,” he said again, softer this time, “You okay?”

“I am fine, so fine,” Michael said, slamming the door shut after coming out of the truck empty handed. Confusion hit Alex like a train and he instantly reached out to grab his wrist, stepping into his space. Michael looked past him rather than at him. It hurt more than words could say.

“Talk to me,” Alex said, trying to coax him into calming down rather than making it worse. Michael was a paragon of making his negativity contagious. Alex refused to let it happen today. “What happened? What do you need?”

Michael took three heavy breaths before looking at him, making eye contact so deliberate that it was nearly breathtaking. But, then again, Michael was breathtaking. Alex took another step, their chests pressing together. It was reminiscent of that morning, only with an extra barrier of clothing between them. Alex couldn’t help but think that, if it was gone, he’d feel better.

He brought his hand up to his cheek, watching the way his eyes closed at the feeling. Alex gently rubbed his thumb over his cheekbone and stepped in just a little closer, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Michael swallowed and released a slow breath.

“Talk to me,” Alex repeated, staying close, “What upset you and how do we fix it?”

Michael opened his eyes and stared at him for all of two seconds before Alex’s back was shoved into the side of the truck. He skipped any form of sweet kisses, going straight for raunchy and explicit. It was all tongue, all teeth, all pressing against him in the most mind-numbing way. 

He reciprocated easily despite the publicness of it all, reveling in how badly Michael seemed to want him. He liked being wanted. More importantly, he liked being wanted by him. So he matched his speed and his desire, holding him close and getting his fix. He genuinely didn’t know how he’d ever gone with him.

Still, Alex made a startled noise as he took it even a step further, wedging his knee between Alex’s thighs and grinding his hips down with a little too much force.

“Michael,” Alex said, pulling away to catch his breath. His hands grasped his hips, separating them just a little. “Hey, we’re here to work on bringing Max back, remember? We can do this later.” 

Michael stared at him for a moment before nodding his head, peeling off of Alex and stepping too far away too quickly. Alex reached for his hand again.

“Hey,” he said, “I love you.”

“Yeah,” Michael breathed, walking out of Alex’s grasp and towards the school. 

Dread seeped into Alex’s body as he began to realize that maybe they weren’t quite as on the same page as he thought.

-

What was the proper way to call someone out for being a liar?

“His heart is slowly repairing itself, yes, but, at this rate, it won’t be healed perfectly for years. We need something else or this is pointless,” Liz rattled off. Michael was staring at Alex, watching him handle the alien glass pieces with delicate, familiar hands. He was so fucking obvious.

“It’s not pointless,” Isobel argued. Liz just gave her a faux-sympathetic smile.

“Maybe we could make an alien-friendly LVAD?” Kyle suggested.

“Yeah, but then what? If we give him and LVAD, then he’ll spend his life waiting for a transplant that’ll never come,” Liz said.

“Maybe we use these,” Alex said, holding up the glass, “It’s living like their bodies, right? Why couldn’t we construct a pacemaker or something once he gets to a certain stage. Sure, not perfect, but tons of people live just fine with them.”

Liz’s face lit up. “Yes. Yes, we could definitely do that. Michael, this‒” 

“No,” Michael said easily, shaking his head, “No, we’re not destroying or altering any of the ship pieces.”

The room fell quiet, the four of them sharing looks between each other and Michael. It was like they couldn’t come up with a reason why he might not want that. It was almost laughable.

“Michael, this is Max,” Isobel said. Michael shrugged.

“So? That ship is the only option I have to get the hell off this planet and I’m not letting you take it from me,” he said, his eyes involuntarily drifting to Alex. He looked hurt by that, but not surprised. Just hurt as if all of his fears had been confirmed. Michael shook his head. “And you knew that.”

“Okay, you’re just being selfish now,” Liz said, “We need your help.”

“And it’s not just your ship, Michael. Max and I have just as much of a right to it as you do,” Isobel said. Michael scoffed.

“Bullshit. Neither of you cared about ever finding it, you just care now. It’s mine and I say no,” Michael insisted.

“So, what, you’re still just gonna fuck off the planet?” Alex asked, voice showing just how obvious it was that hurt his feelings. How funny was that?

“Well, I wish I could, but I can’t,” Michael said, “Because someone has been keeping fucking pieces from me.”

Again, he could hear a pin drop. Alex just stared at him and Michael could see the gears turning in his head, his walls building and his mind calculating a perfect response. Michael hated it. He just wanted fucking honesty. Why was it so hard to get?

“So you found that,” Alex said simply, voice hardened. Michael gave a sharp laugh, throwing his arms out in disbelief.

“That’s all you have to say?! I call you out for fucking lying to me for months and that’s it?! When did you find it, Alex? Did you ever plan on telling me about it? I just, I have given you so many chances to tell me! I’ve asked you over and over if you were hiding something, and you always said no! What was the fucking point, Alex?! What was the point of acting like we’d changed or grown or done something different when you were just lying?” Michael unleashed, finally feeling like he was getting it off his chest. Suddenly, he could breathe again.

“We have changed,” Alex said. Except he wasn’t angry like anticipated, not even a shred antagonistic. He just looked torn and desperate. He looked like he did at Caulfield. Michael had to physically take a step back. “I didn’t mean to lie.”

“You did, though. You and Sanders were the only two fucking people who had no reason to lie to me and you both did. Both of you! Why am I surrounded by liars, huh?” Michael demanded. Alex’s eyes were slowly but surely getting teary like things were falling into place. Good. Michael didn’t like when they fell into place either.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice tight as he willed his tears away, “I’m sorry for not telling you.”

“Then why didn’t you?!”

“Because I didn’t want you to leave!” Alex yelled, roughly wiping his face with his hand, “I just, I wanted you. Here. With me.”

Michael became increasingly aware of the fact that they weren’t alone, but it seemed Alex was forgetting about it more each second. 

“So you lied to be selfish,” Michael simplified.

Alex made a hurt little noise and took a shaky breath, his bottom lip quivering before his hands went to cover his face. It was strange. Such a big part of Michael wanted to make it stop, wanted to say they could talk it out, wanted to hold him so he wouldn’t cry in front of their friends. But that little part that couldn’t let it go felt like it had lit his entire fucking body on fire and he just couldn’t.

“What was last night then?” Alex asked as he dropped his hands after composing himself for a moment, “What was the point of that? If you think I’m selfish and a liar, why would you do that? Was that some kind of punishment? Because it worked. I feel punished.”

Michael didn’t answer. He didn’t have one. He was just pissed for even more reasons than he’d entered the room with. Alex quickly excused himself and left the room and Michael followed it up by shattering all the beakers on the lab. That anger he felt was all consuming, filling him to the brim with betrayal and self-hatred and he was struggling to see where the line between the two was.

“Way to go,” Kyle scoffed, quickly making his way to follow Alex out of the room. That left Isobel, Cam, and Liz all staring at him like he was the asshole. Which he probably was.

“The third head of the trident is Cameron,” Cam announced, eying him with distaste, “So, Alex, Kyle, and I will do just fine dismantling that side of things, we don’t need your help. We’ll keep you safe, don’t worry. You’re still a dick.”

With that, she left the room as well. And then there were three.

“Really, Michael?” Isobel asked, “What the fuck was that? Last time we talked, you were on cloud nine, what was the point of all that? And what do you mean Sanders was lying to you? And how come there are the only two you trust?”

“Isobel, please, just… give me a minute,” he said, digging the heels of his hands against his eyes.

How the fuck was he going to learn how to go back to sleeping alone?

-

“Boys are stupid.”

“Let’s burn them.”

Alex huffed a laugh, tugging his blanket a little bit tighter around him as he leaned his head on Rosa’s shoulder. He felt stupid and childish as she stroked his hair, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. She’d been like a big sister to him and, while things had changed dramatically, she was still right there when he needed her. And, right now, he needed her. 

“I just can’t believe he decided to be such a dick,” she scoffed. Alex swallowed hard, closing his eyes. “He could’ve just said he wasn’t ready to be in a legit relationship.”

“What, you think that’s what set him off?” 

“Think about it, he admitted he knew about you having that piece for awhile, what changed expect getting closer to actually having to be in a devoted relationship?” Rosa pointed out. Alex shrugged slightly.

“Maybe. I think it was Sanders that tipped him over the edge.”

“Yeah, but that’s still stupid. If he’s going to take it out on you, then he’s a ticking time bomb and not worth your efforts,” she explained. He huffed a laugh.

“Says you. You dated a lot of ticking time bombs,” he pointed out.

“Which is exactly why I know,” Rosa said, “But maybe now’s the time to just… start taking a step back. He’s a piece of shit.”

Alex was hit with another wave of tears that he, personally, felt were pathetic. 

“I thought you liked him.”

“I do,” Rosa sighed, “Well, I did. He was super immature about that. And that’s coming from me.”

Alex laughed a little and tried to believe that she was right, sinking into her side a little bit more as they tried to change the subject. It didn’t matter how much they tried, though, because Alex’s mind was stuck on Michael. He didn’t want to sleep alone. Actually, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to sleep alone. He already knew his night was going to consist of, staring at the cameras until the sun rose. 

“You sure you’re going to be okay?” Rosa asked once it hit midnight. Alex had to be up for work in a few hours and, well, he needed to at least pretend he was going to sleep. So he smiled.

“Yeah, I’m a big boy, I can handle myself,” he insisted. She made a face and shook her head.

“Gross. Now get some sleep and if he tries to come here, I’ll kick his ass.”

“Sounds good,” Alex agreed.

Eventually, she went down into the bunker and he went to his bedroom. All the doors were locked, all the windows were locked, and all the cameras were on. He sat in bed, his laptop open as a distraction. He refused to lay down, unable to stomach the idea of smelling Michael on his sheets, and just scrolled through whatever would keep his mind distracted.

It was hard to rationalize how he’d fucked up so badly. He should’ve just told him whenever Michael asked if he was hiding anything. But, then again, wouldn’t Michael just find something else to be pissed about? Wasn’t that what he was good at? Maybe this blissful little blip in time was a fluke. Maybe this wasn’t real. Maybe they couldn’t have good things.

And yet, when Alex’s phone lit up with a text, he dove towards it like it was the last drop of water in the desert.

Michael: i’ll come get my stuff when you’re at work tomorrow.

Alex stared at it, waiting for more to come. Waiting for an apology or even an elaboration on anything he said or, fuck, he’d even be happy with anything other than that. He put his head in his hand as he waited, desperately needing something to tell him he hadn’t just been fooling himself this whole time.

Tell me you love me, Alex thought about typing, but he didn’t. That was desperate and he didn’t want to sound it. But, god, he wanted to hear those words again. Just one more time and he’d be okay.

And then the little text bubble popped up again.

Michael: it wasn’t a punishment. It was a distraction.

Alex realized then that he either had fallen in love with the stupidest man in the world or the cruelest.

[thepeakyfckingblinders]

Innocence Lost || Michael Gray x reader

⤠ MASTERLIST⤟

Anon requested: “ 2 & 7 from the prompt list. Perhaps for Michael? Don’t worry prompts just are tough since you can’t read anyone’s mind but you’ll come around. Every idea is different. I’ve been writing fan work for about six years and I still suck at prompts.” (Love you so much, thank you for your support, I’m so sorry for being late, hope you don’t hate me) Summary: n.2 & 7 from my prompt list: "He’s driving me crazy” +  “It hurts so bad I can’t breathe”

Warnings: angst, swearing, virgin reader, a little smut

Author’s notes:

First of all, this is awfully long [3967 words], but I really loved writing it, my favourite piece so far, thank you so much for requesting!

Paragraphs written in italics are flashbacks.

I’m sorry for being this late, but I’ve been really busy in the past days and I spent a whole holiday without Wi-fi, moreover, writing is never just easy, it demands concentration and effort, plus I don’t want you to be disappointed, so I’m always extra accurate while working. I hope this is worth the wait!

Let me know what you think and tell me if this is what you expected  ♡

I’m Italian, English isn’t my first language, so I apologize for every possible mistake I made. Also please, help me improve my writing by telling me if there’s something wrong

ENJOY!

“Y/n, please, you can’t keep this up, you need to eat” For the umpteenth time in a row, your best friend’s voice reached your ears from behind the locked door of your room, but, again, you just ignored her and the loud thuds produced by her small fists colliding with the dark wood, your watery eyes remained fixed on the window facing your messy bed, as your attention was totally reduced to the meagre sun rays feebly filtering from the curtains. Your mind somehow managed to isolate itself from the surrounding world, until those deafening screams and noises waned in your numb eardrums and your empty y/e/c irises disappeared behind your heavy eyelids, covered in evident violet veins alarmingly in relief under your deathly pale skin.

Once more, you inexorably drowned in your haunting memories leading your already faint breath to break, while a muffled sigh slightly escaped your bluish lips in desperate need of hydration. In a matter of seconds you fell in a fugue state, still far from sleeping, yet just as far from being awake, and then you saw him again: his piercing green eyes, the sharp features of his wonderful face, his soft lips always contracted in a harsh line; you perfectly remembered every single inch of his glorious figure, to the point that the illusive vision evoked by your exhausted brain looked so real, that you thought to be able to finally touch him, as your hand instinctively lifted from the mattress, agonizingly digging in the stale air, but never coming near to graze the actual object of its fondest desires.

Before you could at least try to avoid it, you found yourself retracing the course of your relationship with Michael for the millionth time, an acute wave of pain spread through your chest, stealing another excruciating moan from your throat.

The familiar ring of the small bell, specifically hung above the door, reverberated in the room, announcing the presence of another person in your mother’s shop.

You raised your head, already smiling at your new customer, and looked in the direction of the entrance, more than ready to help whoever it was find the perfect material for the making of a high-quality suit, still, when you realized who actually walked in your store, your heart skipped a beat and you felt cold drops instantly forming on your forehead.

“Good morning, sir, h-how can I help you?” With a courage you never knew you had, you almost stuttered those words, incapable of taking your eyes off the magnetic ones of none other than Michael Gray; your blood froze on the spot, your mother had always begged you to keep yourself out of the way of the infamous Peaky Blinders, she’d always said they were dangerous people and no good would’ve ever come from getting involved with them in any way, and that terrifying awareness had you panic even more under his penetrating stare, while you kept hearing your mum’s apprehensive tone echoing inside your mind.

“Miss? Is everything alright?”

Only when that unbelievably deep voice rocked the air around your body, you understood you must’ve got lost in your thunderous thoughts, probably looking like a complete fool, so with a simple toss of your head you eventually forced yourself to put aside your fear and smile once more, even though you just wanted to run away from that uncomfortable situation. “Yeah, I’m perfectly fine, thank you. Please, tell me what you need and I’ll do my best to make you leave satisfied” Those words frenetically tumbled out of your mouth as your nervous fingers moved a strand of your hair behind your right ear, where you had previously pinned a graceful white and blue orchid, like you used to do every day. You saw an amused grin forming on his face, his vigilant orbs studied your shape, following each movement you made with flaunted audacity. “You want me to leave that bad?” The earlier trickle of concern in his tone was now replaced by pure irony, and you felt your cheeks wildly burn realizing how wrong that choice of words was.

“Oh my God, no! That’s not what I meant, I-i was... I was-” The young man’s crystal laugh interrupted your humiliating rambling, causing your flushed face to turn literally purple with embarrassment, suddenly the tip of your shoes became the most interesting thing in the world for you, until a solid hand gently gripped your chin, guiding you to lift your gaze, before it left your skin and cautiously reached for the flower held amidst your locks. “Hey, it’s okay, I was just joking” a tender smile still decorated his lips while he toyed with the delicate blossom between his fingers, examining it like it was something he had never seen before “Why do you wear this in your hair?”

Your nose automatically scrunched up at that silly question and you glanced at him almost in disbelief. In the space of a moment your wild heartbeat regularized, suddenly he din’t look like a dangerous gangster anymore, in your eyes, for that brief instant, he became just a weird boy in your workshop. 

“I like flowers” Michael chuckled in amusement again because of your disarming naivety, and his attitude seriously started to get on your nerves, he was pissing you off with his impertinence, plus you didn’t understand what he was laughing at. “Explain to me what's so funny, so I can laugh too” When you comprehended how your tone came out a bit grumpier than you expected, your eyes went wide with dread since you immediately remembered who you were speaking to. Still, nothing bad happened; he simply tried to stop giggling in your face as both his hands raised in a gesture of surrender.

“No need to get all worked up, honey, I only think you’re cute”

Pure shock contaminated your features due to those words, your cheeks heated again in distress, yet he didn’t move an inch, continuing to look at you from beneath his full lashes; there was something indecipherable in his gaze, something that made your stomach flinch with an unknown feeling. “You what?” Your voice rose of a few octaves, making you sound like a complete psycho, Michael, on the other hand, simply ignored your hysteric question and took up his absurd speech. “Would you have dinner with me tonight, miss?” Your trembling body unconsciously curled up on your left side, while your pupils berserkly moved under your closed eyelids and your mind kept reliving those bittersweet flashbacks. Actually, that day you had gently declined his first invite, under the pretext of not knowing him well enough, “you don’t even know my name, sir”, you had said, hoping to dissuade him from that odd whim; too bad for you, Michael Gray always knew exactly what he desired and rarely changed his mind nor gave up, especially when it came to intriguing challenges like you were. In fact, after your first encounter, he began to come to the store at least three times each week, on the pretence of ordering all sorts of rich fabrics for he needed new suits, and every morning he made sure that a bouquet of fresh white and blue orchids was dropped off your workplace. With the passing of days, no matter how hard you had tried not to, you fatally started to enjoy his company: he made you laugh like no one else did, and he was so kind and caring, that you soon forgot about his bad reputation, on the contrary, you could hardly believe that he was some vile criminal, since around you he just behaved like a normal boy, full of life and hopes. Eventually, he managed to persuade you to go out with him three weeks later, and after your first date, many and many others came, until one night he took you dancing in a lovely place down town. Needless to say, Michael was an absolute disaster on the dance floor, still he was there with you and kept making a fool of himself only to see you have fun; you perceived it in his stunning eyes, how happy he was from just knowing that you wanted to be right there and then, with him and him alone. And when he first kissed you, that same night in the middle of the ballroom, pulling you closer to his chest after a clumsy pirouette, in that exact moment, you knew, beyond any doubt, you had hopelessly fallen for that man. The mere thought of all those cheerful times brought an involuntary smirk on your face consumed by sorrow, but it was quickly overshadowed by your last memory together, which was for you both the most painful and blissful memory of all. The small lights, emanated from the fireflies Michael had caught for you, literally enchanted you, it was unbelievable how the simplest things could be so dazzling. A few days earlier, he had told you about his previous life, when he was nothing more than an ordinary farmboy with a normal family and a special talent for the mathematics, he had told you about how he loved to spend time with his little brother, playing ball among those endless fields or trapping glow-worms in old jam jars. For this reason, he had finally decided to bring you there, because he wanted you to know who he really was, aside from all his money and power, he needed you to love that part of himself too. So you found yourself comfortably sitting on a large towel in the middle of the green English countryside, your back was pressed against his torso and his arms were vigorously wrapped around your waist.

“What’s on your mind?” Your soft voice broke that unearthly silence first, you heard him giggle from above your shoulder before a quick peck was left on your cheek, followed by the tip of his nose tracing an electric path from your jaw to the bottom of your neck. You felt his face sink in your smooth skin as he took a deep breath, inhaling your fruity scent as much as possible, then a long wet kiss at the height of your throat inflamed your flesh with no mercy, until his libidinous mouth paused its work, in order to give you the sincere answer you were waiting for. “I want to make love to you”

In a single sharp movement you rolled onto your other side, desperately grabbing the edges of the sheets with your hands, almost like that was the only chance you had to keep yourself from falling again into the darkest abysses of your brain, but you couldn’t wake up, that noxious slumber seemed to keep you hostage. Grieving wailings filled the room, and your lungs easily run out of air, when the last lethal recall implacably came.

“So beautiful, so fucking beautiful” Michael groaned, while his dilated pupils greedily drank each drop of your naked shape unsteadily laying under his, he watched in rapture your soft chest frantically raise and lower and your plump lips incapable of holding back uncountable whimpers, due to the lustful stroking of his fingertips inside your core. Your misty gaze never left his, as your foreheads eagerly pressed against each other, he kissed you with unbearable urgency once more, your fingers hungrily entangling his short hair so to keep him close. Yet, when you finally felt his tip rub against your centre, a mindless fear took over you, causing your mouth to abruptly depart from his; your eyes, impregnated with pure dismay, started to ravingly seek the spot where your bodies were about to connect, before Michael lifted your chin with tenderness, driving you to catch his preoccupied stare. “Hey, we don’t have to go further if you’re not feeling like doing it, love” He whispered while making your noses lovingly cress one another, you blinked multiple times in attempt to regain a minimum of lucidity and then placed one of your trembling hands on his cheek. A tremendous amount of chaotic thoughts were wildly dancing in your dizzy head: suddenly, the awareness of the fact that he was involved in nasty affairs struck terror into your heart all over again, moreover, it would’ve been a terrible scandal, if it ever got out that a girl from a good family had slept with someone out of wedlock, especially someone like him. But, more than anything else, you kept wondering how that whole thing was going to end; afterall, you had always heard rumors about him being an absolute womanizer, he seduced only to abandon, that was what everybody said in Birmingham, and you were completely petrified by the idea that he could treat you that way as well. Still, you knew your love for him was strong, and you firmly believed that love was nothing without trust. “I want this, I swear, but...” Embarrassment lead you to look away while pronouncing those last syllables and your voice died in your throat, but, despite that, Michael was able to read you like an open book, so he hurried to cup your face and briefly peck your lips, in order to make you restore your confidence. He wanted you to feel safe in his arms, he wanted you to give yourself to him without any change of heart, since only then you would’ve been truly, completely and utterly his. “Just keep looking at me, okay? It’s me and you, y/n, nothing else matter now. Only me and you” You nodded your head yes, definitely allowing him to go on, and, while you were sinking in the mesmerizing green of his irises, he began to gently thrust into you, always paying attention to all your facial cues. A dull ache soon radiated through your lower abdomen and legs, having you tense up under his weight, as your thighs instinctively tried to shut.  “Relax, babygirl” a shower of small kisses covered your face, his warm tone caressing your ears “I need you to tell me if it gets too much, got it? I’ll stop at any moment”

As soon as you gave him your consent afresh, he entirely drowned inside you at a placid pace, irreversibly taking your innocence; a wrenching whine forcefully rolled down your tongue because of that horrible sensation, inducing Michael to tauten his muscles for a second and then start to pull out right away.

Watching you suffer caused him physical pain, he could actually sense a grievous burden achingly worm its way through his ribs; that’s how he realized he loved you dangerously. “Wait, Michael” Your wavering voice, together with your calves still held around his hips, temporary succeeded in keeping him from breaking that intimate connection, your nails digging in his forearms to prevent you from crying. “Stay with me”  You pleaded again, yet he seemed determined to ignore your prayers, as his head vehemently shook in disapproval and his waist fought your legs’ resistance. “I’m hurting you! I can’t-” Michael was not able to end his sentence for your lips impetuously collided with his, you needed him to stop blaming himself for such a natural thing; sweet caresses enveloped his marked cheekbones in a dire effort to calm his nerves, while you knowingly borrowed his former words. “Please, I want you to make love to me” After that night, without a single word, Michael Gray inexplicably disappeared from your life. A moon passed, yet not once he came to your shop, nor he wrote you a letter in order to explain the reason behind his disgusting behaviour, he just continued to avoid you, always staying away from the places where he knew he would meet you, pretending not to spot you among the crowded streets of the city. It was as if the entire world had fallen on your frail shoulders, you couldn’t quantify the cruel grief tearing your soul apart. “Y/n! Y/n, you have to wake up!” Mary’s screams rudely dragged you back to reality, only then you heard the immoderate sobs and weeps uncontrollably erupting from your throat; you looked up at your best friend, who had somehow managed to pick the lock of your chamber, and you noticed raw terror shining in her orbs, her fists squeezing your arms hard enough to leave a mark. “L-leave me alone” You muttered with hot tears still streaming down your face. Even though you were well conscious of your extreme bad attitude towards her, you couldn’t handle any physical contact in those moments, you only craved loneliness. “No, I fucking won’t! Now, tell me what the hell is going on with you” Her aggressive tone brooked no argument as she showed no signs of letting go of you, at least not until you spat it all out. “I can get no peace, I see him! Every time I close my eyes, I see his damn face, I hear his voice. He’s driving me crazy” You snuggled up, burying your head between your flexed knees, finally allowing your cry to explode altogether.                                                          *****

“Mr. Gray, I’m so sorry, I tried to stop her, but she won’t listen!” From his comfortable armchair, Michael abandoned his work only to glimpse at his assistant with one eyebrow raised in a sceptical expression.  Yet, soon he understood what that poor man was talking about, since Mary furiously broke into his office, bravely sending him eloquent death glares. With his usual arrogance pouring out of every hole, the boy brought a cigarette to his mouth, lighting it in a quick move, before he dropped his secretary a hint so to be left alone with the lady. “I have business, no time to talk” Michael tried his best to sound as unemotional as possible, he kept smoking slowly, savouring every rush of grey smoke, and staring at the girl in front of him with a destabilizing sense of superiority. “You don’t need to talk, you screwed bastard! You just have to listen!” In the blink of an eye, Mary reached for him behind his desk, rabidly gripping his naive shirt collar in order to push him closer to her livid face. She knew perfectly well who she was growling at, he could’ve ruined her at any moment and that was a risky choice, but her dearest friend was going to pieces right beyond her eyes and she had to do something about it. “She’s slowly fading away and there’s nothing anyone can do, ‘cause you fucking destroyed her!” Michael forced himself to bear her gaze, despite the devouring guilt growing inside his stomach. “She at least deserves a bloody logical explanation, so she can finally move on. I swear to God, Michael Gray, if you don’t go there and talk to her, I’ll find a way to fuck up your pathetic life, if it’s the last thing I do”                                                              *****

A light knock on the wooden jamb distracted you from your thoughts again, you simply moaned with annoyance in response, laying on your bed with your back to the open door. “I told you to leave me alone, Mary” You murmured at the limit of your strength, but, half a minute later, you heard someone clear their throat in a very familiar way, and you just couldn’t believe your ears. Without a second thought, your back escaped the control of your mind, hastily leaving the mattress; in the space of a moment, you found yourself standing in front of him. The air around you seemed to freeze on the spot, you stopped breathing, he was there, for the first time after more than a month. Your heart was atrociously split into two: part of you only wanted to throw your arms around his neck and hold him tight, still, your other half hated him for the hell he had deliberately put you through. “Go away.” Your stone-cold remark hit him right in the gut, he looked in horror at the state into which you had fallen, conscious of being the one to blame for all the pain he had caused you; before he could notice, he sensed a salt drop fall from his lashes and directly hit the floor, but he didn’t move, unable to regain control of his paralyzed body. “I said, go away!” This time you couldn’t prevent yourself from hysterically shouting in his face, starting to throw several punches at his chest, both of you were now at the mercy of your own rage. Coming out of his momentary trance, Michael promptly grabbed your wrists, partially interrupting your fierce outburst; feeling the touch of his bare skin on yours inexorably had goosebumps cover every inch of your figure, it was like getting sparked a thousand times in a row, you kept wondering how you were staying on your feet without falling to the ground. “I’m here to talk” That mind-blowing sound filled your ears, causing your craw to painfully close up, he kept his watery irises locked with yours, waiting for you to say something, but your only answer ended up being a forceful shove, which allowed you to free yourself from his grasp. “Talk? Really?!” a bitter laugh left your sternum as you incredulously put your hands through your tousled locks “What exactly did you want to discuss with me? How disgusting you are for mercilessly betraying a person whose only mistake was loving you, eh?” Truth was hard to handle for him, he was aware of what a horrible thing he had done to you, still, he wished he could make you understand he had acted that way for a reason. Michael lowered his gaze in discomfort, until your roaring voice echoed through the walls once more. “Look at me! I want you to see what you’ve done” you took a few steps in his direction, getting riskily close to him, while your mad stare never left his features. “I am shot to pieces because of you” Your index finger roughly hit the middle of his pecs for a brief instant, then you distanced yourself of about three feet, overwhelmed by that terrible mess made of a million contrasting feelings bloodily fighting into your head. “It hurts so bad I can’t breathe” That was nothing more than a whisper, cracking under the weight of your excruciating emotions; for the umpteenth time that day, all the air in your lungs somehow vanished for a few, interminable, seconds, leaving you to tremble before his immovable silhouette. That heartbreaking sight stirred something in Michael, something so strong, that he finally reacted to that unbearable situation. “I fucking did it for you! I did it to protect you from a man like me, y/n! What do I really have to offer you, eh?” Shock took over you while you watched him gesticulate, wildly hitting his own torso multiple times in between his yells. “Blood, death, destruction, that’s what I am. And I can’t drag you down with me, y/n, ‘cause I love you too much to be this selfish!” He fell on his knees, fully depleted by his own sorrow, and he wearily leant his forehead onto your womb, heavy sobbing through the veils of your nightgown. A round minute went by without you exhaling a single sigh, you tried and process what he had just said, swiftly repeating it all to yourself. Eventually, your fingers gently began to caress his hair in attempt to put an end to his loud weeps, never before you had seen him cry, never in a thousand years you had thought that moment would ever come. “I love you too, Michael, and that’s why you can’t decide for me”  Your right hand softly cupped his chin in order to make him look up at your eyes. “You just have to let me stay by your side”

tag list: @namelesslosers, @shadow-of-wonder, @spidey-pal

[caelenath]

Sweet Child of Thine - chapter 2

Chapter 2 of my pre-canon PRSPD story is up! Cross-posted AO3, FFnet, and caelenath.com.

