#i like c subjects evidently

[godlovesdykes]

my academic plan (god willing etc etc)

BA (4yrs) -> diploma (you are here) (was supposed to be 2yrs but i’m doing extra courses so 3) -> either 2nd diploma or masters depending on the school i choose (2yrs) -> break to work in my field/have kids maybe -> france for 2nd masters (2-3yrs)

[moonjxsung]

No Guts / No Glory

Copyright Ⓒ 2024 by Moonjxsung

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner. Doing so will result in a legal takedown per the Digital Millennium Copyright Act and is subject to legal action.

Read part 1 here.

Pairing: Bang Chan x fem reader

W/c: 18.2k

Warnings: nipple/breast play, clitoral stimulation, fingering, unprotected sex, sex in a semi-public establishment (no one is around), creampie, spitting during sex, depictions of bodily harm, descriptions of blood

Synopsis: Bang Chan competes in the biggest title boxing fight of his life, terrified at the prospect of losing two things now- this match, and you.

18+. Mdni!

•

“The whole world’s watching him. I don’t blame him for wanting to walk away from all of this- I would, too.”

•

Contrary to the truths of a boxer, a trainer’s punctuality is typically admirable.

And Mr. Seo is no different, you quickly learn, as he enters the interviewing studio at a whole five minutes prior to his call time.

He’s a bit hesitant to approach you at first, the same way Chan once was, bowing politely as you gesture to the folding director’s chair across from you. And when he finally takes his seat, smoothing down a sleek black blazer he wears paired with a silk blue tie, you take notice of the way his jacket seems to constrict around the broad muscles he flaunts, the buttons of his shirt practically clinging onto the fabric that hugs his chest.

“Thanks for having me,” he says respectfully, giving you a small nod as his lips pull into a closed-mouth smile.

“Thanks for being here,” you say nervously, scanning his gaze in hopes of reading him better.

But he’s entirely unreadable, evident in the way his eyes don’t leave yours, awaiting some form of instruction as you toy with the camera and ensure it’s begun recording.

“Could you state your name, and relationship to the subject for the camera?” You begin, swallowing a lump in your throat as he folds his hands in his lap and shifts his gaze to the lens.

“Mr. Seo,” he begins, clearing his throat before continuing. “Bang Chan’s personal trainer.”

To which you then nod, satisfied with the introduction, as you begin the interview.

“How long have you been training Bang Chan?” You inquire, observing the way he furrows his brows in concentration.

“Gosh,” he begins, exhaling a sharp breath before beginning his response. “Around ten years now. It was just a hobby for him, when we initially began. I don’t think either of us figured he’d be participating in a title fight one day.”

“What’s it been like, watching him grow so quickly?”

“Exhausting,” Mr. Seo admits, slouching back in his seat as he now crosses his arms across his chest. “He loses his winning streak, I lose all my credibility.”

He chuckles as he finishes, shaking his head and gesturing with a wave of his hand. “I’m kidding. Chan’s great. He’s a perfectionist, and he’s as stubborn as they come, but he’s very talented. It’s all him.”

Your gaze remains on his in a passing moment of silence, desperate to ask him all the burning questions heavy on your mind this evening; how Chan had reacted to the agonizingly transparent rendition of his docu-series. What he’d spoken to Mr. Seo about, upon the realization that the private conversations you’d shared with him had now been broadcast to thousands of anticipatory viewers. His most vulnerable emotions on display for the whole world, your betrayal made apparent with the sweeping number of viewers the episode had garnered. And especially how he’s doing now, considering he’s failed to answer any of your calls since the episode’s broadcast.

Your heartbeat quickens in your chest as you think back to the series, and you shake your head as you’re brought back to the present moment once more, Mr. Seo sat across from you as he awaits another question.

“Could you tell us how your relationship to Bang Chan first started?”

Mr. Seo thinks it over briefly, his eyes scanning the ceiling, and then he nods once before beginning.

“He was only fourteen. Walked into our gym like he owned the place. I watched him from outside the ring, and he caught my eye because he seemed so angry, the way he threw uppercuts like a pro. I suggested he softened his hits a little- work on his form, instead of just his strength. He kept coming back, and I took him under my wing.”

Mr. Seo sighs, and then he uncrosses his arms, grasping his knees lightly before continuing.

“Maybe I should’ve seen it back then,” he finishes.

You furrow your brows, cocking your head as you observe his gaze fall to the floor.

“Seen what back then?”

He shrugs lightly, as though he’s unsure of his response, and then he delivers an answer much harsher than you’re anticipating.

“That he doesn’t want to do this.”

There’s a silence in the room as he shuffles around in his seat, and then his eyes flicker over the lens of the camera before you can utter a response.

“You mean… the fame,” you question, your eyebrows knitting together as you ponder his words.

“Boxing,” he clarifies.

The silence grows louder the second time around, and your back rests flat upon the back of the back of the chair as you allow yourself to get a little more situated in your seat.

“He doesn’t want to box anymore,” Mr. Seo repeats, pursing his lips and nodding to affirm his statement. He seems to think for a moment, as though carefully recalling Chan’s words, before elaborating.

“He’s wanted to quit for years now. He gets in these mental slumps, where I can’t get him to do anything. Nobody can. At first, I thought it was just for fear of losing that damn winning streak. I’ve since realized it’s more than that.”

He seems to fix on something in the distance beyond your seated figure, and you shift in your seat nervously, waiting for him to elaborate. When he doesn’t, you nod meekly in his direction, gesturing for him to continue.

“What is it, then?”

Mr. Seo is quiet again, chewing on the inside of his lip as he deciphers an adequate response.

“Tell me,” he begins. “You ever stood in the middle of that ring?”

You think back to all those times with Chan, staring out at the rows of punching bags that line the walls, the gallery of famous boxers peering down over the vast space and the suffocating confines of the wired rope that lines the four corners.

“Yeah,” you say to him. “Few times.”

“What’d it feel like to you?”

Nerve-wracking. Entirely too large- and yet somehow still claustrophobic, all at once. Intimidating, daunting. Voyeuristic.

“It’s awful,” you voice back, swallowing a knot in your throat. “It’s so… public.”

He nods understandingly.

“Fourteen years,” he echoes back. “He’s been under that pressure. On an unbroken winning streak since he started professionally. He’s been dubbed ‘miracle athlete’, ‘athletic genius’- you name it. I’ve never seen him more miserable.”

You don’t say anything just yet, realizing this is exactly what Mrs. Bang couldn’t seem to coax out of him. The harsh reality that although it’s his passion, his lifelong dream to win this title fight, perhaps boxing just doesn’t serve the same purpose it once did for him. It’s now accompanied by the constant expectation to win, the all-consuming fear of what it means to lose, more eyes on him as his private life is publicized and monetized. And now the crushing reality that his reservations surrounding the sport have been televised, much to his utter dismay.

As you make sense of his words, your gaze snaps to the camera, at the blinking red light that indicates this conversation is being recorded, too. Your hand darts out to the shutter release, in an effort to not repeat the same mistakes, and Mr. Seo chuckles when he takes notice of your urgency.

“It’s fine,” he says simply, eyes fixed on the lens again. “He knows I’m airing it all out. It was his request, actually.”

Your motions come to a halt as he speaks of Chan, and you turn to catch his gaze once more, eyebrows arching in an apologetic expression as you find the words to say.

“How is he?” You ask, completely veering off your list of required questions, as you inquire about Bang Chan’s whereabouts.

“It’s been days,” you continue. “I didn’t know they were going to televise all of it. He trusted me, and I get if he doesn’t want anything to do with all of this-”

“He was a little taken aback,” Mr. Seo interjects. “I haven’t heard too much from him, either.”

“You haven’t?” You echo, feeling a pit form in your stomach at the fact that he’s even chosen to distance himself from his trainer in the aftermath.

“Not aside from his request to be as honest with you as possible,” he affirms. “Relay whatever he’s unable to say.”

You’re quiet for a moment, and then you gesture to the camera again.

“You mean… he wants this to be broadcasted?”

He nods, pursing his lips.

You can’t fathom why he’d want this conversation part to be televised, knowing very well that even Chan himself has trouble opening up about the subject. And now he’s urged Mr. Seo to relay these truths to the viewers- the truths that boxing has kept him in a mental slump for the better part of his whole career now. That his favorite sport is just another burden he bears, alongside a long list of fancy titles and recognitions. And that he simply doesn’t want to be a boxer anymore. Confessions that could hurt him preceding the title fight- and may only indicate one final outcome.

“He can’t quit,” you voice quietly. “He wouldn’t just leave all of this behind him… right?”

“It’s hard to say,” Mr. Seo responds. “He’s in another one of his slumps. He’s missing schedules, the fight’s just around the corner. Chan’s done this before, but it seems pretty serious this time around. The whole world’s watching him. I don’t blame him for wanting to walk away from all of this- I would, too.”

The pit in your stomach seems to grow tenfold as he speaks, and despite his assurances to record the conversation, your hand darts out to stop the recording anyway.

“He can’t quit,” you say again. “This is his life’s dream. He said it himself- losing scares the shit out of him. Doesn’t forfeiting fulfill the same thing?”

“I’m sure it does,” he counters, a breathy chuckle escaping his lips. “I’ve talked him out of it a dozen times before. Unfortunately I can’t get through to him this time around.”

Your eyes dart over the camera, and then back to Mr. Seo, as you ponder Chan’s words tirelessly.

Maybe you should’ve seen this coming long before it got to this point- his desire to walk away from all of this has been evident for as long as you’ve known him. The anger that festers deep down inside of him as he throws uppercuts in the ring, the way he gets so fixated on his sport, he shuts out the rest of the world around him. His fear of losing, but also a hatred for winning so consistently. Putting greater trust and vulnerability in a journalist rather than the people he’s known all his life.

Mr. Seo seems to take notice of your distress, cocking his head to meet your gaze which falls onto the tiled floor beneath his leather shoes.

“Hey,” he voices gently. “None of this is your fault. Somebody who’s that down on himself is bound to come to terms with it eventually. He doesn’t resent you, if that’s what you’re so worried about.”

He shuffles in his seat once more, and then he sighs a little before speaking again.

“He has a training session tomorrow, in the evening. If he makes it, you can swing by after and get a word in with him. Just don’t say I sent you.”

You nod at his words, swallowing nervously as you fiddle with the sleeves of your sweater in your lap. And then you meet his gaze once more, furrowing your brows before speaking.

“Mr. Seo,” you begin. “Why wouldn’t he resent me? I’m no better than the spectators. If anything, I’m worse. Chan probably wants me dead as we speak.”

He chuckles lightly before shaking his head.

“You’re just doing your job,” he explains. “Everybody is well aware of that.”

He thinks for a moment, before continuing.

“I haven’t seen him come to terms with his own emotions like this before- maybe ever. All he knew was anger for so long- I saw it from the moment I met him at the tender age of fourteen. He’s finally being honest with himself about what’s causing these mental slumps. It’s a level of vulnerability I’ve never witnessed in him before- it’s hardly possible when he’s constantly being told to ‘man up’ by the rest of the world. Did you know he cried in front of me the other day?”

Mr. Seo shakes his head and crosses his arms over his chest.

“He did, if you can believe it. He really cried.”

And you say nothing, in response, simply thinking back to the sight of Bang Chan crying in front of you first, back at his apartment. The way tears cascaded over his hurt expression, and the way he had sniffled in between shaky confessions that losing is what scares him. Losing a boxing match, losing his passion, losing sight of his future in the careful process of finding himself. Forfeiting the biggest title fight of his life, and walking away from all of this as nothing more than a loser.

And perhaps losing you, too- the one person he still finds some semblance of sacredness in.

“Thank you,” you voice to Mr. Seo, as you reach out to shake his hand. “I’m going to talk to him. I’m going to make this right.”

*

The following evening lulls by painfully slow, as you wait for word from Mr. Seo. Your work doesn’t see you in for the afternoon, as you dismiss yourself early to prepare for the conversation at hand in the comfort of your apartment.

And realistically, what can you say to Bang Chan, to convince him not to walk away from this title fight?

I’m sorry nothing is sacred to you anymore. I’m sorry you’re held to such unsustainable standards. Your mom is right to be worried about you, as is Mr. Seo. But that doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to be frustrated with all of this at the same time. Thank you for letting me bear witness to the real Bang Chan, not just the perfect boxer. You’re far more to me than just a video subject.

It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, or probably assumed already- but perhaps the future of his career depends on this conversation, and it weighs just as heavy on you, too.

As the evening draws to a close, you’re relieved to hear that Mr. Seo confirms Chan has indeed shown up to his scheduled training session like he’d promised.

“He’s a little down tonight,” he details in a short text to you. “But he’ll be here after hours, if you care to swing by.”

And there’s nothing you would miss the opportunity for, you think to yourself, as you shoot him a quick text back and begin toward the training gym.

Your mind runs rampant with endless possibilities of how the conversation might play out. Perhaps he’ll be angry with you, and send you off with a curt wave of his hand. Maybe he’ll be just as emotional as he was with Mr. Seo, assuming the same disposition he did when he first cried to you that night in his apartment. Or maybe he’ll actually listen to what you have to say, the same way you lent a kindly ear to his vulnerable display of emotions.

It’s hard to say- he’s certainly not an easy read, the way you once presumed him to be.

The gym is void of its usual commotion- in fact, if not granted entry by Mr. Seo first, you’re not sure you would've assumed it to be occupied at all. The entrance is dark, as is the hallway, and you can just barely make out his silhouette when he approaches with a gym bag slung over his shoulder.

“Hey,” Mr. Seo remarks in a low voice. “He’s in the back.”

He looks exhausted, mentally and physically, and though he flaunts a sheen layer of sweat on his forehead from training, he wears it somberly, as though Chan’s emotions have now extended to him.

“How is he?” You inquire cautiously, and Mr. Seo shrugs in response.

“I couldn’t say. He’s hardly talking.”

Your heartbeat quickens suddenly at his words, at the thought that you’re trying to talk him out of something he’s already practically set on, even to his trainer’s standards. Realistically, there’s nothing you can say to change his mind- so does it even make sense to try? Is there a good reason to make an appearance, if at all?

“Y/n?” Mr. Seo questions, taking note of the way your gaze fixes beyond his standing figure at the darkened hallway, almost tuning out his presence.

“Yeah,” you say simply, giving him a small nod. “Thanks for letting me in. I really appreciate it.”

He just nods in response, standing aside to grant you full access. And then he’s off without another word, the low hum of his engine starting up in the parking lot.

The gym has never felt more uninviting than in the current chilling atmosphere, as you stride down the hallway and glance around nervously. The gallery wall of boxers is almost indistinguishable amidst the darkness, except for the beaming white smiles of their prideful expressions staring you down. You’re quickly overtaken by discomfort, as your eyes scan the dark gray walls, at the neat rows of boxers that mimic each other with their wide grins. The winners are hard to tell from the losers, and the losers might as well resemble just any normal spectator. Even the greats are unrecognizable to you, despite your proximity to their elegant portraits. And as hard as you squint at the array of frames above you, Baik Hyun-Man could be any of the boxers on this dreary wall.

It’s not until a loud thump echoes in the distance, that you’re brought back to reality, snapping your head in the direction of the boxing ring. It’s dark, like the rest of the gym, with the exception of the dimly-lit recess lights over the punching bag.

And stood in front of it, knees bent, fists positioned to deliver an uppercut, his jaw clenched and heavy bags under his eyes, Bang Chan.

He produces another hard punch to the bag as you take a reluctant step toward him, and then he hits two more times, the contact echoing around the room in tandem with your strides.

Thump. Step. Thump. Two more steps.

When you’re finally behind the ring, your knees grazing the raised platform, you hoist yourself over the edge, finding your balance to resume approaching him. And Chan’s punches finally come to a halt, his chin tucking over his shoulder as he attempts to catch a glimpse of you without turning around fully.

“Hi,” you say simply, halting your actions of nearing him.

Chan remains like that for a passing moment, scanning your standing figure out of his peripheral vision, before turning back toward the bag. He doesn’t deliver another punch, nor does he make any efforts to distance himself from you. He simply exhales deeply, before speaking.

“What do you want?”

“I want to talk.”

“I don’t have answers for you right now.”

“I’m not interviewing.”

It’s only then that he pivots cautiously on his heels, facing you now, a resigned expression on his face. He’s damp with sweat, glistening under the recess lighting, his thin white tank top practically glued to the convexes of his torso with perspiration.

“Then what do you want?”

“I told you,” you say to him, taking a single step toward him now. “I want to talk.”

His gaze flickers to your hands, which toy nervously with loose threads under the sleeves of your shirt. His lips part to say something, and then he scoffs lightly, before speaking once more.

“What, no camera this time around?”

Your heartbeat quickens at his words, feeling a suffocating sense of guilt as you realize he’s still upset with how the series unfolded in its last broadcast.

“I’m sorry,” is all you can say to him, dropping your hands at your sides in defeat. “I understand you’re angry. I would be, too.”

Chan is quiet for a moment, eyes narrowed as though he’s challenging you.

“I promise I asked them to omit the footage,” you assure him nervously. “It got into the wrong hands.”

And then you take a sharp breath, before continuing.

“I became obsessed,” you say to him. “With the film. With you. I just wanted to know you better. And when I found that you weren’t this superficial shell of a person like I assumed you were, I couldn’t stop myself from feeding into their asks for this voyeuristic glance at your life.”

Chan’s expression seems to soften as he registers your apology. A part of him knows you’re right- and just like Mr. Seo had conveyed, he doesn’t resent you. Because a part of him is a little relieved he got it out there, for the whole world to comprehend just how scared he is of losing. And in turn, how to go about coping with it.

“Well it doesn’t matter anymore,” Chan remarks, his head hanging a little as he toys with the bandages around his wrists. “Because I quit.”

You can feel the room spin around you as his words pierce through your chest- you’d assumed that an apology would perhaps change his mind about the brash decision. Maybe Mr. Seo was wrong about him, and he is still keen on carrying through with a lifelong dream. But as he stands here before you, his gaze locked on his wrists and his shoulders sagging with shame, you know Mr. Seo had the correct read on him, after all.

“You can’t quit,” you utter reluctantly. “You can’t give up your life’s work because you’re afraid of losing.”

“And be made to look like a complete idiot? Yeah, great idea. I’ll be the first boxer to lose a winning streak to a title fight in over 20 years. That makes me a loser in every sense of the word.”

“This fight isn’t about winning it,” you counter. “It’s about showing up. You think your role models won anything by forfeiting?”

“You don’t get it,” He retorts, a frustrated scoff leaving his lips. “You never will. You’re just here to write some story for your own benefit.”

He seems to regret the words when they escape his lips, evident by the way he meets your gaze and toys with the hem of his shirt awkwardly. And he begins to apologize, but not before you’re interrupting him again.

“Write a story?” You repeat with a scoff, taking a single step toward him and narrowing your eyes. “You think I’m just here to write a story? Is that what you think this is?”

“I could never even begin to explain it to you,” Chan says finally, lowering his head in defeat. “Just… forget it.”

The words pierce through your miraculously still-beating heart, and you can almost feel your blood boil when you see him pivot away from you to make his departure.

Your eyes force themselves away from him, far too agitated with the sight of him to even warrant a brief glance in his direction. And as you stare past him at the gray gallery wall, your gaze meets the familiar sight of the monochromatic photograph, the subject beaming down at you while you search for a final word.

“You know what?” You voice to him, sounding much calmer now as you find the confidence to speak. “You are a loser.”

“What?” He questions, halting his steps to turn his head in your direction.

“I called you a loser,” you emphasize, observing the way he turns to face you now. “Any respectable boxer would know that I’ve always been here to tell your story, not conjure up some sensationalized version of it. Forgive me for caring so much about all of this. About you.”

Chan remains quiet, interest piqued at the way you manage to reach a stalemate with your carefully chosen words. And then he plants two feet on the floor, toying with the straps of the boxing bandages around his knuckles, as he turns away from you and begins toward the back of the gym.

“I’m talking to you,” you practically shout, following in his footsteps and pulling yourself through the gap off the raised platform. You stumble as your feet plant themselves onto the floor, and then you walk briskly behind him, eyebrows furrowed crossly as frustrated tears brim your eyes.

“Sure, just walk away from all of this,” you shout at him, growing increasingly irate at the way he struts down the hallways in front of you, not even switching on the lights as you trail behind him.

“And you know what? Your mom is right,” you voice at him loudly. “You are so fucking preoccupied at being the best at what you do, and that’s exactly what brings you down. It’s like pulling teeth trying to talk to you. I’ve seen it in all you pretentious athletes before, but you’re by far the worst.”

Chan turns a corner, still silent at your remarks as he makes his way into a narrow tiled hallway and into the gym showers. The thought crosses your mind to leave, knowing that you have no business following your video subject into the men’s showers. And yet you don’t, maintaining your stance confidently as you watch him toy with the faucet handle on the wall.

“You don’t even realize the way being so cold affects the people around you. The way they so clearly worry about you- and all you can do is dismiss them, and lie to their fucking faces. Everybody’s walking on eggshells around you.”

Chan pushes the steel lever to the right, and you take a step back when the shower head begins to run with a steady stream of water, cascading over his lean figure as he remains standing. You stutter to speak as you watch Chan pull the black t-shirt he wears over his head, discarding it onto the now wet tiled floor and running two hands through his dampened hair.

And your eyes make every effort to refrain from staring too hard at the toned body he reveals to you- dripping in beads of sweat and water alike, trickling down the muscular contours of his chiseled abs and finding purchase along the elastic waistband of his shorts.

The etched convexes of his pectorals flex with subtle movements as his head hangs, brows furrowed in deep concentration as he pulls on the tightly-bound bandages around his knuckles- to no avail, the water drenching them as he continues to tug on them frustratedly.

“I hope you know that the silent treatment won’t do anything for you,” you admonish, approaching him with a single step.

You recall his strong aversion to getting his bandages wet, so instinctively your hands find his, pinching the nylon fabric between your fingers and beginning to undo the bandages around his bruised fingers as his gaze fixes onto yours.

He says nothing, the damp ends of his hair dribbling warm droplets of water onto your shirt as he towers over you, the running shower drowning out the sounds of his heavy breathing as he admires you at this proximity to him.

Your ears are flushed a deep shade of red, still riddled with clear frustration as you rant to him about all his shortcomings- and yet he can’t shake the endearing fact that you’re still helping him, despite the callous words you throw at him.

“Asshole,” he hears you utter, amongst his own deafening thoughts of you. “You can go your whole life running away from all of this whenever you feel the slightest bit threatened, and you might be fooling everybody else, but not me. I know boxing hasn’t inhibited you to be this shell of a human. Good luck with everything,” you snap, pulling the last of the bandage off from around his hands.

“But I hope you know that not even a trophy could refute the fact that you’re a fucking loser.”

Chan lets a breathy chuckle escape his lips, eyes flickering over your pursed lips when you finally crane your neck to look up at him. He’s properly drenched now, strands of hair falling into his face as his expression grows serious.

Neither of you say anything, heavy breaths escaping your parted lips and swirling into each other as he waits for you to make your departure. And yet you don’t, your chest rising and falling with labored breaths as you observe the way his eyelashes glisten under the cascading water. You watch the way the water collects along his philtrum, fusing into one reflective sphere along his top lip and dangling as he searches for the words to say- and he can’t find them, simply shutting his eyes as the water streams over his eyelids, practically forcing them shut.

He waits for the sound of your departing footsteps, or maybe for the shower to shut off if you’re even the slightest bit keen on talking things out.

And yet his body relaxes down into yours when he feels you heighten your still-standing figure, shifting your weight onto the tips of your toes so that you can brush strands of wet hair out of his face.

He shivers in your touch, exhaling a breath he hasn’t realized he’s been holding in this whole time. And then he works against you with ease when you finally press your lips to his, allowing the water to transfer from his open mouth to yours, the salty flavor of his sweat still present on your tongue.

Chan doesn’t say anything when you pull away once more, mentally preparing himself for you to scold him, slap him, something to confirm that you loathe him the way he believes you now do. But it’s the last thing he expects when you cup his face between your hands again, pulling him down toward you and allowing his troubled expression to meet your gaze.

You think to kiss him again, your eyes flickering briefly over his- but you don’t, simply giving him a short nod when you finish speaking.

It’s Chan who opts to kiss you again, with more intensity the second time around, his hands finding the small of your back when he pulls you in against him and allows his lips to work against yours. Your hands press to his toned stomach, grazing fingertips along his flesh as he pulls you a little closer, and you make no effort to push him away or halt your forbidden actions,

Your head is in a daze- somewhere between seething and perhaps also roused as a result of it, knowing very well that this is possibly the worst way you could handle the situation.

He’s stubborn and dejected, and though he knows that being vulnerable is the only way to come to terms with what boxing has become for him, he only seeks resolution by opting to put a lifetime of work behind him. And it’s driving you mad, to practically beg him to let you in like this- yet it feels like the only way to shut yourself up from negotiating with the shell of the man he’s become is to remain exactly like this, your lips on his, hands all over each other, letting gasped breaths escape your lips as he works his kisses along your jawline.

“I missed you,” Chan confesses with a groan as he tilts your face further up between the gentle hold of his thumb and index finger.

You say nothing back, shutting your eyes as you allow his lips to travel down the column of your neck, his hands lowering to find yours and take your wrists in his grasp. He resumes desperate little kisses down your neck, walking you back along the tiled flooring, until your body is effectively slotted between Chan and the wall below the shower head. And when he pulls back momentarily to let his thumbs caress the curves of your hips, the water cascades over you, too, engulfing you in a steady stream of water and wetting the clothes you still wear. Chan watches, mesmerized, as the white fabric of your blouse clings around your body like cellophane, outlining every convex along your flesh, your hair dripping with beads of water and hanging loosely into your face as you look up at him.

“What are you thinking about?” He inquires softly, tucking a strand of hair out of your face.

You pause for a moment, your eyes locked on the droplets of water that trickle down the tiled wall across from you. He scans your expression as he awaits an answer, using his index finger to tilt your face toward him again. The shower seems to drown out in white noise for a moment, Chan’s gaze flickering over your trembling eyes as he waits. Your mind goes back to the feeling of being in that boxing ring- far too big, and yet claustrophobic, at the same time, especially at the thought of hundreds of eyes on you. You think of your camera, and the sight of the little red light blinking to indicate it was recording him, and how it remained angled at him for hours at a time most days, capturing every little movement he produced. You think of the newspaper publications, the faces of the viewers who recognize him in public, even the worried expressions of the people closest to him as he bites back from indulging them in the truth about all of this.

And then you swallow, confidently straightening your posture, as you finally provide an answer.

“I think about you a suffocating amount.”

He cocks his head, rolling his tongue against the inside of his cheek, visibly satisfied with your response.

“Yeah?” He questions. “Missed me that much?”

You let out a small gasp when he lowers his lips to your chest, and then he places a single, open-mouthed kiss on the curve of your breast, his pupils flickering to hold eye contact as he does.

“Maybe,” you breathe back to him, feeling your throat still bubble with vexation. “Of course maybe I was just looking forward to watching your fight.”

He places another kiss, and then another, and then several more, traveling inward until he’s just between the valley of your breasts. And then he lifts his head up again, grazing over your parted lips, but not yet kissing you.

“I’m afraid of what will happen,” he says in almost a whisper, toying with the damp hem of your blouse.

And Chan smiles between the tender kiss when you pull him back down and indulge him anyway, allowing the indignation you feel at the hands of him to be replaced by the pulsing sensation between your legs, shutting up your thoughts with the erotic sight of him shirtless, hands all over your wet body as you melt into his touch.

“Then do it afraid,” you tell him.

You breathe between heavy kisses as his hands snake down to your blouse, rolling buttons between the pads of his fingers to undo them. He hums into the kiss when you do, letting your hands tangle in his hair as the final button is undone, your blouse hanging open loosely and exposing your chest to the cold water that continues to streamline over your desperate bodies.

You can feel Chan smirk into the kiss, entirely too satisfied with the method you’ve both chosen to adjourn this prolonged chapter of tension that seems to exist every time he’s near- of words unspoken, knowing looks and stories that barely scrape the surface of who he really is. And though you’re still peeved at his reluctance, it feels right to be all over him like this- perhaps this is the closest you’ll ever get to him, when he’s looming over you with every desire to undress you and know the curves of your body as intimately as you long to know his mind.

The thoughts agitate you the more you ruminate on them, and yet every annoyance is shut up by the sensation of his mouth working against yours, hands snaking down to the small of your back again where he sprawls his fingertips out over the goosebumps raised along your skin.

Of course Chan will never admit that perhaps this is the closest he’s ever gotten to letting somebody into the innermost complexities of his mind- but still, he’s well aware that the desire to let you in is heightened by the reality that he wants you to know him fully.

“Is this okay?” he breathes again, as his fingers graze a little lower, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

The audible groan you emit practically relays an answer to him already, yet he smiles devilishly in response to your clear frustration, your hand tracing eagerly along the waistband of his shorts. You don’t have to advance any lower to know that he’s definitely hard for you- it’s clear in the way he whimpers at the near-contact, his breathing growing ragged when you hum softly into his mouth and tug at his hair a little.

“Answer me,” Chan commands, his hands finding their way to your pants and toying similarly along your waist. Your hand rests atop his, guiding him to pull them lower as if granting him permission, and then he wastes no time discarding them entirely, tugging the soaked fabric that clings to your thighs harshly down your body and allowing them to pool around your ankles.

“Yes, it’s okay,” you gasp, moaning softly when his lips reattach to your neck.

Your lingerie is already soiled, clinging tightly against the outline of your body, and Chan’s clothes now clearly outline his fully-erect cock, strained against the thin fabric of his shorts and desperate for some release.

The shower temperature seems to have risen several degrees with the passing time, cascading over you with almost scalding water as you feel Chan’s hands lower to take yours in his. He caresses your wrists as he pulls away from your lips momentarily, and then he spins you around to press you gently against the wall, his lips finding purchase in the shell of your ear as he prods into your lower thigh from behind. He feels big against you, his whole body indicating his clear desire to take you right here, in the hardly-private environment of the gym showers, and you shiver when you feel him work kisses down the column of your neck once more, now latching your flesh between his teeth to suck a line of bruises where his lips trail.

The reality crosses your mind again, briefly, that you’re definitely not supposed to be getting physically intimate with an interview subject for a second time now. But when his hands trail down to trace behind the strap of your bra, tugging on the fabric until his nimble fingers are working over the clasp, you don’t dare utter a single word of protest at him.

Unlike the way he retracts from opening himself up to you, his movements now are purposeful. He knows what he wants in the way he so skillfully undoes the clasp of your bra, letting it fall to the floor in a puddle of water as his hands now find the mounds of your breasts. And he has clear intentions when he then slips his hands into the sides of your panties and tugs harshly, letting those pool around your ankles too, now, his hands massaging the curves of your ass as you arch instinctively and wait for him to continue.

“Will you let me return the favor now?” Chan asks boldly when his hands travel back to his own shorts. He touches himself over the fabric of his shorts, cupping a hand around his own hard girth to then stroke himself with just enough pressure to coax a heavy exhale from the back of his throat. And when you nod beneath his touch, swallowing the shower water that dribbles from between your lips to rest upon your tongue, his fingers find your face, tilting just enough to meet your gaze with his.

“I didn’t hear you,” Chan states, not yet undressing himself. “Say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe back, hoping the impatience in your voice isn’t picked up so easily in your tone. You’d beg him to fuck you if you weren’t already begging him to let down his stubborn walls.

He smirks at your near-desperation, and then his hands resume the action of gliding upon the grooves on the elastic waistband of his shorts- only this time, he tugs them down in tandem with his boxers, allowing his exposed erection to grow against his abdomen as his clothes fall to the tile beneath him. His hand wraps itself around the base of his cock, positioning himself behind you and pumping himself a few times. And then before he makes any move to enter you, his hand slots itself between your legs, resting along your upper thigh as he presses a chaste kiss to your shoulder.

“I still think you’re a loser,” You say to Chan, for the second time now, gasping when you feel his fingers graze your clit and rub in circular motions. “If you walk away from all of this.”

“Yeah?” he says with a breathy chuckle, pressing a series of open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder. “Is this your way of saying you care about me?”

“Hardly,” you breathe back, eyebrows arching in pleasure when he quickens the pace of his movements.

“I see the way you look at me,” Chan whispers against the shell of your ear. “Either you’re really passionate about this story,” his fingers prod against your entrance, gathering the slick of your arousal onto the pads of his fingers before dipping them into your cunt and smiling when you gasp in response. “Or you’re just as drawn to me as I am to you.”

“Am I right?” He says when you arch back against him, gasping as he moves his fingers in, and then out, swirling them around your clit and back inside of you once more. “Tell me,” he continues. “Do you always get this wet for the people you interview?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you breathe back, your chest rising and falling with every labored breath as he resumes his thrusting motions in a rhythmic pattern. “You’re the one who drags me everywhere with you like I’m your fucking assistant.”

“You could’ve declined,” Chan says plainly, his tongue finding your neck and tracing along your throat in one long stripe, before latching his teeth around the flesh as he had previously. “I think you just like me.”

You begin to respond, quickly unable to as he thrusts his fingers at a particularly fast pace now, your words coming out as a series of high-pitched moans, instead. You silently pray he can’t tell you’re enjoying this entirely too much.

He pulls his fingers out again, and you spread your thighs a little to grant him access to your clit once more, yet he doesn’t indulge you, simply letting his hand find your waist again and caressing your damp skin.

“Why’d you stop?” You say a little too abruptly, earning a chuckle from him as his hand wraps around the base of his cock.

“Someone’s eager,” Chan remarks, and you mentally scold yourself for audibly sounding it.

“Just hurry up, will you?”

His hand caresses the vein that runs along his shaft, thumb toying with his pink tip as he hums in response to your anticipation. And then he pauses again, before tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

You watch as Chan’s neck cranes up, too, his adam’s apple bobbing outwardly as he faces up at the shower head that continues to shoot a steady stream of water over your tangled bodies. He shuts his eyes momentarily, allowing the water to cascade in two streams down his cheeks now as it makes contact over his pronounced nose bridge. And then you watch his plump lips part above you, the flow of water merging into one steady stream once more as he lets it fill his mouth, his chin almost trembling as he struggles to take it all in one mouthful, quickly spilling over and dribbling down his chin. He doesn’t swallow the mouthful, he doesn’t dispose of it as he turns to meet your gaze again. Instead, he angles your face toward him with the gentle maneuver of his thumb on your chin, his lips pulling as much as they can into a cocky grin as he cups your face and allows your mouth to remain agape for him.

No words are exchanged as he partakes in the lewd action of allowing the water to dribble down into your mouth, strings of saliva accompanying the salty taste of his sweat and the metallic taste of gym shower water. He allows his mouth to fully empty into yours, guiding strings of saliva back between your parted lips when your respective mouthful begins to spill over, too. And then as the caress of his thumb along your chin instructs you non-verbally to swallow it, to let the concoction dribble down to the back of your throat and glide with ease past your trembling lips, he’s guiding himself inside of you at the same time, his hands spreading your thighs as he guides his cock into your entrance and holds it there for a still moment.

You want to verbally remark how big he feels inside of you, but you can’t speak just yet as you swallow the remainder of his saliva, gasping for a breath when he pulls back to then thrust into you with a little more force. And then his hand reaches around to your clit once more, the pads of his fingers working you in circles again as he begins to move with rhythmic motions.

“Are you okay?” Chan asks in a gentle voice, as he gathers your hair with his vacant hand, draping it over your shoulder to press a chaste kiss against your neck.

You nod quickly in response, far too overcome by the sheer pleasure of his flesh working in and out of your glistening walls to give him a proper answer, and he takes the heavy panting that escapes your lips as answer enough.

“God you feel so fucking good,” Chan remarks, as he gives your hair a little tug. “I’ve been thinking about this. About you.”

He lets his eyes shut in a blissful state of euphoria as he fucks you, satisfied groans escaping his lips as his fingers grasp at your flesh eagerly, careful not to loosen his hold on you as though he might lose you.

And then before he can ponder the implications of his breathless speech, he’s breaking the silence again, regret overtaking his dizzied state the moment he speaks again.

“What are you thinking about?”

The words are near insensitive as it now stands, and Chan knows very well that he’s going to be met with some version of dispute from your breathless figure. But you surprise him for the second time this evening, when you don’t argue against his callous actions, instead letting your lips part in pleasure as you breathe out a response.

“You,” the simple answer conveys. And Chan can feel his cock twitch inside of you at the admission, another groan escaping his parted lips as he feels himself grow twice as roused at the fact that he consumes your thoughts just as much as you do his.

Between the rhythmic sounds of his groans that precede your gasps for air, muffled by the steady stream of the shower that nearly drowns out your voices the same way the pleasure nearly drowns out your thoughts, you feel his hand reach around to grasp your fingers between his. He gives it a gentle squeeze as he angles your parted legs toward the shower stream, letting the water cascade in a pulsing vibration directly on your clit. And the dizzying sensation of your joint frustration and pleasure only reminds you that the thoughts are not limited to just him.

Thinking about Bang Chan extends far beyond just the charming public figure he now is- they exist in a capacity much larger than a longing to know him for the purposes of any stupid docuseries. The thoughts of him transcend the superficial established connection of a subject behind a camera lens- instead, you long to know the very intricacies of his consciousness, to pick his mind and comprehend his real fears, his hangups, his shortcomings and his plan for a life beyond this one. It’s a longing to know him beyond just his tales of guts and glory, and this life he’s so scrupulously centered around his boxing career.

He’s purposeful- in his strategy and his movements, and you’re quickly brought back to the gym locker showers when you feel him spread your lips a little wider toward the shower stream, earning a fervent moan from you as you feel his cock twitch again inside of you.

“Fuck,” Chan exhales, through gritted teeth, as he staves off his orgasm momentarily.

He observes the way your eyebrows arch in sheer pleasure, all fucked-out as you take him so obediently and allow the shower to pleasure you where he can’t. And then he angles your face toward him as he indulges you in one final sloppy kiss against your parted lips, the lewd remnants of sweat and spit and water still exchanging from his body onto yours.

“I’m sorry,” is all Chan can breathe against your lips, as he assists you in reaching your finish, giving your hand an affirming squeeze as your legs tremble in his touch, your walls contracting around his cock, as the shower water that cascades onto the floor is now mixed with your juices and and the echoing sounds of your high-pitched moans. And Chan nibbles on the lobe of your ear, confessing a string of apologies as he reaches his finish now, too, filling your still-aching body with his load and not loosening his grasp around your fingers.

Before pulling out, his trembling hand finds the steel handle of the shower, which he pushes into an ‘off’ position once more, before relaxing his figure against yours, hands finding purchase on your hips as you both catch your breath.

The tiled room grows much quieter now as heavy breaths escape both of your parted lips, chests rising and falling against each other as his chin rests on your shoulder.

The stream of the shower has now reduced to the repetitive tap of dripping water along the floor, echoing in the near-silence of the steamy room as you remain pressed against each other, bodies languid and far too drained of your frustrations to speak.

And yet amidst the eerie silence of the room, Chan speaks in a voice above a whisper, his fingertips intertwining with each other as he tightens his grasp around your frame.

“I’ll do it,” he says breathlessly, taking your hand in his and bringing it up to his lips for a tender kiss to your knuckles.

“Do what?” You challenge, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair out from his eyes.

He chuckles softly, cocking his head as you await a response.

“Say it,” you reiterate, and he rolls his eyes playfully before answering.

“I’ll do the fight,” Chan says finally, his shoulders seeming to relax when he comes down to rest his forehead against yours. “I’ll show up, and I’ll do this match.”

His head hangs as his figure towers over yours, fingers giving yours a little squeeze before he finishes speaking.

“And we can finish telling this story together.”

And the gentle gargle of the shower drain succeeds his words, disposing a mix of sweat and water and arousal alike.

*

GOLDEN GLOVES CHAMPIONSHIP TITLE FIGHT- BANG CHAN VS. KANG-DAE

It’s not unusual for boxers to flaunt a long list of rituals on fight days. Some have particular food specifications the night before, others ensure a strict routine of stretches. You distinctly recall a few playlists shared by previous athletes you’ve interviewed, and even lucky articles of clothing for others.

For Bang Chan, sherbet popsicles are a considerable factor in his pre-boxing rituals. And yet for the first time in his career, they’re unavailable to him.

“You tried the convenience stores on the south side?” He asks again, pacing back and forth as Mr. Seo slings his belongings into a gray storage locker.

“All sold out,” Mr. Seo explains. “There’s a few similar ones in the freezer at the back. Not sure if you wanna give those a try.”

Bang Chan thinks it over momentarily, electing not to respond as frustratedly as he wants to. And then he shoves his hands in the pockets of his gym shorts, hanging his head in defeat.

All around him, the hallways of the stadium are teeming with movement- from security in black jumpsuits traversing the rooms, sports commentators readying their equipment, makeup artists organizing their respective supplies. Even Mr. Seo seems to be heads-down in his own tasks, hardly uttering words of consolidation as he makes his way over to another staff member.

And all Chan can do is simply wait, in the green room, for further direction, as he tries his best not to get in the way. Mr. Seo had once described this part of the process as a “hurry up and wait” sort of phenomenon- something Chan never fully understood until he was participating in some of his biggest fights to date. The makeup artists will usher him to a swivel chair, where they’ll begin with a base of primer on his face, and then they’re gone again, disappearing to retrieve more supplies from beyond the green room. Staff members will begin to explain the timeline of this evening’s events, and then they’re quickly caught up in an entirely different conversation, not even completing their sentences before they’re a whole room away from him.

Even Mr. Seo will begin a pep talk, reminding Chan to “loosen up”, and that “whatever happens, happens”- and then he’s absent once again, too, quickly reminded of something he’s forgotten back at his designated locker.

So all Chan can do is wait, his eyes scanning rows of photographs that line the unfamiliar walls of this foreign stadium.

He’s entirely riddled with fear, the way he always is before a fight. Yet his thoughts are also plagued with you, and you, and more of you, as he recalls the way all of his previous evenings alongside you had unfolded.

Perhaps all of the desperate kisses you’d exchanged, and the now several times you allowed him to return the favor, served as pre-ritual enough for Chan, who practically bites back a smile when he remembers the way your delicate fingers weaved between his, reassuring him for one final time that he’s not a loser for showing up.

All of your sagely words circle his mind as though he’s indulging himself once more in the sacred moment of a boy and his favorite sherbet popsicle- apologetic confessions that he’d become an object of fascination for you. A myriad of shaky words detailing a sheer gratitude for allowing you to know him this intimately, the way he’s been withholding from the people closest to him. And although his truths had been publicly broadcast, a newfound appreciation for this level of vulnerability.