Length: 1605 words Warnings: concerns child abduction Summary: Jay and Madelaine struggle through their first night with Sky still missing.  

2. zero night

Two PD officers were at the house when Jay arrived. One prowled around the perimeter while the other sat inside with Madelaine. As soon as Jay walked in, Madelaine jumped up and rushed straight into his arms.

"Gene has the entire force on alert," she said, cleaving to him as tightly as he held her. "And he's stopping by later unless we give him a good enough reason not to."

Jay wasn’t inclined to give him one. New Tech City's police chief was a good friend of the family and Jay wanted the chance to thank him personally for throwing the full weight of the department into the search. "All of SPD's on alert too."

"Is there someone trying to get back at you? Someone who might be involved in this?"

"No," he reassured her quickly. "At least, no one we know of. I promise I don't have any mortal enemies I'm hiding." He gave his wife another squeeze, then asked, "Can you show me what happened?"

Madelaine spared a look for the officer still sitting at the table, who said it was fine and busied himself with his notes, before taking Jay's hand firmly in hers and leading him up the stairs to Sky's room. She stopped in the doorway, however, as if she were afraid to go in.

"We got home from his swim class around three and I put him down pretty much right away because he was tired. Of course he fought it for a while before finally knocking out. Around five-thirty, I pulled out a snack for him, then started making dinner, figuring he would be up any minute and hungry. When I didn't hear a peep, I came up to check on him and he wasn’t here.  I looked in all the rooms, then in all the closets, thinking maybe he was hiding even though he's never done that before. I started getting scared when I realized I didn't hear any sound at all, no muffled scrapes or giggles, not even him breathing. That's when I really started turning everything over. I even looked in the laundry hampers and the washing machine. Both the front and back doors were locked, but even if he'd gotten outside, he wouldn't just run off."

Madelaine pressed a fist to her mouth as if trying to stop the rush of words, and Jay rubbed her shoulder soothingly. He looked around the room, trying to spot anything that seemed out of place even as he wondered at the same time whether he'd be able to tell if something was. He generally took for granted that anything in a three-year-old's room wouldn't be in the same place twice.

Against the far wall, in direct view of the door, was Sky's toddler bed with the solar system-print bedclothes he loved. Extra pillows and blankets were piled on the floor beside it because despite the railing guarding two-thirds of its length, Sky still somehow managed to roll out of bed sometimes when he slept.

"Did you move Sky's blankets?" Jay asked.

"No." Madelaine quickly glanced at the bed, then back at him worriedly. "Did I miss something?"

He wasn't sure. Keeping hold of his wife's hand like she'd done earlier, he went for a closer look. The space-themed blanket, covered with the same smiling planets and suns as the bedsheets, was spread over the lower half of the mattress as if there were still a child there to keep warm. Normally it got kicked into the corner or onto the floor not long after Sky fell asleep.

It really did seem like his son had simply vanished into thin air, and the thought sent an icy chill down Jay's spine.

* * *

The boy was clearly capable of communicating, but he had an utterly unique language filled with muddled or nonsensical words that Mirloc could not comprehend. The child nearly soiled himself before he figured out "potty" was a word for eliminating waste. During that harrowing endeavor to the washroom, Mirloc made an interesting discovery—a thin belt around the boy's middle that he had initially dismissed as part of his clothing. On closer inspection, he realized it was a shielding device, a sophisticated one that was light and sturdy but seemingly inactive. The fastening mechanism, in contrast, was a simple one that even an idiot—or a child—could unlock. What good was such a thing if it could be so easily removed?

"Boy." Mirloc gestured at the belt. "Why do you have this?"

The child looked confused. "I have to. When I sleeping."

"Why?"

"So I safe."

"Safe from what?"

"Falling things."

Mirloc wondered if this was another one of the child's lingual eccentricities. "What sorts of things?" The boy shrugged as if such details were unimportant. "If you do not tell me, you cannot go home."

Blue eyes widened and that little bow mouth quivered as the boy spoke. "Things in my room." He could not pronounce the letter 'r' properly.

The look on his face was as much fear as it was a plea, and Mirloc reconsidered his earlier thought. Perhaps this was not a lingual eccentricity, but a deficiency. The child was afraid because he did not know how to answer.

"Why do they fall?" Mirloc asked more patiently.

The boy held up an arm and Mirloc was startled when a rippling blue energy field sprang to life from his fist to his elbow. Immediately the device around the boy's waist activated and the field dispersed as quickly as it had appeared.

The shielding device was not for keeping things out, the mercenary realized. It was meant to keep something in.

When he first agreed to this job, he had only a name and an assurance from his old acquaintance that it would be short work, a quick nab and dash that should be no trouble for a creature with his peculiar talent. Then he discovered the name belonged to a very small boy whose father was a Ranger, and Mirloc figured the motive must have had something to do with that. It was dishonorable work at best, cowardice at worst, to exact one's grievances using a baby instead of facing the aggrieving party directly.

Now, however, he wasn't so sure the boy's father had anything to do with it at all. 

* * *

Jay awoke in the middle of the night alone. He and Madelaine had eventually drifted off separately on the couch after puttering around downstairs uselessly, too afraid to go to bed because then morning would come too soon. They couldn't bring themselves to concede the end of the day with their son still missing, but exhaustion set in and did it for them anyway.

What Jay had really wanted to do was hit the streets, follow every possible lead no matter how tenuous, and if those were lacking, he would physically comb the city, block by block, inch by inch, as many times as it took to bring Sky home. Neither plan was even remotely practical, but at least he would be doing something. The longer he sat here idle, the more suffocating the walls of his own house felt.

But he'd stayed because leaving Madelaine alone right now would have been horribly selfish. Plus, the other Rangers had already set up a 24-hour rotation in which two of them would be actively working on the search at any given time. Nate and Carmen had the current shift, and the morning one had been reserved for Jay because Nate knew that was the only thing he'd be doing come daybreak anyway.

Nate hadn't mentioned Cruger at all, which Jay took to mean the commander hadn't exactly approved of this diversion of the Rangers, but even if he'd explicitly forbade it, Jay knew his team would not have done anything less. For the ten thousandth time, he felt more grateful than he could ever say for whatever forces had brought his team together.

Jay staggered wearily off the couch and went in search of his wife. He found her in Sky's room, asleep beside the little bed, her head pillowed on the mattress and Sky's blanket gathered to her face. Despite how uncomfortable she looked, he hesitated to disturb her. This might be the only respite she'd had in hours, and the only peace she would know until their son was found.

He crept quietly across the room, thinking he might just lay down on the floor beside her, but when he knelt, he discovered she wasn't as asleep as he'd supposed. Her eyes opened and looked at him, red-rimmed and tired.

"He's never been away from us at night before," she murmured, as much to the blanket as to him. "Not once since he was born. Every time I looked, he was right here where he belonged. He was supposed to be safe here." She gripped the blanket harder. "What child isn't safe in their own bed?"

Jay reached for her hand and wrapped his fingers around hers to ease their wringing.

"I'm going out there," he said, which he honestly hadn't planned, but now seemed inevitable. Maybe he didn't know where Sky was, but their house was the one place his son definitely was not, and so he didn't belong there either. Wherever he went in the night, he would be closer to Sky no matter what.

Madelaine nodded and sat up. She pulled him closer, slid her fingers into his hair, and kissed him hard. She always thought Sky looked just like him even though their son had yet to grow out of his baby blondness.

"I know," she whispered.

[cabbagebender]

Keith's Galra Traits Headcanons (Spoilers Through S8)

Please note, I am not a biologist, and I am kinda b.s.ing a lot of this, though I did cursory research. Please correct me if you know better and I'm talking nonsense.

Based on Canon:

Retractable fangs.

Remember that time in s6 when Keith randomly sprouted fangs while he was screaming in pain? I actually think those might be his normal teeth, except usually they’re buried far enough in his gums to simply appear, maybe notably sharp, but still human-looking. Most Galra have pretty prominent fangs already, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s some kind of defense mechanism in response to extreme pain that makes them push out further. For a full Galra, this would probably turn the fangs into a formidable weapon; for Keith, it... probably just makes him better at eating steak.

Superhuman stamina.

Also, remember the Blade of Marmora Trials in Season 2? The Trials that pretty much consisted of Keith getting his ass kicked over and over again in increasingly outnumbered fights? And how he just... kept... going, even with an injured shoulder and no chance for rest or recuperation? Okay, yeah, sure, determination can do a lot, but earlier in the episode it's established that Keith and Shiro are down there for two quintents – roughly two days. Even if Keith isn't fighting the whole time, he's still fighting for like... at the very least, ten hours or so. And he messed up his shoulder in the first fight. Humans can do some crazy stuff in high stakes situations, but since he does have the option to stop fighting and doesn’t take it, I wouldn’t be surprised if his genetics are helping him out here.

(Note - this could come along with a reduced need for oxygen, since in s8 “The Grudge,” while all the full humans are collapsing from CO2 poisoning, Keith, Zethrid, and Acxa are doing just fine without their helmets -- though, this might not apply because the humans have had their helmets off for quite a bit longer when we see them)

Either A) no tear ducts, or B) no emotionally-linked tear process (neurologically).

While we've definitely seen Keith cry, we've never actually seen him shed tears. 7x1, “A Little Adventure,” (seen above) is a really good example. When Allura tells Keith that Shiro might not make it, Keith’s eyes start quivering, and his voice gets all choked up. The subtitles even say "[sobs]" – but his eyes remain totally dry. This show is very fond of making characters' eyes well up, so it isn't a matter of animation convention – of all the paladins, this dry-eyed crying is specifically a Keith thing. Since I can't remember ever seeing a Galran shed tears, I'm gonna go ahead and hypothesize that they just... can't (but if I'm forgetting something, please let me know).

Protective inner eyelid (translucent, yellow).

When I mentioned the 'no tear ducts' hc to my friend, he suggested that maybe Galra have a protective inner eyelid instead. My immediate thought was that maybe this was what gave their eyes the yellow tint. They could very well just have yellow scelera, but we know from 6x5 “Black Paladins” that Keith can blink his scelera from white to yellow to white again, and Zethrid's damaged eye in s7 is clouded over white instead of yellow – possibly suggesting the natural color of the eye beneath.

So if Keith has a physical inner eyelid, rather than some magical Galra-rage transformation that turns his eyes yellow, why don’t we see it before the fight with Shiro, and why do we never see it again?

Theory: The process of lowering the inner eyelid is manual, like winking, not automatic, like blinking. Most Galra learn how to do it as children, and find it effortlessly simple, but Keith grew up not even knowing the extra eyelid was there, much less how to use it. After spending time with other Galra (either the Blade, or his mother), he learned how, but he’s not very good at it. He can use it, sometimes, but he can’t quite keep it put the way other Galra do most of the time.

When Shiro punches his helmet off, they’re on a space station high up in the atmosphere; there’s dust and debris and all sorts of things flying about, and it makes sense that he would want to protect his eyes -- but the moment Shiro distracts him by calling out his aggression, he loses his focus, and his eyes blink back to their usual appearance.

(As an additional headcanon, the thickness of the third eyelid varies from Galran to Galran and can distort the appearance of the eyes, which is why some Galra, like Thace, appear to have no irises/pupils at all; some, like yellow-eyed Keith, appear to have narrower irises/pupils than in reality, and some, like Krolia, have similar irises/pupils to humans and Alteans)

Based on Science (Cross-Species Hybridization)

Can't have biological kids. Typically, offspring of two different species are not capable of reproducing, due to inheriting different numbers of chromosomes from each parent. There are some exceptions, but they tend to be in cases where the two parent species are very closely genetically related, and somehow I get the feeling that humans and Galra... aren't.

May or May Not Be Galra-Heritage / Species-Hybrid Related

No facial hair.

While I’m totally here for trans Keith hcs, if we strictly follow canon, we did see his parents naming him as a baby, so he’s probably dmab. Yet, after two years in the wilderness, from around ages 19-21, there isn’t a hint of stubble on his face -- which, like the dry crying, isn’t an animation convention, because Shiro and Sam both grew facial hair in “The Journey” and Sam’s time as a prisoner, respectively. Galra can grow beards - Warlod Ranveig has a spiky mutton chop situation going on -- but since Keith is a two-species hybrid, it’s possible he has some unusual chemical balances that mean he doesn’t present traits that both of his parent species do -- in this case, facial hair.

(I know not everyone can grow a full beard, but he has very dark hair and very light skin -- even the slightest bit of peach fuzz would leave a visual mark)

Psychic Powers. Keith is almost definitely at least a little psychic (I'll go into that more at some point, but short version – sensed the energy of a lion that wasn't his, often responds to things the moment before they happen, was able to pinpoint Macidus's next location by just closing his eyes and feeling for it), but I'm not sure if that's connected to his heritage in any way.

No Canon Basis (Just for Fun)

UV Vision. The Galra ships are so... dark. It's really not conducive to any kind of efficient work. They're also very purple. I think it'd be kinda neat if Galra can see further into the ultraviolet spectrum than humans can – so their ships look dark to us, but the Galra can see just fine. And it’s fun to imagine Keith growing up in the desert with UV vision although maybe not if he doesn’t know how to use his protective eyelid.

Birthmark. Listen, I would love to hc that Keith has some kind of purple vitiligo going on on his torso or legs, or maybe some kind of Galra-like three-toe situation going on, but thanks to the swimsuit episode in s2, we know this guy is human-looking pretty much all over. Still, I'm gonna claim the few square inches they didn't show and say that Keith has a purple birthmark on the side of his upper thigh. His Galra traits don’t all have to be entirely hidden -- Keith knew something was up when he went to the Blade of Marmora, he kept asking them to tell him “where I come from” -- so I like the idea of him having a trait that could, ostensibly, be explained away as a rare human mutation, but in the context of him having an alien knife, makes him start to wonder.

[youreallyshouldtalkmore]

Without your Approval_Part 2

We are getting extra Wakandan stories today. (You’re welcome). I had not planned on doing any Valentine Day themed fics as A. I didn’t know if I’d have any ideas and more importantly B. If I felt like writing them but apparently it worked itself out.

This is the first one is an M’Baku themed Valentine which is a two parter followed by an T’Challa Valentine’s themed oneshot. No, I don’t have any Erik themed Valentines because honestly, everyday is Valentine’s around here for him. Lol

I actually started this story late last week and I didn’t even plan to finish it as I had no idea where this came from as it started with looking at something I saw on Tumblr. 

At first I didn’t know if I particularly like this story until I kept going. Plus, it’s M’baku, we know we need more M’Baku and T’Challa fanfics. So now I rather like this two-parter….especially the 2nd part….

So without further ado….

Tags: @chaneajoyyy @great-neckpectations @muse-of-mbaku​

Part 2

Ever since M'Baku announced that you two were celebrating Valentine's Day, he went into stealth mode. You saw him frequently directing and whispering to those in confidence around him and you left him to it. You figured you'd stay out his way while he planned whatever he was planning.

The night before Valentine's Day, M'Baku was all smiles, grinning all over his self. You teased him and asked him what he had planned. He only bopped you on the nose before promptly turning over to go to sleep. You muttered before turning over back to him but you couldn't help the excitement that blossomed in your heart. 

After all this was your first time celebrating Valentine's.....

The next morning, M'Baku was positively glowing and that’s when it started and continued throughout the day. There were extra kisses, lingering touches and gazes that made your heart flutter.  It made you feel like a little schoolgirl with a crush. You were beginning to see what you missed out on by not telling him about Valentine's Day. Business continued as usual in JabariLand but the closer it got to evening the more excited you became.  

Dinner was a private affair that evening, where the touches and gazes continued longer this time. You couldn't help but to gush finding it hard to keep M'Baku’s smoldering gaze. Until finally as the last of the food was finished, he stood up and came around to your chair. He leaned on the back of it, his palms resting on the armrests. He kissed you on the cheek, his lips lingering. You felt your temperature rise.

"Ife mi, I expect you in our bedroom any time after 8 o'clock. Not one moment sooner. Do you understand?"

His voice was husky and low and all you could do was nod as words got stuck in your throat.

He kissed you on the cheek again, "Good girl."

And then he was gone.

And it was only a little after 7.

You had a whole hour to kill. You killed it in the library although you found that you couldn't even see the words on the page. Your mind was elsewhere wondering what he was planning. 

You giggled.

Eventually you wandered into the bedroom at 8:15, giving M'Baku an extra 15 minutes. And this was only because you found you didn't want to wait any longer.  

You poked your head in and hooted like an owl. No sound returned to you so you eased into the room.

"M'Baaaaku?" you sung.

You meandered into the room, shutting the door behind you softly. You had barely taken three steps before you got a whiff of something. You turned. It seemed like it was coming from the bathroom, so you followed your nose there.

Once you stepped in, you let out a loud gasp,as you saw that usually empty and pristine tub was filled with roses.

Your mouth dropped open as you took in the sight. It look excessive to your eyes, like when and how did this get done but you found yourself gushing as you began to rock on the balls of your feet. You reached up and cupped your cheeks, a grin spreading across your face as a giggle slipped from your lips. 

"You like it-o?"

You spun around to see your husband leaning on the wall behind you, surveying you. Your eyes took in his appearance which was little more than harem pants, that to you look like he was purposely wearing them pretty low around his hips.

You breathed, as your eyes trailed over his body following the dip of his pants all the way down to...

Ah-em.....

You shook yourself, coming to yourself to realize you had spent the last minute drooling.  You spun around quickly, your eyes wide.

Wait, why did you turn away?

You frowned at yourself as you heard M'Baku chuckle behind you, "See something you like?"

You focused on the roses and gestured, "This is beautiful."

You felt hands come to on either side of your forearms, gripping them softly. You felt him nuzzle into the crook of your neck, his soft beard making you giggle softly.

"This is a bath for you. Would you like me to help you undress?"

You wordlessly nodded and M'Baku turned your back towards him. He kept your gaze as he undressed you piece by piece, from top to bottom. It was slow and deliberate, the pads of his fingers grazing across your skin. Your breath hitched as he peeled off the last stitch of clothing.

You gazed down at him, as he was kneeling before you. Slowly he looked up at you, gazing at you as if you were the only thing that mattered. His hands reached up and gripped your hips, rubbing them up and down gently before standing.

He captured your hand in his and led you to the bathtub, holding it as he helped you in. You sunk into the roses, gracefully, allowing it to envelop you. The water was warm and slightly foaming.  

And then you heard music begin to play:

You sat back and looked up at M'Baku.

"Aren't you going to join me?" you asked your voice husky.

M'Baku leaned down, bracing himself on the side of the tub so his lips was inches from yours, "Is this what my Chieftainess desires?"

You forked an eyebrow, "She does."

He kissed you once before standing, "Then I can do other than what my Chieftainess commands...."

Your eyes trailed him as he allowed his harem pants to sink to the ground. His movements were slow as he eased himself into the tub across from you.  You smiled once, your eyes slightly dreamy. It took you a moment to realize that M'Baku had a cloth and had picked up your leg so that your foot rested on his chest. Then he began to rub the warm and fluffy cloth up and down your leg. 

You breathed, stretching back a little as he made gently motions up and down. The lights were already low since coming into the bathroom but even still, you could see his coal eyes as they rest on you, heavy with emotion. He switched to the other leg and your fingers flexed.

It was a silent affair but for the music and the exchanged eye contact. You swallowed when you felt him shift, running the cloth over your legs upwards, coming closer and closer to you. You shuddered at his touch.

"Does this please my Chieftainess?" he asked.

"It does", you whispered.

"And this?"

You blinked as the cloth was clearly forgotten replaced by his hands. You moaned as his face came closer.

"Is my Chieftainess pleased?"

You couldn't answer as your hands found his shoulders.

His hands stopped and you groaned. M'Baku leaned forward, hovering over you, searching your eyes, "Does it? I will do nothing this night without your approval." 

Somehow, and you have no idea how, you managed to find your words. They were uttered, whispered, barely there, "Yes. Your Chieftainess is pleased."

His hands continued as he smirked, "Good."

When you came apart under his ministrations and was floating back down, you saw his coal eyes burned in the night.

"You are a sight to behold, little one", he whispered.

"As are you, ife mi", you murmured pushing him back to move towards him, finding the cloth in the tub that had been disregarded.

Before you could touch him, he captured your wrist, "This night is for you."

You lifted your chin and gazed at him with a raised eyebrow, "You would displease your Chieftainess , then?"

He released your wrist as if you had burned him but for the teasing smile that lingered on his lips, "I would never-o!" he cried.

You ran the cloth over his body, over the steel in his arms and chest. Your other hand, played with the rose petals in the tub before picking one up. You turned it over once, twice to look at it before placing it over M'Baku's lips.

He looked amused as you reached up and kissed him with only the petal between the two of you. When you pulled back you allowed it to drop down back into the bath before picking up a few more petals and began placing it in M'Baku's hair.

"Really, my love? Really?" he asked.

"Shh, the Chieftainess is entertaining herself", you said with laughter in your voice as you continued your ministrations.

M'Baku forked an eyebrow, "Am I not entertaining enough?"

"Sure. Sure." you said engrossed in your project. You began humming a little diddy as you worked. When you finished you pulled back and giggled, "Viola!!"

M'Baku glowered at you, "Are you done? Are...are...you done?"

You poked out your tongue once before fixing a petal, "Done!"

M'Baku let out a growl and you yelped as he reached over at you, jostling the water and petals in his hair.

Your musical laugh filled the air. 

You rolled over, stretching languidly in bed before settling back down. When you opened your eyes you saw M'Baku grinning down at you from where he laid on his side, propped up by his hand.

"So, was my Chieftainess pleased?" he asked.

Your eyes averted themselves even as you smiled, "She was..."

"This is good-o! A good Valentine's Day, then?"

"Yes, it was.....a memory to remember", you said with the memories of last night floating through your brain.

You suddenly found yourself on your back looking up at M'Baku who held himself over you. He looked at you with hooded eyed, "Then I will not have to hear this foolishness of never celebrating Valentine's Day ever again."

You gave him an okay symbol, "Never. Never."

He only gazed at you.

You gave him a cheeky grin, "However, I'm still glad that last night was our first Valentines. You wouldn't have been able to do all of that last year. We hadn't gotten married yet."

M’Baku gave a roguish grin, "But of course. I would have found a way to make it special even without the intimacy we shared."

You averted your eyes once. In lieu of not knowing what else to say you murmured, “You need to stop.” 

“Should I?” M’Baku teased. 

He rather liked it when you became shy. 

You glared at him, “Your Chieftainess commands it!” 

“Does she?” M’Baku said. Slowly he moved himself off of you and settled down next to you. 

He suddenly found himself on his back, with you above him. You felt one hand of his come to rest on your hip. 

“I think that perhaps, you need to seek your Chieftainess’ approval, like now....” You said your voice becoming sultry. 

M’Baku grinned, “I can do no other than obey.” 

And then his lips were on yours.   

A.N: That tub filled with roses video clips was what sparked this two-parter. Thanks for reading!! 

[hydrospanners]

Justw ondering what your writing process is like?

It’s me, ya girl, coming at you with an answer twenty years after you asked the question!!! Sorry for the delay; I’m actually really excited to answer this! And I’m excited to be excited to answer this!!!

I am a Perfectionist, Anon. It is not a good quality. For most of my life, I was so petrified by the possibility of someone seeing something I hadn’t polished within an inch of it’s life that I wouldn’t even acknowledge I had a process. I wouldn’t mention I was writing something until it was completely done out of fear that they might want to talk to me about it when I hadn’t finalized everything and I might not represent my very best possible creative work. Also I never really thought of myself as being enough of a writer to have a process. That seemed too good for the likes of me!

But here we are now, in the Year of Our Thor 2019, and I am psyched to tell you every detail of my process and show you a side by side of my first draft and final product!!! That is so much progress for me, Anon, and I didn’t even realize I’d made until you sent me this so thank you!!!

(This is going to be long--please hold your gasps of surprise--so I’m putting the rest under a cut. Seriously I just finished writing this post and it’s an absolute BEAST.)

So my process!! I’m actually trying to make some changes to it to be more supportive of my efforts to kick the Perfectionist habits, but right now it basically looks like this:

1. There is an idea. Often times it comes from a question, like “How would Rea deal with what I’m feeling right now?” or “Is this a problem in space?” or something like that. Other times it comes from a snippet of dialogue that occurs to me while I’m listening to a song or watching tv or driving or in the shower or something. Sometimes it’s as minor as a gesture or a mood. Sometimes I’m just trying to exercise a certain muscle as a writer. This fic sprang up out of me wanting to work on describing settings. Wherever it comes from, I have the idea. I open a new Google doc and I slap down as much of the idea as I have developed.The lines of dialogue or the question I want to answer or just a few sentences about what I want to show or what I’m trying to achieve.

2. Time passes. I might work on the fic in feverish fits and starts, obsessing over it for three days and then ignoring it completely for three weeks. I might not look at it at all. The fic sits fragmented in my WIP folder and marinates. Usually this happens for about 1-3 years after the fic’s initial conception. I’m not joking about this. I think my average time for completing a fic is 2 years. The reason for that is the aforementioned Perfectionism.

3. I get tired of looking at in my WIP folder and/or I commit to some kind of special event/holiday thing. Fictober rolls around and I go on a kick of completing and editing the stuff in my WIP folder or I just get annoyed with myself for not completing things or it’s suddenly Arbor Day again and I have that tree-related fic I started two years ago that I could finally finish! This is when I buckle down and Write The Damn Thing. Once it’s written, I do an immediate edit and then I try to sleep on it for at least one night before going back and editing again. After that I usually like to sleep on it at least one more night before hitting publish. Sometimes I don’t have the self-restraint for all of this or I’m doing an event where I’ve committed myself to publishing something every single day, so the timeline gets compressed to a few hours between edits instead of a full day.

As for my writing set up, I’ve really leaned in to writing wherever I am and whenever I can. That’s more or less why I only write fic in Google Docs even though I passionately love Scrivener. (All my original work, which is more involved, is done on Scrivener.) 

I do a lot of writing in the quiet, early hours at work when I don’t have work to do. I do probably my most efficient writing when I hit a diner or coffee shop after work and settle in with my iPad and a snack. I can’t distract myself with doing chores or playing games like I do at home, and working on my iPad makes it annoying to switch tabs and apps and do other stuff while I write. Plus I’m eager to get home and take my pants off so that motivates me to let Perfectionism go and write something bad just to hit my goal so I can leave. At home, I’m usually on the couch with my iPad because I get too distracted at my desk on my PC with two enormous screens making it so easy to do other stuff instead of write while telling myself I’m doing other stuff at the same time as writing.

As you can see!!! I spend most of my “writing time” just trying to make myself at all!!!! It’s really daunting to overcome the fear of writing something bad and big parts of me would rather not write at all than endure the pain of failing at creating what I want to create so thanks Perfectionism!!!

I also have a really, really bad habit of editing while I write. I won’t say I’m the world’s worst editing-while-writing writer but I’m definitely top 100. (Bottom 100?) It’s a huge reason why I have those 1-3 year gaps between start and finish and why my first drafts come out so choppy. My inner editor has me rewriting before I’ve even finished writing and redirecting and it’s so disheartening I can only do it in fits and starts and you can clearly tell the places where I took a two month break before coming back to a fic.

But I’m working on this!!! Like I said, I try to go out and write as much as possible because the desire to be at home without pants on often overpowers my fear of Being Bad and makes it so much easier to give myself permission to write badly. That is the goal. Write Badly. I’m working on it and I’m making progress but I have a long way to go still. For now I have to rely heavily on supports like controlling my environment but one day I will be able to write absolute drivel on demand!! The dream!!!

And now, for your entertainment and to celebrate the fact that I am now somehow able to do this at all, I give you the first draft of the forsythias chapter from fill my lungs with sweetness, including the masterful original title:

??oil?????

Doc slips his hand from the inside of his jacket as he rounds the corner and walks straight into the steel-melting heat of Kira’s glare. Or maybe that’s just the extra sun. Hard to tell on Tatooine.

“Done shopping, Your Highness?” She asks, rolling her eyes at him before she’s even finished asking the question. “Think we can fit saving some lives into your busy schedule?”

Doc just laughs, patting the little bulge in his breast pocket. “People expect a dashing hero when they’re being saved, Junior. I’d hate to disappoint.”

“No one cares how waxy your mustache is when they’re bleeding out,” Kira says. “Ugh. Let’s just go.”

Vii is waiting for them by the speeder, having an improbably good-natured chat with a Gamorrean at least three times her size. They seem to be actually smiling at her, which is something he knows from medical school is technically possible but never expected to see. Kira’s inching her fingers toward her laser sword, always ready to leap headlong to the worst possible conclusion, but Doc waves her off.

He congratulates himself that, despite the withering look she gives him, Kira lets her hand fall. She trusts him at least as far as Vii’s well-being is concerned.

(He isn’t sure how he feels about how everyone seems to know just how deep his interest in her well-being goes.)

“Making friends?” He calls out, keeping his walk casual and slow and his hands clearly visible and clearly far from the blaster at his hip. The Gamorrean’s smile fades at his approach, replaced with the kind of slow-moving suspicion Doc is more used to seeing there.

Vii, however, does not stop smiling. Instead, she turns that smile on him. Brighter and more blinding than both of the suns combined.

“Gorzzak was just telling me about some problem spots in the canyons,” she says, her voice as light and tinkling and utterly sincere as ever. “Nice of them, isn’t it?”

And the thing that he still can’t believe, no matter how many times he sees it, is that it really is nice. Because he’s sure that Gorzzak really did point out all the spots he would normally use to lure unsuspecting travellers into ambushes. He’s sure that Gorzzak, even with only three neurons to rub together, has been absolutely dazzled by the obvious shine of Vii’s heart, just like everyone is.

Doc swallows, his throat starting to feel unbearably thick. Probably from all the sand.

“Very nice,” he agrees. “But I’ve got something even better.”

“How is your mustache wax a gift for—“ Kira stops as she catches sight of his eager grin, her face screwing up in an expression he’s starting to think she saves just for him. “Disgusting,” she mutters, her voice low enough that Vii won’t hear. It isn’t the best-kept secret, but Kira, for all her faults, loves Vii too much to shatter her illusion of secrecy like that. Not even to make a dig at Doc.

Vii watches as he reaches into his breast pocket, her expression openly anticipating the surprise, her glowing eye wide and perfectly prepared to be delighted with him. It’s such a refreshing change of pace, how eager she is to be happy with him. To like him. She never makes him work for it and honestly he doesn’t always know what to do with that.

But right now he does.

He produces the little flask of oil with a flourish and his signature self-satisfied grin. Kira would call it his sleazy smirk, but how can he be expected to think of Junior when he’s got Vii in front of him, beaming like this wretched planet’s third sun.

Doc doesn’t entirely understand everything that happens to him when she radiates like this. When she unleashes the full force of her joy on him and he feels thoroughly cooked from the inside out.

“It’s the good stuff,” he explains. “Imported from Corellia. I’ve only been once, but I remember everything was coated in a fine layer of oil so they probably know a thing or two about making it. Anyway, I know how the joints can lock up with all this sand around. Thought you could use some… lubrication.”

This last point is made for Kira’s benefit, and her revolted snort does not disappoint him.

“The doctor is on call, Gorgeous. Anytime you need oiled up, my hands are ready.”

[s-riusblck]

ANGEL EYES II

LIGHTNING ERA - Part 2

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7

NOTES: I hope you all enjoy and that I’ve done this moment justice, I'm so bad at writing emotional stuff hahah. Thank you so much as always for all the support!! xxx

SHIP: Sirius Black x Reader

DESCRIPTION: Life in Azkaban. These were the three words that had haunted your life for twelve years, until the day you saw Sirius Black’s face on the front of the daily prophet. He had escaped, but after twelve years in Azkaban, could things ever go back to normal? 

WARNINGS: Cursing

**********

4:04am. You paced back and forth in your living room, a strange sense of deja vu washing over you.

“And he didn’t say anything about why he wanted to see us both? At four in the morning?” You repeated, looking to Remus who was sat on the couch, tapping his foot on the floor nervously. He looked up at you, and shook his head. 

Sighing, you looked to the clock again. 4:05am. He was five minutes late. 

“And he definitely said four?” You asked, and Remus sighed, shaking his head. 

“I’ve told you everything, (Y/N). All he said was to wait in your living room, and he would get here as soon possible. He only suggested it would be around four.” 

Before you could respond, you heard a ‘pop!’ behind you. Whisking around, your eyes fell upon Albus Dumbledore. You had only seen him a very limited number of times in the previous twelve years, but the sight of him still stung a little, your conversation with him in the Order of the Phoenix headquarters replaying in your mind. 

“Good morning, Remus. (Y/N), I must apologise that we meet yet again on such unfortunate circumstances.” Dumbledore said, giving you both a nod. Suppressing an eye roll, you cleared your throat. 

“What’s this all about?” You asked, eying him curiously. 

Without a word, he handed you both a rolled up copy of the Daily Prophet. You furrowed your brows at him, but he simply gestured towards the paper in your hands. You shot a curious glance Remus’ way, and began to unroll the paper. 

The heat rushed from your body as your eyes focused in on the picture taking up most of the front page. You could of sworn your heart stopped beating for a moment. Taking a few steps backwards, you felt the couch hit the back of your legs, and you lowered yourself onto it. Your eyes didn’t move an inch. You recognised the eyes immediately. They were Sirius’ eyes. A soft sob escaped your lips as you traced your fingers over the picture. The image you had in your mind of Sirius was a young man full of life, love and determination. The picture in front of you told a completely different story. His eyes had lost their depth, they had lost their sparkle. His face was lined with exhaustion, his hair matted and his clothes ragged. He looked broken, but at the same time, you could still see a hint of the handsome man that was your fiancé. 

‘Escape from Azkaban’. A small gasp escaped your lips as it dawned on you why you were looking down at a picture of Sirius on the cover of the Daily Prophet. You looked up, your eyes darting between Remus and Dumbledore, as you tried to comprehend what you had just read. 

“He escaped?” You muttered, your voice shaky as you looked to Remus, taken in the look of shock you were sure mirrored your own. 

“He did. Late last night.” Dumbledore confirmed, his voice as calm as always. 

“But why now?” You continued, closing your eyes for a moment as you tried to piece it all together.

“The ministry believe he’s after Harry.” 

Your head snapped up, your eyes narrowing. “Don’t. Don’t go there.” You warned, your voice low as your grip tightened on the newspaper. 

Remus sighed, finally looking up to you. “This isn’t a time for personal feelings, (Y/N). Just let him explain.” He said. You watched Remus for a moment, before nodding, turning back to Dumbledore. 

“Fine. Explain.” You said, not daring to glance back down at the paper knowing it would play to your emotions again, but at the same time, not daring to let it go. 

“No matter what we all individually believe, we have to prepare for the worst.” Dumbledore began, and you bit down on the inside of your cheek, taking deep breaths to maintain your composure. “Harry could be in danger, and we have to be cautious so as to ensure his safety. He will return to Hogwarts as normal, and for now, those of us in contact with Harry will go along with what is reported in the Daily Prophet. Harry can’t know who Sirius Black really is. The boy had a tendency to be impulsive, and may go seeking answers. Extra protective measure will be placed on Hogwarts as we await further information on Sirius’ whereabouts. (Y/N), I suggest you move to a safer-“

“Respectfully, sir, I won’t be doing that. I’m perfectly safe here.” You cut in. 

“(Y/N), I think you can appreciate that no matter what we all personally believe, Sirius Black is not going to be the same man he was when he went to Azkaban.” 

“Unbelievable.” You said, laughing sarcastically. “Yet again, you refuse to give him even the benefit of the doubt. I think you can appreciate, Albus, that Sirius Black is my fiancé. He was there for me when when I had no one else, and I plan to do the same for him. I’m not going to shut him out.” You said, a tone of determination in your voice. Dumbledore watched you for a moment, and then gave you a nod. 

“I can appreciate that.” He said. “I have some matters I must attend to back at the Ministry. Remus, I shall see you in a few weeks at Hogwarts. (Y/N), I hope we can meet on better circumstances next time.” And with one last nod, he was gone. 

You turned to Remus, unsure of where to even start, but he beat you to it. 

“I promised him I would take care of you, (Y/N). So, please, don’t do anything stupid. Just wait it out.” He said, a tone of desperation in his voice. You wanted to argue, but you couldn’t bring yourself to. Remus had done so much for you, and he had proven that above all else he had your best interest at heart. 

“I promise. I won’t do anything stupid.” 

——

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” Remus asked again, and you shook your head in amusement. “I don’t have to go. There’s always next year.”

“Moony, I promise I’ll be okay. We’ll talk everyday. I can’t wait for you to tell me all about it.” You said, smiling across the table at him. The time had come for Remus to head for Hogwarts and take up his new role as Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. Truthfully, you were going to miss him a lot more than you would of ever admitted to him, but you knew it was an amazing opportunity for him that he couldn’t miss out on. He had given up a lot to take care of you when you were at your worst, and it was time now for you to give up something for him. “And besides, I’ll have twice as many teabags! You’re doing me a favour really.”

He laughed, finishing up the last bit of tea in his mug. Leaning across the table, you gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “You’re going to be an amazing professor. Those students are so lucky to have you.” You told him, and he nodded. 

Both of you stood up from the table, and you wrapped your arms around him in a tight embrace. “You know where I am if you need me.” He said as the hug broke, and you nodded.

“I know. Now go get ‘em, Professor Lupin.” You grinned, watching as he disapparated. 

With a sigh, you cleaned up the kitchen, the usual loneliness washing over you as you moved around the apartment. When you were finished your usual tasks, you sat yourself down in the living room chair that sat next to the open window, watching out for any signs of Sirius. 

——

The year went by in a very similar fashion. A lot of your time was spent sitting next to the open window, though as the months went on, you grew more and more frustrated. You knew you were being selfish. Sirius was on the run from Azkaban, the whole world was looking for him. How could you expect him to just show up at your doorstep? But to not even send you something as simple as a piece of parchment to let you know he was okay? It was driving you mad. The further into the year you got, the less time you spent at the window, the tiny sliver of hope you had left of seeing Sirius again fading. Maybe he had moved on from you, and maybe it was time you did the same. Maybe Dumbledore had been right all along. 

It was late into the evening and you were laying on the sofa, a cup of tea in one hand and a book in the other. Suddenly, a face appeared in the fireplace, and you jumped, tea spilling down over your hand. 

“Fuck.” You cursed, jumping up and putting the mug down, shaking off your hand. “This better be important, Lupin. That was an exceptionally good cup of tea.”

“(Y/N), I think Peter’s in Hogwarts.” Remus said, and you furrowed your brows at him. 

“Peter? As in Peter Pettigrew?” You said. “Mooney, are you getting enough sleep?”

“No, (Y/N), I’m serious. Harry has somehow come into possession of the Marauders map, and he told me he saw Peter Pettigrew on it.” 

You moved down onto the floor in front of the fireplace, the seriousness of what Remus was telling you beginning to dawn on you. 

“Is he sure? Did you see him?”

“He seems pretty certain. He was out after curfew trying to follow him on the map. Professor Snape caught him, I swear that man can smell a chance to get Harry in trouble from a mile away. That’s besides the point, though, I’ve got the map, and I’ve been watching it ever since. I haven’t seen him yet.” 

Your hands came up to rub at your temples, a dull ache forming in your head. “Remus, if Peter’s alive…” You began, and he nodded. 

“I know.” He told you. “But we can’t jump to any conclusions. I’ll continue to watch the map when I can and I’ll keep you updated. Have you heard anything?” He asked, and you shook your head.

“No. Nothing. I was beginning to give up hope.” You shrugged. 

“Hold on to it, (Y/N). You’ve done it for twelve years now, you can’t give up now.” Remus said, his tone as comforting as ever. 

With a smile, you both said your goodbyes and you stood up from the fireplace, making your way back over to the chair by the window, the sliver of hope you had beginning to grow for the first time in twelve years. 

——

8:38pm. The apartment was eerily quiet, the ticking of the clock being the only noise to break the silence. You kneeled in front of the fire, your fingers fiddling nervously. He was thirty eight minutes late. You glanced up at the clock again, groaning in frustration. Where was he? 

“Come on, Remus.” You muttered nervously. 

Remus was never late. It was a trait of his you really admired. He had been in Hogwarts for nearly a full school year now, and not once had he been a minute later than 8:00pm to appear in your fireplace for a chat. You thought back on the events of the previous few weeks. Soon after your initial chat about Peter Pettigrew, Remus confirmed what Harry had saw. His name was floating around Hogwarts on the marauders map, but Remus had never been able to come face to face with him. It baffled you. It changed everything. Anger was an emotion you were beginning to feel a bit too regularly for your liking, but it infuriated you. If Peter was alive all this time, why didn’t he come forward to clear Sirius’ name? Why was he hiding? Or what was he hiding? 

8:51pm. Something was wrong. You knew it was, and you began to panic. 

9:03pm. You knew you should of gone to Hogwarts the moment Remus had told you about Peter appearing on the map. It was insufferable not knowing what was going on. 

9:16pm. You gasped in anticipation as a face appeared in the fire, but it soon turned back to panic as Albus Dumbledore’s face looked up at you. 

“What’s going on? Where’s Remus?” You asked, your voice laced with concern. 

“There’s no time to explain, (Y/N). Apparate to Hogsmeade and come to the castle. I’ll meet you outside the hospital wing.” And before you could ask anymore, he was gone. 

Not wasting a moment, you grabbed your wand and thought of Hogsmeade. With a ‘pop!’, you were there. Your heart pounded almost as loud as your feet did against the ground as you ran towards Hogwarts. You could feel a pain in your chest developing, but you ignored it. The sense of urgency in Dumbledore’s voice rang through your mind as you picked up the pace. You tried to push all emotions aside as you ran through the halls of Hogwarts, afraid that the sense of familiarity or nostalgia would slow you down. These halls had held so much of your life, at a time when you had had so much hope and happiness. 

Turning a corner, you spotted Dumbledore and ran to him, panting heavily as you slowed down in front of him. “Where’s Remus?” You asked.

“There isn’t much time, (Y/N). Remus is okay. Right now, you need to get to the top of the tallest tower.” He told you, and seeing the look of confusion on your face, he elaborated. “You were right about Sirius, (Y/N). There’ll be time for explanations and apologies later. Right now you need to get to that tower.”

Your head was spinning, your breathing heavy, and you could feel your legs begin to give out beneath you. You were right about Sirius. Taking a long deep breathe, you nodded and ran towards the tower, your mind racing a with a million possibilities of what could be waiting for you when you got there. 

As you approached the door, your footsteps slowed suddenly at the sound of a familiar voice. ‘It couldn’t be’, you told yourself. Edging forward, you felt all the air leave your body as you saw through the doorway the two people who you had longed to see for twelve years. The one man that had captured your heart so many years ago and even after twelve years apart, still had such a tight clutch on it. 

Your feet began to move without you even knowing it, and the crisp air hit you as you stepped out into the open, your eyes still locked on Sirius. 

“Sirius?” You muttered, your voice barely above a whisper. 

Three heads snapped around to look at you, but you were only focused on one. As his eyes met yours, a strangled cry left your lips. He stood up slowly, the eye contact not wavering for even a moment. You stood, staring at each other, for what felt like an eternity. Your head pounded as you tried to comprehend what was happening. 

“(Y/N).” He said. The sound of his voice was enough to break through the haze in your mind. You ran to him, and as he always did, he caught you. Your body crashed against his as he stumbled back a few steps with the force, and you wrapped yourself around him, your hands gripping on to his hair in a desperate attempt to keep him close. You brought your head in front of his, your hands coming down to his cheeks. 

Your eyes explored every inch of his face, your heart breaking all over again as you saw how run down he looked. 

“I’m so sorry.” He croaked, and you shook your head, blinking away tears and running your thumb across his cheek to catch the few that fell from his eyes. 

“Don’t apologise. Please don’t apologise.” You said, resting your forehead against his. 

“You look…” He began.

“Old.” You said, letting out a small chuckle. 

“I was going to say beautiful.” He finished, giving you a small smile. 

“Sirius, I’m so sorry…. But, you have to go. Time is running out.” A voice said nervously from beside you, and you let out a shaky sigh. Although you didn’t know all the details, you could tell from the tone in her voice it was urgent. 

You ran a hand down to his chest, gripping on to the material of his top as you pressed your lips to his. A heat erupted throughout your body, and your grip tightened as your lips moved together perfectly, as if they’d never stopped. As if it hadn’t been over a decade since you last kissed him. His hands gripped on to your waist, pressing your body closer to his. You wanted to hold on forever, to stay in this moment for as long as possible, but you knew you had to let go. If there was any hope of getting him back permanently, you had to let go. You were both breathless as you broke apart, your lips still brushing off each others. 

“You have to go.” You mumbled, and he nodded, pressing one last kiss to your lips. Running a hand down his arm, you held on to his hand, giving it a squeeze as you stepped back.

“I love you.” He said, and you smiled, the tears beginning to build up in your eyes and blur your vision again. 

“I love you.” You told him, and his hand slipped from yours as he turned to Harry, giving him a hug before climbing on to the hippogriff. With one last look, he was gone, disappearing into the darkness. 

You watched after him for a few moments, before you looked to the two teenagers that stood before you. A smile graced your lips as you took in Harry’s appearance. He looked exactly like James, but with Lily’s eyes. Your heart swelled with pride, but ached at the same time as you remembered your two friends, and how unfair it was that they hadn’t gotten to see him grow up. Noticing the girl beside him fiddling with what looked like a time turner, you gathered yourself. 

“Are you, uh.. Sirius’s wife?” Harry asked, and you shook your head, pulling out the ring on your necklace from beneath your jumper. 

“I guess you could say almost wife.” You shrugged, and he let out a breathy laugh. 

“He asked me to move in with you both before… Well, before he had to go.” And you nodded, moving closer to Harry and leaning down in front of him, taking his hand in yours. 

“I’m so sorry for everything you’ve had to go through, Harry, but just know your mum and dad would of been so proud of you. James would of loved telling the world his son was Gryffindor’s youngest, and best, seeker.” You said with a chuckle. “And Sirius, he loves you so much. So much. You’re so loved, Harry. Don’t forget that.” You told him, closing your eyes to hold back tears as he suddenly hugged you tight. 

“Harry…” The girls voice came from beside him, and you took a deep breathe, pulling back and placing a kiss on his forehead. 

“Go. I’ll write to you, okay?” You reassured him, and he nodded, before running off through the door. 

You watched after him, biting down on your lip as he disappeared from view. Once again, your future was uncertain, and you had no idea what was to come next. Despite that, though, you felt more at peace than you had for twelve years and you felt excited. Excited because there was hope again. However small, there was hope that you and Sirius would finally get your happy ending. 

[luxvitae]

You’re The 1 (4 Me) | Jungkook

⇢ 8.5k 

⇢ Jungkook never dealt in fractions, only in wholes. 

Waking up to your boyfriend already stretching in his yellow duckie pajama bottoms was an obvious indication of one thing and one thing only: today was game day. Being the star quarterback of the university’s team as a junior, Jeon Jungkook was under a great deal of stress for today’s big game.

“I don’t think Mr. Quackers likes being stretched out like that,” you mused, sitting up from the comfort of his bed that you usually found yourself in the night before a game. Something about cuddling you allows him to sleep better and gives him good luck. You think it’s just an excuse to keep you from leaving his dorm at 2 in the morning.

Turning around at the sound of your voice, Jungkook smiled at the image you in the process of waking up, bleary eyed and bushy tailed. The impending game tonight did leave a heavy weight on his chest when we woke up, but he felt it resolve as soon as he saw you with half lidded eyes, staring at him with an equally tired but adoring smile. It was times like this when he momentarily forgot about all his responsibilities and burdens because by god was he blessed to have the most beautiful partner in crime, and that wasn’t the athlete in him talking. But only momentarily because he remembered why you were swaddled in grey sheets and looking at him as if he was about break all ten commandments at the same time by doing one thing: exercising in the morning.

“How are you feeling, champ?,” you asked softly as you see Jungkook lean down to warm up his body with those god awful push ups.

“Don’t jinx it babe,” was all he said through deeply measured breaths as he lifted and lowered himself, arm muscles bulging from under his loose pajama shirt. If there was one thing you loved about sleeping with Jungkook, it was that he didn’t sleep naked to show off like all the other athletes did just to wake up with rock hard nipples from the almost freezing temperatures. Thankfully, your boyfriend was a lot smarter than that, choosing to deck himself out in long pants and fleece lined shirts, serving as a personal heater wrapped around you.

“It’s not considered jinxing if I believe it’s going to happen,” you argued, shuffling to the edge of the bed where you leaned your head down to watch him go at it in the spot right next to you on the floor.

Today was a big deal to both him and the entire university population along with half the state. Somehow, the university’s team had made it through an entire season undefeated which put them at the number two spot in the nation, but you knew part of it was because Jungkook had bulked up over summer and was given the position of starting quarterback. It also meant they were up against what was considered the powerhouse of college football for a division 1 championship title: Penn State.

“You know,” he breathed out, doing one last push up before moving himself over to where your upper half was hanging off the bed, “None of this wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for you.”

Oh god. Cue the dramatic music followed by an eye roll. Mornings with Jungkook were just like any other domestic couple, but sometimes, just sometimes, the boy was convinced that his corny jokes and cringe worthy compliments would be appreciated. They were never welcomed.

“Oh Jeon Jungkook. Leave it to you to make a usual morning cheesy and dramatic,” you smiled, a playing smile on his lips as well as you pecked him on the forehead before moving off the bed and into his fuzzy slippers that were about ten sizes too big for you.

“You better not be going to the floor bathroom like you did last time,” he called over his shoulder as you gathered your toiletries in your arms.

Making a show of turning around slowly, you faced the boy with a challenging look and a slight quirk of your eyebrow. You take note of how his arms tensed, muscles straining against the fabric that was usually loose at the sleeves, and his jaw tightened. Man was your boo hot when you worked him up just enough.

“I don’t like,” he seethed, taking wide strides over to where you stood, rooted to your place as your eyes followed his every move, “when my teammates eye out what’s mine,” he all but growled. Once he reached you, standing so close that a sheet of paper couldn’t even fit between the two of you, he took hold of your waist in a gentle grasp, a drastic contrast to his tone of voice which made you shudder. He stood a good eight inches taller than you but that didn’t matter when his forehead leaned down to connect against your own, holding you close to him just to breathe you in.

“Well then that’s your fault for choosing to dorm on an all boys floor,” you whispered playfully, leaning up to capture his lips against your own in a sweet but private kiss, shifting your hands so it rested against his soft but chiseled chest.

“I’m going to my dorm, don’t worry. Meet me in the lobby in an hour?,” you asked, cutely tucking your head under his chin so your ear could clearly hear the steady beat of his heart.

“Hmm depends,” Jungkook mused, an adoring smile playing on his lips as he rocked the two of you back and forth to a nonexistent rhythm, “Will I be promised a good luck breakfast?”

His arms traveled up to rest around your shoulders in a safe and warm embrace, cocking his head to look down at your face. Moving your head to have your chin rest against his chest, he raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes in a playful but questioning expression making you giggle.

“Yeah yeah,” you rolled your eyes, putting some space between the two of you but allowed him to keep his fingers intertwined with yours, “Just go run your eight miles.”

“For you, I’d run eighty miles,” he said, making you groan in how cheesy and cliche he was being. Jungkook just laughed at your exasperation, pulling you into him one last time. You didn’t have to see him to know he was smiling. Landing a kiss at the crown of your head, he sweetly led you to the door of his dorm where he opened it like a gentleman and pushed you through it like an asshole.

“Later loser,” he said with full affection, landing a soft pat to your butt.

“Bye shithead,” you waved, blowing him a kiss as he watched you walk down the hall and up the stairs.

An hour later, true to your words, the two of you were walking out of the building, hand in hand, decked out in full winter coats and layers of jackets. While usual couples would dress up a bit before driving out to have a nice breakfast together on a Saturday morning, you and Jungkook would put coats over your home clothes and walk to the nearest iHop which was conveniently placed right outside of campus.

“How were the guys this morning?,” you asked, swinging your interlocked hands higher and higher with each step.

“They tried to go on my run with me. Half of them dropped out after the first three miles, the other half were only coming in after I already showered,” he laughed, tugging your hand into his coat pocket where three hand warmers were placed so you didn’t somehow dislocate his or your shoulder.

“It’s not their fault you literally sprint your way through eight miles!,” you said, coming to the other boys’ defense because you knew how your boyfriend was. “You get your blitz practice through your morning run. What a man.”

“Shut up,” he smiled, pinching your side with his free arm, making you laugh and dodge his attack. From an outsiders point of view, the two of you seem like the perfect couple, the epitome of college lovers, and yeah, you would agree with them. Y’all were in love as fuck.

Entering the iHop at 7 in the morning was something Darla, the hostess that worked the Saturday morning shift, was accustomed to, her face lighting up as the two of you stepped into the restaurant right on time.

“It’s a big day,” the old woman squealed, leading the two of you to your usual table without even taking menus with her. “I hope you’re getting the Champion’s special. You need to eat like one if you hope to become one.”

“Thanks Darla, but I don’t wanna toot my own horn or anything, especially when Penn state is the best in the nation,” Jungkook said humbly, flustered from all the fuss the old woman was making.

You smiled as he took your hand from across the table like he usually does, weaving his fingers with yours subconsciously while his attention was on Darla.

“Nonsense,” she almost yelled, “This is the first time that damn university had gone undefeated since I graduated from there. And let me tell you honey, that was a long time ago.”

Promising to consider getting the small feast that was the Champion’s special, Darla had wished him luck and gathered you in a small hug of your own before moving away to greet the other guests.

“Hey Kathy,” you smiled at the waitress who also happened to be your lab partner, “We’ll have the usual, but this time, can you add an extra order of scrambled eggs?”

“Sure thing,” the girl said, her sweet southern accent friendly and familiar. As she wished Jungkook good luck tonight as well, your boyfriend breathed a sigh of relief when she was out of earshot.

“What’s up baby bubble?,” you asked, concerned as he looked more tired and worn down than he did this morning, face darker than you felt comfortable.

“It’s just,” he sighed again, eyes focusing on his busy fingers playing with yours, “I don’t want to get their hopes up then let everyone down. I don’t  want to not live up to their expectations.”

You saw the hesitation and fear in his face and you frowned. There was so much he needed to live up to with so little space for error that you could understand where he was coming from. Hell, you’d be more concerned if he wasn’t terrified of messing up. But Jungkook had always been a little self conscious and insecure about his abilities especially because he hadn’t been the star player he was at the beginning. Even through that, everyone knew he was talented enough to deserve every praise, you knew he deserved every title and every award he was given. You just needed him to see why.

“Hey,” you said softly, tilting your head to the side to catch his eyes, “You’re not going to live up to their expectations, you’re gonna exceed them. I believe in you, Tae believes in you, your parents believe in you, the whole university believes in you. But just because they believe in you doesn’t mean they don’t believe in your team as well. You guys are solid and practiced and passionate. You’re not walking out on that field alone, Jeon Jungkook, there are tons of people in the corner with you.”