And he’s quickly brought back to reality when Mr. Seo makes his entrance again, folded blue satin grasped tightly in his hold.

“Robe’s here,” Mr. Seo explains, as he nears Chan’s seated figure. Chan cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of the familiar article of clothing- blue, upon his mother's particular liking to his first pair of sparring mitts.

The whole room seems to halt their actions and stare when Chan finally rises from his seat, pulling his ribbed white tank top off over his torso with the swift motion of a hand. And beneath the bright lights of the green room, a series of camera flashes illuminates the space around him, as they capture the first moments he’s finally undressed.

“Arms out,” Mr. Seo commands.

He assists in pulling the robe over Chan’s broad shoulders, smoothing down the silken fabric as Chan adjusts the collar.

Another staff member unbeknownst to Chan gestures for his hands, where she begins to wrap nylon around his knuckles. One more readies his boxing gloves, pulling open the velcro from around the closure strap.

Makeup artists begin to circle him again, brushing powder along his nose and instructing him to pout his lips for chapstick.

As they prepare him for the biggest title fight of his career, Chan can still only think of you.

He knows you’re prohibited from interacting prior to the fight- rules which you mutually opted to establish, knowing it would be entirely too difficult to conceal your emotions in the presence of each other. But the fact stands, that he misses you, and that in the absence of his typical pre-fight ritual, you’re the only other means of instilling a sense of calmness within him.

“Kang-Dae’s already here,” Mr. Seo then says, as he fastens the strings of Chan’s robe.

“He’s here?” Chan echoes, eyes widening as the realization sets in.

He pictures the green room opposite to his in the stadium; it’s probably just as busy, with staff members working to prepare Kang-Dae for what will also be the biggest fight of his career. Chan realizes for the first time that he’ll be face to face with the same figure he’s spoken so highly of, the same person he’s made strategic efforts not to run into, and the same person he’ll now be facing in the ring- not just a practice match against Mr. Seo, or even a punching bag.

“He arrived not long ago,” Mr. Seo explains. “We have 15 minutes until entrance.”

Chan rotates his hands, at the staff’s request, as they fasten the black sparring mitts around his fists. And then his gaze falls to the mirror across from him as another stripe of powder is brushed along his nose.

His eyes scan his own standing figure for a moment- he looks taller than usual, and stronger, his shoulders pulling back as the blue satin robe hangs loosely around his toned body. His hair is smoothed back again with a gel comb, his shoes knotted three times at the laces.

And then his gaze falls to the standing figure behind him, as you make entrance into the green room at last, a colleague by your side and a team of cameras filing in after you.

“… you can begin setting up in ten,” a staff member directs them, gesturing to the hallway beyond them.

You do your best to register the instructions, nodding your head as they speak right past you, yet completely unable to do so, as Chan’s lips pull into a closed-lip smile.

He can say nothing at the sight of you, simply admiring the elegant black double-breasted dress you sport, your hair pulled back to flaunt a sophisticated makeup look. And your eyes remain locked with his for a passing moment, as you examine his appearance in all its glory- the way the blue satin robe falls loosely around his chiseled abs, the glow of his makeup under the bright lightning, even the new sight of his gelled hair, pushed out of his face to reveal his handsome features to you.

He hardly looks familiar to you this way- much less like the Chan you know at the proximity of his lips on yours, and more like renowned boxer Bang Chan, the way the rest of the world refers to him.

Mr. Seo seems to take notice of Chan’s eyes on yours, his gaze flickering over Chan’s intense stare in the mirror and then around to you, who scrambles to face your camera crew once more. He smooths down the collar of Chan’s robe one last time, giving him a pat on the shoulders, and then he calls out to the nearby staff in a moment of understanding.

“Let’s give Bang Chan a moment,” he says, gesturing to the hallway with a cock of his head. “We’ll make entrance in ten.”

The makeup crew packs the last of their belongings, shuffling out with briefcases of pallets and brushes. Security assume their positions just past the door in the hallway, shutting the heavy steel door behind them, and Mr. Seo leads the rest of the crew out, shooting Chan a small wink as he observes you maintain a safe distance from Chan.

When the green room is finally cleared, the steel door shutting fully with an echoing thud, Chan pivots to face you, leaning back on the vanity, his hands shoved into the pockets of his robe.

“Hi,” he muses curiously.

You take several steps toward him, arms crossed at the elbows, and then you halt in front of him, tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

“You look cool,” you tell him, the corners of your lips pulling up into a smile. “Like a winner.”

He chuckles softly, standing up straight now, his broad figure towering over you as he maintains an amused smile. He begins to close the gap between your smiling figures, but you reach a hand out to stop him, sprawling your fingers out across his stomach and pushing him away lightly.

“You can’t kiss me,” you say to him. “It’s bad luck.”

“Oh really?” Chan questions. “Says who?”

“Says me,” you voice back, chuckling softly in response. “You just got your makeup done. And I don’t want to run the risk of being seen by somebody.”

“There’s nobody around,” he emphasizes, taking your hands in his. “Besides, the makeup’s going to get ruined enough as it is.”

“Still,” you say to him, reaching up to run a finger along his gelled hair. He searches for the words to refute your argument again, but instead he’s silent, cocking his head to observe your expression.

“If I can’t kiss you,” he begins. “I think it’s only fair that you indulge me in a story. For good luck.”

You smile up at him, thinking it over a second. He rubs his fingers over yours tenderly as he awaits a response, and then his expression grows serious again when you begin to produce one.

“In 1988, Baik Hyun-Man was the first heavyweight boxer of his kind to make it to the Olympics. He trained for an incredible amount of time, and he swept in his division that same year.”

Chan nods as you speak, recounting the tale in his own mind.

“Two years later, he retired. And the world didn’t know what to make of him. In his final speech to the world, he detailed his reasoning- that maybe through tales of his, of guts and glory,”

“… we find our footing in the knowledge that we tried,” Chan finishes.

He says nothing as your lips pull into a smile, mirroring his.

And then he gives you an understanding nod, as a knock is heard on the steel door, indicating time for his entrance.

*

The arena is almost deafening with heavy anticipation when you finally make your entrance, assuming a reserved spot at the front, amidst the rows of occupied seats. Spectators sport face paint and signs, balancing buckets of popcorn in their elbows and chugging gargantuan cups of soft drinks and alcohol. The chatter of sports commentators can already be heard overhead as they detail the sight to viewers at home. And as you glance around the arena, you can’t help but worry for Chan, who you know already feels suffocated enough in the confines of the practice gym.

The same emotions you harbor when staring out at the gym are elevated- perhaps tenfold, as you lose sight of the rows in the shadows beyond the bright white recess lighting. Your cameras are set up alongside you by the crew, who assemble the tripods and angle the lens toward the ring.

And you watch nervously, waiting for sight of Chan’s entrance. Your eyes scan the sea of people, who talk excitedly amongst themselves, and then back to the boxing ring, which seems to glow under the blinding white lights- and then your attention is drawn back to the seat beside you, as a figure shuffles past toward you.

“Mrs. Bang!” You exclaim, bowing graciously as she mirrors your action.

“So good to see you again!” she states, a warm smile on her face. “We’re sitting just that way.”

She points to the right of your spot, and beyond rows of fans, you can clearly locate what appears to be the rest of Chan’s family, who greet you with smiles and excited waves.

“Wow, there’s so many of you,” you say back to her, chuckling lightly as you wave them down.

“We’ve never missed a match,” she explains. “He always knows where to find us.”

The statement is comforting to you, as you recall how nervous Chan is to have hundreds of eyes on him at any given moment- at least among a sea of spectators, he can always still count on a few familiar faces rooting for him.

“Listen,” she begins to say. “I wanted to thank you for this whole film. We had a long conversation about it, following the second part of his series. I always knew it was taxing for him- I guess I just hadn’t realized how scared he was of all this.”

She lowers her voice to just above a whisper, glancing nervously at her side, before continuing to speak.

“It was eye-opening for all of us, to view it from a different perspective. We all want him to win- just not at the cost of his well being.”

You’re quick to shake your head, shooting her an understanding smile.

“I wanted to apologize to you- I didn’t know they were going to air a lot of it,” you tell her. “I didn’t mean for his secrets to be so… televised.”

“Don’t apologize,” Mrs. Bang reassures you. “It’s the kind of honesty nobody’s been able to coax out of him before. Sure, it reached a lot of people. But it was bound to, considering how long he’s kept all of this from us. Sometimes when we’re most vulnerable, it’s the only time we’re able to truly understand what we want.”

You ponder her words momentarily, not yet separating from her gaze, as her lips pull into a small smile. You see a lot of Chan in her- restless when she’s distressed, and yet a robust willingness to decipher a meaning from all of the pain. She’s enchanting the same way Chan is- it’s no wonder he holds his family so close to his heart.

“Thank you,” is all you can utter in reply, as she reaches out a hand to give your forearm a squeeze.

“Whatever happens tonight,” she voices. “I’m glad we got to tell this story. I think you’ve done a fine job at knowing him.”

You return her words with a smile of your own, your eyes darting back to the ring, where staff members circle about and make their final preparations.

“It’s not over yet,” you remind her. “We’re still telling it.”

And she shoots you a knowing wink, as she bows graciously and begins back toward her designated seating.

*

When the spotlight illuminates over the west wing of the arena, the rest of the venue goes dark, crescendoed chatter making itself known all around you as fans eagerly await the entrance of both athletes.

“… tonight’s biggest match of the year here at the Golden Gloves Championship,” you can hear a commentator announce from the platform far above you.

“Bang Chan vs. Kang-Dae, a battle of undefeated superstars, scheduled for 12 rounds of boxing. Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce to you our participants in tonight’s main show.”

All eyes seem to shift nervously over the west wing, squinting amidst the contrast lighting to make out whose entrance will precede the next. And when the commentator begins to speak again, your heart practically drops in your chest, when you observe the first.

“Introducing to you first, on my right, fighting out of the red corner, wearing red mitts,” he begins. “A campaign record of 23 wins, 19 coming by way of knockout. Please welcome the hard-hitting, former lightweight champ of the second division, boxer Kang-Dae.”

Your eyes fall to his looming figure on the left, observing the way he jogs in place, a bright red robe draped over his muscular build as he wears a cocky smile on his face.

He sports a shaved head, cracking his neck with a jerky movement of his neck, his buff build flexing beneath the overhead lights. If you’d previously assumed Chan to assume the appearance of an arrogant athlete, Kang-Dae’s definitely broken that record now, made even more clear in the way he raises his fists to the audience and circles the ring as they cheer for him.

“And on my left,” the commentator begins, your head snapping to the other side of the ring.

“Fighting out of the blue corner, wearing blue mitts, completely undefeated in his division on a rampant winning-streak. A total of 40 wins, 26 coming by way of knockout, we welcome the electrifying king of boxing and rising star to fame, champion boxer Bang Chan.”

The lights are illuminated over Chan’s standing figure now, and your heart skips several beats when you witness his powerful stance in all its glory, for the first time in a professional setting.

Chan adjusts the velcro around his wrists, pulling it taut between his teeth, craning his neck out at the audience, before raising a single fist and shooting the spectators a nervous, closed-lip smile.

The crowd is much louder this time around, the entire arena erupting in a sea of applause and cheers, as he rolls his shoulders back now, his gaze finally falling onto Kang-Dae’s.

You reckon you could cut the tension with a knife when they make visual contact, their eyes darting over each other’s statures and mentally relaying words of self-righteousness at one another. Although Bang Chan is visibly nervous, he looks angry, the same way he does when he’s throwing punches in the practice ring. As they approach each other at the center, your gaze is drawn back to the referee, who holds a hand out in front of each of their figures, beginning to voice a list of rules.

“Touch ‘em up,” he tells them, as you watch them raise their mitts to make contact just once, before retreating to their respective corners.

The noise is drowned out momentarily amidst your own thoughts, eyes scanning nervously over Chan’s figure, as you watch Mr. Seo fit a mouth guard over his teeth. He talks loudly over the deafening cheers as he relays some form of instruction to him, giving his shoulders an affirming tap and gesturing to Kang-Dae.

Your own gaze falls to your camera crew, who meticulously adjust the lenses to not miss a second of Chan’s movements, and you chew the inside of your lip nervously as you wait for him to assume his position. On the overhead screen, you crane your neck up to catch a glimpse of their names in flashy text, illustrating ROUND 1 alongside a headshot you’ve never seen of Bang Chan.

And then before your gaze falls over his figure once more, the double chime of a boxing bell fills the room loudly, indicating start time for the two.

It happens faster than you were prepared for, when Kang-Dae lunges forward to deliver a harsh hook, just barely missing Bang Chan as they begin to circle around each other.

Both sides of the arena are equally deafening, fans practically rising from their seats to cheer for either member. Chan’s movements to dodge Kang-Dae are swift, yet sharp, as his blue mitts conceal his serious expression, his tongue rolling once over the harsh blue color of his mouth guard.

“Approaching the midway point of a cautious start to the first round,” a commentator states. “There’s a jab, from Bang Chan in the blue. Who just barely misses Kang-Dae’s dodge- folks, do you see that footwork?”

The screen overhead now displays a timer- 45 seconds left of round one, and you turn to your own cameras when you take note, observing the way Lin fidgets with the pan arm.

“He’s being careful,” Lin comments. “We should start seeing more action by round 3.”

Your lips part to say something, but you simply turn back to the ring again, eyes darting briefly over the screen.

20 seconds, 19, 18…

“It’s neutral,” another commentator states. No one’s attempting to put the other out just yet.”

14, 13, 12…

“Listen for that bell, gentleman,” the referee announces.

“A landing jab, from Bang Chan on the right! And time, right there.”

As both boxers return to their places, you can see Mr. Seo approach Chan, who assumes a spot on a little stool in his corner, exhaling sharply before he’s quickly surrounded.

“Perfect start,” Mr. Seo tells him, pulling the mouth guard out from between his teeth. “He’s gonna start making some hard moves at you. We’re looking for counters, right? Just be relaxed, and be light on your feet.”

Bang Chan nods, as somebody to the right of him brings forward a sports water bottle and gestures for him to take a swig. When he pulls away once more, they reach out to wipe a drop from the corner of his mouth. Another figure behind him runs what appears to be a bag of ice over the back of his neck, giving him a quick massage, before retracting.

Chan doesn’t say anything for the duration- he simply nods, seemingly regulating his breathing and focusing on Mr. Seo’s advice.

And when the break is called to an end, both parties meet at the middle of the ring again, as the referee ushers for them to start round 2.

The boxing bell is just as jarring the second time around, a double chime echoing loudly throughout the arena. And this time, Chan doesn’t waste a second lunging at Kang-Dae first, his fist making robust contact with his opponent’s stocky build, a loud thump revertebrating from the hit.

Kang-Dae seems to duck as he does, his fists coiling around Chan’s waist, as he holds him tightly in his grip and shoves him forward, earning the attention of the referee, who holds out two hands to stop them both.

“Stop, stop,” he calls out. “Not another until I say go,” he explains. And the two shoot furious looks at each other, before the referee announces “go!” once more. Kang-Dae dodges a series of quick punches from Chan, whose footwork remains light and skillful, as he circles the perimeter of the ring.

“Bang Chan utilizing lateral movement along the ropes,” a commentator says loudly. “Now, Kang-Dae is still excellent coming off the ring.”

Kang-Dae quickly coils his mitts around Bang Chan a second time, swiftly pushing him forward once more, and the referee is louder when he admonishes a second time.

“Back,” he tells Kang-Dae aggressively. “Can’t tie him in a hold.”

At a minute-thirty into the match, Chan delivers another punch, this time landing hard.

And with bated breath, you watch as Kang-Dae takes a harsh tumble to Chan’s left hook, quickly pulling himself off the floor again and retreating to his corner.

The audience erupts in roaring cheers as Chan adjusts the waistband of his shorts, rolling his tongue again over his mouth guard. The referee says something indistinguishable to Kang-Dae, who nods furiously in response, and then they meet in the middle of the ring again.

“After a slow start to round 1, Bang Chan drops Kang-Dae in round 2, marking only the second time to occur in his career,” the commentator announces. “We’re at 15 seconds left now.”

Both continue dodging a series of punches and circling each other, with neither delivering another jab as ceremonious as Chan’s for the remainder of round two. And then the referee calls time again, as the boxing bell chimes five times now, and they retreat to their corners once more.

While their respective teams make haste to tend to both athletes, the large screens overhead project highlights from round two in slow motion. You watch proudly as the recap shows Chan deliver a particularly harsh jab to Kang-Dae’s chest, lunging him backward until his footing is lost, his muscular thighs making contact with the floor of the ring. While he’s quick to get back up again, his expression is irate, and Chan does a perfect job of maintaining his stance when he attempts to hit back ten times harder.

“Focus,” Kang-Dae’s trainer tells him, as another member dabs at the beads of sweat that line his brow. “Don’t think about his campaigns. This is about you. Remember- he’s scared. Take advantage of it. Get up. Man up.”

Kang-Dae hardly produces an answer, simply grunting, as the mouth guard is pulled from between his teeth.

“He’s fast,” he says between labored breaths.

“Then be faster.”

On the opposing side of the ring, Mr. Seo pats Chan’s knee, pulling out his mouth guard and allowing him a swig of water.

“Atta boy,” he says to him. “Don’t overcommit. Perfect energy.”

Chan simply nods, rolling his shoulders back, as he’s massaged in the remaining seconds. And then they’re at the center of the ring once more, as the referee calls for round three.

*

Five rounds in, Bang Chan continues to take lead of the match, delivering a sharp uppercut to Kang-Dae’s jaw, which precedes another series of smaller punches.

The crowds seem to be much louder for Chan, his punches eliciting excited reactions from all over the arena as he throws hit after hit, and Kang-Dae’s expression appears defeated each time he retreats to his corner.

“Keep it coming,” Mr. Seo tells him. “Watch for those counters. Your hooks are perfect.”

He appears more breathless each time he hoists his body over the little stool, simply nodding in response to the praise around him. And right before the sixth match, he cranes his neck, as though he’s looking for somebody in the crowd of people. His eyes tremble as he scans over the east wing, and then the west wing, his staff members practically pivoting his body back in place to hydrate and clean him of sweat.

“Focus,” Mr. Seo says, forcing his gaze back upon him. Chan nods sheepishly- but Mr. Seo is well aware that Chan seems to be seeking you out amidst the crowd, a sort of desperation present within him like he’s never observed before.

He’s competent in this evening’s fight, but he also appears distracted, like there might be something more important to be found in your presence rather than the biggest fight of his life.

And ten rounds in, Mr. Seo’s theory proves correct when Chan’s performance begins to falter.

He fumbles a little in response to Kang-Dae’s swift attempts at a landing jab- and consequently, just enough to permit contact, failing to dodge when he produces a sharp uppercut to Chan’s left side.

It feels as though it’s another slow-motion replay when you watch it unfold, observing the way Chan’s whole body jerks to the left, his eyes squeezing shut and a stream of saliva escaping from between his parted lips. He successfully dodges another one at 10 seconds to the round’s conclusion, but he’s visibly rattled when they finally call for a break.

“Easy,” Mr. Seo instructs the staff who assist him onto the stool and pull his mouth guard away, strings of saliva finding purchase on his chin and then swiftly wiped off.

“What was that?” Mr. Seo questions. He’s stern, but still gentle in his speech, and Chan just shakes his head in response.

“Spit,” a staff member chimes in. Chan turns his head to expel a thick mix of saliva and bright crimson blood into a bucket, and then he holds it agape for a swig of water, swishing it over a deep cut on his inner lip before swallowing.

“Listen, you’re getting shaky out there,” Mr. Seo tells him. “What’s going on?”

“Where’s y/n?” Chan interjects, earning a deep sigh from Mr. Seo, who simply shrugs with his hands on his hips.

“Doesn’t matter,” he counters. “Don’t get distracted now. We’ve got three rounds left to win this thing.”

Chan’s shoulders seem to sag in disappointment, attempting to peer over his shoulder again for a glimpse of you, but Mr. Seo is quick to force Chan’s gaze back to him again.

“Listen to me,” he says sharply. “Get your head back on. You start getting distracted, and you’re practically handing him the belt. Focus.”

Chan hangs his head again, and then he nods understandingly, extending a hand to hoist himself back up.

“Two rounds,” Mr. Seo repeats. “Two more rounds, and you can take home the title. Knock him out.”

Chan nods again, as staff members tighten the velcro around his wrists once more, and then the timer reduces by the seconds, as he prepares to meet Kang-Dae in the center ring again.

When the boxing bell chimes twice for round eleven, Lin turns to you, arms folded at the elbows as she leans in to speak loudly above the chatter.

“Hey,” she says, and your head turns to meet her gaze.

She watches the match for a moment, admiring the sight of Chan dodging a hard jab, and then she resumes speaking.

“I know this series didn’t necessarily follow the footing you were expecting.”

You remain quiet, wanting for Lin to conclude her speech before producing any sort of response.

“But I wanted to say thank you. As of…” she glances at a wristwatch briefly, and then back to you, folding her arms again. “Fifteen minutes ago, we’re officially the most tuned-into channel for this fight. All because of your series.”

Your eyes widen when you meet her gaze properly, mouth parting in disbelief at her words.

“Are you serious?”

“I’m dead serious. Numbers are in, too- he averaged 15.2 thousand fans per broadcast. That’s more than twice of what we pulled in the last series.”