He took in your words, letting them sink into his brain and ring in his ears as the food starts to come out, one by one. As you were about to pull your hand away from his to start eating, Jungkook tugs it back, slowly lifting it up to kiss your knuckles softly.

“Thank you,” he whispered, giving you an award winning smile like you knew he would and finally facing the food with widened eyes.

“Holy shit what the hell did you order?,” he almost yelled, looking at the table almost filled to the edge with plates of food.

Crossing your arms across your chest, you pouted as he pointedly looked at you. “My baby ain’t going out there unfueled, thank you very much. No quarterback boyfriend of mine is going out there without a fully nourished body.”

Staring at you, you just looked at him with an accusing face, not backing down.

“God I love you,” he groaned, making you smile as he picked up his fork and started digging in, not forgetting to cut pieces of pancake to feed you because he was just cheesy like that.

“I wonder if they know how disgustingly cute they are,” Kathy mused, standing next to Darla as the two women looked over at the couple giggling in the corner booth, feeding each other with more and more pieces of pancake to see who could fit more in their mouth.

“I’m sure they know, those assholes,” Darla smiled, wishing the two of them happiness in the innermost thoughts of her conscience.

“I feel like I ate a small whale,” Jungkook whined, your hand back in his as the two of you walked back onto campus, taking a detour back to the dorms so he could fulfill his pregame ritual.

“Well you have an insanely high metabolism so in a few hours that small whale will feel like one leaf from a salad,” you laughed, reaching up to fix his beanie over his dark brown hair, pulling it back down into place and landing a quick peck onto his cheek.

It was only nine in the morning and he didn’t start practice until two in the afternoon so you both decide to walk off your ridiculously large breakfast and took the long way around the campus. It seemed to be freezing out but the both of you knew better because you were out and about after all. Some days were just too cold to even consider stepping outside.

“Are you gonna be sitting with mom and dad again today?,” he asked, looking over at you questioningly. From the start of the season, Jungkook’s parents had started coming to every game to see their son play, and every game, you sat next to them, cheering him on.

“Yeah. Too bad Taehyung has to lead the marching band tonight. He would’ve loved to watch you play,” you sighed. Taehyung was Jungkook’s best friend and also one of the three drum majors of the university’s marching band which worked out well for a while. Jungkook would play and Taehyung would get into the games for free to watch him, but somewhere down the line, Taehyung had gotten good at being the drum major and suddenly, football games were more of him conducting than him watching.

“It’s alright. I saw him this morning, sleeping on the toilet with his score taped to his forehead. Poor guy’s really outdoing himself,” Jungkook said, chucking at the memory of a dazed Taehyung with his eyes barely open behind his thick glasses, walking around while he conducted a nonexistent band.

“It’s been a while since the band had to break out the piece of victory,” you agreed. The university’s marching band had certain pieces that they played for specific occasions, one of those occasions being a won championship title. Like Darla said in the restaurant, it’s been a good forty years since they last broke it out so it’s not a surprise that Taehyung had to learn it from a score and not from ear.

“Let’s hope his efforts don’t go to waste,” Jungkook said, turning the corner to reveal the stadiums entrance area and the big fountain in the middle of the clearing.

One of the many rituals Jungkook took part in before a game was the tossing of a coin into the bucket on the statue. He had some kind of superstition that if he landed the coin in the bucket, which was a good seven feet from the edge of the fountain, on the first toss, then they would have a successful coin toss once the game started. He had explained to you one night how winning the coin toss at the beginning of the game is crucial; it determines if he plays or not and in a way, it determines the advantage of one team over the other. You thought it was silly, but this was Jungkook so you let him be. If it made him feel better, it made you feel better.

While he dug around in his pockets for loose change, you broke away from his hand to walk around the fountain, thinking of all the times you had been here with him in the exact situation, yet you never stopped to fully take in the beauty that was the design of the marble and rock. Being an arts major, you had learned to appreciate beauty from the outside in. Maybe that’s why you fell in love with Jungkook.

Looking over, you ran your eyes over the same body you’ve known for almost three years. You took in his boyish features partially hidden behind a scarf, his tall and muscular build of a seasoned athlete, his dark brown hair that everyone assumed was black but you knew better. The wind was nippy and the temperature was cold, but when you looked at him doing the most mundane thing, he was looking for a coin goddamnit, you felt warm inside.

“Babe come ‘ere,” he waved you over with crinkled eyes and you knew he was smiling behind his scarf. When you reached him, he took your hand, kissed your open palm through your mittens, and replaced his lips with a quarter in the middle of your hand.

“I want you to do it with me,” he said, hope laced with his honey voice. “I want this toss to be done together. You don’t have to shoot for the bucket if you don’t want to it’s just- I want you to do this with me.”

Staring up at his big, bright eyes, you saw what you failed to see in other men: sincerity. Jeon Jungkook never dealt in uncertainties and never did anything half as well as he could have. He only worked in full, the living definition of go big or go home. So no, you couldn’t say no to the man that made your heart do mysterious things, taking the coin and closing your eyes to transfer your wish into the small piece of metal.

I wish for a lifetime of happiness for Jeon Jungkook.

“Ready?,” you hear him ask next to you, his voice just above a whisper even if it were only the two of you here.

Nodding you opened your eyes and focused on the bucket which seemed so far away. For a moment, you considered just tossing it into the basin of the fountain just to save yourself from embarrassment, but you realize just how important this wish is and tell yourself to get it together. Eyeing the large enough opening in the stone, you watch as Jungkook’s coin smoothly goes in, hearing a faint clang of metals. Suddenly, you’re letting go of the coin in an underhand position, holding your breath as you watch the coin’s projectile, hoping that you didn’t screw this up enough that it doesn’t land in the bucket.

Hearing the metal clang made your heart jump into your throat.

“Whoo!,” Jungkook yelled, picking you up by the waist and spinning you around before setting you back down on the ground. His eyes were sparkling under the white reflection of the freshly fallen snow and his lips were curled up in a soft smile making him look like an angel. You felt like you were looking at him for the first time, your heart in a familiar frenzy as you smiled back at him closing your eyes as he pressed a simple kiss to your forehead.

“Just because you made that shot, I’m gonna win the coin toss tonight. All because of you,” he joked, making you groan and laugh at the same time. He held on tight to your waist as you both started back to the dorms.

“Shut up. What’ll happen if you don’t win the coin toss?,” you said, playfully rolling your eyes.

“Nothing because that won’t happen because my girlfriend is fucking magic,” he said nonchalantly, shrugging as you softly punched his chest, laughing in embarrassment.

“You’re the very one telling me not to jinx it and there you go,” you accused, crossing your arms over your chest. Jungkook just smiled and before you knew it, he was lifting you up onto his shoulder and running down the concrete.

“Oh my god! Jeon Jungkook put me down you behemoth!,” you screamed, hitting your boyfriend’s back and kicking your legs as if that would deter him in any way.

“My girlfriend is fucking magic!,” he just yelled making some students who were jogging or just walking around turn to look at the two of you, spinning you around, making you squeal and laugh, empty threats of killing him if he didn’t put you down.

It was times like this that made you understand how lucky you were. This boy, Jeon Jungkook, made a simple day brighter just by being by your side, by laughing and smiling without reservations even when he was plagued by his own stress. As the two of you happily laughed and screamed both at and with each other into the emptiness of a saturday morning, you couldn’t help but hope your wish from the fountain came true because even if it wasn’t with you, your boyfriend deserved the world because he was more than willing to give it to you.

A few more hours past with the two of you just lounging around Jungkook’s dorm, some of the boys coming in and out of the room to ask mundane questions or sneak some of your boyfriend’s protein powder into their juices as if that would help them with anything. Taehyung came in at some point, going off about how he was going to seriously hurt Jungkook if they don’t win tonight because that would mean he spent 28 hours memorizing a 15 minute piece for nothing. But the other ended up staying in the dorm with you two, taking over Jungkook’s spinny chair and rolling around the room, humming an unfamiliar melody.

“What time do you have to be down?,” Taehyung asked Jungkook, looking over at the other boy who was cuddling you on his bed.

“2 hours. Pregame practice was extended. You?,” Jungkook asked back, lazily turning his eyes back to where his laptop was playing the an old episode of the Magicians for you to catch up since you refused to watch any of the newer episodes with him until you were caught up completely.

“2 minutes,” Taehyung laughed, slouching back into his chair, “I don’t wanna play tonight I just wanna watch I mean it’s not every season my best friend annihilates the field.”

“Tell Tommy to take over for once,” Jungkook suggested, pulling you closer to his chest as scenes of Alice as a niffin played loudly from the speakers.

“Tommy’s pretty shit at waving his arms around,” Taehyung sighed, pulling himself up and out of the chair. “Looks like it’s times to frantically search for my uniform that’s probably still wrinkled from the last game. See ya on the field JK.”

Waving the other goodbye, it was back to just you two in the room, allowing you to take his full focus again. In two hours, Jungkook would be out of your arms and on the field, running drill after drill to perfection, but before that, you were gonna get in a good two hours of cuddling because damn was the boy soft when he wanted to be.

“Oh I forgot to give you something,” Jungkook started, shifting in the blankets and hopping off the bed, making you whine from the loss of warmth. “You’ve been wearing my old number for like, the whole season.”

“Yeah because you couldn’t find a jersey with your new number on it,” you confirmed, still focused on the screen in front on you and the blankets he left you swaddled in, “We had that whole argument about it remem- God Julia you fucking bitch! What the fuck are you doing?!”

Laughing into his closet, Jungkook shook his head at the intrusion of you yelling, focusing on finding that small box he hid somewhere in here as soon as it came in the mail so you wouldn’t have the chance to ask what it was.

“Of course I remember. That was by far our stupidest fight and we fought over whether tomatoes should be considered a vegetable,” he mused, turning over some dirty clothes he still needed to wash, rummaging through old shirts old shirts and socks that never found their pair, “I can’t believe you didn’t talked to me for a week.”

While other couples had their own unique pastimes like volunteering at animal shelters or taking care of old people’s groceries, you were proud to say that you and Jungkook’s pastime is nothing as progressive nor useful to society. Instead, the two of you engage in pointless and borderline chaotic arguments that usually end up in kisses and giggles anyway. And yeah, everyone pretty much hates them for it.

Once he found the box still taped and unopened, Jungkook took a deep breath, fighting the urge to pinch himself and check if he was dreaming.

“Here. Open it,” he prodded softly, moving his laptop so he could sit on his desk chair right in front of the bed facing you.

Smiling cautiously, you slowly took the box from him, shaking it first just in case he was trying to pull something on you. When you decided it was harmless, you look over at your boyfriend who was obviously sweating buckets as you cautiously ripped the sealing tape off. Softly grabbing his hand, you frown at him in confusion but offered comfort at the same time. When you opened the flaps of the box, your breath caught in your throat as your eyes landed on the blue, gold, and black dry fit fabric of a jersey you were familiar with. The number that was facing you in black ink, however, was not. Right under Jungkook’s last name was the striking 14 that matched his own jersey on the field.

“How- where did you get this? The university stopped making the jersey’s once season started,” you said breathlessly, picking up the shirt in your hands and out of the box, holding it by the shoulders to see the uniform in its full form.

“I uh,” Jungkook stuttered, rubbing the back of his neck like he does when he was flustered, “I had it custom made. By the graphics department. Jimin knew a guy so I asked.”

Wearing Jungkook’s number was a big deal to the both of you. Sure, you could’ve been like all the other girlfriends that all sat with each other with their boyfriend’s jersey’s on their backs and aimlessly cheered during the games when their real attention was on Janet and why her and William were in another fight. Honestly, if you tried hard enough, you would’ve fit right in, but his number meant so much more than that to you. To you, wearing his number felt like being next to him on the field guiding and cheering him on and moving and breathing with him.

That’s why not being able to feel that level of comfort and connection for almost the entire season had made you uneasy every time you stepped foot into that stadium, or whatever stadium it was because no matter where the game was, you were there.

“I- oh god,” you choked, feeling the tears well up just enough to mess with your eyesight as Jungkook became a murky mosaic right in front of you, “I- I just-”

Smiling as you blubbered off in incoherent, unfinished sentences, Jungkook crawled onto the bed and resumed his previous position next to you, pulling the blankets over him and pulling you into his chest where the steady beat of his heart seemed to calm you down. Seeing your reaction made him confidence once more knowing he knew what could made you happy. 

“Spit it out baby,” he chuckled, tracing soft circles on your arm and waist in an attempt to make you relax.

“You better fucking win tonight,” you threatened under sniffles and a stuffy nose, hitting him on the chest before wrapping your own arms around him.

“Alright babe, time to go,” Jungkook smiled nervously, one hand holding his helmet, the other around yours as the rest of the team started to get ready for practice with five hours under kickoff.

Rummaging in your bag, you handed him a gatorade like you always do before any practice, because electrolytes save lives, and moved your hand free hand upwards to smooth down some of his chestnut brown hair. As the strands danced between your fingertips, you smiled at the boy in front of you, literally doused in nervous energy. Jittery and excited, but nervous.

“Jeon Jungkook,” you softly scolded, “You better not be getting cold feet on me. What’s up baby boo?”

“It just…Every weekend for the past four months I’ve been under saturday night lights that highlighted my every move, my every mistake. And I don’t know why that didn’t bother me then, but now it’s all I’m thinking about and I-”

Pulling him into a tight hug, you reached up to hook your arms around his neck because you knew your arms wouldn’t fit around the bulky uniform and protective gear he was already wearing. Hearing Jungkook voice his nerves in a panicked tone made you feel like you were back in freshman year, a smaller, leaner Jeon Jungkook struggling to pull himself together for his first college game. It made you smile, even though the memory wasn’t a pleasant one, because he has once again proved to you just how far he’s come, and nothing, not even the nerves, was gonna make him jeopardize this game. Not when he’s come so far.

“Jeon Jungkook,” you cooed, stroking his hair as you felt him tighten his grip around you, “What happened to the big shot quarterback who never let anything or anyone faze him?”

“I don’t know,” he half groaned half whined into your shoulder, making you laugh at his comical distress when you knew you really shouldn’t be.

“Hey. If you ever get nervous or stressed, just remember what I told you this morning. You’re not going out there alone, you’re going out there as part of a team. As the leader of a team that trust you and that you need to trust in return,” you sighed, pulling away so you could cradle his face in your hands. Big, beautiful eyes were boring into yours as you gave him a comforting smile.

“You, Jeon Jungkook,” you whispered, making sure understood every word you said, “You earned that role. You worked just as hard as anyone on this team if not harder and I’m not just saying that because you’re my boyfriend, but because it’s true. So go and give Penn State a run for their money.”

As he just stared at you for a good few moments, you started to wonder if you said the wrong thing. That is, until he takes your cheeks in your hands and lands a deep kiss on your lips, pushing against your lips but bringing your body closer to him in ways that made you feel fuzzy in the head. Like you said, Jungkook wasn’t one to do something in fractions, only in full.

Breaking away from him, he chased after you which made you giggle, placing a hand over his chest to stop him. You felt the eyes on the two of you from his teammates and coaching staff, making your face flush and your cheeks heat up if a way you couldn’t appreciate in the cold winter weather.

“You have drills to run,” you said sheepishly, suddenly shy as Jungkook smiled at you with his hands still caressing your cheeks.

“Cheer for me on the field?,” he asked with soft eyes and a soft tone, making you wonder why his teammates were so intimidated by him when he freely lets these emotions and sides of himself show.

“I’ll be cheering the loudest,” you confirm, letting him kiss a few more times, your smile growing bigger and bigger with every loud smack of his lips on yours. Finally, he pulled away from you, sending you off with a wave of his helmet.

Starting the trek back to your dorm from the training center, you took in a fresh breath of air. This was going to be a peaceful walk back, you were sure of it.

“What are you idiots doing?! Get back inside. Did I say 20 burpees? Good, make it 50. And while you’re at it, go and give Penn State the trophy because you’d much rather loiter around like neanderthals instead of training! Get to practice!”

Oh. That’s why they’re intimidated by him.

“Oh sweetheart! I feel like it’s been forever since I’ve last seen you,” Jungkook’s mother cooed as she walked through the gates of the stadium with Jungkook’s dad in tow. Smiling at the two of them, you greeted them with hugs and quick exchanges of pleasantries before linking arms with both of them and walking into the stadium to take your seats.

“So how’s Junghyun and his wife,” you asked, waiting in line to get into the seating area. The stadium was already half full with students and parents and alumni traveling from everywhere just to watch the big game. Like Darcy said, it’s been a while since this old school had even seen a season this long.

“They’re good. They found a place just north of San Fran so they’re hoping to settle down soon. I hope they’re talking about baby plans but this old man can only hope,” Jungkook’s dad laughed heartily, a laugh that resembled Jungkook’s.

“What I really want to know,” his mom’s voice dropped into something akin to a whisper as she leaned over to you, “Is when are you and Jungkook finally gonna tie the knot, huh?”

“Mom!,” you laughed, pushing the woman with a flustered smile, “We’re still in college. Who knows, maybe Jungkook will dump me for some hot sorority chick next week.”

“Sure hope he has enough brains left in that thick head of his to know that’s not a good idea,” his dad laughed, “I almost made that mistake; would have costed me a lifetime of happiness.”

Softly smiling, you watched as the older couple shared knowing looks before bursting out laughing. When you had first met Jungkook’s parents, you couldn’t help but notice the pure love that still ran through their eyes, something that you had found yourself wanting with Jungkook ten, twenty, hell, fifty years down the line. Strength like that was hard to find between two people now days, but you had hoped it would never waver for them and you hoped that one day, you would know how it feels.

“That crazy old man almost dropped me for a girl he kissed once when he was high. I told him that if he wanted to do that, go ahead, but no one else was going to deal with him through the 13 hours it takes to go back to Korea,” she laughed and you were glad she did. Some people didn’t take to these things well, choosing to push it back into the deeper corners of their mind so it couldn’t hurt them a second time around.

“I was high when I told you that! Of course I wasn’t gonna leave you. Steve was just waiting for me to get out of the picture and hell was I gonna let him get you. He was gonna have to pry you from my cold, dead hands,” the man mused, making his wife smile and lean over to you again, as if telling you a secret that he didn’t already know.

“He’s just saying that because you’re here. He was ready to willingly give me to Steve as if I was gonna let him leave me, psh,” she rolled her eyes, pinching your side knowingly as her husband gave her side eyes.

Laughing, you couldn’t believe your ears as the tea from his parents came pouring out. This happened every time you saw them and every time, you felt like you were growing closer and closer to them. It wasn’t every day that you saw them, you wish it were, but each time was well spent, bonding over things that your own parents wouldn’t even talk to you about. And with this, you felt grateful. Grateful that you met Jungkook on the first day of orientation, grateful that he had introduced you to a whole new world of love, grateful that he had parents who had no problem supporting you as if you were their own daughter.

Showing your VIP passes Jungkook gave you at the beginning of every season, whether it be football or soccer, you were shown the way to the box, which you and his parents promptly ignored, choosing to walk down to the sidelines, sitting as close to the benches as the bleachers would allow you to.

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to sit with us, you know. Go ahead and sit with your friends, I feel bad that you have to hang around with two old geezers,” his mom said, patting your knee as the the countdown to kickoff read fifteen minutes.

“Oh nonsense. I don’t have friends don’t worry,” you joked. But in reality, you had never wanted to sit with them anyway. Most of them cheered for Alex or Christian, thinking that Jungkook already had enough fans that they didn’t need to support him, but you knew otherwise which made it unbearable to be around them.

You turned and looked around, taking in the huge stadium that seemed to already be packed with fifteen more minutes on the clock. You had been to approximately 32 football games, yet nothing could prepare you for the overwhelming shock you felt seeing the crowd that came out to watch the playoffs. You could only imagine the pressure of both teams waiting to get out there.

Seeing flashes of metal refractions and sparkly uniforms, you look over to Taehyung leading the enormous marching band down the steps of the bleachers and into the stands that there marked off for them a little above your own seat. With the long blue coat over his white pants and black helmet, you smiled at Taehyung who seemed to be looking for you, knowing you would be somewhere close by. He looked stunning every time he put on that uniform as if it were made for him. Which it was, but that was besides the point.

Time ticked away slowly as you sat back and watched people come and go around you. You heard Taehyung yelling somewhere up there, something about warming up and tuning. The two best friends were intimidating leaders in their own respects. How fitting of both of them. His parents were engaged in a very serious game of pool on their phones which left you to your own devices. You would’ve gotten food, but that breakfast was still sitting with you and concession was probably a mess with only five minutes to kickoff. Your mind quickly drifted to Jungkook and how he was feeling. Tonight was a big night for everyone, but you knew the stakes were high for him especially with the focus on him and his plays.

“Y/n, they’re starting,” his mom nudged you, your eyes flying to the home tunnel where the cheerleaders and athletic staff were already lined up to greet the team. You stood and watched through the presentation of colors and the national anthem before hearing the stadium errupt in cheers and screams as the announcer called upon your university.

Your heart sped up in your chest as you watched the jumbo screen above. You knew you were too far away to see any of the players properly, but Jungkook was the one leading them so at least you would get a quick glimpse of him as they did their team presentation. When the tunnel opened and you saw the 14 right at the entrance, your breath caught in your throat as if it were the first time you saw him on the field. Even from behind his helmet, you could see his distinctive eyes, sharp and focused as he looked on both sides to his team before yelling something incoherent and the boys came charging onto the field in spurts of high energy. The scene was familiar and almost common that you were surprised when you felt your stomach flutter in nerves and excitement feeding off the boys’ energy.

As they started to come back to their bench to let Penn State be announced, you watch Jungkook rip his helmet off revealing his messy brown hair and dark eyes making your tongue go dry and the hot flame subtly ignite in the pit of your stomach. The uniform didn’t help in the least bit, squeezing his thick thighs and tight waist and his jersey riding up just a little bit to where you could see his ab muscles clearly defined from all the workouts and intense training. Lost in your thoughts of checking him out, you were shaken from them when you see him smirk over at you, obviously caught in your staring.

Having no shame, you just rolled your eyes at him, blowing him a kiss from where you were. Being the drama queen he was, he pretends to have been shot, hands flying to his chest and staggering back as his face contorts into one of fake pain.

So you just shot him a middle finger and he sends you a finger heart back, having the audacity to smile at you as if he wasn’t about to go into war over a pig skinned ball.

Three quarters later, you were sitting at the edge of your seat with the rest of the stadium. Jungkook played a little in the first quarter before sitting out the rest of the first half, saving all his energy for the second half when they switched to offense. With five minutes left in the game, the two teams were tied at 27 points each, enough time for another touchdown. Hell, that was enough time for you to walk all the way to your dorm, change pants, and walk back. But that also meant it was enough time for things to go very wrong very quickly. Jungkook had been playing for two quarters straight, never allowing himself to be taken off the field even when his coach told him to switch out with the secondary quarterback.

Jeon Jungkook: a stubborn kid.

As you watched him play by play, you could see how tired he was becoming from playing in the first quarter then for the whole second half. It was concerning, seeing him exert himself in ways you’ve never seen him do, but you knew he was capable of doing so. Jungkook was competitive, anyone could tell that much, but from what you could see, this was more than a competition, it was a challenge. A chance to prove himself to himself. That’s what he was fighting for. Yeah a championship title would be great and all, but what he wanted, what he was really going after, was the belief and confidence in himself.

As his team pushes closer and closer to their endzone and the clock gets uncomfortably close to 0, you see him kick up the intensity a few knots. His yelling of the play is clearer and more intuitive, even the way his body was placed seemed to be tighter but focused. And you realize why. Because this is the playoffs, there can’t be a tie, however, because there is one now, there’s only one solution: overtime. And if the two teams go into overtime, the coin toss is done again and it’s sudden death. And that means Jungkook has a very high chance of not being on that field which is bad. Very bad.

Because Jungkook is their best shot at winning. But he can’t win for them if he’s not on the field.

His mother seemed to have noticed this too, glancing over at you and taking your shaking hand into her own to provide comfort, but it wasn’t working. As he called the play and carried through the snap, you could tell from the get go that this play was going to end badly. There were too many pockets to be a coincidence; no defense was going to leave that many receivers open when they’re crucial right now. And you didn’t understand until you see Jungkook get tackled by three of the biggest players you’ve ever seen. And he didn’t get up.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, panic spiking in your chest as the athletic trainers and the medic on site rushed over to where he lay right on the 15 yard line, unmoving. You watched as they talked in hushed whispers, alternating your focus on him and his coach in front of you to get a grip on the situation. Trying to focus on something, anything that wouldn’t spike your blood sugar, you thought of ways to throw yourself over the connecting boundary to get to him, to tell him it’s okay to stop now and be tired.

He stayed down for what felt like hours but you knew it was only seconds until they were helping him on his feet and guiding him back to the benches where his coach called a timeout. As he was making his way there, he caught your eyes, letting you breath out a long held sigh of relief that he was okay. Then it was right back to panicking because when he smiled at you, you saw the glint in his eyes. The unmistakable glint that made your stomach do summersaults but made your heart hurt because that glint could only mean one thing. That fucker was going to force his way back onto the field.  

Gulping, Jungkook took his spot at the center in what you knew was going to be the last play until the refs called overtime. They could do it, you knew they could. Jungkook had some of the best players in front of him with only 15 more yards from the endzone. Those were very generous odds.

You were chewing on your nail in nervousness, thumbing the edge of the jersey, his jersey. His number felt cold on your back even though you were in a temperature controlled stadium but you found yourself sweating as he called the play and caught the ball from the snap. You saw a pocket right away, Alex being wide open right in the middle of the endzone and as Jungkook was winding up to throw, time seemed to slow down. A defensive tackle did his job and closed the pocket. Your throat closed up as your boyfriend was down to seconds with no other option but to run it. So, in a split second decision, he fakes the pass and doges a linebacker with practiced precision, everyone in the stands, including you, jumping to their feet as he begins weaving his way through and around the players on the field.

3, 2, 2.5, 2.01, 1-

“And Jeon Jungkook completes the touchdown with 0.3 seconds to spare! University of Michigan wins the 2017 NCAA College Football Playoff National Championship!”

The cheers that follow are deafening but they didn’t come unwelcome. You will admit, you were speechless for a couple of seconds until you were overwhelmed with joy and relief, screaming and cheering with his parents. Taehyung runs down beside you and screams as well, exchanging hugs with his second parents and you in unprecedented happiness.

The rest of the team and their coaching staff run towards Jungkook who was already running towards them, the rush of adrenaline kicking in as they all yelled and jumped and celebrated with each other. Seeing the guards walk to the gates of the field, you run there yourself to be the first one let onto the field.

“Where the fuck is he- Jeon Jungkook!,” you yelled, seeing him almost right away from where he was being huddled and surrounded. Turning towards your voice, his smile overtook his face as he met your eyes. You couldn’t help yourself and broke into a sprint towards him, his arms already outstretched, ready to catch you.

And catch you he did. You wrapped your arms around his sweaty neck and he lifted you up, locking your ankles around his waist and his hands under your thighs, and spinning you around him circles as if playing a two and a half hour game didn’t absolutely drain him.

“You did it baby,” you all but yelled, squealing as spun you around even more. Not letting you down, you took both hands away from his neck, trusting him not to let you fall, and went to undo his helmet, removing it to find a face filled with sweat and hair and smiles.

You held his face in your hands as you brushed his sweat-laced hair from his bright eyes feeling as if it were only the two of you in this sea of people.

“I did it because you believed in me,” he whispered, leaning his forehead against your elevated on, “I did it because you always told me I could and tonight I needed to see that for myself.”

You never understood how people could say things without saying them; the theory was just something you couldn’t wrap your head around. But looking at Jungkook with that boyish smile of his that made your heart melt and those eyes that seemed to sparkle with pride and love under the stadium lights, feeling Jungkook all around you in faces of his teammates and the air your were breathing, you seemed to understand how one could say things without saying them. Because once your lips found his, you managed to say one thing and one thing only.

I wish for a lifetime of happiness with you, Jeon Jungkook.

a/n: okay so storytime this literally only took three days to write. All 8.5k which is crazy because I don’t even write that fast for my regular works. The power of quarterback!jeon everyone

-M♡

[unicornsbloodytears]

Chocolate Fondue

The first oneshot of my Ouran High School Host Club inspired series.

Enjoy!

Category: smut/humor

Words: 8759

“Girl let me tell you, you’re getting addicted to that club.” my friend was looking at me suspiciously while munching on her lunch. “Is it that great there?”