A breathy chuckle escapes your lips at the fact- it’s no secret this series was predicted to be huge for the channel, but you were hardly expecting to outdo your last by more than double the viewership.

Both your gazes fall to the ring, distracted momentarily at the sight of Chan delivering another hard jab to Kang-Dae’s side.

“I wanted to propose an offer,” Lin continues.

Your heartbeat quickens when she begins to speak the next part- perhaps she’ll convey to you that she knows broadcasting the moments which weren’t meant to be aired was wrong- and subsequently, it’ll be an offer to pull it from the channel entirely. Maybe she’ll acknowledge that you haven’t cared for this genre of series in a long while now, and suggest a transition to another topic.

“… for you to direct the next few parts, this time about his post-win life.”

You pause from viewing the match when she speaks, turning slowly to face her again, your expression visibly dropping at the proposal.

“Next… few parts?”

“That’s right. Seeing as he’s definitely going to win this thing, it’ll be huge. I’m thinking we can pivot to some… sports reality show, about Bang Chan only.”

She wears an amused smile on her face, nudging you with her elbow, as your gaze remains fixed on the match.

Below you, you watch Chan skillfully dodge a series of hooks, stumbling back on his feet.

And then in one swift movement, Kang-Dae delivers a strong uppercut to Chan’s left side, striking him hard in his jaw. You can hardly make out Chan’s demeanor when his whole body contorts to the left, his mitts coming up in an attempt to hold his jaw. But you can make out the unsightly image of blood and saliva trickling down the side of his mouth, and the way his eyes squeeze shut in a pained manner.

When the bell chimes five times to call for an end to round eleven, you shuffle quickly past Lin to the stairs, beginning your way down to where Chan’s team prepares a bucket and a towel. You don’t have any sort of plan devised, knowing very well that you’re prohibited from congregating in the midst of a match, but you make your descent anyway, overtaken with sheer panic at the sight of his weak silhouette.

“Hold that thought!” You call out to her, assisting yourself down the banister with the swift brush of your hand.

“What- where on earth are you going?” She calls, being met with no response, as she watches you near the blue corner of the ring.

*

“Is he okay?” You call out to Mr. Seo, quickly shuffling past Chan’s team to where he’s hoisted over the stool. His body lies limply back on the surface, chest rising and falling with short, sharp breaths as they dab blood from the corners of his mouth with a white towel.

Several members grant you entry to make your way closer to him, until you’re standing just behind his slouched figure, your hands coming up to grasp the ropes as you raise your voice.

“Chan!” You call, and he seems to straighten his posture, finally pivoting around to meet your gaze. His lips pull into a hazy smile, exposing his blue mouth guard, which drips with thick, stringy saliva, mixed with the harsh contrast of bright crimson blood. A single hand comes around to pull it out of him, instructing him to spit into a bucket. It’s Mr. Seo’s hand, you quickly realize, as Chan complies and swishes a mouthful of water over his wounds.

His brow appears bruised, a gaping cut being cleaned by several pairs of hands, and his shoulders look weak, you notice, as they work to loosen them up in massaging motions.

There’s no time to position him back into place, so Mr. Seo simply lets the conversation unfold between you two, dabbing at Chan’s bloodied wounds and understanding that leading you away is only going to distract him even more.

“I still haven’t been fully honest with you,” Chan begins to say to you, between labored breaths. Blood continues to dribble out from out between his lips, wiped away as fast as possible while the timer counts down until his return to the match.

“What?” You question, confused at the direction of his speech. You shake your head, aware he may simply be concussed, as your eyebrows arch in concern. “Chan, are you okay?”

“About what scares me,” Chan continues. He chuckles as he speaks, sounding almost crazy, as the etches of his gums are outlined again by deep crimson, dribbling onto his chapped lips.

“Losing scares the shit out of me,” Chan says to you. “But not just losing a match,” he clarifies.

Your eyebrows furrow as you watch a hand come around to dab at the gash on his brow again, the fresh white towel turning a dark shade of red as his blood soaks right through it.

“I never told you that I loved you,” Chan finishes.

You halt speaking, and perhaps also breathing, as his lips pull into a satisfied smile. “And that losing you is what scares me the most now.”

His team members glance at you curiously as they work to get him cleaned up, some of them just having seen you for the first time. A few of them know you to be the “filmmaker”, a little perplexed at his admission of romance to you. But before you can respond, Mr. Seo is shoving a guard back into his mouth and gesturing to the ring.

“Let’s go,” Mr. Seo commands. “Last round and we can bring this thing home. Let’s finish this at round twelve.”

Although Chan remains weak, he rises from the stool, kicking it aside and rolling back his shoulders. His gaze doesn’t leave yours for a moment, shooting you a saccharine smile, before pivoting back toward the ring and tapping his mitts together.

“Let’s finish this at round twelve,” he repeats, eyeing Kang-Dae’s figure from across the room.

And you say nothing- somewhere between dazed and also in love, as you begin back toward your seat.

The boxing bell rings just twice to indicate the start to round twelve- or otherwise the start of what could be the very last round in this match.

“And so we begin round twelve of this historic confrontation, between undefeated champ Bang Chan and his opponent Kang-Dae,” an announcer echoes loudly over the arena. Chan coming in again with strong jabs, appeared to be fully re energized as he corners Kang-Dae in the ring again.”

Your view of him is much more intimate than it was prior to being stood here on the outskirts of the ring. You can now observe every minuscule bead of sweat that flies off either member when the other produces a hit, and the thumping echos of their jabs are much louder at this proximity.

“This is certainly an adjustment by Kang-Dae,” the announcer states. “He seems to be quicker on his footwork. Chan seems like he’s resuming with heavy punches like before, but he’s still stumbling a little bit.”

Your heart races at their words, taking note of the way he visibly falters when Kang-Dae delivers a punch to his chest.

At the sight of Chan pivoting to dodge an uppercut, you glance around at the spectators, observing the sea of people whose eyes all remain set on his stumbling figure. They gasp when he gets hit once more, and they seem to laugh when he regains his balance, his arms darting out to strike Kang-Dae’s torso.

They flaunt colorful face paint, parade signs with images of his smiling face and shout for him to “fight, win!” as though their discoordinate voices may somehow be the defining factor of tonight’s outcome. And upon closer inspection, they even twirl sherbet popsicles around in their grasp, devouring them with such desperation, as though they could ever begin to comprehend the sacredness of Bang Chan’s favorite dessert- something entirely out of his reach now, unattainable. Much like a life not tainted by the pressure to win is.

It’s only then that you realize the deep sense of discomfort the sight instills within you- it’s entirely unnerving to be entertained by his fear- and even his pain, like this. To consume the sacred intricacies of his life, to know him at such proximity and put him on a pedestal like some higher power. Only to rob him of all things sacred, televise his secrets and serve as a stepping-stone into a life he never wanted for himself. Whether it be the relativity of a spectator to his public image, or of a lover to his vulnerability, it feels wrong. You can make sense of why Chan hadn’t wanted to do this for a good amount of his life now- it feels entirely too voyeuristic.

“… The current unofficial score reads 10-9, still in favor of Bang Chan,” the announcer reads. “Who’s keen on uppercuts- but Kang-Dae certainly isn't far behind with his jabs.”

Chan dodges another harsh jab, producing a strong hit to Kang-Dae, who appears breathless as he regains his composure.

“Folks, this could be the night Bang Chan maintains his unbroken winning streak, putting him ahead of all boxers in the Golden Gloves Championships for the last 20 years.”

The audience erupts in another wave of cheers when Chan hits Kang-Dae again, and again, producing repeated, robust punches to his torso.

You shift your weight onto your toes to catch a better glimpse of him, admiring the way he clenches his jaw angrily, fists spread to shield his face.

And at just 30 seconds to the conclusion of round twelve, Kang-Dae strikes again, lunging forward to deliver a harsh uppercut to Chan’s lower right jaw.

At first he stumbles backward a little bit- and then he seems to loose his balance entirely, collapsing onto the ground beneath him, his mitts outspread to soften the landing.

Although the arena is louder than ever before, it seems to grow almost silent as you hold your breath.

You approach the ring a little closer, your eyes scanning over Chan’s lying figure, his eyes blinking in a dizzied state as the recess lights illuminate his glistening torso.

He’s bloodied, in several more areas now, a generous stream of crimson growing in a patch on the side of his right eye.

You call for him once, and a second time, and then a third time- to no avail.

Perhaps your screams only escape from between your lips as whispers, if at all- that, you can’t tell, as the sound of your own heartbeat drowns out the physical noise of the arena.

A comforting hand is felt on your back, quickly realized to be Lin, from out of your peripheral vision, who watches equally as paralyzed.

The referee makes his way to Bang Chan, beginning to count down aloud, as the audience scream from all sides of the room at him.

“Get up!” They say, making erratic motions with the wave of their hands.

“You can still win!” Another is heard shouting, their voice in a clear state of panic.

“10, 9, 8…”

And as Chan lies, his back parallel to the floor of the ring, he remembers the feeling of this beside you, your languid figures silently relishing in the presence of one another.

Even with eyes shut tightly, Chan swears he can still see pairs of eyes observing him carefully, analyzing his every move and holding him to the standards of a consistent winner. Angle your fist upward. Quicker on the footwork. Harder. Faster.

Atta boy. Be a man. Be a winner.

It’s only when his coach has gone home for the evening, when the other athletes file out of the training gym one by one, towels slung over their broad shoulders and duffel bags packed with spare gloves and changes of clothes. It’s when he’s the last shower of the night, letting scorching water roll off his toned body, steam fogging the mirrors until his own reflection is indistinguishable to him once more. And it’s when he’s concluded throwing practice punches in the now-empty ring, his muscular back parallel to the floor of the ring just like this, and his eyes fixed on the gray industrial ceilings and recess lights. It’s only then that he isn’t so easily defined by a winning streak.

In fact, his wins mean nothing in the absence of other athletes, who are also defined by the numerical realities of trophies gained and matches lost. The world feels much clearer to him like this, no longer clouded by the gym chatter and bruised knuckles that seek permanent shelter in his conscience. He’s just Bang Chan- not a winner, not even a boxer. Just Chan.

And though he allows it to consume him entirely, often replacing his curiosity for the world around him and a lingering loneliness with the insatiable appetite to fight, win, conquer- he knows deep down that it’s still not all of him. There remains a sort of fragility tucked somewhere beyond all this rigidness- there’s still a heavy humanness underneath these conjectures that he’s the ‘perfect boxer’.

What is a winning streak relative to an empty boxing ring? What is a spectator relative to a participant? What are concealed identities relative to a lifetime of falsifying new ones?

“6, 5 …” the referee continues.

From well beyond his position, he can hear something about the historic event of watching a boxer lose his winning streak for the first time in his career, amidst the crescendoing sounds of simultaneous cheering and booing alike.

Kang-Dae jogs in place, tapping his own mitts together as he awaits Chan’s next move, mentally pushing for the second hand on the timer to move faster than 2mm per second.

“4…”

Yet Chan remains there, parallel to the floor of the ring he was practically raised in, letting a gush of crimson now conceal his sight, as his head cocks to one side in defeat.

“3, 2, 1.”

The word “loser” is uttered somewhere in the announcement of his loss, as Kang-Dae’s fist is raised victoriously in the air by the referee, preceding the loud blow of a whistle and another uproar of cheers.

And although the word rings throughout his ears like he’d always feared it would, it doesn’t sound nearly as scary as he imagined it might.

In fact, you’d have thought he won the match, by the way his lips pull into a satisfied smile, as the weight of a lifetime is lifted off his shoulders at last.

*

EPILOGUE

Calloused hands adjust the lavalier microphone a little higher up onto the collar of Chan’s button-down shirt, his fingers easing through the process, as he’s already done this a dozen times now.

He raises his index finger up to his right brow, running it along the row of butterfly bandages still adhered to the gaping wound he boasts, and your hand darts out instinctively to stop him, lowering his wrist back onto his lap.

“I said don’t touch it,” you instruct him.

He seems to wear an amused smile for the millionth time today, as though maybe he’s doing it on purpose to elicit a reaction from you.

Chan observes as you scribble something onto a stack of papers, your head lowered in concentration to review a long list of questions.

And then you meet his gaze finally, mirroring his smile with one of your own, as you gesture to the camera.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions,” you say to him. “Just answer as honestly as you can.”

“Are we rolling?” Chan asks, and he’s swiftly met with a nod of your head.

“Yeah,” you say to him. “We’re rolling.”

His hands fold in his lap, the jingle of his silver bracelet making itself known as he fiddles nervously, and then you start with the first question.

“Chan,” you begin. “You recently lost your first boxing match ever.”

He nods, not appearing disappointed, but rather contented, as he crosses his legs at the ankles.

“Can you tell us how you’re feeling?”

His eyes scan the ceiling momentarily, chuckling softly, before he speaks again.

“Nobody wants to lose,” Chan admits. “When I started boxing fourteen years ago, all I wanted to do was win. And I won consistently- at some point, losing ceased to even feel like a possibility. I hadn’t considered it very seriously.”

You nod as he speaks, and then Chan swallows nervously, before continuing.

“And then I began to think about losing,” he says. “And I couldn’t stop. The thoughts consumed me, to constantly imagine putting myself in the shoes of somebody who had to walk away from something so… unvictoriously.”

He sighs, and then he shrugs his shoulders just once.

“And now I’m a loser,” he finishes. “And I realize that there’s a lot more to boxing than just winning or losing. In fact, there’s more to the word than simply being a person who didn’t come out of it unvictorious.”

“What do you mean by that?” You say to him.

“Well,” he begins. “Prior to this event, I was fully set on forfeiting the whole thing. It’s something I had wanted to do for a long time- something I felt was right, in the midst of my aversion to this… vulnerable version of myself, that I kept tucked away from the public for my whole life.”

His expression grows serious now, brows furrowed as best as he can manipulate them, in deep concentration.

“And I realized that walking away from something you’ve always wanted, in response to a fear of your vulnerability- that’s unvictorious. I was scared for people to see me as any less than a strong, consistent winner. But that’s not realistic.”

You nod as Chan speaks, shooting him a proud smile- he’s allowing himself to be vulnerable on camera for the first time since you’ve met him. And though his voice shakes a little as he speaks, he conveys his truths so elegantly, the same way he did when you first interviewed him. He upholds this new image of him with such dexterity, careful not to accidentally portray a version of himself which might somehow contradict all that he’s learned. Yet it’s easier than he assumed it would be, he quickly realizes, when he finishes with a small nod of his head.

“I might be a loser in the sense of a boxing match,” he explains. “But relative to everything else I’ve gained along the way, I feel pretty victorious.”

You glance down at your papers, brushing your fingers over the next set of printed questions, and then you disregard them entirely when you meet his gaze again, producing your own now.

“You’re stepping down from being a boxer for the first time in your life,” you say to him. “Are you scared?”

Chan thinks it over momentarily, and then he shakes his head.

“I used to get punched by people for a living. There used to be so little that actually scared me.”

Your lips pull into a smile, recalling this conversation from long before his championship match.

“That being said-” he continues. “I’m terrified. But I guess that’s just a part of being honest with yourself. I’m just going to do it afraid.”

A soft chuckle escapes your lips, your eyes not leaving his as he observes the way you smile back at him. He’s just as charming as the day you met him- but he’s also real, and fascinating from this distance, made more perfect by extension of all his very human traits. His fears, reservations, embarrassments, frustrations- they’re all a part of who he is- not some “perfect boxer”, or a “born winner”, but simply Bang Chan- an imperfect boxer with one hell of a story to tell.

“Chan- what’s next for you?” You ask Chan, cocking your head slightly as you speak.

A breathy chuckle escapes his lips, his eyebrows raised curiously as he ponders the question.

“I’ll return to boxing someday,” he confesses. “It’s been an honorable 14 years here. I’m just going to find what else makes me tick. Maybe… pick up a thing or two about journalism?”

You laugh lightly when he does, shaking your head in response.

Of course he jests on the topic of journalism, knowing very well that you too, are set to take a break from this line of work following the air of the final interview.

With Chan losing the fight, Lin had begged you to rope him into another series, knowing that the general public had not faulted Chan for his broken winning streak. In fact, they had taken a larger liking to him than ever before, publishing raving reviews about his persistence to compete, despite his fears. And though you’d been offered a hefty pay to film another voyeuristic series into some new athlete’s life- a fencer, so you’ve heard, the offer was politely declined, as you opt to follow Chan on to the next chapter.

“Only if you teach me a thing or two about boxing,” you say to him, and he holds out a hand to shake on it.

“Deal.”

“That’s a wrap,” you tell Chan, as you press the shutter release one last time, detaching your camera from its tripod and stowing it away into its leather casing.

“Last time, huh?” A voice says from behind you.

You pivot on your heel to meet the gaze of Mr. Seo, who shoots you a kind smile as he makes his entrance, giving Chan a friendly pat on the back.

“Hey!” Chan exclaims, turning around to deliver a warm hug to him, instead.

“I was just leaving for the evening,” Mr. Seo tells you both, his hands on his hips. He then raises his eyebrows knowingly, glancing around at the gym, before gesturing to the wall with a cock of his head.

“Come on,” he says. “I wanna show you one last thing.”

You both exchange confused looks, and then oblige to follow him down the hallway into the ring, where he halts just in front of the gallery wall.

You crane your necks up to the portraits- all the familiar faces remain in their respective positions, except for the addition of one new photograph, concealed by a white sheet.

Before Chan can inquire about the recent addition, Mr. Seo pulls it off ceremoniously, letting the white fabric drape onto the floor of the gym to unveil a brand new photo.

This one’s in color, for the first time, the stark contrast of the bright blue mitts against his tanned skin drawing the attention of all your eyes. It’s a still shot of Bang Chan, his fists extended into a mean uppercut, eyebrows narrowed into a stern expression as he strikes at his opponent. You recognize it to be from the night of Chan’s title fight, and although he hadn’t taken home the title that evening, the photograph is no indication of any form of loss. In fact, he’s entirely indistinguishable from the rest of the winners housed on the wall- including Baik Hyun-Man, who now lives just to the left of him.

“You’re kidding,” Chan exclaims through tearful laughter. Mr. Seo just smiles, shrugging casually in response.

“All the greats are meant to live here,” he tells Chan. “Especially the winners.”

Before Mr. Seo makes his departure, the same black duffel bag hoisted over his shoulder, he stops in his tracks, turning to Chan with a sense of urgency in his voice.

“I almost forgot,” Mr. Seo exclaims. “Popsicles!”

“What?” Chan questions with a small chuckle.

“I found them finally, in the convenience store on the south side! I left them on the table for you toward the gallery wall, though. You’d better eat them before they melt.”

And then he’s off at last, the setting sun outlining his departing figure beyond the glass gym doors.

Chan does as he’s told, retrieving what are indeed his favorite sherbet popsicles from the table by the gallery wall, and providing you with one this time.

“You’re gonna love these,” he says to you, undoing the wrapper of both your popsicles and discarding them both on the gym floor.

“You’re making a mess!” You exclaim, as Chan shoves one into your grasp, instructing you to devour it entirely.

You bring the bright orange dessert up to your lips, taking a small lick, and Chan eagerly awaits your reaction.

“Well?” He questions, beginning on his own in the process.

“That’s phenomenal,” you say to him with a chuckle, taking another lick, and then another, and several more, the dessert quickly melting in your grasp and finding purchase along your forearms.

Chan laughs, too, bringing his lips down to your arm to trace his tongue along the trail of sticky sherbet and leaving a trail of tender kisses as he cleans you up. And then he kisses you just once when he’s finished, a sweet mixture of sherbet present on both your tongues as you bite back a smile.

When he pulls away to resume working on his popsicle, he cranes his neck up at the gallery wall once more, cocking his head to examine the rows of portraits.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, the way he always does, and you chuckle lightly in response.

“No need to interview the interviewer,” you say instinctively. And then you hum softly as you crane your neck, too, remembering you’re no longer an interviewer relative to Bang Chan, but rather comfortably in love with him, as you move onto the next chapter alongside each other.

“I’m thinking about all these boxers,” you opt to say instead. “Like, where do you think Hyun-Man is now?”

Chan hums in response, shrugging at your question. It’s a strange thought when he remembers how future spectators will be pondering his whereabouts someday, as they hold their respective gazes on this very wall.

“I don’t think he’d want us to know,” Chan confesses. “I think he purposely left us only with tales of guts and glory to remember him by.”

He tilts his head the other direction now, working his tongue along the base of his popsicle, before speaking again.

“Through tales of mine, of guts and glory,” Chan voices deeply, mimicking the renowned boxer’s famous last speech. And then his words are pacified by his popsicle, as he relishes in the flavor of something finally sacred to him once more.

But neither of you need to utter another word to conclude his sentence, mentally finishing it on your own.

“… we find our footing in the knowledge that we tried.”

[akajustmerry]

Hello! I've just found your podcast and listened into some older episodes. They helped me on my journey of understanding my sexuality, and formulate why some stories appear more sincere than others. Thank you two! In one episode that Aboriginal people are "like black people in Australia" (I hope I quote this correctly). If It's no hassle, I would be curious in understanding the social circumstnaces you are descrbing. Happily waiting for a new episode, and thank you very much for the fun and informative work!

hello there, thank you so much for listening to gayv club! I'm chuffed that you love the podcast (psst follow @gayvclubpodcast) 🥰

So, to answer your question, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples are the Indigenous people to what the world calls "Australia". And we are Black people. We are Black people and were racialised as Black Indigenous people when British and European people colonised the land over 200 years ago. Aboriginal people were called Black throughout Australias white colonial history and so we also call ourselves Black.

Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples in this country have been subjected to anti-Black violence and genocidal policies that include but aren't limited to slavery, deaths in custody, segregation, and apartheid. Not to mention forced child removal and assimilation policies intended to "breed the Black out" of our culture.

But we're still here! Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples are the oldest continuously practising culture in the world. Recent archaeological discoveries show Aboriginal people were baking bread even before the ancient Egyptians and Greeks. As a community, we've had our own Black power movements, music movements, and art movements too.

I'm generalising a lot because Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples are very diverse. We've got over 400 languages and nations, each with its own cultural rules. While many of us have lost our language and culture because of colonisation, there are many who haven't and many working to restore and preserve it.

One thing I will make very clear is that all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples refer to ourselves as Black (sometimes without the C) regardless of what we look like. There are many Aboriginal people, like myself, who are pale skinned and still call ourselves Black and are accepted as such. This is because we do NOT adhere to blood quantum that colonisers try to put on us. Our connection to Blackness is about our connection to family and community, it is not *only* about how we look.

Hope this helps you understand a bit. I for one am very proud to be Blak. I'm very proud to be Aboriginal. If you want to learn more about Aboriginal culture and history, here's some resources:

[redroomreflections]

Hotel California | Track 1: Smoke and Mirrors

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

Summary: Natasha Romanoff, frontwoman of the punk rock band Velvet Rebellion, falls hard for a woman she believes is too good for her. Their intense relationship unfolds in the chaotic world of rock 'n' roll, where they struggle to balance fame, personal demons, and their undeniable passion for each other.

W/c: 7k

Chapter 1/12

Masterlist | General Masterlist

Note: I was going to wait to post this since I have fifty-leven WIPs but to make up for me not being able to write for a while and also finishing two stories in the coming weeks - here we are. I'm nervous about posting this one for some reason. Hope y'all like it.

Themes: love, fame, sex, drugs

Track 1 - Smoke and Mirrors (each chapter is a track)

In the world of music, there's no denying that Velvet Rebellion's sound is electric, their melodies are undeniably addictive. But offstage, the drama and chaos surrounding this band have been the subject of endless tabloid fodder. It's a classic case of the music being sweet, but the rest of the package is a tad sour. Will their rock 'n' roll lifestyle ultimately overshadow their undeniable talent? That remains the question on everyone's lips.

The TV channel flicking produced a rapid succession of blips and static.

"You know, when it comes to Velvet Rebellion, it's clear that Natasha Romanoff is the best thing about the band. Her vocals are just on another level!"

"Oh, absolutely! Natasha's stage presence is incredible, and her voice, that raw emotion she pours into every note, it's what sets them apart. But let's not forget the rest of the band; they bring their own magic to the mix!"

Another press of the button. Another channel emitting the same rhetoric. 

"So, what are your thoughts on Velvet Rebellion, the band that seems to be taking the music scene by storm?"

"Look, I won't deny that they've had their moments. Natasha's got a powerful voice, and they've had some catchy tunes. But let's not forget, there's more to rock 'n' roll than just one person. We bring our own unique sound to the table, and we're here to show that rock isn't a one-trick pony."

Suddenly, the screen goes black. The television has been turned off. The room is silent. 

“Whatever,” The mysterious person tsks. There are better things to do. 

In the dimly lit room, the first flicker of a cigarette lighter illuminated a shadowy figure, and a guitar's haunting melody echoed through the air. It was a simple beginning, a humble birth of sound that would eventually become the anthem of a generation.

Images flashed in rapid succession—a chaotic whirlwind of memories and moments that had defined their journey from obscurity to stardom. The flashing lights of a small, dimly lit club, the very place where they had played their first gig, gave way to a sea of screaming fans, arms raised in fervent adoration.

“Bucky! Bucky!”

“Steve, we love you!”

Talk show interviews brought them into living rooms across the nation, their faces beamed into millions of homes as they shared their stories and their music with the world. The camera panned to Natasha, her fierce gaze unyielding as she answered questions with poise and grace.

And then, there were the guitars. Guitars being smashed in a blaze of glory on stage, a ritual that had become their trademark. The destructive catharsis of the act symbolized the release of their raw energy and passion into the world.

Groupies and fans clamored for their attention, their devotion evident in the longing looks and outstretched hands. Each face in the crowd told a story of how Velvet Rebellion's music had touched their lives.

Late-night studio sessions followed, with the band working tirelessly into the early hours, crafting the songs and lyrics that had earned them their place in music history. In the dimly lit room, the flicker of a cigarette lighter once again marked the beginning of a new song.

Magazine covers splashed with their images adorned newsstands across the country. Excerpts from clippings of their first studio album, "Velvet Love," told a tale of raw, unbridled emotion set to music—a story that had resonated with countless souls.

The montage painted a vivid picture of a band that had journeyed through the highs and lows of fame, never losing sight of the music that had brought them together. Velvet Rebellion had carved its path through the music industry, leaving an unforgettable mark on the hearts of those who had listened and loved.

*************

Sunlight filters through the curtains of Natasha and Wanda's cozy Los Angeles apartment. Disheveled yet determined, Natasha sits on the edge of her bed, cradling her guitar. She strums the strings absentmindedly, searching for that inspiration that once fueled Velvet Rebellion. Her fingers danced over the strings of her trusty guitar, each note a whisper in the quiet solitude of the bedroom.

Natasha's hair framed her face, and frustration lined her expression as she strummed the chords once again. The next album's melodies were meant to be born here. Yet, inspiration remained at arm’s length, teasing her like a fading dream.

"Come on Natalia," she whispered gruffly, remembering the name she had left behind long ago.

With a sigh, she shifted her gaze to the muted TV on the dresser. A NEWS REPORTER's face appeared on the screen, accompanied by headlines that could never escape the relentless clutches of the media. She searched for the remote to turn up the volume as the face of one of her bandmates, Tony Stark’s pictures appeared. 

NEWS REPORTER

(on TV)

“In a surprising turn of events, Velvet Rebellion's Tony Stark was arrested last night for public indecency.”

Natasha's eye-roll was instinctive. Tony always had a way of making headlines for all the wrong reasons.

NEWS REPORTER

(on TV)

“...fans and critics alike have noted the band's gradual decline, and it seems the once-revered punk rock indie sensation is now on the verge of falling apart.”

The reporter's words cut through Natasha's indifference, a scalding reminder of the shadows that had been gathering around them. She couldn't deny it; the band had been stagnant for too long.

Fury sparked in her eyes, and she clenched the neck of her guitar, momentarily abandoning the song. The Velvet Rebellion of yesteryears, the band that had ignited stages and won hearts, couldn't be reduced to this—a spectacle of controversies and dwindling star power.

Returning her attention to her guitar Natasha sighed. The room's stillness hung heavy as she gently laid the guitar down on the floor. It felt like a futile effort, the muse remaining frustratingly out of reach, leaving her with an empty canvas and an aching desire to create.

Her gaze dropped to the small, black notebook, its pages filled with aborted attempts to capture the essence of their experiences and emotions in song. But today, those pages mocked her, an unforgiving reminder of the creative void that had taken its home within her.

Just as her frustration reached its peak, the bedroom door swung open with a soft creak, and in walked Wanda, a bowl of popcorn cradled in her hand. She plopped down on the bed beside Natasha, her eyes rolling in a knowing, teasing manner.

“How’s writing going?” Wanda asked, grabbing a handful of popcorn to plop into her mouth. 

Natasha let out a weary sigh, her notebook momentarily forgotten as she shared her woes with her best friend.

“You have no idea. It's like I've hit a wall, and I can't seem to find my way around it.” Natasha said. “How are we supposed to come up with another album with no songs? It’s been two years. We’re going to be known as one-hit wonders.”

“First off that’s a bit dramatic,” Wanda attempted to calm her down. “We made the hot rock and alternative songs billboard charts for our debut. I think the momentum is still there.”

Wanda cast a glance at the muted TV screen, where a news reporter was still busy dissecting Tony's latest escapade. She couldn't help but roll her eyes, mirroring Natasha's exasperation.

“And of course, our dear Tony adds another branch to the publicity tree. It's almost impressive how consistently he manages to get into trouble.” Wanda shook her head. 

After placing her bowl of popcorn on the dresser, Wanda decided to abandon her sitting position and instead flopped onto her belly, propped up on her elbows. She grabbed Natasha's small notebook, a curious glint in her eyes as she skimmed through the handwritten lyrics and scattered notes.

“You know, Nat, I think I see where you're stuck.” Wanda hummed to herself for a moment. 

Turning her attention to Wanda, Natasha felt her frustration momentarily ebb away, replaced by curiosity.

“Oh?” Natasha eyed her. “Please, share your wisdom.”

Wanda's eyes sparkled with an unexpected idea, and she pointed to a particular verse in the notebook. Her voice took on a sultry, poetic quality as she suggested a new lyric.

“How about this: "In the shadows of desire, we ignite the night."

Natasha's eyes widened in surprise as the words resonated deep within her. She quickly reached for her instrument and strummed the guitar, incorporating the new lyric into the melody, and in that instant, it all fell into place. A smile grew on her face, and she turned to Wanda.

“Wanda, that's brilliant! Thank you!” Natasha leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “I know why I keep you around.”

Wanda beamed in response. 

"Speaking of," she began, her voice casual yet laced with an underlying purpose, "we've got a gig this weekend. It's a birthday party for Harley Jameson, you know, the producer's daughter."

Natasha's response was swift and uncompromising, her will clear in her refusal. Her head shook slightly as she firmly voiced her decision, her thoughts already drifting toward the disturbing pattern of her bandmates taking liberties with decisions without consulting her, the lead.

"Absolutely not, Wanda," Natasha declared, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. “Aren’t we better than performing for snot-nosed brats?

Wanda, ever patient and understanding, propped herself up on her elbows. 

“Well, when that snot nose brat is paying us fifty thousand dollars plus a retainer,” Wanda shrugs. “And all the booze and food we want.” Her words were measured, spoken with the calm that came from knowing this conversation was inevitable." Nat, remember," she began, "you're the lead, not the boss. We haven’t been taking gigs because you've been declining. You know we need to keep the momentum going."

Natasha's jaw clenched in frustration. She leaned back, her gaze shifting to the ceiling as she contemplated her response.

"There's a reason, Wanda," Natasha explained, her voice tinged with concern. "Our brand has taken a beating lately with all the scandals we've had over the years. It’s not a good look being so new. I want us to lay low for a while, let the storm pass."

Wanda sighed, her eyes reflecting her understanding of Natasha's concerns. But she also recognized the band's need to keep going ahead despite the challenges.

"Nat," Wanda said, her voice gentle and reassuring, "I get it, I really do. But we'll be fine. Harley's party should be a breeze, and I promise we'll stay out of trouble. We'll stick to the music, no antics."

Natasha's hesitation lingered. Ultimately, the trust she had in Wanda, her lifelong friend and partner-in-crime, began to outweigh her reservations. She finally nodded, a reluctant but willing acceptance of the gig.

"Alright, alright," Natasha conceded. “We'll do it. But just this one, and we'll play it safe."

Wanda's eyes sparkled with a victorious smile, recognizing that she had won this battle for now. With that agreement, they returned to their songwriting. 

**************

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the manicured lawn of Harley Jameson's grand estate, Velvet Rebellion gathered on the makeshift stage. Around them, staff and party planners began to decorate the backyard. Their instruments glistened under the setting and stage lights. 

Natasha, her guitar slung securely across her shoulder, couldn't help but notice Tony, seated behind the drum kit, his sunglasses doing little to hide the lingering effects of his earlier indulgence. She approached him with a stern expression, a hint of frustration in her voice.

"Tony, you better get it together," She warned. "We're not messing this up tonight."

Tony, ever the charmer, brushed off her concerns with an easy smile and a wave of his hand.

"Nat, I promise, I'm fine. See?"

With that, he launched into a lively drum solo, his sticks dancing skillfully across the drumheads. The rhythm was tight, the sound electrifying. Natasha couldn't help but acknowledge his undeniable talent, even as she sighed in resignation.

"Great," she muttered to herself, "the sunglasses are his secret weapon now."

Standing beside Natasha, Steve placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. His quiet and calming presence was a balm to her nerves.

"It's alright, Natasha," He reassured her, his voice steady and comforting. "We'll get through this gig, just like our old days. Tony’s recovering but he seems fine."

Together they glance back to their bandmate who was more than likely inebriated. Tony chugged a bottle of water, before crushing it and dropping it down onto the floor beside him. 

Natasha's gaze softened as she looked at Steve, a small smile forming on her lips. “Yeah, he’s the epitome of fine.”

“Okay,” Steve pulled her gently to the side. “What’s the problem?” 

“Nothing,” Natasha shrugged. “I just can’t help but think that gigs like this are beneath us. I mean we went from performing at the MTV Video Music Awards to this? A sweet sixteen?”

Steve looked at her. He had been through thick and thin with Natasha and knew the depth of her concerns. 

“Natasha,” He replied. “I get your worries, but I promise this is a good thing for us. Todd Jameson is one of the biggest music producers in Hollywood right now. There will be a lot of executives here just to support his daughter. Think of what that could mean for us.”

“Fine,” Natasha nodded. “But if he fucks up I kick his ass.”

“Oh, you bet. Right after I’m done kicking it,” Steve joked causing Natasha to burst into laughter. 

Natasha steps back over to the mic. “Alright let’s take it from the top.” 

As Natasha prepared to lead the band into their rehearsal of the first song, the peacefulness of the backyard rehearsal space was abruptly disrupted by the arrival of Harley Jameson. She swept onto the scene with all the extravagance befitting a Hollywood princess, accompanied by a harried-looking party planner and another woman, who appeared to be a guest.

Harley, the embodiment of a spoiled heiress, immediately began issuing orders with a sense of entitlement that left the party planner flustered.

"No, no, no! These decorations are all wrong! Change them around! The mirror ball should be over here. And I want a live peacock by the pool. It's not too much to ask, is it?" Harley demanded impatiently.

The party planner, clearly overwhelmed, tried to keep up with Harley's demands. "Harley, we only have a few hours before the party starts. It's going to be challenging to make all these changes in such a short time."

Harley huffed, uninterested in the logistical challenges she was causing. "I don't care about that. Just get it done. My dad said I could have whatever I wanted."

Meanwhile, Harley's attention shifted to Velvet Rebellion, her face lighting up with enthusiasm.

"Oh, my God! I've been dying to meet you! I'm a huge fan!" she exclaimed with excitement. “I’m so happy I could get you here.”

She bounded over to the band, seemingly oblivious to the chaos she was creating, and introduced them to the party planner and you.

"This is Velvet Rebellion!" Harley introduced with enthusiasm. "Steve, the keyboardist, Tony on the drums, Bucky on the electric guitar, Wanda, the second lead singer and bass guitar, and Natasha, the incredible lead singer!"

You and the other woman exchanged glances, your expressions a mixture of frustration and amusement at the whirlwind that was Harley Jameson. You gave a small wave, opting to be in the background of this exchange. 

Wanda, ever the peacekeeper, managed to maintain her composure and put on a friendly smile despite Harley's overwhelming energy. She nodded graciously at Harley's enthusiasm.

"Oh, thank you so much, Harley!" Wanda replied with genuine warmth. "We're thrilled to meet you too. Your party looks like it's going to be incredible!"

Harley's energy showed no signs of waning as she delved into the details of the band's performance. When Wanda mentioned their planned first song, "Smoke and Mirrors," Harley immediately piped up with an alternative suggestion.

"No, no, no," Harley interrupted with fervor. "I want you to start with 'Ink and Whiskey.' It's my favorite!"

Natasha, who had been preparing to protest the sudden change to their setlist, hesitated as she saw Wanda's meek demeanor. However, it was clear that Harley's demand had disrupted their carefully planned sequence.

Natasha began to voice her concerns, but Harley's retort was swift and smart-mouthed. 

“We’ve already planned this out for-” Natasha began. 

“Oh, you can change it, can’t you? It’s just a silly setlist,” Harly questioned. 

Before Natasha could respond, you intervened with a calm yet authoritative tone.

"Harley, let's tone it down a bit," You advised, your demeanor oozing an air of authority that surprised Natasha. Harley listened, her earlier defiance giving way to a more composed demeanor.

“Sorry, I’m just excited,” Harley shrugged. 

Natasha found herself intrigued by your presence and the respect Harley seemed to show you.

"Alright," Natasha conceded with a smile, "since it's your birthday, we'll start with 'Ink and Whiskey.'"

Wanda offered a nod of agreement, and the tension in the air began to dissipate.

Harley, feeling triumphant, turned her attention to the party planner.

"Sarah, darling, let's make sure everything is perfect. I want it to be a night to remember!" Harley changed the subject, pulling you both back into a conversation with ease. 

Sarah, the party planner, nodded and tried to hide her relief that the brief crisis had passed. 

"Of course, Harley. Everything will be just as you want it."

Natasha watched the exchange between Harley and Sarah, her curiosity piqued more by you. 

“Who’s the chick?” Natasha pointed over to you with a tilt of her head. She got shrugs from Steve and Bucky. Tony was way too distracted to answer as he flirted with one of the staff. Wanda squinted to see if she could guess. 

“I don’t know,” Wanda said. “She looks vaguely familiar, but I’m guessing it’s not her mom.”

“Interesting,” Natasha mumbled to herself. She shook her head. There was no time for whatever the thumping in her heart was proving to be. She was here for the band and for the music. Also for the money, she couldn’t forget the money. 

As the preparations for the party continued, your cell phone suddenly rang, breaking the conversation flow. You excused yourself with a polite smile and stepped away from the group, heading toward a quieter corner of the backyard a few feet away.

Natasha couldn't help but overhear snippets of your conversation, the tone of your voice suggesting a heartfelt exchange, likely with a significant other. Natasha discreetly glanced in your direction, her curiosity getting the best of her.

Your voice held a gentle warmth as you spoke softly into your phone, your words filled with affection and longing.

 "I miss you too, sweetheart. Yeah, the party's getting started here in a couple of hours. It's not the same without you. Can't wait to see you soon." You smiled. 

Natasha couldn't hear the other end of the conversation, but the tenderness in your voice painted a clear picture of a loving connection between you and someone special.

Meanwhile, Harley, always the inquisitive host, began questioning Steve and Bucky about the band and its music.

"So, guys," Harley started, her interest genuine, "Have you ever thought about going solo? I am dying to know the secret."

Steve and Bucky, accustomed to answering these questions, engaged in a friendly chat with Harley, even if they also found her annoying. 

As Natasha discreetly observed you from the corner of her eye, she couldn't help but be captivated by your natural beauty. You were dressed in a simple white t-shirt and form-fitting jeans, a look that should have been unremarkable, but on you, it was utterly captivating.

The way your hair was styled, framing your face in soft waves, added to your appeal. Your skin had a radiant glow, and your features held an understated elegance that drew Natasha's attention. Despite the casual attire, you exuded a timeless charm that was impossible to ignore.

Natasha found herself admiring the effortless beauty that seemed to emanate from you and she wanted to know more. 

Just as Natasha started to pretend she wasn't eavesdropping, you turned around with a warm smile, catching her off guard. She quickly toyed with her microphone stand, feigning indifference.

You found her reaction amusing but were soon drawn back into your phone conversation. Natasha couldn't help but wonder about the person on the other end of that call and what had sparked such a genuine smile on your face. 

She toyed with the mic stand for as long as possible, physically forcing herself not to look your way. It’s a few more minutes before you returned to the group. You turned your attention to Harley and Sarah.

"Harley, don't forget, you have that hair appointment in an hour," You reminded her, glancing at your watch. "We need to make sure you're all set for your big night."

Harley, momentarily distracted by the band's presence, nodded in agreement.

"Oh, right! Thanks, y/n. I'll head out now," Harley replied with a grin. She turned to the band and offered her farewells. "Catch you all later!"

With that, Harley and Sarah departed, leaving Velvet Rebellion alone in the backyard.

As the group began to disperse, you took a moment to say goodbye to the band. 

“See you guys tonight,” You said. “I’m sure you’ll do great. If you need refreshments just ask one of the staff and they will be happy to help you with anything you need.” 

Natasha responded with a small smile and a nod, a subtle acknowledgment of the brief but pleasant interaction.

Once you, Harley, and Sarah were out of earshot, the rest of the band couldn't resist teasing Natasha. Wanda, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, chimed in.

"Uh oh, I know that look," Wanda teased, earning a knowing chuckle from the others. Natasha's momentary fascination with you hadn't gone unnoticed, and her bandmates were more than happy to playfully nudge her about it.

“There’s no look, I don’t have a look.” Natasha rolled her eyes. 

“Sure, you don’t,” Wanda grinned. “Any bets on how long until she gets her number?”

“I say within the hour,” Tony raised his hand pulling out a single, crinkled five-dollar bill from his back pocket. 

“Fifteen says they sleep together after the show,” Bucky shrugged. Steve is the only one to remain silent. 

“I don’t know,” Steve scratched the back of his neck. “I think I’ll save my thoughts for later. The girl barely said two words to any of us.”

“Thank you,” Natasha said. “Now, can we rehearse like a proper band?” 

She tried to erase your image from her head as she positioned herself in front of the microphone. 

From the top. 