“Lucy, you have no idea, honestly, why don’t you come once with me? There’s Yoongi, I bet he would be your favourite!”

“God. No, just spill me all tea once it’s over.”

I was pouting like a five year old, but I didn’t care. I was ready for that tea party because my week was trash and I needed to blow off some steam somehow, and as it turns out Jimin is perfect for these kinds of occasions. After classes are over every student must go to their own club, or they can choose to visit other club’s activities, and because most of the time I’m a lazy sloth I just tag along.

When last year I came to this school I had literally no idea what was going on, everything seemed to be so hectic and even if the teachers explained to us the rules, I was still confused. I always felt stressed because of my studies, and if that wasn’t enough, my parents nagged me at home too, so all in all, it was the end of the world for me. My friends tried to cheer me up and calm me down, but sometimes it wasn’t enough. I had to find my own closure so I decided to try out the art club.

I was in the bathroom when I first heard about it. Furrowing my brows I listened to the girls who were chatting away about it, saying it was “their best experience”, and a “moment to die for.” I had no idea art was this rejuvenating. I asked Lucy first about this, because she’s my closest friend, but she was against it, it was like she was waiting for this moment since she met me. Honestly, maybe the whole powerpoint presentation about it was a little bit extra, but I guess she wanted to get her point across as clearly as possible. But even with her warning I went there full on knowing what will happen, or at least I had a vague idea, because she made sure about it. But the explanation was nothing if I compare it to what happened when I entered the classroom. It said it opened from 14:00 and closed at 16:30, so I decided to try my luck right when they opened. I had enough cash with me, because Lucy warned me about the prices, I swear to God, it was as if she was a regular costumer there.

When I entered, a boy with pink hair greeted me with the friendliest smile ever that almost made me weak in the knees. The uniform looked perfect on him, but I just couldn’t take my eyes off of his dimples and shiny eyes that radiated positivity all over the place. At the same time I had a feeling this boy must be the leader of this group, because his whole aura was overwhelming somehow.

“Welcome to our host club! Do you happen to have an appointment?” his cheery voice made me smile like a little kid.

“Actually I have never been here. I don’t really know what’s going on…” I quickly looked around but my brain completely froze. It was so much more different than what I imagined.

“Alright, then check out this little book, everything is written about what you need to know. Please sit down and feel free to ask me if you have any questions.”

I thanked him before plopping down on the most comfortable cushion. For a moment I closed my eyes, bloody hell[1] I’m really doing this aren’t I? Before I could talk myself out of this I opened the black book and started to read the rules and other supplementary informations about the club. Obviously there is no sex involved, but I didn’t know some of them allowed kisses. There was a whole biography about each one of the boys, but they mostly focused on their personality and what they can offer the clients. I tried to look calm at least on the outside but when I saw the prices and the kissing part I was sure my eyes grew a tad bit too big. I had to subtly shake my head before going back on reading. I made sure I really understood every word before actually checking out the guys, when my eyes caught a red headed boy.

“Bloody…” muttering under my breath I quickly checked the room and soon enough I found him already talking with a cute girl, looking at her like she was the love of his life. Obviously he was flirting shamelessly, it was sort of his job after all. I recognized that guy. I was sure of it, he was the one that ever girl calls in my class “the prince”, and now I could finally understand where the nickname came from. He really did have that prince charming look on him, especially those plump lips that made me lick mine. Holy hell, why was I so attracted to him?

As if he read my thoughts, for a brief second he looked in my direction and smirked before returning to his client. Damn, he was good. Every inch of my body told me to just get the hell out and find myself a new hobby because this is totally inappropriate, if my parents found out I’m here they would surely cut off my allowance, which I definitely couldn’t afford if I wanted him. Sighing I was ready to put away the book and get an appointment when I noticed something curious. At the last page of the book there were bonuses, the boys could actually choose a favourite client which meant that the price would be half off, but only if the client bought with them the rose the boy gave them. Wow, this might be slightly unfair, but also makes sense, since the prices are way up in the sky, if a girl comes here frequently then she would deserve this, or something.

Namjoon asked me to wait a few minutes before writing me on his list and getting the money from me. Jimin was pretty much full until a few days later which didn’t surprise me at all. If somebody has the reputation of a prince I’m actually surprised I didn’t get to see him in like three months.

I only wanted to talk with him, at least in the beginning. Everything went smoothly until I actually sat down in front of him. His perfume smacked me in the face, and I almost forgot what was I doing here. He leaned in close enough for me to see how perfect his skin was, his cherry red lips that asked me to kiss them, even though I didn’t pay for that privilege. I gulped and tried to distance myself from him, his aura was too overwhelming for me, it was like sitting in front a tiger that was ready to attack any moment. The biography said he’s a great listener and he’s kind so I was ready to use these attributes to the maximum, but the fact that he was slowly stroking my knuckles while looking deep into my eyes made it hard to do so.

“I heard you wanted some talking time. I hope it’s okay if I hold your hand, there was no skinship in the contract, but you could use some.” my mouth went agape after what he said, did I really look this awful? When he saw my pathetic facial expression he immediately started to pout. “I didn’t mean it in the wrong way, honey. Honestly. You just seemed awfully sad.”

“I was awfully sad.” I admitted looking the other way, too shy to make eye-contact.

“Hey, it’s fine. You can talk with me about anything, we have secrecy here so you don’t have to worry about me telling someone else.” I closed my eyes for a second before looking at him again. His eyes were sincere, shining like two big stars, and it made me feel safe for some odd reason. The red haired boy smiled at me reassuringly. “Sorry, I forgot about introductions. You know my name but you never told me yours.”

“Oh fu-, uhm, right sorry about that. I can be careless sometimes. It’s Bess, Bess Castleton.” Jimin’s smile became brighter while he eagerly nodded.

“Alright, so Bess, what’s on your mind?”

“I’m a first year student now.”

My heart was beating too fast for my liking, I was scared somebody might hear our conversation, but obviously nobody cared. Most of the girls were too immersed in their own sweet time with the boys, so who would even care if I started to vent in front of Jimin? He must be used to these kinds of situations so I slowly pulled back my right hand and drank some hot tea. The cherry aroma already started to calm my nerves, that’s when I noticed my legs were slightly shaking. How embarrassing.

“Is it hard for you?” he kept his voice low, which I was grateful for, but at the same time my shaking came back like it never left.

“Kind of. Actually yes, this whole thing it’s just shit for brains.[2] My parents were proud when I got accepted but these past few months they put a lot of pressure on me.” just remembering all those awkward dinner conversations makes me have anxiety again.

“Like?”

I had a total of twenty minutes before the next costumer came so I fully used that time to literally start to diss my parents and the whole school, thinking back now I must have looked like a child in his eyes, still, he was listening to me intently and trying to calm me down the best way he could. At the end of our session I was already smiling, the first time since I sat down in front of him, and we were holding hands. I didn’t even notice when and how Jimin got a hold of them, but he wouldn’t let go until he was sure I felt better. I should have stopped going at the club after that one time but for some reason I decided to make another appointment with him next week. And then another one. And another one. It didn’t matter that I had Lucy as my best friend, if it came to emotional moments she was clueless, not to mention if I started to cry. She probably had the emotional range of a teaspoon, but she was always right next to me and listened to me if I was mad at something, but still…

She warned me numerous of times about Jimin and the whole club, but after some time she simply gave up and accepted her defeat, because soon enough, every few days after school I was there with Jimin, talking about my problems, and after seven months he slowly started to open up too. Not about anything big, just simply little things, like what he did after school, what he wants to do after he finishes school, etc. These might seem like nonsense small talks for an outsider, but for me it pretty much meant everything, because he always wanted to hear more about me, but never once said something about his own life.

“If you ask me, I still think he wants to get in your panties.” summer just started and for a change the weather actually became quite hot, so Lucy, Theresa and I decided to get some cold smoothies in the new café.

“Yes well, thank God I didn’t ask you then.” Theresa almost chocked at her smoothie from laughing so hard.

“I’m trying to protect you from a heartbreak, how about that?” Lucy glared at me and I glared right back at her.

“Lucy, you don’t understand now, do you? I wouldn’t mind if he wanted to shag[3] me. He’s brill[4], ain’t he?”

“Whatever you say, I don’t usually go for the small, skinny type.”

“Small and skinny? Have you seen those killer thighs? You must be awfully smitten with George if you can’t appreciate a real beau.” Theresa winked at me before going off on Lucy too. The girl sighed and gave up on this topic.

“Let’s just talk about something else. I will go at the end of the summer to a family trip, you guys want to join?”

“Sure, I’ll ask my parents, I bet they will be so sad I will be out for a few weeks.” I answered sarcastically.

We talked for a few hours about our plans, and after that I went home still in my uniform. I couldn’t wait to finally put this trash away and get some new ones, because thank you very much, I was starting to hate this blue colour. From next year I can finally wear red and after that black and white, which will be a killer outfit if the weather gets hot, but at least I will look somewhat good in them. Dad was still working in his office when I went inside, while mom was watching Desperate Housewifes in the TV. I quickly attacked the bathroom and took the longest bath in history, with rose petals, some candles, and my favourite blue bubbles. After this self-care session I felt like a queen when I walked back into my room, but outside was already gloomy again. With a pout on my face I closed the huge windows and hopped on my bed, laptop in my lap. It must have been late at night when my phone started to buzz. Nonchalantly I checked out who it was but I almost choked on air when I saw his name.

My conversation with Jimin was short and to the point. I had literally no idea why he texted me, and how he got my number because, if I remember correctly, I never once told him. And the fact that he was probably completely arseholed[5] I wasn’t sure if we were actually allowed to talk and meet outside of our sessions. Right now I had no idea if it was written in the contract, but I had to choose quickly, so I already sent the message when I realized it might have not been my best decision in my life. I scoffed while I dressed in some simple jeans and a comfortable hoodie, I had no intention on staying anyway, at least that’s what I thought while pulling on my Gucci shoes.

“Promise me you won’t freak out.” I had to call Lucy after I sneaked out because no way in hell I was doing this shit alone. At least I needed some emotional support.

“Did you snog someone ugly again?”

“No. And what do you even mean by again? I’m hurt.”

“Going on.” I could clearly hear that she was munching on some food again from the comfort of her bed.

“Jimin drunk texted me to get him.”

“Let me guess, you’re an arse big enough to actually go?”

“I’m on my way.” I bit my bottom lip when I heard her laughter.

“Use protection love, I don’t want to be a granny yet.” so much for my emotional support.

“I’m attacking in 3,2,1.”

“Go on tiger!”

I chuckled before hanging up. Greysons was a pretty chic place, mostly seniors went here to play billiard, eat some gourmet food and get pissed. I had no idea where he was, the place is huge and it’s packed, because mostly everybody finished the year these days. I looked around trying not to pay too much attention to all the dressed up people, when I noticed his fiery red hair in the distance beside a girl. There was no way in hell I’m going to interrupt them so I called him and watched the way he clumsily got his phone out of his jacket. Fuck, he really did look good. He wore at least a dozen rings, and the all black outfit really accentuated his hair colour, which only made him stand out even more from the crowd.

“Ya here?”

“Yes, near the entrance, you have 5 minutes to end it with pretty girl, after that I’m going back home.”

“Pleasse, three is enough.”

I rolled my eyes at his words, but I couldn’t hold back a big smile. He was handsome and he knew it, no surprise here. I yawned when someone tickled my sides making me half-scream half-laugh.

“Bess! Haven’t seen you in a while.” Haruma was a Japanese exchange student whom I was friends with a few months back, until I realized I started to crush on him. Hard.

“Haru, going at it hard, aren’t you?” I smirked at the drink he was barely holding in his hand.

“You have no idea, English people are crazy around here, wuow.” the cute little smile made my stomach sink so I quickly looked at his clothes. Bad decision, the V shaped shirt showed too much of his skin for my liking. “Hey, I wanted to talk to you for some time now.”

“Wait, what? Why?”

“What do you mean why? You suddenly didn’t answer my calls nor texts. I just want to know, did I do something to make you mad? Did I?”

“Of course not Haru, you’re not most kind…”

“Sorry to keep you waiting love.” I almost had a heartattack when Jimin’s hand flew over my shoulder, but the fright he gave me was nothing compared to when he playfully bit my neck. That fucker.

“Oh, of course you have a boyfriend. Sorry, don’t want a fight.” it was obvious for me that the smile he gave me was fake but I was paralyzed with shock and when I realized he’s gone I was furious with Jimin.

I was annoyed with his antics but at the same time I knew he was buzzed so I let it slide this time. The bad feeling that I felt since he messaged me only increased when I helped him get home, because his hands always found somehow mine so after a while I just let him do whatever he wanted. Jimin didn’t listen anyway.

After this incident his messages became a routine and I didn’t mind it one bit, until…

“I thought you wouldn’t see me anymore.” he whispered while sliding a hand around my waist. I could already feel the tension in the air, something that became an everyday thing in the past two weeks.

“I’m dedicated to annoy you.” I answered with the intention of sitting down next to him, when he suddenly moved his leg. My heart skipped a beat, this arse really made me sit on his lap.

“But you can never annoy me love.” he brushed my hair from my face which probably had the same colour as a tomato by this point. “In fact, I was thinking about giving you the rose.”

“Not that I couldn’t see you anytime I want.”

“Why do you always hurt me?” he pouted like a little boy while slowly stroking my bare thigh. I could have melted into his touch if he didn’t completely change into a more cocky attitude. “Playing hard to get won’t help you.”

“I’m not playing hard to get, I am like this since birth.” I cocked an eyebrow at him hoping this will be enough to drop the subject, but his eyes only became more intense, which made me all hot inside.

“Nor being a brat will help your situation.” to accentuate his words, Jimin squeezed my thigh making me squirm a little under his touch. My action wasn’t unnoticed, earning another smirk from him.

“Jimin…” in my head it sounded like a warning but as soon as his name left my lips it sounded more like a whine. His dark eyes lit up for a second before smiling like an angel at me.

“How about a dinner?” the sudden question made me almost choke on the cherry tea I was trying to drink. It was obvious that he didn’t care about the club’s rules but this was a whole new level even for him.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.” I was chewing on my bottom lip thinking hard about his request.

“Come on, it’s going to be romantic.”

I have no idea what spell he put on me to agree, but I was already in my dress looking myself up and down in my mirror when I checked my Twitter. I was rolling my eyes, of course this arse can’t shut up about this whole thing. Next thing I knew he was calling me and apologising about his tweet, but I knew he actually liked the attention, and I liked how he pleaded for mercy so I pretended he hurt my feelings. In the end I waltzed out in my new black dress with the lowest heels I could find, when I saw him at the end of the garden. He wore a black bottom up shirt, a black sleeveless jacket and golden blazer. He really looked like a prince, just standing there and breathing, and I suddenly didn’t feel half as sexy as him. Normally I would thirst all over him right now, but at this moment my self-esteem suddenly went lower than hell and I had to pretend that I was okay with this.

“Love.” Jimin’s grin lighted up the whole neighbourhood while he hugged me close. I could feel his lingering touch on the back of my neck, while he started to stroke my back. “I could eat you up right now.”

“Like tiramisu?” I asked him half-jokingly.

“You won’t ever let me off the hook, will you?”

“Nope, let’s go, I’m thirsty too.” the adrenaline must have taken over me because this flirty reaction wasn’t something normally I would do, especially not to a A+ guy like him.

“Hmm, you’re really making this hard for me. And not just this whole situation.” my face went beet red, and I shyly looked at my feet praying that this conversation will be over fast, because I’d rather shag with him than awkwardly flirt and make a fool out of myself. “I love it when you get all shy around me.”

“Just a tip, how about you don’t point out my flaws?” I groaned, which only made him chuckle.

“Okay, okay, fair enough. You never said something about my height either.”

“It might be the perfect time to start teasing you then.”

“I can imagine some better teasing though.”

The dinner was delicious, but I couldn’t exactly concentrate, and it was a miracle I could actually eat something with the intense stares Jimin gave me all night. I was getting fidgety after some time but no way in hell I would tell him this so I tried my best to look decently calm while eating my meat and potatoes. When we decided to be friends, even if he had to be drunk so we could start to be friends, I didn’t think that it would lead to an actual date with someone I wasn’t even supposed to talk after the club. And now here I am being all flustered from all the kinky jokes and suggestive comments he’s making every damned second of our conversation.

“So what dessert do you want?” I asked trying to sound nonchalant while looking at the menu but the words became quiet at the end when I remembered his tweet. Bloody hell, this wasn’t a good choice of words now, was it?

“I can’t even remember the last time I ate a good fondue.” I grinned at him, naively thinking he’s going to let me off the hook but my breathing hitched in the second I saw his eyes darkening. “I like it hot and steamy, the burn on my tongue so sweet.”

Few seconds ago my face was pink, but I decided if he wants to play dirty then two can play this game, because I’m not letting him win this round. I slowly lowered my menu, ready for my attack.

“You’re awfully cheeky, but I’m not even surprised. All men do is talk and do nothing.” I decided it was enough of beating around the bush, I don’t need a fucking fondue I want him inside of me, and right now. His plump lips parted for a second, finally I could feel a little power in my hands and it made me more confident. “So if you want a real dessert, how about going somewhere private?”

Okay, I went totally overboard with this and I didn’t even drink only a little martini. I knew how much I fucked up when he bit on his lip hard, dark eyes clouded with lust. Somewhat I was expecting a cocky answer, but in the next moment he suddenly got up, wallet in his hand.

“Wait me by the door love. Don’t worry, I’ll be quick.”

My lips went dry while I watched him storm off to find the waiter. I could feel my hands starting to sweat from the excitement, it’s really going to happen now, I’m really going to snog just the hottest guy in the whole school and I didn’t even had to persuade him. My mind went blank while I quickly drank the remaining alcohol and prayed for Jesus, even though it might not have been the best idea to turn to him in this situation. I was fidgety the whole time I was waiting for him at the entrance, trying to look at the night sky, hoping that the view will calm my nerves. My heartbeat was crazy, I wasn’t even this excited when I first lost my virginity, then why am I getting this crazy for him?

A few minutes later we were already sitting in a taxi, but I was too absentminded to ask where were we heading. He held my hand, stroking it lightly with his fingertips, but even from this innocent gesture my lips were quivering. He just knew what affect he had on me and he took his sweet time paying and helping me out of the vehicle. I wasn’t even surprised that we arrived at the entrance of a famous hotel, nothing less from a rich family’s boy. I suddenly felt like the dress I wore was too tight and my long black hair started to irritate my shoulders while I waited for him next to the reception. He was talking calmly with the man in front of him while I had the worst existencial crisis ever, thinking about what will happen next. All of a sudden my mind started to be completely full with questions, fear slowly creeping in. I felt self-conscious because every passer by stared at us like they already knew what were we up to, not to mention the not so subtle looks I got from the man Jimin was talking with. My breathing became ragged when I felt Jimin’s hand at my waist slowly squeezing it, pulling me closer to him. Maybe he sensed my fear and now he’s trying to calm me down?

“Love.” surprised I looked at him, he had a kind smile plastered across his face, oh good, he was out of the dom mode. “Come on, the room is ready.”

“Sure, yea.” he helped me up on the staircase and while we waited for the elevator he watched me out of the corner of his eye. “Something on my face?”

“My lips will be soon enough.” he commented slowly licking his own. I involuntarily gulped at the thought of him cornering me in the elevator and grinding against me, which made me even more anxious.

“Maybe we should take the stairs.”

“Afraid of some intimacy, love? Didn’t you say you wanted to go somewhere private?” he leaned in closer, lips close to my right ear, while his hand slided down on my ass. “Where is that confidence you had?”

I couldn’t think of any smart remark so I just stared ahead biting my lip. Looks like he was already back again in his dom space, and the fact that the elevator just opened didn’t help me calm down. I quickly licked my lips while going inside, Jimin’s hand still on my ass, not that I minded. As soon as the elevator closed he pressed me against the mirror. It felt cold against my hot skin, boobs pressed against it probably leaving some indecent marks on it.

“If I ask something you better answer babygirl.” just like in my imagination, he grinded his crotch against my ass leaving me breathless already. “While you’re with me you obey my rules. Understood?”

“Yes.” I couldn’t even recognize my high-pitched voice.

“Do not forget who you belong to.” to emphasize his words, he dig his nails into my thighs which made me moan outload involuntarily.

The elevator suddenly stopped so he backed away from me, and I quickly turned around with flushed cheeks. He grabbed my hand and with fast steps pulled me after him until he abruptly stopped in front of a door. He opened the door with the card letting me go inside first. I pulled off my shoes while looking around the big apartment-like room, but the first thing I noticed was the huge king-sized bed next to the wall, blood red rose petal scattered across the floor and on the mattress. The next thing was the mini chocolate fountain on the table, next to it a bowl of fresh fruits. I immediately looked at him with wide eyes, for a moment I forgot how heated was the mood just a few second ago, until I observed more closely his eyes. All I could read from them was hunger. I dropped my bag on the floor which made him get out from the trance.

“On the bed.”

I wasn’t going to oppose his command, but sure as hell I wasn’t running there, taking my sweet time, walking toward the bed like I had all the time in the world. This probably made him lose his temper fast, because he forcefully grabbed me by my waist and with one precise motion he tossed me on the bed. My dress flew up until my belly but before I could pull it back down he was already right on top of me looking with his piercing eyes at my facial expression, just observing.

“I told you. Being a brat won’t help you.” his voice was sounded sweet as honey, but his eyes told me another story.

“Maybe I want to be in trouble.” I replied with a small voice which made him cock an eyebrow for a second, before leaning down next to my ear.

“My babygirl likes to be punished? What a filthy little slut.” my breathing hitched, his dirty talk made my head dizzy. One time he was talking like I was the love of his life, then next thing I know he’s degrading me, but nonetheless it makes my core throb with anticipation.

“Please.” I murmured under my breath, while grinding against his crotch. His hands squeezed my wrists harder making me stop.

“I know you’re eager babygirl, but let’s keep it slow.” I cursed under my breath but the cocky smirk told me that it wasn’t quiet enough. “Keep your hands next to your head. If not…”

He intentionally didn’t finish his sentence so I only gulped and tried not to move so much. Jimin smirked at me before hungrily kissing my lips making me moan in the process. They were soft and slightly slippery from our saliva, and the way he rhytmically moved them against mine, the way he slipped his warm tongue in my mouth slowly caressing mine… it was a dream. He was humming and moaning on my lips, his crotch slowly grinding against the soft fabric of my panties. If I knew for sure I will be getting some action tonight I might have put on the lace set I got myself, but these red panties should do the trick too.

I was panting already from the kiss and he didn’t even touched me yet like I wanted him to. Keeping my hands next to my head was the hardest thing to do especially when I felt his warm, plush lips leave mine. The urge to grab his red hair and push him back down was big, but I knew better than this. He licked his lips again, eyes already wandering around my body, slowly drinking in the sight which made me blush profusely. His crotch was still making small circles on my panties making it soaked with my arousal, meanwhile I bit my lip hard not to moan again.

“Hmmm who is this pussy so wet for? Tell me.” his voice became so much deeper than before.

“Yours.” I automatically responded clenching my hands into fists while concentrating on my breathing.

His fingers went up from my thighs until the edge of my panties, playing with the hem of it which made me even more frustrated. He smirked the whole time when suddenly his soft touch was gone. Jimin aggressively got me out of the dress leaving me only in my undergarments. Licking his lips seductively he looked at my body like no other guy before, while he stripped down himself leaving only his boxers on. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him and the deep V line he had, holy fuck, he wasn’t joking then, when he told me about his dance practices at night.

“Fuck babygirl. I knew you were hot, but…” he leaned down, lips brushing my collarbones. “I should punish you just for being this tempting.”

“Right back at you.” I mewled sinking my nails into my palm, trying not to grind my hips against his rock hard member.

He only chuckled darkly starting to bite hard on my skin making me wince in pain, but pleasure at the same time. I felt him suck on my neck, and bite on it softly before grinding his hips against me again in a teasing motion. Curses and moans left my lips shamelessly, meanwhile his hands stroked my boobs. With a loud smack he left my neck to open my bra leaving me even more exposed to his soft lips. Everytime I felt him against my hot skin I would get goosebumps all over my body. Jimin started to leave small hickeys all around my chest never once paying attention to my whines to play with my nipples, but when he finally brushed his lips against one of my bud I accidentally thrusted upward making him growl against my skin. For a second I thought he will really punish me so my breathing hitched, however he was too preoccupied with my chest. I bit my bottom lip everytime he nibbled on my nipples making them even harder than before. With one last bite he got off of me to go to the table. I was sure he had something in his mind, and I doubted he wanted a quick snack before snogging me senseless.

I couldn’t take off my eyes of his broad back which showed how much muscles he truly had, not to mention those thighs that I would grind against if he would only let me. I quickly stretched my arms before he returned with a plate of fruits and an even bigger bowl full with chocolate. He looked at me for a second, as if asking for my permission, so I slowly nodded my head. He put the plates at the other side of the bed and bent down next to my inner thigh biting on it hard. I shrieked from the sudden pain I felt, but it only lasted for about a second before he sensually licked his was closer to my panties. My breathing was ragged at this point.

“You’re such a good girl for me.” he whispered softly before giving a kiss right to my entrance. I could feel it even through my panties which made me moan louder than before. “I want you to scream my name when you cum. Got it?”

The extreme changes in his demeanour made me crave his member, and for a second I thought about telling him to just finish with the teasing, but before I could muster up my remaining courage he already roughly pulled my panties down. With a smirk on his face he grabbed the bowl with the chocolate in it and started to pour some of it on my slit. This is the wildest thing someone ever did to me so I was watching with wide eyes, was he really going to eat me out while I’m covered in chocolate, because…

My mind went blank again as he licked a long stripe starting from my entrance until my clit. He literally started to eat me out without any warning, making slurping noises and moaning while his hands held me in one place. I grabbed the sheets like my life depended on it, while gasping loudly everytime his tongue found his way in my entrance. Jimin sucked with his soft lips on my clit when he suddenly inserted two finger making me clench around it. He rapidly started to pump them in and out of my me, while playing with my clit and folds. His fingers curled inside of me, which made me thrust in the air before I came hard all over his lips. Even when I was twitching he didn’t stopped for one second, pulling out his finger only to be replaced by his tongue again.

“Fuck Jimin!” I screamed before releasing the crinkly sheets. “How did you do this?”

“You can touch but you can’t tell.” in my mind this idiom was not exactly this way, but my mind was too full with other thoughts to actually correct him. “Sit up babygirl.”

I was still panting heavily and my legs got tired, but I did as he told me hungrily eyeing his boxers. I wanted to suck him off already, however he had some other plans.

“Do you remember what I asked you in the beginning?” I opened my mouth to reply but I couldn’t muster out a word because his intense gaze made me look down on my thighs. In the next moment he aggressively grabbed my chin and made me look into his eyes once more. “When I ask you something you answer me slut.”

“I’m sorry daddy.” the words just slipped out of my mouth before I could think.

“Sorry for what?” he didn’t even stutter, like he was used to this kind of submission.

“I didn’t answer you.” my voice was getting smaller every second, making me fidgety with his eyes only. I only noticed now how his lips became red and swollen after he ate me out which made my core throb again.

He let go of my chin going back to the chocolate and fruits he left at the side of the bed. Jimin got a strawberry and dipped it in the sweet dressing and licked off the chocolate before he ate it in one bite. I couldn’t exactly see what he was up to from his muscular back but I had a feeling he’s going to punish me for something.

When he turned around my suspicion became reality, in his hand it was a bigger banana full with chocolate.

“I told you to keep your hands next to your head. Did you really think I forgot about it babygirl?” I gulped looking at the fruit without blinking. I was sure of his intentions now. “Suck on it while you ride my face.”

“W-what?” my lips went agape at his words. Was he serious?

“Did I stutter?”

His voice was raspy and full with authority. I shyly nodded and took the banana from him and slowly brought it closer to my lips. He was watching me like a hawk so I closed my eyes rather than to make eye-contact with him again. I started to slowly suck on the fruit my face becoming from pink to a deep red thinking how shameless must I look in his eyes now. The banana hit the back of my throat making me choke a little bit but I didn’t stop, not until he told me to. The taste of chocolate slowly faded, but I started to get aroused even more thinking that I could feel his lips against my slit again. I opened my eyes to look at him, trying to keep eye-contact, hoping that I might turn him on at least a little bit.