*****************

The night was alive with energy as Velvet Rebellion took the stage, the crowd gathered around, eager to soak in every note of their music. Natasha oozed confidence and charisma, a star in every sense of the word. The opening chords of "Ink and Whiskey" filled the air, and the crowd erupted in cheers. This birthday party was a rager if she’d ever seen one. Natasha always considered rich people stiff and uptight. Going to plenty of parties once their debut kicked off their careers. Stiff drinks, weird pleasantries, and even more drugs. She was being proven wrong with this particular shindig. 

She moved to the edge of the stage, her presence magnetic. She sang with a passion that could be felt in every corner of the space, her voice carrying the weight of their lyrics. The audience couldn't help but be drawn into her performance, and they eagerly joined in, singing along and dancing to the beat.

Wanda, standing beside Natasha, bled a different kind of cool and calm. Her steady presence provided the perfect balance to Natasha's fiery performance. It was clear to anyone watching that their dynamic was the secret to their success.

Natasha lowered her head, giving Wanda the floor to sing her part of the chorus. Wanda’s hands moved steadily between the chords as she sang into the microphone. 

Ink and whiskey, the pages of our hearts,  

Tangled in the chapters where love starts,  

In the darkness, our secrets we confide,  

With every word written, our souls collide

Natasha steps forward, moving close enough to the microphone so that she and Wanda could harmonize the last verse. Her eyes travel from Wanda’s, smiling as they share in the energy and joy of being on stage before she maneuvers herself to face the crowd. 

In the night's embrace, our love's sweet refrain,  

Ink and whiskey, like a runaway train,  

Through the highs and lows, we'll find our way,  

With every word we write, love's here to stay

In the front row, Harley danced with her friends, reveling in the music and the excitement of the night. The atmosphere was electric, and the joy was contagious.

As Natasha sang, she scanned the crowd, her eyes landing on familiar faces among the sea of B-listers and music enthusiasts. But the one that stood out the most was you. Your eyes locked, and Natasha couldn't resist a playful wink, a silent acknowledgment of your earlier encounter.

You raised your glass in a silent toast and clapped enthusiastically when the song came to an end. You weren’t a huge fan of the music genre but you could see why Velvet Rebellion was such a rising star amongst new artists. Their stage presence was undeniable, the song was catchy and the beat was electrifying. It helped that Natasha was cute. All good things in your book. You can’t take your eyes off the stage as they move into their next song. It’s a bit disjointed considering Harley made them change the setlist around the last minute but it seems smooth either way. Natasha dances a bit for this one, her body movements fluid and effortless. Almost as if she’s had some training. 

You’re momentarily distracted when a distant family member comes to say hello. 

The show must go on as Natasha continues to sing her heart out. 

**********************

The final notes of their setlist rang out, and the crowd roared in appreciation. Velvet Rebellion had given their all, and now it was time for the DJ to take over and keep the party going.

Wanda had convinced Natasha to stay a while longer, promising that the night was still young and full of possibilities. Tony, ever the charmer, remarked with a grin, "I see a few MILFs in the crowd that I wouldn't mind mingling with." He slipped into the crowd with ease, chatting up the first single woman he saw. 

Natasha, however, remained all about business. She stood at the bar, surveying the party and keeping a watchful eye on her bandmates. The chaos and revelry around her seemed to blur into a colorful swirl of dancing bodies and laughter.

It was then that you approached her, catching Natasha's attention. Your presence was a welcome change of pace, and Natasha couldn't help but appreciate the genuine compliment she received.

"You guys were incredible," You said with a smile. "I'm impressed."

Natasha, always a woman of few words in such settings, offered a gracious nod of acknowledgment. 

You extended your hand with a warm smile as you introduced yourself, "I'm y/n. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Natasha shook your hand firmly and replied, "Natasha. Likewise."

You couldn't help but notice Natasha's reserved demeanor. Almost as if she felt too cool to be here. 

"I couldn't help but wonder," You began, your curiosity evident as you raised your voice above the music. "why aren't you out there dancing like the rest of your bandmates?"

Natasha offered a wry smile and shot back, "I could ask you the same thing."

“Touche,” You nodded. “I’m not much of a party girl.” You turn towards the bartender. “Do you want a drink? Eric here makes the best mojitos.”

“Sure, I’ll have a sex on the beach,” Natasha asked. 

“You heard the woman,” You jokingly said to Eric as he began to make your drinks. As you focused your attention on grabbing a few napkins, Natasha gave you a once-over. Your party dress was a delightful balance of simplicity and style. The knee-length and backless dress showcased a flattering silhouette, hugging your curves in all the right places. The deep, midnight-blue fabric was decorated with tiny, shimmering glitter that seemed to twinkle with each movement you made. Its sweetheart neckline and delicate spaghetti straps added a touch of femininity to the ensemble, while the mid-thigh slit allowed for easy movement as you moved. The overall effect was a cute yet elegant dress that perfectly suited the festive atmosphere of the party.

Natasha's observant eye caught the jewelry adorning your wrist. It was subtle but tasteful, hinting at a level of refinement that didn't go unnoticed. It was at least half of her salary for tonight’s show. This only interested her more. She needed to know who you were. She wanted to know the mystery behind you and your name. 

“Here you go,” You step back over to Natasha to hand her a drink. “I hope I’m not being too forward.”

“Not at all,” Natasha shrugged. 

"You know, if you're looking for a bit more quiet, we could step inside for a breather." You suggested, tilting your chin towards the house. 

Natasha considered the offer, realizing that a change of scenery might be a welcome respite from the party's chaos. With a small smile, she agreed, "That sounds like a good idea."

You led Natasha through the sea of people and inside the mansion to a nearby office where the music's relentless thump was muffled, and the atmosphere was quieter. It was a welcome change from the frenzied party outside.

As you settled into seats close to each other on the couch, drinks in hand, Natasha couldn't help herself and began to ask you questions. 

“Why did you ask me in here tonight?” Natasha asked. “Not that I’m complaining. I have been invited into much worse places.”  

“Thanks, I think,” You chuckled. You sensed Natasha's curiosity and offered a simple explanation, your eyes holding Natasha's in an unspoken connection."I enjoy meeting new people," you confessed, your voice soft but sincere. "And I've decided I wanted to talk with you."

You took a sip of your drink, your gaze thoughtful. "I also wanted to apologize for Harley's behavior earlier. She can be... spirited at times."

Natasha waved off the apology with a small smile, understanding that spirited was one way to describe Harley's antics.

You went on to explain, "Usually, I don't speak up like that, but my uncle has a way of spoiling Harley. It's... complicated."

Natasha's curiosity got the better of her, and she asked, "Your uncle? He’s Todd Jameson?"

You took a moment before revealing, "Yes. He and my dad are half-brothers. Making Harley my little cousin. I don’t admit it often."

The revelation left Natasha intrigued. She had heard the name Todd Jameson before, a figure of significance in the entertainment industry. The connection between you and Harley was now becoming clearer, and Natasha couldn't help but wonder about the family connection.

“That would make your dad…” Natasha began. 

“Nick Fury, the one and only,” You finished for her. “Different fathers. My dad is somewhere out there tonight. It’s a thing I don’t like to admit to strangers.”

“I get it,” Natasha nodded. 

The revelation about your family connection to Todd Jameson made Natasha pause for a moment. She had always admired the award-winning jazz player turned talent manager, Nick Fury, from afar. His contributions to the music industry were legendary, and Natasha couldn't deny that she was a fan of his music.

She decided not to fangirl, though, and instead offered a genuine smile. "Your dad is a legend. I've always been a fan of his music."

Your eyes lit up with appreciation. "Thank you, Natasha. I'll be sure to pass that along to him." You set your half-empty cup onto a coaster, before turning back to Natasha. “So, watching you on that stage. Not many people have that star power. I was wondering if you have experience dancing? You were incredible.” 

Natasha's eyes sparkled as she recalled her performance. "The way I danced on stage during our set, it's a part of who I am. I guess you could say it's a bit of my background showing through."

Your curiosity piqued, and you guessed, "Ballet, then?"

Natasha nodded. "Yes, I did ballet for sixteen years as a child. I even got into Juilliard."

Your eyes widened in admiration. "That's amazing, Natasha. How did you get into singing and music?"

Natasha took a sip of her drink and smiled as she delved into the story of how she got into music. It was a story that she didn't often share, but there was something about her conversation with you that made her feel comfortable opening up.

"It all started back in high school," Natasha began. "I was really into dancing, and it was an elective at my school. But then, one day, I decided to join the choir on a whim. And I fell in love with singing and songwriting. I grew up in a rough neighborhood. I needed something to keep me out of the house and off the streets."

She paused for a moment, reminiscing about those early days. "So, I started writing songs, and my friends Wanda and Steve would go over to Steve’s small bedroom. We'd play our rented instruments and experiment with different sounds. It was just a fun little hobby at first."

Natasha's gaze drifted, lost in the memories of those simple beginnings. "Then Bucky, Steve’s best friend well, he's always been a bit of a troublemaker, but he's got a talent for the electric guitar. And Tony...his dad's pretty wealthy and bought us all our equipment. Plus, he's good at the drums."

She chuckled, shaking her head. "It was a bit of a motley crew, but that's how Velvet Rebellion came to be. We started playing in small venues, dive bars, and country clubs. And somehow, we made it here."

Natasha's usually guarded demeanor had softened in your presence, and she found herself enjoying the opportunity to share a piece of her journey with someone who seemed genuinely interested in her story.

“I love that,” You nodded. You and Natasha share a smile before she asked. 

“Is your boyfriend here tonight? I don’t want to keep you too long,” She fished for more information. 

“No, no,” You shake your head. “No boyfriend. You?”

“Not really into monogamy at the moment,” She shrugged. She doesn’t know if this statement will bite her in the ass later but for some reason she trusted you. “Tell me about you. Are you in the family business or?”

"I've always had a bit of a connection to the music world," You began. "As a teenager, I sang a few backup vocals for artists my uncle produced. I guess you could say I almost pursued a career in music, but life had other plans for me. I got pregnant at seventeen. Dedicated to finish school and go to college."

You took a thoughtful swig of your drink and continued, "Now, I'm a publicist. I don't mean to brag, but I'm good at what I do.When I'm not working, I'm taking care of my daughter, Isabella. She's nine years old and the light of my life."

Your face softened as you spoke about your daughter, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of pride and joy. "She's with her dad for the weekend," you added, "and we co-parent quite well."

Natasha was genuinely interested in your life outside of the party scene, and she couldn't resist asking, "Do you have any pictures of Isabella? I'd love to see her."

Your eyes twinkled with delight as you pulled out your phone and began to share a few adorable images of your daughter. Natasha couldn't help but smile as she admired the photos, enjoying this glimpse into your world beyond the music and the party.

“Here she is at gymnastics practice,” You flipped through a few pictures of Isabella’s smiling face. “And swim. She is a little spitfire and she wants to do it all.”

“Wow,” Natasha smiled as if Isabella were her own child. “Do you ever want more?”

“Maybe one day,” You said wistfully. “For now I feel pretty full with everything in life. You?” 

You noticed the change in Natasha's expression and asked, "Is something on your mind?"

Natasha sighed, leaning back into her seat. "I just don't know if I'm cut out for motherhood," she admitted. "I have a younger sister, Yelena, she’s attending the University of Cambridge in England now. She's even developed a bit of a British accent." Natasha couldn't help but chuckle at the thought.

"But," she continued, "I enjoy the fast-paced life, the music, the performances, and the constant movement. A significant other won’t quite understand that I don't always have the time. Not that I don’t ever want that someday but…” Her voice died down. 

You listened empathetically, understanding the complexities of Natasha's life as a musician. "I get that," you acknowledged. "But it's essential to find the right balance for you, whether it's in your music career, personal life, or something in between. My dad was able to do it. When he crossed over into hip-hop there was definitely a lot he missed but he still made things happen"

“Really? Well, I will have to ask him for pointers.” She grinned. 

Just as the conversation was reaching its peak, there came a polite knock at the office door. A member of the party staff popped in to inform you that they were ready to sing "Happy Birthday" to Harley.

You turned to Natasha with a warm smile. "It was nice meeting and talking to you, Natasha," you said genuinely.

Natasha, not wanting the connection to end, began, "You know, I'd love to..."

But before she could finish her sentence, your cheeks flushed, and you interrupted already knowing what she was going to say, your voice bold, "Are you going to call me, or are you going to leave me hanging in the wind?"

Natasha couldn't help but laugh at your sudden assertiveness. It was a pleasant surprise. "I’m not that type of woman," Natasha said. At your look, she laughed again. “You got me there.”

You returned her smile and handed Natasha your phone, saying, "You'll just have to trust me with your number instead, and I'll call." Asking for her number instead eased the pressure off Natasha, and also your nerves at hoping she’d call. 

You gave Natasha a wink and chucked a thumb over your shoulder to indicate you were going back to the party. Natasha nodded and watched you walk away. When her eyes trailed lower she doesn’t even feel guilty about it. 

Natasha left the office, rejoining her bandmates outside in the backyard, just as they were preparing to sing "Happy Birthday" to Harley. The festive atmosphere was in full swing, and the energy of the party was infectious.

As the crowd gathered around Harley, Natasha's eyes scanned the faces, and they landed on you, who was standing among the partygoers. Your eyes met, and you shared a knowing smile, a silent acknowledgment of the connection you had developed.

Tony, always quick to pick up on things, couldn't help but tease Natasha when he noticed her grin. "So, did you get her number?"

Natasha rolled her eyes at Tony's assumption but then burst into laughter. "No," she replied with a playful smirk, "she took mine."

The party was still in full swing when someone on stage stopped the music with a loud, "Hey, everyone! Can I have your attention, please?"

The spotlight shifted to the stage, and all eyes turned toward the source of the interruption. It was a friend of Harley's, and he had a mischievous grin on his face as he spoke into the microphone.

"I have a special surprise for our birthday girl tonight," he announced. "We have someone here who's agreed to sing 'Happy Birthday' to Harley, and I think you're all in for a treat."

A collective cheer and applause erupted from the crowd as they eagerly anticipated the surprise. The spotlight moved to you, highlighting your face and putting you on the spot. You managed to not look like a deer in headlights which was a feat in itself. Natasha's curiosity was piqued, especially considering you had mentioned you weren’t much of a singer.

You tried to protest shyly, but the crowd begged you to come up on stage. Encouraged by their cheers, you reluctantly made your way up to the spotlight.

Once on stage, you cleared your throat and took a deep breath, your nerves palpable. You began with a little birthday speech, your voice tinged with affection and humor.

"I want to wish a happy birthday to my cousin Harley," You began, your smile directed at the birthday girl. "Even though she's a bit of a brat," you teased, earning laughs from the crowd, "she's my brat, and I wouldn't have it any other way."

Then, as expected, you began to sing "Happy Birthday." Your voice, which you had modestly downplayed earlier, was nothing short of remarkable. It was soulful, sweet, and filled with a depth of emotion that resonated through the entire backyard.

The crowd, including Natasha, was utterly blown away by the unexpected talent that you possessed. Your voice filled the air, making the birthday celebration even more special and memorable. It was a moment of pure magic, and Natasha couldn't help but be captivated by your incredible singing ability.

Natasha decided two things then and there. One, she really liked you, and two, boy, was she in for a ride.

---> next part

[short-wooloo]

How much you wanna bet in the next 3 episodes Sol is going to go to the Jedi and say the sith are back and the Jedi won't believe him because Headland thinks it's "just like how the Jedi refused to believe Qui-Gon!" even though...

A. Qui-Gon had no actual proof that Maul was a sith (seriously, "well trained in the Jedi arts" is not proof, if anything that's evidence for someone not being a sith, as it points more to someone being an ex Jedi or trained by an ex Jedi)

B. The Jedi never outright reject the possibility that the sith are back, they express surprise and disbelief, and question how it could have happened without notice, they do not dismiss it, but lack of evidence means they have little to go off of or investigate, they're stuck, which leads to...

C. The Jedi send Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan back to Naboo precisely because they're hoping to lure Maul out and get more concrete answers, and on the subject, the fact that more Jedi weren't sent is not a gotcha against the Jedi like I see some people treat it as (fuck you hishe), Qui-Gon already held his own against Maul, as far as the Jedi know he and an almost-Knight are more than enough, and again, the point is to draw Maul out, I doubt he would show if he knew a bunch of Jedi were waiting for him (and he would know, either through the Jedi's presence in the Force or by Palpatine's sources), Mailul is bloodthirsty and arrogant, but he isn't stupid (and I doubt Sidious would allow him to foolishly challenge a bunch of Knights and Masters all at once)

D. The Jedi themselves conclude Maul was a sith when all's said and done (and that's another thing, they still don't have any solid proof here, so why does Qui-Gon get praise for making a claim that happens to be right despite having no way of knowing so but the rest of the Jedi don't?), so they changed their minds pretty quickly

I will not be surprised if this ends up being the case, "the Jedi arrogantly refused to listen to Qui-Gon" is an all to common "fact" found in SW fanfiction, so it would be no surprise that leslye "wrote sw fanfiction" headland would do something like it

[sebsrainbowbicycle]

Whats your opinion on the whole Christian Horner thing?

Let me preface this by saying, I have intentionally stayed away from this subject for many reasons, but given there was an outcome of the investigation today, and some of the information I’ve seen here throughout the past weeks, now is as good a time as any to respond to this ask I got weeks ago. This is not, nor will I be offering in the future, my opinion on whether Horner is guilty of the accusations or not. I just want to maybe provide context, and information from my experience and career thus far, that might help people understand, and also my opinion on the reaction from people. Caveat - I am not a lawyer, nor will I go into specifics of my current or previous job, however I worked in the legal profession where I worked on legal cases, reviewed evidence, and made submissions and recommendations that went in front of Judges.

Okay my thoughts. My thoughts are that an internal investigation that should have remained private for all parties involved, especially the alleged victim(s), was leaked and used as clickbait and gossip by the media and people on here and other social media sites. I think people decided guilt without having any genuine information, without seeing the evidence and without any credible sources. I think were the person being accused a different member of the paddock that the reaction would have been different. I think people used this to virtue signal and cry out about what good people they are. I think people that constantly say that the media and journalists shouldn’t be trusted, fed into a feeding frenzy that led to the name of the alleged victim(s) being published, which will undoubtedly impact them for the rest of their lives.

Onto specific things I have seen that I’d like to offer my take on:

Christian allegedly offering the victim a sum of money - First of all, for anyone who has a certain amount of wealth, especially those in the public eye, this is a usual occurrence. You try to avoid an investigation by any means possible, whether you’re innocent or guilty, because a) it’s easier and usually cheaper in the long run, b) pr and public image are damaged by even unfounded accusations and these things can run on for an extremely long time, and c) trial by media is a thing, and innocent people get tarnished for the rest of their lives because of something they were accused of. Now, I’m not saying any of those are why the offer was allegedly made, but those are some of the reasons. Companies do the same thing, when someone has an accident at work and hurts themselves, even if the company do not believe themselves to be at fault they will make a settlement offer, to avoid any legal back and forth. Settlements are not an admission of guilt, but a way to make something go away quickly.

Said money being why the investigation “went away” - I saw a quote that said “the grievance has been dismissed”, that means there was a finding, not that it was withdrawn. even so, this was a red bull investigation carried out by an external barrister. Once the company were made aware of the allegations, their investigation is independent of either party involved, so even if the alleged victim(s) withdrew their grievance, the company would still have a duty of care to ensure that any inappropriate behaviour or actions were identified, investigated and addressed. Most importantly, red bull want to protect themselves legally, and following the procedures and carrying out a thorough investigation, which would identify if they were potentially exposed to risk, is how they do that.

How can they ignore 100’s of pieces of evidence - We don’t know that they did. It was reported, but never confirmed that there was over 100 pieces of evidence submitted, so this is absolute hearsay. Further, I would be extremely surprised if the investigation ignored any piece of evidence, given the ramifications of an incorrect or improper investigation. Also I think it’s really important to say that evidence does not equal guilt or that one party to the proceedings is correct. Allow me to provide you with a personal example. I worked on a case where there was over 5000 pages of evidence submitted into a legal bundle. Approximately 4000 of those were from the appellant who argued that the other party had acted incorrectly. (forgive my vagueness here I’m not about to doxx myself). 4000 pages of evidence, which I reviewed and made a decision that I did not support their argument. The judge agreed with me also. Evidence can be subjective, and sometimes it can be completely irrelevant. The presence, and submission of evidence is to support one sides view of things, the other side will have their own, and both are examined and balanced and decisions made on that and sometimes also on other independent investigation.

The investigation is private and cannot be shared - This is law. GDPR in fact because this is occurring within Europe. I’m literally spending this entire week on a GDPR course, and have an exam on Friday, so I really don’t want to go on about legal basis and restrictions for sharing personal data, but let me tell you it’s for good reason, especially with investigations like this. All parties involved in this have a legal right to privacy, covered by the human rights act, and unless there is a compelling legal reason why their data should be shared, then it can’t be without their explicit consent. Simple as. And that’s disregarding that there will be confidential company information within the investigation that also cannot be shared.

Horner committed a crime - given that we do not know the specifics of what occurred we simply don’t have enough information to know this, HOWEVER, from the information I have read, and by the fact that I have not seen an indication that the police have been involved with this, nor are they carrying out their own investigation, I am working under the assumption that no law has been broken.

tl;dr - These are real people’s lives, we are not involved and we have no right to know anything. This isn’t salacious gossip, and it’s not a fun thing to band around and use as a stick to beat people with to prove how good we are. Processes and investigations like this should be private, and basing things on hearsay and unscrupulous reporters does more damage to any alleged victims than good. Having seen how fans and social media have treated this investigation, do you think that makes any other alleged victims want to come forwards? I think not. But that’s just me.

[vermilionsun]

This post translates directly to @musas-sideblog's about how Touchstarved ties with Victorian horror and implicit/metaphorical sex, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it, so here is a lengthy theory. Enjoy :)

Note 1: Victorian era authors used an unholy amount of ways to imply sexual feelings/acts etc, so I here I will include only the ones that are of interest. Note 2: I've highlighted the "most important" parts. Note 3: I'm not an expert at this, so please bear with me and feel free to correct me. Note 4: Do I need to add a TW? I think it's obvious-

Overview: What is Victorian Horror?

Victorian horror refers to the genre of horror literature, art, and culture that flourished during the Victorian era, roughly from the mid-19th century to the early 20th century, coinciding with Queen Victoria's reign from 1837 to 1901. This period was marked by a fascination with the macabre, the supernatural, and the dark aspects of human nature, reflecting the anxieties and societal changes of the time. 

Key Themes and Characteristics

Supernatural Elements:

Ghosts and Spirits: Tales of haunted houses and spectral apparitions were central to Victorian horror. Charles Dickens's "A Christmas Carol" (1843) and Henry James's "The Turn of the Screw" (1898) are notable examples.

Monsters and the Gothic: The era's literature is filled with monstrous creations and gothic settings, such as in Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein" (1818), Bram Stoker's "Dracula" (1897), and Robert Louis Stevenson's "Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde" (1886).

Science and the Unknown:

The Victorian period was a time of great scientific advancement, but also of fear about the implications of these discoveries. This is evident in works that explore the dangers of unchecked scientific experimentation, like "Frankenstein" and H.G. Wells's "The Island of Doctor Moreau" (1896).

Exploration of the Human Psyche:

Victorian horror often delved into the darker aspects of the human mind, including themes of duality, madness, and the hidden, sinister side of human nature. This is seen in "Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde" and Edgar Allan Poe’s works, such as "The Tell-Tale Heart" (1843).

Social and Moral Anxieties:

The literature frequently reflected Victorian society's fears and anxieties, including issues related to sexuality, class, and the role of women. Gothic novels often contained subtexts about societal norms and the consequences of transgressing them.

Urban Fear and Isolation:

The rapid urbanisation of the Victorian era contributed to themes of isolation, alienation, and fear of the crowded yet lonely cityscape. This is evident in the settings of many horror stories, such as Arthur Machen's "The Great God Pan" (1894).

Sexual Content: Victorian literature is renowned for its strict moral codes and conservative views on sexuality. Explicit depictions of sexual activity were considered taboo and were subject to censorship. Consequently, authors developed subtle and nuanced methods to imply sexual scenes or themes.

Literary Techniques for Implying Sexual Scenes

✧ Symbolism and Imagery:

Sexuality was often conveyed through symbolic imagery. Objects, actions, or natural phenomena could serve as metaphors for sexual activity or desire. For example, in "Dracula" by Bram Stoker, blood and biting symbolise sexual penetration and the exchange of bodily fluids, infusing the act with a sense of forbidden desire and eroticism.

Clothing and Undress:

Gloves: In Victorian culture, gloves were highly symbolic. The act of a woman removing her gloves in the presence of a man, or a man assisting her in this act, could signify a moment of intimacy or vulnerability. Similarly, a man giving a woman his gloves could be a sign of affection or a deeper connection.

Hats and Bonnets:

Corsets

Objects and Personal Items:

Locks of Hair

Jewellery

Books and Letters

Touch and Physical Contact:

Kissing Hands

Hand-Holding

Food and Drink:

Wine: Sharing wine or a meal in an intimate setting often suggested a prelude to deeper connection. Descriptions of characters drinking wine together in private could imply a romantic or sexual undertone.

Fruit: Certain fruits, like apples, grapes, or peaches, were laden with sexual symbolism. Eating or sharing fruit could represent temptation or indulgence. For instance, in Christina Rossetti’s poem "Goblin Market", the act of eating the goblin fruit is rich with sexual symbolism.

Flora and Fauna

Flowers and Gardens:

Roses: Roses were often used to symbolise love and passion. A red rose might suggest romantic or sexual attraction, while a wilted rose could imply lost innocence or sexual ruin.

Lilies: Lilies, especially white ones, represented purity but could also suggest a contrasting theme when associated with a fallen or tarnished character.

Garden Settings: Scenes set in secluded gardens or amongst lush, overgrown vegetation often hinted at secret or forbidden encounters. Descriptions of characters wandering through or tending to gardens could imply sexual exploration or awakening.

Flowers Blooming or Opening:  The blooming of flowers often represented sexual awakening or the act of losing one's virginity.

Nature Imagery:

Rivers and Water: Flowing water and rivers often symbolised sexual desire and the act of lovemaking. For instance, in "Tess of the d'Urbervilles" by Thomas Hardy, Tess's encounter with Alec d'Urberville is often described with metaphors of nature and fluidity.

Storms and Weather: Storms, with their intense energy and sudden outbursts, were frequently used to symbolise sexual passion or climactic moments.

Birds and Beasts:

Animals, especially those that are wild or predatory, often symbolised primal sexual instincts and desires. The taming or interaction with these animals could imply a character’s grappling with their own sexuality.

Fire and Heat

✧ Phrases and Sayings

Euphemistic Language

Descriptive Phrasing

Dialogue and Confessions

Private Spaces:

Secluded or Dimly Lit Rooms: Scenes set in private, darkened rooms often suggested clandestine sexual encounters. The privacy of the setting allows authors to imply what could not be explicitly stated. In Wilkie Collins’s "The Woman in White", many key interactions happen in secluded spaces, hinting at secrets and hidden desires.

Dreams and Fantasies:

Dream Sequences:

Dreams and fantasies were used to explore a character’s subconscious desires and fears, often revealing their suppressed sexual longings. These sequences provided a socially acceptable way to delve into erotic themes.

Hallucinations and Madness:

Moments of madness or hallucination could serve as a metaphor for overwhelming passion or uncontrollable sexual desire. These states allowed characters to express forbidden feelings in a way that was metaphorically safe.

Physical Interactions and Horror

Touch and Proximity as Menace:

Unwanted or Forced Touch: In horror, touch that is typically a sign of affection or intimacy becomes a source of fear.

Physical Closeness in Horror Settings: Close proximity in dark, secluded places amplifies the sense of claustrophobia and vulnerability, turning what could be an intimate setting into one fraught with terror.

Undress and Exposure in Horror:

Loosening Corsets and Vulnerability: The act of undressing or loosening clothing, which can be a prelude to intimacy, in horror often leaves characters vulnerable to attack or exposure of their deepest fears.

Food and Consumption in Horror

Cannibalism and Vampirism:

Blood as Sexual and Vital Fluid: The act of consuming blood, as in vampirism, blends the themes of sustenance and sexual exchange. The vampire's bite becomes a metaphor for both sexual penetration and the transfer of life force.

Example: "Dracula" is a prime example where blood consumption is deeply eroticized, with Dracula’s victims often portrayed in a state of ecstatic submission as he drains their blood.

Food as a Lure: Food and feasting, typically symbols of pleasure and indulgence, in horror contexts can be used to lure victims into dangerous situations.

Example: In "Goblin Market" by Christina Rossetti, the goblins’ fruit is both irresistibly tempting and dangerous, representing a forbidden and potentially fatal indulgence.

Plot and Character Dynamics in Horror

Power and Domination:

Common Dynamics with a Dark Twist

Predators and Victims: Characters who prey on others are often literal monsters in horror, representing the loss of control or innocence.

Secrecy and Concealment:

Hidden Desires and Monstrous Revelations: Characters who conceal their true identities or desires often find these hidden aspects manifesting as monstrous or terrifying in horror narratives, suggesting that repression can lead to dire consequences.

Clandestine Meetings and Forbidden Encounters: Secret meetings and forbidden relationships, often tinged with sexual implications, add an element of danger and fear, suggesting that transgressing social norms leads to horror.

Common Themes in Victorian Horror

Duality and the Doppelgänger:

Theme: The concept of duality, where a character has a hidden, darker side, or encounters a double (doppelgänger), often symbolises the internal conflict between good and evil within individuals.

Connection: This theme reflects Victorian anxieties about identity, morality, and the consequences of repressing one’s darker impulses.

Gothic and Supernatural Elements:

Theme: Victorian horror is rich with Gothic elements such as haunted houses, dark landscapes, and supernatural beings. These elements create a sense of dread and evoke the mysteries of the unknown.

Connection: The Gothic setting often serves as a backdrop for exploring human fears, isolation, and the impact of the supernatural on everyday life.

Decay and Degeneration:

Theme: The fear of decay and degeneration, both physical and moral, is a recurring motif. This theme often examines the decline of individuals, families, or societies and the consequences of corruption and vice.

Connection: This theme mirrors Victorian concerns about the erosion of social and moral values amidst rapid industrial and social changes.

Madness and Psychological Horror:

Theme: The exploration of madness and psychological horror delves into the fragility of the human mind and the terror of losing one's sanity. This often includes hallucinations, obsessions, and the thin line between reality and delusion.

Connection: This theme resonates with Victorian fears of mental illness, the limitations of medical knowledge, and the impact of societal pressures on mental health.

Forbidden Knowledge and the Faustian Bargain:

Theme: The pursuit of forbidden knowledge and the resulting consequences is a central theme. Characters who seek power, immortality, or forbidden truths often pay a heavy price, reminiscent of the Faustian bargain.

Connection: This theme highlights Victorian anxieties about scientific progress, moral boundaries, and the potential hubris of human ambition.

The Uncanny and the Unknown:

Theme: The uncanny involves the strange and unfamiliar becoming eerily familiar, often unsettling the reader and characters. It blurs the lines between reality and the supernatural, invoking fear and discomfort.

Connection: This theme taps into Victorian fears of the unknown, the foreign, and the otherworldly, reflecting broader anxieties about social and cultural boundaries.

Death and the Afterlife:

Theme: Victorian horror frequently grapples with themes of death and the afterlife, exploring the fear of mortality, the possibility of an afterlife, and encounters with the dead or undead.

Connection: These themes reflect Victorian preoccupations with death, the spiritual realm, and the possibility of life beyond death, often intensified by the era's high mortality rates and interest in spiritualism.

Isolation and Alienation:

Theme: Isolation and alienation are prevalent themes, often highlighting characters who are physically or emotionally detached from society, leading to their vulnerability and descent into despair or madness.

Connection: This theme resonates with the Victorian experience of industrialization and urbanization, which often led to feelings of disconnection and loneliness.

Class and Social Anxiety:

Theme: Victorian horror often explores themes of class and social anxiety, including the fear of losing social status, the consequences of poverty, and the tension between different social classes.

Connection: This theme reflects the rigid class structures of Victorian society and the fears and tensions that arose from social mobility and economic disparity.

Moral Corruption and Hypocrisy:

Theme: Victorian horror frequently critiques the era’s moral standards and exposes the hypocrisy of societal norms. Characters who appear virtuous often harbor dark secrets or engage in morally dubious activities.

Connection: This theme mirrors the Victorian concern with appearances and the underlying tension between public propriety and private desires.

The Five Pillars of Victorian Horror & The Five Love Interests

The Supernatural and the Gothic (Ais)

Essence: Victorian horror often revolves around the supernatural, blending Gothic elements to evoke a sense of dread and otherworldly terror. This includes ghosts, vampires, haunted houses, and curses, which create an atmosphere where the boundaries between the natural and the supernatural blur.

Impact: The use of Gothic settings and supernatural phenomena provides a backdrop for exploring deeper themes of fear, mortality, and the unknown.

Psychological Depth and Madness (Vere)

Essence: Victorian horror delves into the complexities of the human mind, exploring themes of madness, obsession, and the psychological effects of fear and trauma. Characters often grapple with their sanity, facing inner demons as terrifying as any external threat.

Impact: This focus on psychological horror allows for a deeper exploration of character motivations and the impact of societal pressures.

Moral Corruption and the Double Life (Leander)

Essence: Themes of moral corruption and the duality of human nature are central to Victorian horror. Characters often lead double lives, presenting a veneer of respectability while concealing dark, sinful secrets. This tension between outward appearances and hidden truths reflects the era’s social hypocrisy and fear of scandal.

Impact: These themes critique Victorian society’s emphasis on propriety and the dangerous consequences of repressing one’s true nature. The idea of a double life or hidden self adds to the horror by suggesting that evil can reside within anyone, masked by a facade of normalcy.

Decay, Degeneration, and Disease (Kuras)

Essence: The themes of physical and moral decay, societal degeneration, and disease permeate Victorian horror. These motifs symbolise the fragility of human life and the inevitability of decline, reflecting the anxieties of a society grappling with rapid change and uncertain futures.

Impact: By focusing on decay and degeneration, Victorian horror underscores the transient nature of life and the ever-present threat of corruption and decline, whether through ageing, moral compromise, or societal breakdown.

Isolation and Alienation (Mhin)

Essence: Isolation and alienation are pervasive themes in Victorian horror, often depicted through characters who are physically or emotionally cut off from society. This separation heightens their vulnerability to external threats and internal fears.

Impact: Isolation serves to intensify the psychological tension and sense of dread, as characters confront their fears alone. It also reflects the era’s social and existential anxieties, including the fear of being disconnected or outcast from society.

Generally, I believe each LI connects with a pillair (as seen above). Perhaps by looking at the archetypes we could deduce propable endings and route elements.

Forgive me, for the following part is MESSY;

Ais

Vere

Leander

Kuras

Mhin

[postoctobrist]

Hi November

I love your work but you don't seem to have a great grasp of PACE. Anyone can conduct a PACE interview, it is just asking someone questions. Asking in a way that complies with PACE Code C (adapted to fit the circumstances) makes it less likely that evidence obtained will be found to be inadmissible but there are no guarantees either way. Loads of non-police organisations investigate crimes and they all conduct PACE interviews: HMRC, HSE, Environment Agency, SFO, ICO, CMA, private companies, local authorities (btw, law enforcement functions of councils might make for a good episode if you know anyone who is starting a podcast about local government).

There are a few differences between police and non-police interviews. I’d be surprised if they spelled that out, but My Local Bobby can’t arrest suspects to interview them so a suspect has to attend voluntarily and they can just leave if they want (and maybe be subject to adverse inferences at trial as a consequence). And suspects still have the right to legal advice but the police station duty solicitor scheme doesn’t cover them so they have to arrange it for themselves.

I’d be surprised if My Local Bobby weren’t sometimes skirting the law in practice but their policies will be legal. That isn’t much comfort of course, and in any event it doesn’t matter as no one is going to do anything about it apart from the occasional civil claim from a suspect who fell down the stairs.

xxx

law school was a while ago and I didn’t graduate it, what can I say. for what it’s worth I think my larger point stands and there’s still a difference between HMRC interviewing me under caution and Sainsbury’s security doing it

[fettuccin-e]

The Wonderful Way Things Change

A/N: hi there everyone... shamefully, very shamefully, I have not posted anything original since i think like february. it was an unplanned hiatus! promise it was completely unplanned, this semester just really kicked my ass lol. BUT HERE WE ARE! with matt smut of course how could I not because he is the loml so please enjoy! love you!

Description: Based off this ask, and can be read as a loose sequel to this (my first ever fanfic oh boy oh boy). In which Foggy calls you to check in on Matt, and the sight of your boyfriend all disheveled in a suit is making you a tad desperate. Thankfully, neither of you have the self-control to keep your hands to yourselves.

Tags: Matt Murdock x Reader, afab!fem!reader, no use of y/n, smut like so much smut who do you think I am, fucking Matty in a suit, oral (f!recieving), unprotected piv (pls wrap it up irl fuck them kids) (w/c: 2.5K)

Yours and Matt’s relationship is new, somewhat, but you both know that it’s been a long time coming. It’s only been a few weeks since he finally kissed you for the first time, since he healed your poor, pining heart. It’s not like other relationships you’ve had, with the talking stage at the beginning, where you’re still asking each other about your childhoods, favorite movies, and songs. You and Matt already know everything about each other.

He knows about your shitty job that you hate but manages to pay the bills. He knows all about your childhood, all of your hopes and dreams. Up until a few weeks ago, the only secret you’d kept from him was your frankly ridiculous crush on him.

But you know that it’s the same way for him. You already know about Daredevil, and to Matt’s unending surprise, you accept him, love him for who he is. You don’t want him to give up either side of himself; you’re happy to just have him. Matt is still trying to get used to the feeling of actually having you, instead of just being by your side, letting you slip through his fingers.

Up until a few weeks ago, Matt had resigned himself to only being your friend. The friendship he’d found in you at Columbia would remain just that. Unbeknownst to him, you’d resigned yourself the exact same way. But a misunderstanding and a frustrated and ridiculously dramatic love confession later, you’d finally kissed him like he’d only dreamed of. You’d allowed him to touch you like he’d always wanted, and Matt could swear that he’s never felt anything softer, never tasted anything sweeter than you.

So the relationship is new, but it also feels like you and Matt have just been waiting, settling into routines like you’ve been together for years. You know how Matt is, how he’ll bury himself into cases and recordings and court documents, searching for that one bit of evidence that proves his client is innocent. He sends Foggy and Karen home on nights like these, insisting that they need to sleep, that they work too hard as is.

“He’s gonna be there for hours,” Foggy tells you over the phone. “You’ve gotta get him out of there or he’s going to collapse.” You laugh, pulling on your coat and stepping out of Matt’s apartment. 

Ever since you had both confessed your feelings for each other, and Matt had finally, finally taken you to bed, you had more or less moved in. It hadn’t been intentional, nor had Matt officially asked you, but the one time you had broached the subject of maybe sleeping at your own apartment, Matt’s arms had wrapped around you, holding you to him while he pressed desperate kisses all over your face and neck, telling you that his apartment was so cold without you there.

“C’mon, sweetheart, haven’t we spent more than enough time apart?” he had murmured, and you had agreed.

“Yeah, alright Fog, I’m heading over there now. I’ll make sure you have a well-rested partner by tomorrow,” you giggle into the phone, and you laughed even harder at Foggy’s genuine sigh of relief.

“Christ, how did Nelson, Murdock and Page survive without you and Matt together?”

“It’s truly a mystery, Foggy,” you tease, and Foggy laughs with you. He keeps you on the phone the entire walk to their office building, filling you in on the cases he, Karen, and Matt are working on. You could talk to Foggy for hours, really, but he lets you go as you walk up the steps to their offices. With a promise to talk soon, maybe take a trip to Josie’s, you hang up, shoving your phone into your coat pocket.

You can hear the recording Matt is listening to through the door to his office, some judge droning on and on. You enter the room quietly, heart beating wildly at Matt in his sharp suit, without his glasses, hair mussed from his fingers running through it the way they usually do when he’s working through a case. You watch as a smile blooms across his pretty lips, his eyes lifting to your direction as he pauses the recording.

“Hi, baby,” he says, and his sheer beauty in that moment nearly brings you to your knees. This man, with his hair sticking up in every direction, his tie slightly loosened at his chest, big brown eyes and wide smile is yours. All yours. You can’t help how your heart beats even harder at the thought.

You watch his grin meld into a knowing smirk as he listens to the quick pattering of your heartbeat. “Something got you worked up, sweetheart?”

You hum, crossing the room to where he sits in his office chair. “Oh, you know,” you drawl, trying to keep your voice coy and light, even though you know that your heart is giving away your sudden desperation for the man in front of you. “I’m just thinking about all of the things I get to do now.”

“To me?” He’s playing coy too, trying to goad you.

“Always to you, Matty,” you giggle, and he chuckles in return. You swing a leg over his lap, straddling him and relishing in how his chuckle morphs into a choked gasp. 

“What- What kinds of things, gorgeous?” his voice is breathier now, beautifully affected by your actions.

“Just how I can do things like this,” you wrap your hand into his tie, tugging him towards your mouth. “And things like this-” you breathe over his mouth, before capturing his pretty, enticing lips with your own.

Matt groans into the kiss, smoothing his hands over your hips before reaching behind you to grab your ass in his big, thick hands, tugging you further up his lap. Your clothed pussy rests just over the bulge of his cock through his slacks, and you can feel it thickening beneath you. 

“And you call me worked up, Matty?” you murmur against his mouth, wiggling in his lap and pulling a soft moan from his lips.

“When my gorgeous girlfriend walks into my office, smelling like my apartment and so fucking soft on top of me,” he says, squeezing your ass again, “how can you expect me to be calm, baby?”

Your stomach bursts into butterflies at the title. You’re his girlfriend. He’s your boyfriend. It feels so very juvenile, like you’re twenty years old again and still trying to get through calculus class. Maybe it’s because you’ve been waiting that long. Waiting for him, since you first met him and Foggy at Columbia. It feels so far away now, so different, and yet, you still burn bright and warm with Matt’s attention on you. Calling you his girlfriend.

He shifts his hips under yours, the bulge of his thick cock against your pussy impossible to ignore, and you whine, just barely, but Matt hears. Of course he does.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “So fucking needy.” He lurches forward again to press his lips to yours, licking into your mouth. 