“Take it out.” I pulled out the banana from my mouth, which he grabbed and simply tossed next to the other fruits. “Fuck this, get on your back, legs up.”

Even though he told me to get on my back, he was the one who pushed me on my back and I automatically swung my legs up for him. He took of his boxers, erection springing free which made me bite my lip, I really wanted to have a taste of him.

Jimin quickly took out a condom from his pocket already opening the package, eagerly pulling it on his member. My face was flushed when he put my legs on his shoulders putting almost all of his weight on me, just so he could be closer to my face. With one hand he started to tease my entrance, but my juices were already coating his erection making him moan. I was panting, my breathing heavy from the pressure he put on me, but the delicious feeling of him entering me made me gasp outloud earning a growl from him.

“Your pussy is swallowing my cock.” I grabbed onto his hair pulling him to plant a kiss on his plush lips. I bit down on it while he started to move roughly in and out of me.

I could hear the lewd noises we made, the heavy panting and him slamming into me with bigger force than before. I had to hold onto his back, scratching it in the meantime, because his strength was otherworldly, leaving me a moaning mess underneath him. Because of this position I could feel him go really deep inside of me, his moaning right next to my ear, while he tried to hold himself above me.

“Bloody hell…” tears started to form in my eyes from the pain and the pleasure he gave me.

“You take me so well babygirl. Do you like it? Is daddy making a good job?” his sweat dripped down on me while he talked. Seeing him in control made me closer to have an orgasm, but I knew I needed some help if I truly wanted to reach it again.

“Yes daddy. Fuck, you’re so good.” I almost stuttered while answering him.

Suddenly he pulled out leaving me exposed, before he commanded me to get on all fours. I put my head down in the exact moment when he slammed in me again making me gasp. Jimin was pounding me ruthlessly while I was teasing my clit, I was getting closer and closer to orgasm when he smacked my hand away and pulled my hair, so his lips were right next to my ear. I’ve got goosebumps all over my body when I heard his heavy breathing this close.

“Who said you can touch yourself slut?”

“Please daddy, please.” I didn’t have any shame at this point, I really wanted to feel him fucking me senseless while I have the biggest orgasm in history.

“Please what? I should just leave you here, hanging, like a little bitch.”

“I want to cum, please.” my lips were dry, and I was sure I had a sore throat from all the screaming.

“Hold it. Hold it until I say so.”

He pushed me back down and continued to fuck me while stroking my clitoris. I had to shut my eyes close, could barely breath because the stimulations were too much and if I came when he didn’t let me I’d never hear the end of it. I bit on my bottom lip which was already bleeding at this point, but I couldn’t hold myself back, I still screamed his name like a prayer while he growled and pushed his member deeper.

It was one AM when I laid on the sweaty bed, hair a mess, not to mention about the soreness I felt from the fuck we had. We finished at least ten minutes ago, he was already acting like an innocent little cat, snuggling close to me and kissing me softly, asking me if I was feeling alright. All I knew was that my parents would kill me next day, if they noticed my absence. Both of them were in the main room when I sneaked out so they might not have heard me, but surely they will hear me when I open the front door, won’t they?

Jimin brought me back from my daydream with his killer hug. I could barely breath he was holding me so tight, nuzzling his face right next to my neck.

“Shouldn’t we go?” I asked him in a hoarse voice. The truth is, we should probably talk about this whole ordeal, but I was in no mood to do so. I felt dirty and wanted to take a hot shower and lay in my bed for all eternity, at least until my soreness will go away.

“Can you move?” he was teasing me again, but he had a strong point, I couldn’t even hug him back.

“Not really.” I sighed turning around to face him. “I need to go home fast.”

“Not yet love, I will order some late night snacks and we will take a bath together. Sounds good?”

“You surely are a boyfriend material.” I commented in a sarcastic tone, but he only grinned at me. “What will happen after this?”

“Well~” his sing-song voice made me cringe, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to do this with him again. “If you want to shag again, or just hang out, we can always do that.”

“Chim, aren’t you tired?”

“Chim?” his face became instantly pink from the nickname I came out with. “I’m not. If you would be a dancer you’d understand.”

In the end I came home at four AM, because Jimin had some crazy libido and I obviously have some problem saying no, so after we had our snacks we had sex again, then we took a bath and went home like nothing happened. Thank God my parents were still fast asleep while I sneaked back inside. In the morning my body looked like I was in some kind of war overnight, so I had to be smart about how I dressed in the next few days, using my makeup skills to hide every hickey he gave me. Lucy was almost screaming when I told her what happened, especially after I showed her some of the purple hickeys he left on my neck. We talked about this for days, and I still talked with Jimin like we were friends, only now it was like we were close friends with a fuck now and then.

From days became weeks and we still had the same relationship until everything went down the hill one afternoon. I didn’t visit him in the host club because for some reason Tim, an upperclassmen, asked me on a date and I said yes. He was smart and had the most adorable little freckles on his cheeks, and this was enough for me. Tim asked me out when we had lunch with Lucy and Theresa, right in front of them. The cocky attitude turned me on for some reason, so I automatically said yes, my friends looking at me like I was some kind of alien. They kept shut about their opinion, but thinking back they should have said something, because obviously I didn’t think it through.

We were out, having a coffee in the nearby shop, talking about nonsenses really, when my phone started to buzz. I didn’t answer right away so after some more minutes it started to buzz again. Saying sorry I checked it out, it was Jimin.

Angrily I muted my phone and put it away before going back to my dad. It was ridiculous, what was he even talking about? Was he trying to initiate sext with me? Because if he really did, he didn’t do a good job at it, especially after I told him I’m on a date. I could already imagine all the missed calls and texts I will get when I will get my phone from my bag, for some reason he was really possessive, and he never even told me why. And now this.

My anger subdued over time, so when Tim took me home I already forgot about Jimin and his stupid jealousy, that’s why when I saw him in the distance, waiting in front of my house I panicked. Quickly I said goodbye to him, lying that I will call him later, but undoubtedly I had no intention to do so. He was too clingy all day long, and he accidentally grinded on me at least two times, so I should thank Jimin later that I could notice him even from a big distance.

“Chim!” I tried to look at him happily, but the way he glared at me told me nothing will help me, maybe not even God. “What’s up?”

“Humans are really interesting creatures that invented technology and with it this shit called mobile. Have you ever heard of it?” his tone was calm, but I could feel the rage inside of him.

“No need to be mean about it. Is it because I didn’t give you a nosh[6]?” he closed his eyes for a second before exhaling loudly.

“Do you seriously think I’d make a big deal out of that? You went out on a date for fucks sake.”

“Wait, hold on, you are really jealous?” I shook my head incredulously. “Why?”

“What do you mean why? Isn’t it obvious? We are dating!” we looked at eachother for a few seconds before I scrunched up my nose trying to think of a calm answer.

“Jimin, if we are dating, can you tell me exactly when we decided this? Together?”

He already opened his mouth to fight back, but remained silent. Suddenly his face fell, while he closed his mouth looking at me with hurt in his eyes. I knew we should have talked about this sooner, much more sooner, right in that hotel room. Everything seemed too perfect, we were getting along well, even the intimacy part was marvellous, but what I never thought about was dating him. Yes, he was perfect, a real prince charming in every way, except the jealousy everytime I was talking with some other guys, not to mention all those cases that ended horrible because of his possessiveness. In the bedroom it was hot, but outside of it, not so much. Never in my wildest dreams have I thought that he would feel something more for me, because, after all, we never discussed our relationship. And it looks like he realized this right now.

“Fuck.” he murmured looking defeated, while I looked at him with a sad expression. “Fuck, no.”

“Well fuck yes, you never told me you liked me more than a friend. Never, ever.”

“Do you really think I would just fuck around like this with anybody?” his face was pale at this point, even he knew that he had no excuse. If he wanted something more from me, he could always open his mouth, instead of making assumptions that I feel the same way.

“Jimin, it doesn’t matter what I think. The thing is, you never told me anything, how was I supposed to know you like me? Read your mind?”

“Just, fuck you. Forget about me.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but he stormed off leaving me defeated. I was probably wrong at some point, I guess, but to be fair, I really never noticed his feelings, up until now, so how was I supposed to…how?

 red rose: If you planned on delivering this classic choice of your significant other, you're in luck. It means "love."

[1] damn, shit

[2] stupid

[3] have sex

[4] brilliant

[5] drunk

[6] blowjob

[hotelconcierge]

The Tower

hey man there’s a hole in my head where information goes

I. 

1 And the whole earth was of one language and of one speech.

2 And it came to pass, as they journeyed east, that they found a plain in the land of Shinar; and they dwelt there.

3 And they said one to another: 'Come, let us make brick, and burn them thoroughly.' And they had brick for stone, and slime had they for mortar.

4 And they said: 'Come, let us build us a city, and a tower, with its top in heaven, and let us make us a name; lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth.'

5 And the LORD came down to see the city and the tower, which the children of men builded.

6 And the LORD said: 'Behold, they are one people, and they have all one language; and this is what they begin to do; and now nothing will be withholden from them, which they purpose to do.

7 Come, let us go down, and there confound their language, that they may not understand one another's speech.'

8 So the LORD scattered them abroad from thence upon the face of all the earth; and they left off to build the city.

9 Therefore was the name of it called Babel; because the LORD did there confound the language of all the earth; and from thence did the LORD scatter them abroad upon the face of all the earth. (Genesis 11:1–9)

In Sunday School or Illustrated Classics, we are taught that God punished humanity for hubris, for daring to disobey Mesopotamian zoning laws. That’s not what it says here.

Biblical man didn’t build a tower to sneak into Heaven’s happy hour without ID. He wanted to “make a name; lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth.” The tower was symbolic, decorative, a community service project. It was supposed to bring people together.

And accordingly, the LORD doesn’t care about the tower, doesn’t even mention it by name. The tower is merely a tip-off that something is awry. When God descends to Earth, His complaint is,

'Behold, they are one people, and they have all one language; and this is what they begin to do; and now nothing will be withholden from them, which they purpose to do.’

The Judeo-Christian capital G—o—d, robed, bearded, opinionated, deadlifts, thematically male, is the avatar of civilization, just check the year. Even so, His omnipotence is not uncontested. He knows this. You should see what He did to the guys with the golden calf. God said, “Let there will be light,” and there was light. But just as Nyx preceded Zeus, that means the darkness was already there. And the house always wins at the second law of thermodynamics.

“Behold, they are one people, and they have all one language; and this is what they begin to do.” God didn’t punish Homo sapiens sapiens for hubris, he launched a pre-emptive strike. “Now nothing will be withholden from them, which they purpose to do.” Far be it from me to psychoanalyze God. But if I’m reading the tone correctly, He did this because He was scared.

II. 

But it’s alright, Ma, it’s life and life only.

—Bob Dylan

Everyone deserves to figure out the meaning of life at least once or twice. We’re talking late teens and early twenties, when work is too easy and finding better work too hard. Turning the post-acid feeling of cosmic oneness into a fridge-note to-do list is harder than expected, but whatever man, MWF pass/no pass. Start from the basics. Matter is math, mind is matter. Determinism except for the quantum stuff. Time is a flat circle, space is a mobius strip, morality is aesthetics and aesthetics is quantifiable. Big Bang and billiard balls of 1s and 0s colliding and uncolliding on loop. “Though existence has no inherent meaning,” you tell your ex over chamomile, “in the end, all we have is each other.” Reply: something about how all behavior is an expression of the ancestral Art that is shared by our collective unconscious. “Um, yeah,” annoyed, “I thought that was obvious.”

Ah, surprise surprise, turns out your inch and footnoted masterpiece was predicted by the Greek philosopher Fuchylus in 380 B.C.E. Like, you could have right-clicked that guy’s papyrus for synonyms. Not to mention the next twenty-three hundred years of middlebrow philosophy you somehow missed. Why did you think your reductionism was original? Even your doodles are boring. Wolfram plays coy. The rock band turns to sediment. Making a fool of yourself drunk won’t get a rise from fate and sobriety gives a hangover too. Atoms don’t touch they just brush electrons; the sky magnifies the sun onto the anthills of man. Spilled soda on the counter and cashed bowls on the kitchen table; it’s the witching hour, and some guy in an Neff beanie is asking if you have any Xanax. And the meaning of life strikes again, that sacred cosmic oneness, how strange it is to be anything at all—but just for a second. And with the wisdom of a philosopher, you reply, “Dude, I need to sleep.”

That’s when the open-mic audience would start finger-snapping and I would do a handle pull from whatever was available, probably Seagram’s. Look, we’ve all been there. And to the best of our abilities, I hope we’ve all moved on.

It has gradually become clear to me what every great philosophy up till now has consisted of—namely, the confession of its originator, and a species of involuntary and unconscious auto-biography; and moreover that the moral (or immoral) purpose in every philosophy has constituted the true vital germ out of which the entire plant has always grown. (Beyond Good & Evil)

But I also hope that you’ve kept some sympathy for homebrew creation myths. Even though one inevitably stumbles upon some version of “existence is suffering, might as well floss,” the challenge of applying vocab words to reality sometimes reveals patterns that would not otherwise be obvious.

So consider yourself warned: the unfortunately academic ideas hereafter will not take the controls you so desperately proffer, and they will not grant you an answer that does not exist. I still believe they are important.

The question is thus: why don’t we choose to be happy?

For those who doubt humanity’s anti-joy stance, look no further than the sci-fi concept of Wireheading. If in the year 20XX the Hegemony announces a Guaranteed Happiness Machine, would you use it? There’s no catch. You sign in triplicate, there’s low-volume Sinatra playing from an overhead speaker, a lab tech hooks up electrodes to your forehead, terms and conditions, agree, YES, ON. And then you feel good. As good as it is possible to feel. The machine makes heroin look like a sharpie high. The feeling it gives you isn’t mere hedonistic pleasure, it is limitless understanding, loving and being loved, progress and growth—whichever nouns or adjectives you prefer, the sum feeling is happiness. The machine never stops working and it never induces a tolerance. You can stop anytime, although no one ever does, they live in rapture while undergrads making $12.50 an hour tend to their fluids. Ninety years later, they die.

I have no doubt that some readers would hit the ON button so hard they’d break a metacarpal. Not unreasonable, if you are depressed or a hippie circa 1967. I can’t question your axioms, I’ll drop a few nickels when I pass by on Telegraph Ave. Those of you who reject suicide by Hallmark, I agree, but please note that instead of happiness, equanimity, transcendence, or any other internal state postulated as the ‘meaning of life,’ you are prioritizing something that is not a feeling at all.

A second thought experiment re: that something. Suppose that your behoodied Silicon Valley boss offers you an all-expenses-paid vacation to virtual reality paradise. This is more than a chemical high: an analysis of your preteen forum posts nudges the universe into whatever genre fiction your unconscious craves most. The VR offers you the chance to live out your dreams. Alas, for copyright reasons, any memories of the vacation will be wiped upon your return, any skills you acquired will be unlearned, and any metadata of your adventures will be destroyed. You’ll remember inhaling the sedative, then you’ll wake up with lumbar back pain to show that time has passed.

I’m more tempted by dreamland than the empty calories of wireheading, but even so I recognize that both choices are fundamentally the same: an ecstasy that leaves no trace vs. bland but tangible reality. The decision is almost binary. If you would spend a year in the Matrix, why not twenty? Why not the rest of your life?

These concerns are not theoretical.

In the study, Kahneman and colleagues looked at the pain participants felt by asking them to put their hands in ice-cold water twice (one trial for each hand). In one trial, the water was at 14C (59F) for 60 seconds. In the other trial the water was 14C for 60 seconds, but then rose slightly and gradually to about 15C by the end of an additional 30-second period.

Both trials were equally painful for the first sixty seconds, as indicated by a dial participants had to adjust to show how they were feeling. On average, participants’ discomfort started out at the low end of the pain scale and steadily increased. When people experienced an additional thirty seconds of slightly less cold water, discomfort ratings tended to level off or drop.

Next, the experimenters asked participants which kind of trial they would choose to repeat if they had to. You’ve guessed the answer: nearly 70% of participants chose to repeat the 90-second trial, even though it involved 30 extra seconds of pain. Participants also said that the longer trial was less painful overall, less cold, and easier to cope with. Some even reported that it took less time. (Summary by this website, source Thinking Fast and Slow)

Ur-Rationalist Daniel Kahneman distinguishes between the experiencing self, which reacts to the bartender’s “you’ve had enough” with pain fiber shocks of disbelief, and the remembering self, which, subject to biases such as duration neglect and the peak-end rule, leaves the two star Yelp review. The cold water experiment is a brilliant demonstration of how, as in the wirehead and dreamland examples above, our remembering and experiencing selves often disagree. This should be intuitive: consider the TV series ruined by the finale, the regret that follows junk food bliss, or the bad date that turns into a comedic memory.

Except Kahneman doesn’t take his idea far enough. Consider the motivations of a suicide bomber. The experiencing self knows nothing save immediate pleasure and pain. It has no interest in martyrdom. It will only pull the trigger to end some greater agony, such as during sickness, when some elemental part of you literally does “want to die.” The remembering self is what chooses to endure the flu, since it knows from its internalized stories that all pain eventually subsides; failure of this mechanism is the cognitive basis for depression. At times, the remembering self will even coax the experiencing self into discomfort, e.g. work, in exchange for a future reward, e.g. dough. But the case of a kamikaze, the remembering self is willing to die not for its own postponed pleasure, but so that some other remembering self can look back on its behalf.

Ask any teenage boy, would you prefer an miserable life—and I mean no “life satisfaction,” no “dopaminergic reinforcement,” nothing but anhedonia and abject suffering—with a great legacy, or a happy but unremarkable stay? All he’ll have to do is point to his Nirvana t-shirt. In his own faux-hawked way, he’s continuing the sacrificial tradition of his ancestors: warriors, prophets, and parents. Any given hamartia may cut your QALYs in half, but plenty of Greeks would’ve taken an arrow to the heel in exchange for a Homeric cameo. This is why utilitarianism is for nerds. I get the need for a heuristic, fine, but the remembering self doesn’t want quality of life, it wants quality of death, and it is impossible to factor that into your calculations because nothing ends, Adrian, nothing ever ends. Your story continues postmortem on the Ship of Theseus down the River Styx, vulnerable to necrophiliacs and redeemable by eulogy. The remembering self is not bound by pleasure, it is not bound by time, it is not even bound by self.

If someone hits your hippocampus with a rock and proceeds to wipe every trace of your existence from humanity’s collective memory, then you aren’t you anymore, pick a new name and maybe stop messing with the CIA; but anything short of that and the remembering self rises up like The Thing. In every interaction worth memory, some fraction of your breath-by-breath biography is pasted into the the recipient’s memory and thus into their remembering self. The size of this interpolation varies, as does the fidelity of translation. Cashier gets a caricature, lovers get a short story, and you get an anonymous manifesto called ‘The Tower.’ Burroughs: 

The word has not been recognised as a virus because it has achieved a state of stable symbiosis with the host. (The Electronic Revolution)

Of course, it’s not just words. It’s everything.

The idea of “cultural evolution” is as old as Darwin, the idea of transmissible cultural information bits—“memes”—at least as old as Dawkins [1]. For the idea of human consciousness as a collection of memes, Keith Henson coined the term “memeoid,” although he defined the term as “victims who have been taken over by a meme to the extent that their own survival becomes inconsequential.” Pleading guilty to the goofy vocab, I contend that we are all such victims. Schizophrenics are absolutely correct to be worried about the insertion and theft of one’s thoughts. Memory is a collection of memes. The so-called remembering self scores our attempts to secure the interests of such memes, the experiencing self totals the millivolts of pain and pleasure, and the algorithm to which we ascribe free will chooses between them.

But by this point I hope that I have demonstrated the limitations of Kahneman’s terminology. So, in older and perhaps better words: superego, id, ego. Q.E.D.

III.

One is a sterile number. When there is only one there can be no love, no yearning, no union. Two are required to forge a relationship. Without the other, the self has no meaning. (Myth = Mithya)

Mirrors and copulation are abominable, for they multiply the number of mankind. (Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius)

The first dichotomy, per Freud, divides ego-instincts from object-instincts. Ego-instincts bubble up from within. Our necessities, the autonomic-prompted lower rungs on Maslow’s hierarchy, are such: hunger, fatigue, defecation, micturition, respiration, crude sexual desire. Newborns, lacking cerebellar motor plans, with vision only capable of parsing light and motion, respond solely to ego-instincts, treating the entire world as an extension of their ill-defined bodies. We are born narcissists.

Object-instincts, together composing the infamous libido, develop as we learn the range of our power and begin to direct it outwards. Freud marks draws his second dichotomy as the yin and yang of libido: Eros, the love instinct, and Thanatos, the death instinct. I have written elsewhere about this dichotomy. Whether our interactions with the outside world can be reduced to two fundamental modes is debatable, but while other categorizations are possible, I find this one to be a useful approximation.

In my view, Eros—true love, sure, but also the sacred moments of connection between strangers in a mosh pit—is best approximated as belonging. Not cognitive empathy, affective; not the conscious decompiling of another’s code, just the instinctual feeling of namaste, “the light in me sees the light in you.” Eros can mirror neuron a puppy or a mood-concordant landscape; even the Buddhist desire to renounce desire falls within her domain. Eros asks for nothing save acceptance. Acceptance is belonging and belonging is pleasurable. Only when we see ourselves reflected by the universe can we believe that it is part of us.

With Thanatos, Freud describes an extreme. Our other primordial desire is not for death per se, but for control—Ananke. Self-destruction is the ultimate form of such power—the pleasure of failure is that you know how to do it—but sudoku falls on the same path. Ananke hates nothing but entropy. Ananke rewards us for turning atoms into tools and tools into appendages, so much the better if those atoms comprise other humans, viz. the high of domination. But Ananke cares not if we are weak, so long as we are choosing to be weak, viz. the high of submission. Ananke demands action. Ananke compels us to learn, to make the universe predictable, to gain control over time, what next happens, and space, what happens next. Only when the universe is predictable can we believe that it is part of us.

"The ego is the libido’s original home," says Freud. Other human beings are no more than anthropomorphized objects and anthropomorphization is no more than self-reflection in a funhouse mirror. We are born narcissists and it is narcissism to which our instincts pull.

Exposition and truisms, nothing more distasteful, I apologize for inflicting them on you. What I’m trying to prove is that the battle between id and superego is cooked from the start. All of the above goddesses are bound within the id. The id is what we want, by definition. The superego has to sneak and skulk around this fact. Its power—our sacred power as conscious beings—is that we can choose how to go about wanting.

How do we make that choice? At first, Pavlov. Suckling is a spinal cord reflex, calories are tasty, welcome to the rat race, kid. Ananke drives development: contracting the sarcomeres of babbling or crawling is intrinsically pleasurable because it is a new form of control. Once we piece together the object permanence scam, operant conditioning takes over as lead programmer. Convincing dozens of children to sit quietly and crank out long division is possible only with a mass conspiracy of reward and punishment for strange, bureaucratic tasks, see also golf, San Francisco, writing longform on Tumblr. These inculcated memes compete for the real estate of your mind, e.g. a meme A that reads, “Do not allow meme B entry.” (Although the message might sneak past the immune system as a mutated meme B2.) Memes also cooperate—“Do not forget meme C, no matter what”—and this process of anchoring new memes to existing residents (per terminology, creating a “memeplex”) is the mechanism behind semantic memory. As always, the map becomes the territory. Certain memes sate the id and are reinforced into habit, new memes follow through behavioral association and in turn dangle the carrot and wield the stick. The final algorithm of one’s existence must to some extent serve Eros and Ananke in each moment (you have to “want” in order to act), but it may or may not work towards their long-term procurement, or the sum of their derivatives, happiness. However, pleasure or not, the remembering self will use the superego’s algorithm when assigning meaning to memory: “Did I do what I really wanted?”

But whoever considers the fundamental impulses of man...will find that they have all practiced philosophy at one time or another, and that each one of them would have been only too glad to look upon itself as the ultimate end of existence and the legitimate LORD over all the other impulses. (Beyond Good & Evil)

The remembering self doesn’t care what MacGuffin you pick. Five-act memories are the natural consequence of movement toward a goal—static friction, activation energy, climax, relaxation, rest, there’s no other way to so much as cross the street. Stasis is the enemy, action begins with the disruption of routine. Minimum wage jobs are worse because of their pointlessness more than because of their indignity, work harder/better/faster/stronger and no one cares, screw up and you’re replaced without a missed beat. No direction, no story; the days blur together until arthritis leaves you crippled. Stoned summers don’t get you off the hook, duration neglect compresses both good and bad sensations. No matter how pleasant, when nothing is happening, the superego starves. There’s a reason couples fight on vacation.

The secret to a cozy deathbed is to pick a single memeplex and grind towards its goals alone, a Nietzschean Will to Power over Schopenhauer’s Will. Being a dilettante is simply too easy: flat lines don’t form memories. Reinventing yourself between brunches feels good—the illusion of control—until you’ve dreamt the same dreams too many times and they no longer get you high. A little navel-gazing, mind-wracking, and soul-searching is necessary, but adolescence is supposed to come with an expiration date, and adulthood marks the switch from explore to exploit. The menthol-smoking relativists in acid-wash jeans are correct: the meaning of life is arbitrary, constructed, cultural, fake. But the path to a meaningful life is universal.

Happiness and meaning—sometimes they overlap, sometimes you must choose. I don’t have the answer, there is no answer, all I can do is warn you about the trap by which you obtain neither. Even if you’re sign-me-up-for-the-Orgasmatron all in with Team Experiencing Self, the id is too myopic to be any good at long-term hedonism. The unchecked id would have left us cavemen, samizdat & chill wouldn’t even be on the table. Conversely, even if you’re polishing trophies for Team Remembering Self, the default superego is an incoherent mess, infected with millions of selfish, MALIGNANTLY USELESS memes that have no interest in your happiness, care not for the coherence of your autobiography, and will drive you to madness rather than let you winnow them away.

The key word is default. We all have some degree of protection, either through physical isolation or memetic immunity, “Mom says not to trust strangers who say they have candy.” But most of us fall short of contact precautions. And in that case, we are ruled by probability—by Moloch, by Nyx, by Nature, the only force that God fears. Why else would He confuse mankind’s language? Why would He demand obedience to 613 commandments? Circumcision? What was Judaism, with rabbinical prohibition against interfaith marriage or proselytization, except God’s attempt to create a religion that would not spread? It failed, as it always does. Autotune and Manifest Destiny. The house always wins at the second law of thermodynamics.

With free flow of information, how can any belief system hold? All belief systems rest on axioms, if you grant equal footing to a contradictory axiom, the belief system collapses. I suppose I’m that guy claiming that atheists invent a God—not an interventionist God, nor a fuzzy deism, but a set of unprovable principles that determine right and wrong and to which one must atone. Don’t give me that humanism bullshit. When someone slaps your hypothetical girlfriend’s ass in the proverbial club, what does humanism say you should do? At least toxic masculinity has an answer. Humanism is a motte and bailey, a set of milquetoast ideals which provide no guidance in day to day life and so leave you passive (“Hey, man—first principles!”) or, more likely, vulnerable to whatever crypto-ideology is most virulent. If you do not have a code of conduct, one will be provided for you.

With free flow of information—a suppressed memetic immune system, a hypothetical Tower of Babel—it is statistically inevitable that every meme will attain its most infectious form. There are countless ways to make an idea more or less palatable, but the first step is always the same, a single amino acid substitution, a lingering desire affixed to every thoughtlet: “SPREAD THIS MEME.” With free flow of information, this will be the only value that remains—every other axiom will be cancelled out by its opposite, but the codon “don’t spread this meme” will, definitionally, not spread.

A pathogen that is too restrained will lose out in competition to a more aggressive strain that diverts more host resources to its own reproduction. However, the host, being the parasite's resource and habitat in a way, suffers from this higher virulence. This might induce faster host death, and act against the parasite's fitness by reducing probability to encounter another host (killing the host too fast to allow for transmission).

But as long as transmission continues despite the virulence, virulent pathogens will have the advantage. So, for example, virulence often increases within families, where transmission from one host to the next is likely, no matter how sick the host. Similarly, in crowded conditions such as refugee camps, virulence tends to increase over time since new hosts cannot escape the likelihood of infection. (“Optimal virulence,” Wikipedia)

At least natural selection is a package deal: half your genes per haploid donation. Even the most selfish of genes is bound to help its chromosome buddies reproduce. Not so with our minds. Speech can excise one meme at a time. That meme has no obligation to help any of your other memes spread. Indeed, insofar as your other memes occupy time and energy, they are its enemies. The result: an overpowering desire to be understood, all I want in life’s a little bit of love to take the pain away, unquenchable, because the memes that want to be understood are contradictory and changing from moment to moment: you have failed to define a you, so you are a vessel [2]. 

At least the force of natural selection acts along one axis. Here, you are torn apart.

IV.

Art is form struggling to wake from the nightmare of nature. (Sexual Personae)

“Culture is not about esthetics” by Gwern Branwen is worth reading even though I oppose its conclusion with a vehemence others reserve for colonoscopies and Ayn Rand. I can’t do justice to 125 footnotes of background research with a bullet-point paragraph, but the argument goes:

We subsidize the creation of art, both directly (museum fees, camgirl wishlists) and indirectly (universities, copyright law).

There is already far more art than could possibly be consumed in a lifetime.

Old art is better than new art—because of the selection bias of time, if nothing else.

People would be happier if they consumed only the best art.

We should not encourage the production of new art; indeed, if it truly is harmful, we should ban it. (Gwern gives nonfiction a pass.)

If you’re not in the right mindset, this may seem completely insane, which it is, but you have to respect a guy who goes for the null hypothesis hat trick. Intellectual honesty is best achieved by contrarianism against every belief encountered, including contrarianism. We arrive at verisimilitude by ping-ponging between falsehoods, praise be unto Gwern for serving as one of the paddles.

The first objection to an art ban: what qualifies as “better?” Let’s assume that all art can be boiled down to a single rating between 0 and 10. Perhaps even then an 8 may be situationally better than a 10; perhaps for some people Eminem’s rhymes resonate more than George Chaucer’s. Do niche and novel issues benefit from niche and novel perspectives?

Gwern says no. “Fiction can be unfairly persuasive, bypassing our rational faculties.” “Time consumption is zero-sum between fiction & nonfiction.” “As a society, is it good to have our discussions and views about incredibly important matters like space exploration hijacked by fiction?”

Either fiction is effective as propaganda and setting societal agendas, or it isn’t. If the latter, then the loss is nil; if the former, then fiction is dangerous!

Gwern seems to think that if we banned Guardians of the Galaxy the relevant audience would switch to Douglas Hofstadter. The assumption here is that nonfiction exists, distinct from and more truthful than fiction. I don’t buy it. Whenever a human is involved it’s fiction, and if policy decisions came from Excel spreadsheets that data still would have been collected by a mortal of limited peripheral vision. Please recall that extremely fucked up scientific racism tomes of yesteryear such as “Crania Americana” and "Diseases and Peculiarities of the Negro Race" were nonfiction bestsellers. A glance at the news site of your choice will show that we have achieved only a marginal improvement in veracity. If you ban sensationalist fiction, odds are that the proles will get their info from sensationalist nonfiction, and if you think our discussions and views are hijacked now, just wait.

But the greater oddity here is that, when pondering the possible benefits of fiction, Gwern chooses to talk about...space. This reeks of too much Modafinil. Gwern gives two lines of courtesy toward the majority of modern fiction:

Now, what good deeds could only new works produce? Certainly it’s not edifying & educating our youth; it is not as if the pedagogy of Euclidean geometry has changed much over the last millennia, nor is 20th century fiction known for teaching moral lessons.

What the hell? I don’t know what 20th century fiction Gwern has been reading. Even Go, Dog. Go! had a moral.

That’s right. Love in the Time of Cholera, natch. Fiction needs motion which requires a MacGuffin which generates a value system around it. Fiction dispenses a moral lesson even when it’s not trying, and before you come at me with “the only moral question is whether you voted for Trump and how many bednets are you sending to Africa!!!!” allow me to point out that fiction is strongest when it deals with microethics, not “is war bad y/n.” (“A triumph of honesty...a shocking exploration of modern values.”— The New York Times.) We face a hundred small dilemmas every time we get close enough to breathe another person’s exhaled nitrogen and NOTHING BUT ART CAN ANSWER THESE QUESTIONS. We can gin and rummy about how conserved moral questions are over time—I’m sympathetic to Gwern’s object-level claims, the classics are underutilized, subsidies are bad—but even if the disease is ancient, you have to speak a living language if you want to recognize the symptoms.

All of this supports the first objection: that new art provides a nontrivial benefit to the observer. But I’m going for a bigger claim: it doesn’t have to.

Gwern states the following:

The humanities have made notoriously little use of science’s techniques, worldview, or results...Conceptually, I see no problem with a nation of sober hard-headed engineers and scientists doing quite as well without the novelists.

This seems like Gwern’s idea of a utopia. So let us suppose this art-banned nation of engineers exists—every man, woman, and child, speech-therapied and carbuncular, saluting a flag of the golden spiral—and indeed, is so successful that a post-scarcity economy is achieved and everyone retires to leisure. Now, enlighten me: what would these people do all day?

They could read Dostoyevsky. Maybe Notes from the Underground, if they’ve retained a sense of irony. They couldn’t write analyses of Dostoevsky, however—that would be new art. There wouldn’t be much in the way of comedy, but why would that be needed when one can recite from the classic jest and prankbooks of yore? As for tragedy, at the funeral of a loved one, choose from any of the more than sufficient eulogies already written. No new fashion but khakis are always in season. No new recipes but who doesn’t like Mealsquares. They could fuck. They could play tic-tac-toe. They could plug into the Orgasmatron—and this, I suspect, is the endgame of Gwern’s utilitarian fantasy hell, inspired by a glance at Maslow’s Hierarchy and, “Well, that part seems unnecessary.” I know it’s gauche to claim that your opponent’s philosophy would lead to the extinction of the human race, but he not busy being born is busy dying. “People would be happier consuming only the best art.” A rat in a cage will mash its nucleus accumbens until it starves to death. Are you a rat?

Gwern never defines what is art, perhaps because a broad conception would render his argument absurd, so I’ll help, apologies in advance for clichés. Art is compressed communication. The better the compression, with regards to both perceived fidelity and amount of information contained, the more artful the art. Limitation—poetic meter, scene-cut-scene, verse-chorus-verse—is the essence of every form because removing redundancies and noise, unnecessary memes, is how one creates a map. Satire is effective when via exaggeration or noun-swapping absurdism it calls attention to the underlying pattern. A twelve minute ambient or noise track may lack musical structure but conveys a precise-yet-generalizable mood to the listener; a random field recording feels less artful because it does not. A Pollock canvas may be composed through randomness and chaos, but the choice to use randomness and chaos...and so on. Life itself is walls between fluid. Beauty is objective, because we all interpret beauty by this criterion, and subjective, because experience dictates the extent to which we can unpack a given compression [3].

Art is not necessary for a meaningful life: if you contort your superego enough you can find meaning in rolling a boulder uphill. But given the Tower of Babel, the Will known to teenage pirates as “information wants to be free,” most human beings are compelled to spread memes above all else. And if your goal is such, then you must choose between compression and manic, babbling psychosis. The sharing inherent in romance and child-rearing is still the most efficient method of spreading one’s memes, but a conversation and a concerto are different in degree, not kind. Good fortune spoils if you cannot share it, yet when the pink slip arrives your instinct is to forgo the yellow pages to work on your novel. The old and homeless tell bawdy jokes and cirrhotic anecdotes, anything to anyone who will listen, street preferred to asylum, that anoxic last ditch expulsion of gametes trying to leave behind something of meaning. We live an world of aspiring communicators if not aspiring artists, everyone but the children who do not yet know they will die. Art is the way by which man purifies his soul from chaos, it his revenge against Nature, he decides which memes of consciousness to spread and he takes the rest to the grave. Or she.

“Best art?” There is no best art, only more and less true. Art exists for its own sake, it may heal, torture, corrupt, enlighten, restrain, or indulge, but this is incidental; all it wants is to be understood.

V.

I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids—and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in a circus sideshow, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination—indeed, everything and anything except me. (Invisible Man)

I’ll pull the political band-aid—I think “ease of having one’s art understood” is a defensible conception of “privilege.”

Don’t @ me, bro. I’m not trying to score internet groupies, here, I just want to torch this hydra of semantics once and for all. Per Wikipedia:

Privilege is a social theory that special rights or advantages are available only to a particular person or group of people. The term is commonly used in the context of social inequality, particularly in regard to age, disability, ethnic or racial category, gender, gender identity, sexual orientation, religion and/or social class. Two common examples may include having access to a higher education and housing. Privilege can also be emotional or psychological, regarding comfort and personal self-confidence, or having a sense of belonging or worth in society.

This is one of the better definitions, and it is still so vacuous that when I plugged it into Google Translate my computer crashed. No one disputes that “some groups have advantages relative to other groups,” even proud racists admit this. The argument concerns who has which advantages and the relevant score multipliers. Case in point: the above definition includes "self-confidence” and "worth in society.” So who has more privilege, a cis-white-hetero billionaire with full-checklist depression or an unemployed transgender black woman who, despite this, is basically content? Either the billionaire has less privilege, in which case “privilege” is a Harrison Bergeron happiness tax, or the suicidal person has more privilege, in which case, how much does “privilege” matter, really. I know, not supposed to be a linear scale, but in a country of unhappy people this is the question that always comes up: “I am so alone and so miserable, you’re dancing on tables at the gay club, sympathy bottled or on tap, and I’m supposed to prostrate myself to atone for my 'privilege?’”

The academic leftist notion of privilege fails—is infuriatingly counterproductive—because it rests its weight on the experiencing self. Kahneman (in)famously found that, in the U.S., income’s effect on "positive affect” saturates after $75,000 per annum; race and sex impact happiness less than one might think; I’ve met Upper East Side kids less fulfilled by their iPads than Sub-Saharan kids without running water were with “catch the rock.” I am not saying such differences are insignificant. They are significant. But the vicissitudes of chemistry and fate (sickness, isolation, loss, defunct serotonin receptors) are the most important predictors of day to day happiness, which correlate but refuse to be limited by demographics. Saved wealth buffers against tragedy but suffering finds a way. Hedonic treadmill is the buzzword: as monoxide salesman Thomas Ligotti puts it, “We do not have the power to make our lives monumentally better, only monumentally worse.”

The remembering self tells a different story. Kahneman’s 75k study found that while happiness levels off, “life evaluation” does not satiate with income; other studies support a stronger link between income and “life satisfaction” than income and happiness. Of course these surveys are semantically loaded enough to put a postmodernist into anaphylaxis. The satisfaction question is usually phrased: “How satisfied are you with your life as a whole these days?” This is not a good measure of the remembering self. For our purposes the question ought to be: “Looking back, how satisfied are you with how your life has played out?”

Now even the most melancholic billionaire is gonna start singing My Way. The suicide note of George Eastman, founder of Kodak: “To my friends, my work is done – Why wait?” Poverty does not allow for such closure. Like a forgotten drive to work, we are amnestic to routine, and memories of “eat, menial labor, sleep” blur together in the rearview mirror. The important-yet-oft-forgotten obverse is that, independent of happiness, wealth buys freedom from routine. Chores—with increasing tax bracket, dry-cleaning, maid, gardener, and nanny. Work—the cheapest jobs get replaced by machines, nurses deal with the predictable consequences of urination and defecation, PAs treat a narrow range of colds and sore throats, doctors can research, lecture, politicize; at the top of the food chain, some CEOs fly to new city each day. Even leisure—a night at the opera is no more fun than pizza and brewskis, but the former is novel, for a time, and the latter soon fades from memory.

Just as freedom from routine can be spent on new experiences it can be spent on new ways to express them. Most purchases this side of a bodega are autobiographical product placement, from name-brand Tylenol to the SkyMall catalogs of the 1%. Ever since Gutenberg invented copy/paste, however, it’s been cheaper to ditch symbolism and go straight for the symbols. We describe upper-class people as “cultured” because...they know a lot of culture. Class is language, education over wealth, no one would invite a Duck Dynasty heir to the new Soho vegan place but you can tell instantly if a homeless guy went to college. What counts is breadth not depth, knowing the right way to convey your opinions—“underrated,” “progressive,” “guilty pleasure,” “ironic, I think”—not the specifics of taste. The bourgeoise use The New Yorker as a word a week calendar, or Slate if they can’t read. In a post-guillotine world, mainstream culture is the new counter-counterculture, and since dressing oneself in the morning is a middle finger to the haters, it should be no surprise how many childfree consumers are working on novels or at least unwatchable concert videos. We are all celebrities now. Map becomes territory, and as anyone who has kept a journal knows, soon you witness the present as you plan to record it, seeking out events good or bad that are likely to yield something worth recording. As the old try and fail to teach the young, life comes at you past.

Pause, value check. Leaving aside the moral question of whether it’s okay to Eat Pray Love while lonesome atheists starve, is Cash 4 Novelty, as a personal value system, a) the disgusting slop of narcissist-capitalism, or b) the boy in the bubble and the baby with the baboon heart? Answer: yes. Let’s review. Option 1, reject the demands of the remembering self altogether, “memes are viruses and should be purged.” But this takes you to some weird places: if you’re a glass half-full kinda guy, wirehead extinction; if you’re a pessimist, vas deferens snip-snip and/or mass suicide. Option 2, the remembering self is good but the Tower of Babel is pathological, we should make like Sisyphus and find meaning outside self-expression. Whether or not this is a noble sentiment, it is an inevitable flop. The Tower of Babel is a logical consequence of memetic selection: to prevent a version of "spread this meme” from taking over, one would have to ban any and all communication between human beings. Seems impractical.

And so we face reality. Pleasure is necessary, so necessary, all the more necessary as one grows older—but not sufficient. We plan our lives around being understood. If wealth grants freedom from routine, increasing the ability to define oneself and the language to express this, then it bestows a privilege independent of its effect on happiness.

This has political implications, namely, that money is good [4]. If a country’s per capita GDP rises threefold over ten years, that is a positive even if the happiness surveys don’t budge. A trade policy that bumps the purchasing power of the bottom quintile by 5% and the Bilderberg Group by 500%—increasing both societal wealth and inequality—is in vacuo a good idea. Absolute amount of money, not relative, buys freedom. Economics is not a zero sum game. (There may be better ways to distribute the dough, sure. Different argument.) Switching political stances in the batter’s box, the reactionary claim that American women were happier before they had orgasms or jobs is untrue. But even if it was, the indisputable increase in the ability for women to self-define and self-express is likely worth the cost. See also: every other pitch for traditional values and neonatal pneumonia.

It is perhaps not generally realized that a refrigerator can be a revolutionary symbol—to a people who have no refrigerators. A motor car owned by a worker in one country can be a symbol of revolt to a people deprived of even the necessities of life... [Hollywood] helped to build up the sense of deprivation of man's birthright, and that sense of deprivation has played a large part in the national revolutions of postwar Asia. (The Medium is the Massage)

Which brings us back to privilege. Belonging to the dominant race and sex of a culture grants the same in memoriam advantage as class, but by a different mechanism. Poverty and lack of education prevents one from speaking the language of culture. Differences of race, gender, and orientation prevent others from listening.

Without getting too bogged down in vocab, the canonical term is “stereotype.” Stereotypes are necessary to function. If art is compressed communication, a stereotype, in the broadest sense, is a pattern of extrapolation. We are constantly making small stereotyped judgments. A raised eyebrow and pause after the end of the sentence may signify “He’s skeptical,” “He’s joking,” “He’s mad,” or, “He’s mad because I ran over the Japanese Prime Minister,” depending on context. Conversation would be unfeasible without these snap judgments, with social confusion verging on autism.

Contrary to the pop-ethical consensus, discrimination is not caused by having too many stereotypes but too few. If you wake to find a lithe man dressed in all black standing over your bed and holding a katana, it may be quite reasonable to infer that he is a hired ninja and that you are in grave danger. If, however, you assume this about every East Asian man that you encounter, you lack nuance of stereotypes. If you want to insert a more topical example, go ahead, it should be obvious however that misunderstanding can result in racist outcomes even without conscious ill-will. Example: stories about disparities in use of Emergency Room analgesia make the headlines about once a year. My observation has been that there are certain culturally accepted ways to express pain, some verbal (saying “I have a high pain tolerance” suggests the opposite) and some nonverbal (wrong ratio of gritted teeth to screaming). When ordering the Dilaudid, physicians unconsciously underestimate the pain of patients who didn’t dot the i’s and cross the t’s of their agony, or, less charitably, unconsciously realize that an undocumented migrant is less likely to write a complaint letter than the hawk-like Shakespeare professor who has given two stars to every book club novel for the past 45 years.

Small comfort for the guy with a broken femur, I agree. But this matters hugely for any campaign against -isms. The above bias would not necessarily be picked up by the, ah, "replication-challenged” Harvard Implicit Bias Test, because if a person of the race in question was wearing an argyle sweater and reading Middlesex the mistreatment would not have occurred. The collegiate notion that some folks are Racist and some have been Saved betrays a preschool understanding of human beings. Most racists are really culturists, or “I don’t hate them, unless they X,” and all racism starts this way, a single heartfelt (although not necessarily true) observation that is falsely extrapolated. I am not defending this, just pointing it out that you do it too and that to some extent it is inevitable. Race and gender are social constructs, but the cultural norms that correlate with race and gender—and goth, prep, jock, etc—are real. Avenue Q theory: until we evolve a hive mind or learn to speak pheromone, every interaction will be mediated by a model of the other. There will always be a stereotype. The unsurprising path forward is to talk to the stereotyped individual, acquiring new detail which is added to the map as it asymptotically approaches the territory. “Be aware of your biases” is excellent advice, but framing this as “don’t be racist, join or die” fails—is infuriatingly counterproductive—because it doesn’t create a new stereotype to work with, an alternate explanation for the genuinely felt observation.

Denying one’s stereotypes altogether is impossible, although you can’t say the woke garbage wytch industry isn’t committed to the attempt. Nevertheless, if you, well-intentioned young person who gets anxiety with phone calls, are trying very hard not to fit someone’s behavior to a stereotype, thinking “don’t stereotype don’t stereotype” over and over throughout the perilous encounter—then too bad, kid, because a) you need to start lifting or something, b) you have a fixed view of how to treat someone based on demographics, which is c) uncomfortable for all concerned, and d) a stereotype. The social justice term for such benign stereotyping is “microaggression,” but when it concerns the opposite sex, it is more precisely dubbed “objectification.”

The Reddit demographic seems to have a mental block about this concept, so allow me to Joe Rogan you some experience: it is perfectly acceptable to think that buxom blonde women are hot. However, if you convey to your waitress that you are attracted to her solely because she is a Hot Blonde, you are saying that all of her other personality traits are irrelevant, i.e. her choices don’t matter, e.g. you get maced. (See also: “What should I wear tonight?” “Honey, no one cares,” and then the fight.) What’s confusing is that sometimes it is okay to like someone just for being comely and flaxen-haired—even the same waitress at the club that night. But notice the difference: at the club, the waitress is trying to convey “Hot Blonde.” You’re not boxing her in, you’re correctly identifying and complimenting her outfit. See also: catcalling vs. dirty talk.

Microaggressions are no different. Someone asking to touch a black woman’s hair may lack malice but nevertheless reminds the woman that in the eyes of others she cannot escape her race. Even explicitly positive stereotypes are harmful—gays are fashionable, Jews are smart; 1970s rockstars lamenting dehumanizing fame—and I hope you can see that they are harmful not against the experiencing self, for at some level attention is always enjoyable, but against the remembering self, which demands to be understood.

What’s less obvious is that the mere existence of a stereotype is harmful. If you have never been hated, as in people-wish-you-were-dead hated, then you may not understand this, but—hatred is painful even if you never encounter those doing the hating. There’s an element of paranoia, sure, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about this very old very fundamental feeling of being misconstrued, of one’s memes being stymied somewhere out in the ether, of one’s legacy going down wrong, a feeling closely related to shame and to which the response is, invariably, rage.

This particular flavor of suffering spares the privileged: historically, straight white males. They had the money so they got the education so they defined class so they controlled the language so they spread the most stories, any of which can serve as template for “white dude.” This says nothing about acuity of suffering, only that such suffering can be communicated more easily and with more nuance. “I’m not Elliott Smith depressed today—it’s more of a Bright Eyes feel. Know what I mean, officer?” “No lies, just love, sir. You have a nice day.” Gross misunderstandings are rare. Oh, you can try—Bushwick art majors tweeting “white people be thinkin physical intimacy be spicy food”—but it rings hollow, because everyone knows at least one horrible “free hugs” guy and his equally horrible friend with a fetish for sriracha. Or at least knows the type. In contrast, white people get their info about minorities from cuckold porn, or worse—sketch comedy.

If we care about the remembering self and we care about other human beings then forging new stereotypes is crucial. This puts me in agreement with mainstream liberalism—although I hope my conservative readers can see that this comes from a genuine desire for fairness rather than brownie-point trend-hopping or sublimated self-loathing—that minority representation is important. Something worth fighting for.

Except there’s a catch: the current push for “diversity” isn’t going to work. 

Like so many policies with charitable intentions but terrible incentives, executed by so many people with no understanding of Goodhart’s law, the current push for multiculturalism will spin the wheels of progress while accomplishing very little. It will create a new hatred for every one that it solves. And those in power will laugh all the way to the vault.

VI.

Real, total war has become information war…the cold war is the real war front—a surround—involving everybody—all the time—everywhere. Whenever hot wars are necessary these days, we conduct them in the backyards of the world with the old technologies…It is no longer convenient, or suitable, to use the latest technologies for fighting our wars, because the latest technologies have rendered war meaningless. (The Medium is the Massage)

If globalization is the defining phenomenon of the modern age, then immigration—physical and cultural, the latter determining who gets to be understood—is the defining political conflict. Let’s take a break from theory and see what the LA Times is doing to bridge the gap,“How Houston has become the most diverse place in America”:

The boys sprint in white and yellow uniforms down the green turf, grunting and sweating as the coach shouts from the sidelines. “Búscalo, búscalo,” he yells in Spanish, urging the players to sprint for the ball.

“Umusitari!” comes a voice on the sidelines — run down the line — from Biganiro Espoir, a native of the Democratic Republic of Congo.

The Margaret Long Wisdom High School soccer team hails from Central America, Mexico, Africa and points between. Its bench hums with Spanish, Kinyarwanda, Swahili and often English. But its real unifying language — soccer, played hard — is universal.

Okay, first of all, no American gives two shits about soccer in between World Cups. Entry number 80, Stuff White People Like: “The Idea of Soccer.” ("Many white people will tell you that they are very into soccer. But be careful, it’s a trap.”) Nor is it a coincidence that the photographed uniforms lack red and blue. I’m just saying, kind of provincial that they didn’t call it football.

“It’s really surprising to see a place like this in the South, where you consider it to be racist and xenophobic,” said Michael Negussie, a Wisdom High School senior from Ethiopia. “Stereotypes of Texas don’t apply here.”

Note that it’s taken for granted that “you” consider the South to be racist and xenophobic—and indeed, the stereotype only doesn’t apply because:

...demographic experts say the Houston metro area, home to the third-largest population of undocumented immigrants in the country — behind New York and Los Angeles — is a roadmap to what U.S. cities will look like in the coming decades as whites learn to live as minorities in the American heartland.

What that means is a whole new dynamic, in which minorities are no longer seen as outsiders. “Suddenly these are 100% American kids, and they’re falling in love with each other, making multiracial babies,” Klineberg said.

A “psychology of inevitability” begins to set in around immigration, he said — it’s happening, and it might not be a bad thing.

“Maybe it’s going to position Houston…for success in building the connections to the global marketplace. Maybe I can make money off of this.... And then we begin to say, how do we make this work?”

This article is bad. It’s bad for conservatives, it’s bad for immigrants, and it’s bad for anyone caught in the crossfire called America. No matter our superficial differences, I hope by the end of this essay we can agree on one thing: if the revolution ever comes, the LA Times should be a first round draft pick to be burned to the ground.

Theory of mind, please: how does this article look to conservatives? When I said that since white people control the language they have an advantage in communication, I didn’t mean, like, Republicans. It’s no big mystery that sleeveless undershirts can only get off to NASCAR and daydreams of slavery. Count off the archetypes: hypocrite evangelical priest. Serial killer. Grandiloquent but inept oil baron/plantation owner. Mentally addled inbred bucktooth. The only nuance is whether those hicks are gonna die off from diabesity or heroin, am I right?

This didn’t happen overnight. At some point there was a modicum of mutual respect, or so I’m told. But ingroups gonna outgroup, and slowly—faster after the insult of George W. Bush—the y’all class became a stereotype, got stereotyped so thoroughly that they weren’t interesting to talk about, which left them no way to contest the verdict. So now the LA Times can take your opinion as a given, and the poor, suffering factory workers are only brought up when some Coachella communist wants to say “they’ve been fooled by the 1%” and call for “solidarity.”

No. It would be unfair to say that you have blinders on when far as I can tell you have gouged out your eyes altogether. Talk to any, any, any Trump supporter, and you get:

There was a working-class, white bar I spent two days in and that’s where it really struck me: This man [Trump] is really resonating. This message is really taking hold and really hitting people. What sociologists and others have long talked about when you go to a poor, working-class black neighborhood is that there is this code of honor, this demand for respect. That same thing was taking place in the white bar I was seeing. And Trump was fulfilling that respect. It was all about respect, regaining respect. (The Atlantic)

Respect. Being understood as an imperfect human being struggling for his or her values, “even if I don’t agree, I can see where you’re coming from.” It’s so simple and yet no one wants to do it, because once you concede that other value systems are valid you start to question your own. Better to pretend at being Robin Hood, 90% tax on Martin Shkreli and basic income for all. And maybe that’s a great idea, but it doesn’t solve the problem: You could give every Appalachian 2 mil and they’d still vote for Brexit and Le Pen. They don’t want your money, they’ll take whatever government handouts are offered but they’d rather go nuclear than beg. Class matters, but this problem is cultural, not economic. “Look, I’m [gay/Muslim/an immigrant/from Portland]. You’re asking me to ‘respect’ people who would deny my existence.” I empathize, you don’t have to respect them, but you unless you think bigotry is Mendelian you should at least look a little deeper:

“...is a roadmap to what U.S. cities will look like in the coming decades as whites learn to live as minorities in the American heartland.”

The LA Times is speaking excitedly of how a group that has already been forced out of the social discourse will soon lose their voice completely. They’re thrilled by the up-and-coming Yelp $$ restaurants and the possibility of “making some money off this” in the “global marketplace.” They’re saying that once the right sort of people move in it might turn out to be a really nice neighborhood. The direct consequence of this brand of pro-immigration sentiment is hatred of immigrants. Oh, I’m sure there was some animosity to start with—that’s why the media had to build a Doomsday Device, to make sure the situation didn’t get out of control. 

Cheesy example, bear with me: “The Gay Agenda.” Treated as a joke, and does indeed sound like a fantastic glam rock band, but when rural conservatives denounce it they mean “the advocacy of cultural acceptance and normalization of non-heterosexual orientations and relationships.” And here’s the thing: they are right to worry about this—just as they are right to worry about immigration—not because David Bowie will corrupt the youth but because of the LA Times. Once acceptance becomes orthodoxy even private dissent becomes grounds for ostracization. No matter your other convictions you become a stereotype that society will single-issue-vote off the island, just ask Brendan Eich. Of course I support gay marriage; my point is that if one’s views before were “well, it is kind of weird,” then being told “soon there will be enough of us that we won’t have to deal with people like you at all”—that makes homophobia logical. And at least you can change your opinion of gay marriage. It’s much harder to change being white and low-class.

It would be correct to blame the LA Times and their ilk for the rise of Donald Trump. But that would let them off too easy. This problem began long ago and it extends far beyond a political issue or presidency. If you’re working class and want to get a promotion then odds are you will have to impress a bureaucrat, be it a manager or a Dean of Admissions. You will fail unless you share their values or convince them that you do—these values are the biggest obstacle to your advancement. So when some vacant skull in a dinner jacket tells you that the working class “votes on social issues” and “against their economic interests,” splash some pinot on his ascot and inform him that they are one and the same.

No one is born hateful, stranger anxiety doesn’t even start til six months. But culture war is history being written by the winners, first draft. Conservatives are offered the choice of fighting the ever-changing tides of social values or toiling away in obscurity while journalists pretend to like soccer. People want to be understood. And they will rage all sorts of ways against the dying of the light.

It is always possible to bind together a considerable number of people in love, so long as there are others left over to receive their aggressiveness...When once the Apostle Paul has posited universal love between men as the foundation of his Christian community, extreme intolerance on the part of Christendom towards those who remained outside it became the inevitable consequence. (Civilization and Its Discontents)

Please understand: I don’t think that the red tribe is in any way morally superior to blue, see above and also history. But in our society there is a meaningful asymmetry between them. The upper-middle class—mostly urban, mostly blue—claims by far the largest share of America’s income, more than the middle class and far more than the 1%. This, despite their protests to the contrary, gives them disproportionate control over the news and entertainment industry, which in cyberpunk America is tantamount to controlling the culture. 

So even though individual subgroups may feel under-represented—perhaps the mainstream media is “liberal” and likes Katy Perry while certain free-thinkers are “leftist” and like Kate Bush—they are by and large clueless as to the feeling of freak-show isolation that comes from existing outside their norms altogether, norms which are ubiquitous every time you turn on a screen. They are, one might say, “blind” to their “privilege,” blind to the fine print disclaimer of their culture, “Swipe left if you voted for Trump.”

I didn’t vote for Trump. And my personal experience of refugees and illegal immigrants—via medical and psychiatric asylum cases—has been overwhelmingly positive. But policy decisions shouldn’t be settled by anecdotes. There is a moral imperative to help those in need—and conservatives should recognize this—while at the same time friction is inevitable when two cultures exist side by side—and liberals should recognize this. One would hope for a reasoned discussion of how to balance the two. But that won’t happen as long as those whose are insulated from the consequences of policy—need I point out that Los Angeles is not located in Houston?—use multiculturalism as a weapon to enforce class.

And what’s so infuriatingly tragic is that it doesn’t have to be this way. Do migrant farmworkers have more in common with Sarah Silverman or a rural mother of four? Polls show that 9 out of 10 Syrian refugees think John Oliver is worse than the war. One of my Muslim colleagues wears a Dallas Cowboys hijab and plays Fire Emblem in the break room—why doesn’t the LA Times do a story about her? How come when “multiracial babies” get mentioned the context is always sexy brown man and not sexy brown woman? Do liberals think that only Broad City characters have the capacity to consent? Some right-wingers buy into the predatory immigrant mythos wholesale, and they’re idiots, but many more are concerned not because they think most immigrants are drug dealers, rapists, etc, but because if they were, the castrato left would post three monkey emojis and say that the reports of such incidents are proof that Islamophobia is alive and well. It would be so easy to validate the concerns, to say #notallmigrants, sure, but to say just as loudly that misdeeds are misdeeds and will be punished as such. I’m no skinny-armed libertarian saying “if only we didn’t talk about race, no one would be racist!” I’m saying that the specific way the media talks about race and culture, creating an incoherent set of rules regarding “appropriation” and etiquette, proudly crying out that this is the end of those boring, selfish white people, has made the situation much, much worse. If the left wanted to prevent assimilation, there would be no more effective way.

That’s the point.

VII.

“The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.” — Sun Tzu

Suppose you’re a benevolent Disney executive (maybe an oxymoron) who wants to increase minority representation in movies. How are you going to do it?

Well, your first instinct is to throw a fistful of Franklins into the writer’s room and scream “write me some of them brown people!” But here’s the problem: all your writers are white.

So now the decision tree forks. You can tell them to write “how they imagine” a person of color would talk and act, taking food choices, cultural dialects, and quinceañera celebrations into account. Or you can tell them to write an a-racial dude and use the paint bucket tool in Maya.

And that’s not really a decision at all. Not only could asking white boys to Tarantino another race lead to potential uh-ohs, having your characters speak anything but the dominant language/culture would limit your audience (definitionally, else it wouldn’t be the dominant language).

So you tell the writers to write an a-racial character, but since the cis-white-hetero patriarchy created the dominant language, the default assumptions of how people act—that means white. Which gets you a blockbuster superhero movie and a million Tumblr webcomics. Nice!

Except you’ve only sort of increased representation: there are minority characters, but in every way besides melanin they’re lighter than Luke Skywalker. There’s something to be said for that (for children in particular, since kids are kids wherever you go) but it’s not going to help the 18 year old black girl whose tastes, mannerisms, and values have been shaped by the pressures of being black in America, if nothing else.

Ergo, you decide to hire some minority writers to write your minority characters. Applications rush in. How are you going to decide who makes the cut?

“You know, the usual. Interview. Letters of recommendation. College transcript—”

This is part of a larger, systemic problem with the way power has shifted not from Group A to Group B, but from ground up to top down, and top down works in a very specific way: it concedes the trappings of power while it retains the actual power. (The Last Psychiatrist)

This is how the system protects itself against change. At every step of the social hierarchy, what is required for a person of color or a woman to succeed is determined by the values of the ruling class. I think that’s “white patriarchal supremacy,” but don’t quote me. Of course, the same principle applies to e.g. homosexuals and Jews; thankfully those traits are easier to hide.

Here’s your analogy: when you glance over at the in-flight movie flickering in front of the passed-out behemoth blocking your path to the bathroom, it is instantly apparent whether he’s watching a good movie like Face/Off or terrible Oscar bait. What gives the latter away? The meticulous set design? The histrionic orchestra? The slow pacing? The lingering close-ups of faces? The heavily scripted funny-because-it’s-sad-and-true? Oscar bait films are theatrical, a word which is supposed to mean “keeps reminding you that you’re in the audience,” but actually means “keeps reminding you that you are the audience.” The actors are side characters, background dancers. The hero is the camera. It’s the one with the character growth, guilt and redemption, it’s the one for whom the score sings. Which means the hero is...

It’s better than nothing. Better than segregation, better than open and unpunished murder in the street. It’s progress. But as Baudrillard said, that The Matrix was the kind of film about the matrix that the matrix itself would produce, I suspect that the most art about inequality is precisely the art that inequality sanctions.

And that’s bad. There’s a case to be made for affirmative action, but you know who gets the scholarship? Whoever can best conform to the in-demand stereotype. Middle of the road for the med school application. Tone it down if you want to get into Wharton. But maybe play it up a little for the grant proposal—go ahead, be a queer Chicano nationalist, send some mean tweets, academics eat that shit up. Of course they’re the only ones that will: the rest of society will stereotype you as “another” queer Chicano nationalist academic and never listen closely again. Even if you’re Manny Pacquiao you better not step from the party line. About half of African-Americans oppose gay marriage—you ever see that op-ed in the Times? Of course not, no one wants to hear that, they want Dear White People, an extremely controversial show about how important it is to pay Ivy League tuition. This is the scam behind every campus free speech debate: Freddie DeBoer and Ezra Klein draw pistols at dawn, but no matter who wins it is further cemented that Twitter, Vox, and college are where the correct opinions of class are determined. I often hear arguments about [insert school] not having [insert support group], which might be a real concern except that no one seems to care that outside of college it’s either AA or the bar. Harvard Inc. was America’s first corporation, FYI. Better make sure your toddlers are practicing their Latin.

You want some sick irony? Everyone knows that class is somehow hereditary, that a rich kid will get a better job than a poor kid even if the former has a rap sheet for selling ecstasy to One Directioners. But if you know or have had sex with any of the sons/daughters of the bourgeoisie you will have observed that no one is more critical of such nepotism. These “gifted” but “troubled” people will bumble through their whole lives, getting second through tenth chances, mysteriously finding that anything involving an authority figure goes their way, as they ruthlessly condemn capitalist injustice, never realizing that criticizing privilege is...the language of privilege. And wouldn’t you know it, the promotional video for the latest Run The Jewels album features none other than the cast of Portlandia, helping such youth bridge the gap between the predictable children they’ve been and the predictable adults they are going to be.

This isn’t a new trend, although it is trending. Think about it this way. The service industry is any job where the customer is always right, e.g. writer, therapist, barber, sales. This has always been a proxy for class, since only the aristocracy had the time and knowledge to make listicles for the King. (“The Ten Most Protestant Criminals In Bastille Prison—You Won’t Believe Number Three!”) On the other hand, if you have a manufacturing job—anything that involves doing rather than talking—no one cares whether you have problematic faves.

Enter the industrial revolution, as featured in Office Space (1999): mind over matter, words over matter, manufacturing jobs get replaced by machines. Unemployment + labor saving machinery = a lot more people have the time and ability to read Wealth of Nations. No more kings, no more monopoly rights, now theoretically anyone can code Ye Flappying Birde and please the market. So if you’re an aristocrat and being literate was like, your whole thing, how are you gonna keep partying like it’s 1899? You need a job that lets you tell other people what is okay to read/write and consume/produce—a job that keeps you one step ahead and thus relevant. And so the meta-service industry: mass media, academia, and government work. Fast-forward, and note that the remaining manufacturing jobs now involve a) operating machines or b) designing machines. And gosh darn does the newspaper hate those alt-right nerds and those Silicon Valley tech bros.

So the conspiracy comes full circle. The meta-service industry promotes a version of “multiculturalism” that is hostile to everyone outside their class but doesn’t affect them, LA ain’t in Houston and Manhattanites would never step in a neighborhood without HBO. This pushes the suckers of the working class into xenophobia, and those they mark as alien have to abandon the idea of making things and assimilate through the only other path offered: the meta-service institutions. Now you have a glut of wannabe thinkpiece writers. Supply and demand, university prices go up, labor costs goes down, and everyone buys the assigned woke products and logs onto Twitter to bemoan capitalism. Well, you may not love capitalism, but capitalism loves you.

In a global market, the main criterion for a service industry gig is your ability to speak inoffensive in four languages, which winds up being a proxy for class. Fine, no surprise, pop music sucks. But the incentive of the meta-service industry—I’m not saying it’s all they do, but it is the incentive��is to create new ways to be offensive (n.b: not offended), new required extracurriculars, new rules of etiquette making it harder to advance the class hierarchy without paying up. Some would call this racketeering. Those would be uncharitable people. But consider effort the school system spends on teaching the approved answers to ‘why’ questions, as opposed to ‘how’ questions like ‘how to balance a checkbook’ and ‘how to feed oneself,’ with the assumption that if you reach the upper class you’ll be able to pay someone to do those practical skills for you— and if you don’t, hey, there’s always food stamps. Think carefully about whether this mode of education is likely to make society more meritocratic or less.

The issue is not that youth of color see academic success as limited to whites. It is that they typically see white teachers as enforcers of rules that are unrelated to the actual teaching and learning process. (For White Folks Who Teach in the Hood...and the Rest of Y'all Too)

Bonus: if you say that you’re trying to help the disadvantaged, then when your policies make the situation worse—well, that’s all the more reason to redouble your efforts.

What’s the solution? There’s only one and it is so radical that I hesitate to even suggest it: stop being a pleb. You. Stop treating words as a substitute for action. Stop paying time and money into institutions that loan a symbol of mastery in lieu of actual depth. Stop looking for such symbols in others. Stop judging policies by the veneer of good intention rather than the details of consequence. Stop looking past people, because this is all the same, isn’t it? Working from a map, a stereotype, a symbol, instead fighting for the complex truth? None of this horror requires malice or even stupidity. All it requires is taking the easy way out.

Or don’t change. Keep hitting the like button, the algorithm guarantees it’ll be something you like. But there’s a price to pay. And it won’t hurt right away. It’s a price paid in memory, not sensation. That’s why it’s so terrible. It won’t sink in until it’s too late, when you look back and wonder,

What and how much had I lost by trying to do only what was expected of me instead of what I myself had wished to do? (Invisible Man)

VIII.

“The ingenuity and adaptability of Homo sapiens has led to its becoming the most influential species on Earth; it is currently deemed of least concern on the Red List of endangered species by the International Union for Conservation of Nature.” (“Homo sapiens,” Wikipedia)

Accelerationist philosopher Nick Land is very smart and very edgy and can sometimes finish a full sentence without asking the reader to recognize this. This eagerness makes him very empathizable and lovable, and he does get the problem, even if his solutions are, you guessed it, calamitously, catastrophically, direly, and dreadfully wrong.

Since this is the epilogue, i.e. not the place to defang every noumenon, I’ll skip to the punchline: Nick Land thinks we’re nearing the end of the world. Or at least the end of a world where debates occur via blog post rather than bone cudgel. Per his condensed manifesto, “The Dark Enlightenment”:

Civilization, as a process, is indistinguishable from diminishing time-preference (or declining concern for the present in comparison to the future). Democracy, which both in theory and evident historical fact accentuates time-preference to the point of convulsive feeding-frenzy, is thus as close to a precise negation of civilization as anything could be, short of instantaneous social collapse into murderous barbarism or zombie apocalypse (which it eventually leads to).

No, man. Tell us how you really feel.

As the democratic virus burns through society, painstakingly accumulated habits and attitudes of forward-thinking, prudential, human and industrial investment, are replaced by a sterile, orgiastic consumerism, financial incontinence, and a ‘reality television’ political circus. Tomorrow might belong to the other team, so it’s best to eat it all now.

Land titles the next subsection “The arc of history is long, but it bends towards zombie apocalypse” and provides stats for the possible governments (“Communist Tyranny,” “Authoritarian Capitalism,” “Social Democracy”) that occur in sequence before “Zombie Apocalypse.” Okay, sick campaign setting. But why is this all inevitable?

Militant secularism is itself a modernized variant of the Abrahamic meta-meme, on its Anglo-Protestant, radical democratic taxonomic branch, whose specific tradition is anti-traditionalism.

Land is describing the Tower of Babel. I wouldn’t name its essence as “anti-traditionalism,” but the meme “spread this meme no matter what” has a similar destructive effect. Land’s solution, depending on the essay, is either an omnipotent AI ruler or biotech augmentation of high IQ individuals into elite übermenschen. Which, who knows, maybe that is how the Rapture will go down. I’m not here to make fun of anybody’s religion.

But in the short term, Land is wrong. This isn’t the end. The fall of Babel wasn’t a warning of what might happen. It’s something that happens all the time.

Since the death of God there’s been a vacancy, now everyone wants evolution to answer “why.” If anything seems unjust, it’s because evolution cares only about memetic fitness. Moloch, who elects foolish politicians! Moloch, who crowdfunds terrible podcasts! Moloch, who makes it so girls only like tall guys who drink Natty Light!

The catch is that evolution doesn’t care about memetic fitness. That’s a meaningless statement; evolution IS memetic fitness. And what determines memetic fitness is: whatever we decide.

Competition is ugly, no denying that. But blaming Moloch for fidget spinners is unfair to that poor Carthaginian spirit: people just want fidget spinners. If they didn’t, there wouldn’t be fidget spinners. It’s possible that folks don’t know what’s good for ‘em, sure, and you can elect some small deity to enforce your taste as law, but you haven’t killed Moloch, you’ve just shifted the arena in which people compete. Now all the bullies are under 5′7″ and pontificating about how partying is for nerds. Or how much they love Stalin.

Evolution is always bound by a value system. History has a progression, but it’s not an arc, it’s a spiral. God strikes down the tower, the “democratic virus” burns through society, we move towards a single language, the masses cry now nothing will be withholden from them, and God strikes down the tower once more. This is predestined by the very fact that each human being is unique. When you impose one language, one value system, when you hold someone back from that desperate desire to be understood—don’t expect that person’s God to forgive you.

And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light. God saw that the light was good, and he separated the light from the darkness.

Land and his followers are wrong twice over. Wrong because they are fooled by the word “multiculturalism” and thus advocate for the pretend solutions of social exit, “assortative mating of the elite” or a “white ethno-state,” when it was cultural inbreeding of a white aristocracy that created the monoculture, multiculturalism in name only, that they so despise. It wasn’t Moloch, it wasn’t Nature, it was regulatory capture and top-down imposition of values. Those who feel persecuted for thoughtcrime are those who should be pushing hardest for diversity—real diversity, as opposed to a slick brochure of the indebted. Such diversity of ideas was what made America great, not that we haven’t punished people for race and sex and religion and a million other insane reasons that are not “bad behavior,” but even so America is the country of the stolen sample and the conspiracy theory, a nation of ingenuity and creation like no other, while the “white ethno-states” or “Scandinavian social democracies” you adore have created, I think, Avicii. Like wealth, class should not be treated as a zero sum game. There should not be a single ladder of correct beliefs. Having more ideas, even bad ideas, allows more ways to self-actualize and has worth in of itself.

It’s true that no group can perfectly match the values of its constituents. But the reactionaries are wrong again because their ideal nation would look no different. There is always a language gap between human beings, and fidelity is sacrificed to bridge that gap. Groups come together and cleave apart; it is the nature of individuation. Even if our society prohibited every value but the uncritical passage of information, soon we would be competing to pass information the most uncritically. Soon we would split into rival factions based on philosophy of uncritical passage. Man is a machine that extracts meaning. But communication of such meaning occurs in spite of groups, not because of them. Only when treated as an individual do we feel listened to. Existence is suffering, but once in a while someone else gets it. Might as well floss.

Still, don’t let me trick you into undue optimism. Though all value systems can generate meaning, though individuals will always fight to belong and then fight even harder to push away—that does not mean that all value systems are equal. Not long ago kids would argue over which console was better. Now teenagers whisper ‘cuckold’ and ‘nazi’ like it’s considered good manners. We are in the midst of a profound rearrangement of what traits are to be incentivized and rewarded, driven by some seven billion people each acting with what they believe to be the best of intentions. But who can foresee with what success and with what result?

[1a]. Memetics is not without controversy: in academia, it often stands accused of the heresy of dualism. The meme of “Christianity” cannot be sequenced in the way that DNA can, so how can one confidently say that it has “spread” from missionary to convert? Or that a gnostic sect is a “mutation”? Show me the nucleotides of thought, quoth the critics.

Two objections. First, we can’t isolate memes for mass spectrometry because consciousness isn’t a physical entity, it is a PATTERN of relation AMONG entities, an emergent property, meta-neuronal, not neuronal. The order of letters gives meaning independent from the letters themselves, ditto words, ditto sentences.

Second, it doesn’t matter. Is your neural firing pattern for “green” is the same as my neural firing pattern for “green”? Maybe or maybe not, perhaps your brain codes hues in RGB and mine uses hexadecimals. But it seems clear that some information is exchanged between us when we agree that grass is green. “Meme” is a proxy term for that unit of information. And if you accept this, then the burden of proof is on you to show why the mathematical algorithms of evolution—mutation, migration, and selection—the near-universal laws of information exchange—fail to apply here.

[1b]. If you take memetics seriously—and you should, Daniel Dennett’s in the New Yorker so it’s gonna be status quo in 10 years—then you should be skeptical of the gross extrapolation of IQ. Review: Is IQ a useful measurement of innate cognitive ability? Yes. Is IQ a summation of multiple somewhat-correlated skills into one number? Yes. Are some, if not all, of those skills trainable? Yes, with the greatest effects in early childhood. Are IQ tests sexist/racist? No, but they are trainable, training is culture-dependent, and culture cares a great deal about sex and race.

Ah, but here’s the trick. Let’s pretend that, like the SAT, IQ is an immutable and comprehensive measure of inborn intelligence. It would still describe hardware, not software. An out-of-date Compaq could still run new games if you allowed for a slow enough frame rate. Someone with an IQ of 80 could pass medical school given sufficient perseverance; there’s no single meme in the medical field (or quantum mechanics, etc) that is too big for the human brain, it just takes varying amounts of time to flip the pages. If you claim that IQ predicts various negative life outcomes, fine. If you claim that it’s an ability cap, you’re an idiot.

[2]. Note that the desire to love another (Eros) is actually more primitive than the desire to be loved (i.e. understood, Babel). If this seems counterintuitive, note that the Eros does not require recognition of the love object as a separate being. Babel does, and empathy takes effort. Last time you felt desperately alone, was the dominant emotion, “I hope one day someone loves me,” or “I hope one day someone accepts my love?” Pet your therapy dog and think about it.

[3]. Hence the template model (section II) of human beauty: men are attracted to wide hips because experience teaches that this trait is representative of the category “woman,” not because of an inborn preference for curves over lines. I suspect that inanimate beauty follows a similar mechanism: a view from distance is pleasing because if you zoom out far enough you can see a pattern in anything, symmetry is pleasing because... 

Paglia: “Every time we say nature is beautiful, we are saying a prayer, fingering our worry beads.”

[4]. Of course, it’s possible to blow one’s freedom from routine on a fresh set of rituals. Buying novelty is meaningful only until it stops feeling novel. It’s quite easy (and socially encouraged) to pull a Blue Jasmine and wake up just as unfulfilled with more credit card debt. Struggling with increasing strength against escalating challenge—“work”—is the only lasting source of meaning precisely because of this escalation: all other wells of novelty will run dry. But as previously alluded, landing this type of job requires personal wealth (e.g. time and money to apply to grad school) and societal infrastructure (e.g. institutions to hire you). Exhortations to “finish your Soylent, there are kids starving in Africa” are the worst sort of pointless sanctimony, but there’s a real lesson hidden inside “be grateful”: if you’re hearing it, you have the freedom to change.

[ioncewroteadream]

Breathe Me Gently

Read chapter 1, chapter 2, and chapter 3

tw: homophobic language

Chapter 4: I Can Be Serious And You Can Be Mysterious

Isak

He doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t. Isak Valtersen does not think about the most beautiful boy he’s ever seen. Or his pale skin and his lean, muscled form. He doesn’t think about the trail of golden hair glinting in the sun, leading to the nicest dick Isak has ever seen. It was far and brief, but Isak had gotten enough of a look to know that he would have loved to see it closer. To hold it and taste it and let his tongue and fingers map out the boy attached to it.

And that’s fucking terrifying.

---

Gym class is...gym class. Isak isn’t opposed to the work. In fact, he loves it. Loves the metallic taste in his mouth and the burn in his calves. He loves soccer and the control and power he has behind the ball. What he doesn’t love is this goddamn basketball unit in a class full of people he can’t stand (Næsheim included). He has zero skill with it and it’s really no surprise he’s being picked last for the third class this week.

Ok, not dead last (Even isn’t picked at all), but it’s embarrassing as shit. He’s already the gay kid, but now he has to be the gay kid who sucks at sports. It’s not like Isak is some effeminate, limp-wristed, gay boy that runs like a little girl. One of the things that held him back from coming out sooner was becoming some kind of stereotype and that’s exactly what’s happened. He knows what everyone thinks about him.

I swear, I saw Isak in a dress once. Gays must love that shit.

Didn’t Elise say something about seeing him making out with some older guy? Always knew that kid was a bit of a slut.

The class passes fairly quickly. No one passes the ball to Isak, and he’s glad. He couldn’t have done anything with it with Even’s heavy glare on him the entire time. It’s nothing new, but after yesterday, Even seems like he’s out for blood.

Somehow the ball lands in Even’s hands and the rest of the class shies away from him. He looks around for anyone to pass it to, but no one makes eye contact. He frowns at the ball, and Isak’s traitorous heart stutters for a moment. He’s not supposed to feel anything. It’s one thing to be attracted to him, physically. It’s an entirely different concept to feel bad for Even. To smooth out his furrowed brow and kiss his lips until they stretch into a smile.

Isak takes a step back when he looks up to find Even’s eyes boring into his face. And then, because Isak’s a dramatic piece of shit, time seems to slow down. Or speed up. It doesn’t matter, all he knows is that he has no clue what just happened.

He remembers the impact. And the pain. He remembers the blazing, wild eyes inches from his own. He remembers the low snarl of fucking queer in his ear. Mostly, though, he remembers the hard length of Even’s cock pressed against him as they fought.

---

Vilde

Are you ok?

I heard about what happened today

Do you want to report him? I’ll come with you if you need me to.

Isak

Does everyone know?

Vilde

I tried to get people to stop talking about you, but it didn’t really work.

Sorry.

Isak

Thanks for trying.

Vilde

You know it’s because I love you <3

Isak

<3

Vilde

You didn’t answer my question

The girls and I will keep everyone off your back if you let us know

(Even Jonas. I’m pretty sure Sana can take him)

Isak

Lol he’s a meddling asshole. But he’s my meddling asshole

Wait

That came out wrong

I’m fine.

I’m not some fragile fucking flower just cuz I like dick

I can handle Even

Vilde

Ok calm down

We just care about you

Isak

Sorry

Still a little pissed

Vilde

<3

---

“One, two. One, two, three. Watch your guard.” Eskild’s going easy on him, and he should probably be annoyed at that, but he can’t really feel his face or his ribs.

“Can we- shit - can we take a break for a sec?” Isak settles on the ground near his water bottle, panting hard.

He’s downed nearly half of the water before acknowledging Eskild’s not so subtle stare. “What is it, Eskild?”

“Are we going to talk about it?” Yeah, fuck that.

“About what?”

“Don’t be a shit, Is. You never ask for extra sessions unless something’s up. And your face is, like, seven different colours right now.” Isak sighs and slumps against the wall. He doesn’t want to talk about anything, except maybe Eskild’s Grindr matches, but he’s terrible at keeping anything from his mentor. (Isak will never refer to Eskild as ‘guru’ or any other ridiculous title he comes up with, thank you very much.)

“I’m a-ok, Eskild. It’s just regular teen stuff.” Isak tries for a smile, but it comes out wrong and Eskild looks less assured than when they started.

“Regular teen stuff? Baby, you are the image of troubled youth. Bruises and all.” He sits down next to Isak, and pull him into his side. Isak squirms and tries to push him off, but leans into him when Eskild doesn’t let up.

“I don’t know what to tell you.” Isak hates that his voice sounds so small. So weak.

“How about we start with your face. What happened, Isak?”

Sometimes Isak has a hard time talking about things that aren’t superficial. Lie. He always has trouble with feelings. He pretends that he’s doing alright. Fakes his way through tough conversations and acts like he enjoys being himself. And that’s it. That’s the thing. He hates it. He doesn’t want to be Isak Valtersen; gay kid. He doesn’t even want to be Isak Valtersen.

“I got into a fight.” He says the words slow and careful.

“I can see that. You’ve been fighting a lot lately.” Eskild looks down at Isak in that Eskild way and Isak knows he’s seeing right through him.

“I never start them.”

“Ok. I’m not teaching you how to box to attack people. Only self-defense, right?”

“Yeah. Or, maybe not never. I’ve started a good five percent of them.” Or ten. The point is, it’s almost always Even’s fault.

“Isak,” he sighs. “Who’s doing it? And how often?”

“You can’t tell anyone. I mean it, Eskild.” He nods after a beat, brows furrowed. “There’s this guy. Even. I’m pretty sure he’s picking fights because I’m gay.”

“Isak, you should report him to the school.”

“No. I can’t. Really, it’s not that bad. We fight, and then it cools off for a while. I can take care of it.”

“Baby, this isn’t how you take care of something. Do your friends know?” He shifts to face Isak. “We can go to your headmaster and make sure he takes care of it without it being about you. Even won’t know.”

“Eskild, I don’t want to. Please, just listen. He’s probably not going to graduate, I don’t want to fuck up his life with a record too. He’s just a little messed up. I can handle it, I promise. The second I can’t, I’ll tell you.”

He sighs again, resigned and Isak prays it’s enough to keep him satisfied.

“Ok, I trust your judgement, kiddo. But you have to keep your promise.”

“I swear.”

---

“Nei! Pappa, you can’t say things like that. I’m telling Mamma.” It feels good to talk to his pappa. They hadn’t seen each other in a few months and Isak had been starting to miss his pappa’s booming laughter.

“Oi, don’t you dare, little man. Speaking of Mamma, when is she getting back?”

Isak moves to check his phone, but before he can, the door opens and his mamma’s voice carries through the house. He looks up at his Pappa and they share a knowing smile.

“Baby! I’ve brought someone home.”

“Are you cheating on Pappa now?” Marianne comes rushing in to pinch his nose in mock anger. Isak sputters a laugh and pushes her away, his pappa watching and chuckling at them.

“Silly boy. One of my patients is being transferred to the hospital, so her son is going to stay with us for a bit.” Isak tears his gaze away from his pappa on the screen to see a lanky figure holding a duffel bag in the doorway. His face pales when he meets those clear blue eyes that have been plaguing his thoughts. “This is Even. You go to the same school.”

Isak tries to look everywhere else, but he can’t help the way he’s drawn to Even. His thoughts are a tangled mess of hate and beautiful and what the fuck.

“Halla, Isak. Nice to meet you.”