“Please, Matty,” you whisper, and he groans into your mouth all over again. He doesn’t separate his mouth from yours as he lifts you against him, using a hand to brush the cumbersome documents and files off the desk behind you, before laying you softly against it, running his hands over your waist and kissing you like you’re something precious. 

But you are, Matt knows that you are the most precious thing in the fucking world. And you want him. Matt can hardly believe it sometimes; he still sometimes thinks he’s dreaming when he feels you in the morning, pressed tight against him, your heart calm and steady with sleep.

He licks into your mouth like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do, and what a way to go. He could stay in this moment forever, kissing you while your hands tangle into his hair. But your sexy little whines are echoing around him, your hips moving in desperate little circles against the aching bulge in his slacks.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he whispers, and you just whine louder. It’s a nearly painful thing, taking his lips from yours, but he can fucking smell your arousal, and the need to dive between your thighs is suddenly too much for him to handle. 

You kind of want to cry when Matt breaks your kiss, but your mourning at the loss of his lips is quickly cut short by his thick, calloused hands pushing your skirt up your thighs, leaving the material to bunch around your waist. He nudges his nose against your clit through your panties, taking a deep breath in through his nose, savoring it, and you nearly black out.

“Oh- oh my God,” you stutter, and Matt smirks in that ridiculously cocky way you hate that you love.

“I mean, I go by Matt, but if you want to call me God-” Matt starts, tugging your panties down your legs.

“Matthew Michael Murdock, I swear-” You want to continue, you really do, but it’s really hard to keep your train of thought when Matt is leaning down and licking a long stripe up your soaked pussy, swirling around your clit and making your hips buck up uncontrollably. He quickly braces a forearm over your twitching body, holding you still with his strength while he eats your pretty cunt.

“So fucking wet for me, gorgeous,” he mutters between your thighs, the vibrations feeling like shockwaves up your spine. “So pretty, baby, could’ve been eating this pretty cunt since college.”

You can barely form a sentence, only able to utter out whines of Matt, Matt Matt, between desperate moans as he licks into you. You can feel him grinning into your cunt, knowing he’s driving you fucking crazy, before he’s drawing up to capture your throbbing clit into his mouth and sucks. He brings his free hand up to sink a thick finger into your needy entrance, crooking it up and pressing into a spot inside that makes white creep into the edges of your vision. He just sucks and sucks, swirling his tongue around our achy clit and playing with you like a toy.

Your orgasm hits you like a freight train, unexpected and brutal, and you would have thrashed off the desk if it weren’t for Matt’s strong arms holding you steady. He carries you through it, licking at you softly while he keeps his finger inside, giving your pussy something to clutch onto. As your hips finally stop twitching, Matt rises, leaning over you again, and you can’t help but tug at his tie again, dragging his mouth to yours, uncaring of the taste of your pussy covering his lips.

“Please fuck me, Matty, oh god, please. Need you in me, baby,” you whine, and you can’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed at how needy you sound. Matt groans, sounding just as desperate as he licks into your mouth. He takes his hands from your body to reach down, undoing his belt and slacks just enough to tug his aching cock out. He’s so hard it’s nearly painful, the head sticky and red and throbbing with the need to fuck you. To claim you.

You wrap your arms over his back, tucking your head into the crook of his neck as he sinks into your sensitive pussy. As he finally bottoms out, you lean back to look at him, at his big eyes staring just off your face, his mouth slightly agape.

“I thought about this, y’know,” you whisper, your nails digging into his back as he presses just a bit deeper inside. “Every time I brought you guys lunch, I-” you moan softly as Matt thrusts, hard and so fucking deep you swear you swear you can feel him in your guts. “I thought about you, fucking me on this desk, in-in this fucking suit, god, Matt.”

“Shit, baby,” he grunts, rocking into you so hard the desk rattles beneath you. You can barely pay attention to it, not when the tip of Matt’s thick cock is grinding into the spot inside you that makes you scream, your nails digging into the soft fabric covering his back. “I thought about you too, god, you have no idea, sweetheart.” You can only whine in response as he continues, “You’d bring us all lunch, wearing your little uniform, fuck, with that pretty skirt and those heels.”

Matt’s hands tighten over your hips, forcing you to meet him thrust for thrust, and it’s so fucking good. You can’t manage to answer him through your desperate whines of his name and choked moans as his thick cock stretches you out for him, but Matt’s still talking. You don’t know if he can stop.

“I could hear your thighs brushing together under that tight fucking skirt, your heels clicking up the hall, and all I could think about was ruining you. Ripping that skirt off you and making you beg for my cock,” he grunts, driving desperately into your soaked pussy. Your head is swimming, drowning in Matt’s words, his scent, his cock.

“Now I can, baby,” he grunts, voice breaking on a choked moan. “I can fuck you just how I’ve wanted, make this pretty pussy soak my cock. Can wake up to you in my bed, fuck you whenever I want, whenever you want, baby, fuck I’m yours. You hear me, angel? I’m yours.” Matt can feel your pussy fluttering desperately around his cock, and snakes a hand between your bodies to press a thumb over your clit. 

He leans over you, his tie loose and dangling over your face as he growls, “and you’re mine. Mine.”

And you’re gone, pussy tightening like a vice around Matt’s thick cock, screaming his name. Little tears escape your eyes, dripping down your cheeks as Matt groans your name in return, hips stuttering into yours and flooding your overwhelmed pussy with his cum. You can hear him, just barely, through the roar of blood in your ears as he whispers, “So good, baby, so perfect. Love you so much, so much, you have no idea. I love you, loved you for so fucking long, angel.”

You bring your hands up to tangle your fingers into his soft hair, bringing him to your lips, whispering a soft “I love you so much, Matty,” in return before meeting him in a soft kiss. His smile against your mouth is blinding, endlessly joyful, and slightly delirious.

He’s still buried inside you a few minutes later, when you finally whisper, “I’m not sure this is what Foggy had in mind when he sent me over here.”

“If this is what Foggy had in mind, I might have to send him a fruit basket, or buy him a round,” Matt chuckles, and you smack him lightly on the shoulder before you’re laughing too. Matt smiles, unable to believe that you’re his, before he cuts your giggling off with a loving kiss.

[mesetacadre]

Hello! In one of your posts you mentioned Anna Louise Strong's The Soviets Expected It, where she describes that Belarusians did not turn on their Jewish neighbors when Nazis invaded the USSR. Then you said that in 30 years the USSR managed to extirpate antisemitism from the general population. Was this something Strong said in the book explicitly? I'm interested in the topic and I was wondering whether Strong's book is worth reading for her analysis on how the USSR managed to eliminate antisemitism or whether she only mentions it briefly. Thank you!

Hello! After searching for it, @komsomolka helped me find this quote. It wasn't by ALS as I remembered, but rather by Vic L. Allen in his book The Russians are Coming: The Politics of Anti-Sovietism:

It was German practice as they entered Soviet territories to encourage the local populace to engage in pogroms against the Jews as a first stage in their genocidal policy. They had some success in those areas which had become part of the Soviet Union since 1939 but in the Soviet Union proper there was no evidence of spontaneous anti-Semitism. A Jewish historian commentated that "In Byelorussia, a conspicuous difference is evidenced between the old Soviet part of the region and the area which had previously belonged to Poland and was under Soviet rule from September 1939 to June 1941. Nazi and anti-Jewish propaganda drew a weak response in the former Soviet Byelorussia: we encounter complaints in Nazi documents that, "it is extremely hard to incite the local populace to pogroms because of the backwardness of the Byelorussian peasants with regard to racial consciousness" Another view of the cause of the racial attitudes in Byelorussia was given in a secret memorandum by a collaborator to the chief of the German army in August 1942. He wrote: "There is no Jewish problem for the Byelorussian people. For them, this is purely a German matter. This derives from Soviet education which has negated racial difference... The Byelorussians sympathize with, and have compassion for the Jews, and regard the Germans as barbarians and the hangman of the Jew, whom they consider human beings equal to themselves...".

The Russians are Coming: The Politics of Anti-Sovietism (pages 144-145), Vic L. Allen, via ebook-hunter.org

This book goes into some detail regarding jews in the USSR, the sixth chapter, in part II, is dedicated to this.

Anna Louise Strong also wrote about antisemitism in the USSR, although just like almost any other subject in her books, she tackles it through a collection of anecdotes and observations, though I still think she paints a clear picture that's corroborated by Allen's book, for example:

Acts of race prejudice are severely dealt with in the Soviet Union. Ordinary drunken brawls between Russians may be lightly handled as misdemeanors, but let a brawl occur between a Russian and a Jew in which national names are used in a way insulting to national dignity, and this becomes a serious political offense. Usually, the remnants of national antagonisms require no such drastic methods; they yield to education. But the American workers who helped build the Stalingrad Tractor Plant will long remember the clash that Lewis and Brown had with the Soviet courts after their fight with the Negro Robinson, in the course of which they called him “damn low-down nigger.” The two white men were “deported” to America, disgraced in Soviet eyes by a serious political offense; the Negro remained and is now a member of the Moscow City government. The devotion of long-suppressed peoples and their willingness to die for their new equality is the prize that the Soviet national policy won for the present war. The Jews in the Soviet Union especially know that they have something to fight for as they see beyond the border Hitler’s destruction of the Jews and the anti-Semitism that spreads from country to country. When I last visited Minsk, which under the tsar was a ghetto city, and under the Soviets was the capital of the Byelo-Russian republic, with more than one-third of the population Jews, I asked the young Intourist guide, “Don’t you yourself, as a Jewish woman, ever encounter racial feeling in your daily contacts?” “I haven’t for years,” she answered. I wonder what she encountered when the Nazis entered Minsk.

The Soviets Expected it, Anna Louise Strong, via redstarpublishers.org

I recall across the years one of the Birobidjan leaders who went on the same train with me to Moscow. His energy and teasing laughter made him the life of the train. He frequently sat in the compartment with two Red Army commanders, joshing them about the quantities of edibles they consumed and declaring that he would have them arrested for upsetting the food balance of the country. Later he told me that these two commanders gave him more delight than anything on the train. He told me of his own early life in the Ukraine amid constant pogroms. He repeated the discussions with the two Red Army commanders. They had been asking whether the Red Army gave adequate help to the Jewish settlers. “We hear they made you a road. Was it a good one? Do they help you properly with your harvest? How are relations developing between the Red Army and the new immigrants?” “Can you imagine what those questions mean to me, a Jew of Birobidjan?” he asked. “No, you can never imagine it, for you cannot live my life. Those Red commanders are the sons of the Cossacks who used to commit the pogroms! And now it is all gone like a dream! They want to know if they help us adequately! They are too young even to remember pogroms. But I remember; I am old enough.”

The Soviets Expected it, Anna Louise Strong, via redstarpublishers.org

How much discrimination there was against Jews in educational institutions is hard to tell. It was never general but certainly there was some. It was evasive and struggles always developed against it. My best friend felt for a time undermined in her university job because she refused to yield to the anti-Semitism which seemed to be promoted by the Party secretary at the university. One day she came home exultant. “Now I know the Party doesn’t stand for anti-Semitism,” she said. “They removed A… He was in charge of universities here for the Central Committee and was behind much of this anti-Semitism.” This anecdote shows the confusion that existed. Anti-Semitism was sometimes promoted by people high in office, but always with evasion. The basic law that made it illegal was never attacked, challenged or revoked. The disease of anti-cosmopolitanism passed, and anti-Semitism with it. Not by law or decree, but because of three facts. In 1950, the USSR reached the highest production in its history, with comparative abundance of goods. The USSR also attained the A-Bomb — the threat of America’s monopoly was gone. And, also in 1950, the Chinese People’s Republic was established in Peking, and at once made alliance with the USSR. The sick, excessive patriotism bred by the cold war could not survive close contact with an eastern, equal ally, whose inventions began a thousand years before Russia’s, and whose present intelligence and achievements even the most successful Russians had to acclaim.

The Stalin Era, Anna Louise Strong, via redstarpublishers.org

In simple oratory the worker and peasant deputies to the new National Assemblies told of their tortured past and of their happiness when the Red Army arrived. Women told how in former days young boys had been held on anthills by landlords’ agents in order to break the spirit of rebellion, how a mother picking up fuel in the woods to heat water for a newborn baby had been caught by the lord’s forester, beaten, and afterward turned over to the attack of fierce dogs. It was a gruesome account of medieval conditions. Deputies from Grodno told how the Jewish and ByeloRussian workers of the city had organized their own militia before the Red Army came and had rushed out and helped build a bridge for it into the city under the fire of Polish officers. “As soon as the Red Army came,” said a carpenter from Bialystok, “we asked them to set up Soviet power for us. But they told us: ‘Soviet power is the power of the people. Organize it yourselves, for now you are the bosses of your lives’.” A simple peasant women deputy said: “Let the priests pray to God for Paradise, but for us the daylight is already come; the bright sun is come from the East.” Letters telling a similar story reached America from Jews in the occupied regions. They especially commented on their rescue from death, for they had been threatened both by German bombing and by anti-Semitic bands of Poles. “If the Red Army had been a day later, not a Jew in our town would have been left alive,” wrote a man from Grodno. Other letters marvelled at the new equality. “To the Bolsheviks everyone is equal; there is no difference between Gentile and Jew.” There was a grimmer side to the story. Poles in fairly large numbers were deported to various places in the Soviet Union. Letters received by their relatives in Europe and America showed that they were scattered all over the U.S.S.R.; the sending of the letters also indicated that they were not under surveillance but merely deported away from the border district. The Soviet authorities claimed that former Polish officers and military colonists had done considerable sabotage and kept the people disturbed by rumors of imminent invasions by Rumanian and British troops. After the conclusion of the Soviet-Polish alliance against Hitlerite Germany, these Poles rapidly joined the Polish Legion under the Red Army High Command. Most of them then stated that they fully understood the necessity of the Red Army’s march into Poland.

The Stalin Era, Anna Louise Strong, via redstarpublishers.org

The new people’s government of Lithuania had appointed as governor of Vilna an able Communist, Didzhulius, not long since out of prison. Prison had injured his health and he had gone to a rest home, but had not been able to take the time to get well. People were needed for Vilna, and so he came. When I saw him he had held office only three days. “We must end this evil process whereby first Poles suppress Lithuanians and then Lithuanians suppress Poles,” he told me. “Under Smetona only thirty thousand people here had the vote. We have given it at once to everybody. “There were one hundred thousand unemployed here. We at once began road-building and other public construction; we are setting up public relief. The old Polish pensioners had buildings and funds which Smetona did not let them touch. We have made their possessions available to them for the relief of those most in need. We have done more to relieve the misery of starving people in three days than Smetona did in six months.” One of the first decrees passed was that government officials must hear citizens’ requests in whatever language the citizens choose. For this purpose officials are sought who can speak as many languages as possible. Schools also are to be in all the local languages. “Under the Poles education was only in Polish; under Smetona it was only in Lithuanian,” said Didzhulius. “Now we shall have to have schools in our languages since there are four chief languages in this district: Polish, Jewish, Lithuanian and Byelorussian.”

The New Lithuania, Anna Louise Strong, via redstarpublishers.org

Overall, I think the picture ALS paints is a nuanced one. The USSR made a lot of progress removing racism and nationalism from its population, although it was not perfect and some decisions like the deportations were negative for the moved population (though not as genocidal or malevolent as most like to paint it), they did an outstanding job at the task of removing prejudice from their society at a time where that was not happening anywhere else, and this was reflected both in laws and in action. We have a lot to learn from their policies, both their many (even to this day) unparalleled achievements as well as from their flaws.

To these third party accounts I'll also add Stalin's own words:

In answer to your inquiry: National and racial chauvinism is a vestige of the misanthropic customs characteristic of the period of cannibalism. Anti-semitism, as an extreme form of racial chauvinism, is the most dangerous vestige of cannibalism. Anti-semitism is of advantage to the exploiters as a lightning conductor that deflects the blows aimed by the working people at capitalism. Anti-semitism is dangerous for the working people as being a false path that leads them off the right road and lands them in the jungle. Hence Communists, as consistent internationalists, cannot but be irreconcilable, sworn enemies of anti-semitism. In the U.S.S.R. anti-semitism is punishable with the utmost severity of the law as a phenomenon deeply hostile to the Soviet system. Under U.S.S.R. law active anti-semites are liable to the death penalty. J. Stalin

Anti-Semitism: Reply to an Inquiry of the Jewish News Agency in the United States . J. V. Stalin, 1931. First published in the newspaper Pravda, No. 329, November 30, 1936

[bonefall]

So, I'm writing an essay on the whole STATE of misogyny in WC for one of my university classes, and I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of things! No pressure of course, please feel free to say no!

A) Could I reference your good takes with appropriate harvard referencing and links back to your blog?

B) Are there any specific moments from the books that you think should be covered the most?

C) The end result will be a visual essay, so it's like those fun infographics people on Tumblr make on like ADHD and stuff, so when it's done, would you like to be tagged to read it?

(Sorry for anon, I'm nervous lmao, but if you'd be more comfortable I'll resend this off anon)

AAY good topic! You've got a lot to work with. Absolutely feel free to reference anything I've written, and tag me when you're done.

While you're here and about to write something so legitimate, I'm also going to recommend you check out Sunnyfall's video on gender in Warrior Cats. She breaks down the arcs into numbers, directly comparing the amount of lines mollies have to toms, and examining the archetypes women are usually allowed to be.

I think it's a must-have citation in a paper about WC misogyny.

...and, I think it's insightful to look at the WCRP Forum thread about the video. Note how the respondents immediately come into the thread to complain about how the video is too long so they didn't watch it, dismissing Sunnyfall as not being entertaining enough to hold their attention, even whining that she starts with statistics to prove her point, which I'm convinced she did exactly because they would have cried that she "had no evidence" if she didn't.

I am not a scholar, so I don't know how to document or prove that the books have an impact on the audience outside of anecdotes. But I think if you do write a section about fandom, it would be worth mentioning the in-universe and metatextual apologia for Ashfur and its reflection in the real world discourse, the authorial killing of Ferncloud because of fan complains, and the utter defensiveness against the discussion of misogyny you see outside of Tumblr.

You may also want to check out Cheek by Jowl, a collection of 8 essays about sexism in xenofiction by Ursula K. Le Guin. There's a very unique manifestation of authorial bias in animal fiction, having a lot to do with how the author views "the natural world," and it's worth understanding even though Warrior Cats are so heavily anthropomorphized.

So... Warrior Cats Misogyny

I think discussing individual instances can be helpful, but I'd implore you to keep in mind what's REALLY bad about WC's misogyny is framing and the bigger picture.

Bumble's death is shocking and insulting, but it's not just that she died. It's that the POV Gray Wing sees her as a fat, useless bitch who took his mate so she deserves to be dragged back to a domestic abuser, and he's right because the writers love him so much. It's that Bumble's torture and killing only factors into how it's going to hurt a man's reputation.

It's how Clear Sky hitting, emotionally manipulating, or killing the following women,

Bright Stream (pressured into leaving her home and family)

Storm (controlled her movements and yelled at her in public)

Misty (killed for land, children stolen)

Bumble (beaten unconscious, blamed nonsensically on a fox)

Alder (child abuse, hit when she refused to attack her brother)

Falling Feather (scratched on the face, subjected to public abuse and humiliation)

Tall Shadow (thrown into murderous crowd, attacked on-sight in heaven)

Rainswept Flower ("blacked out" in anger and murdered in cold blood)

Moth Flight (scratched on the face for saying denying medical treatment is mean, taken hostage in retaliation against mother for the death of his own child, which he caused)

Willow Tail (eyes gouged out for "stirring up trouble")

Is seen as totally understandable, forgivable, or not even questioned at all, when killing Gray Wing in an act of rage would have been "one step too far" with the ridiculous Star Line.

"Kill me and live with the memory, and then let the stars know it would only matter if a single one of your murder victims was a man."

It's the way that fathers who physically abuse their kids out of their ego (Clear Sky, Sandgorse, Crowfeather) aren't treated anywhere near the same level of narrative disgust and revulsion the series has for "bad moms", even if they're displaying symptoms of a post-partum mood disorder (depression, anxiety, and rage), an umbrella of mental illnesses 20% of all new mothers experience but are heavily stigmatized with (Sparkpelt, Palebird, Lizardstripe).

It's Crookedstar's Promise giving him two evil maternal figures in a single book, while bending over backwards to make every man in a position of power still look likeable in spite of the fact they're enabling Rainflower's abuse. Leader Hailstar is soso sorry that he has to change Stormkit's name for some reason, in spite of leaders being unaccountable dictators the other 99% of the time, and Deputy Shellheart functionally does nothing to stop his own son from being abused or even do much parenting before or after the fact.

It's the way men's parental struggles are seen sympathetically, and they don't have to "pay for it" like their female counterparts (Crookedstar's PPD vs Sparkpelt's PPD, how Daisy and Cinders are held responsible for Smoky and Whisper being deadbeats, Yellowfang's endless guilt for killing her son vs Onestar's purpose in life to kill his own), even to the point where a father doesn't have to have raised their kids at all to have a magical innate emotional connection to them (Tree's father Root, Tom the Wifebeater, Tigerstar and Hawkfrost).

It's less speaking lines and agency for female characters, being reduced to accessories in the lives of their mates and babies, women getting less diversity in their personalities, with even major ex-POV characters eventually becoming "sweet mom" tropes.

You could zoom in on any one of these examples and have an amoeba try to argue with you that "Oh THIS makes sense because X" or "Ah well my headcanon perfectly explains this thing" or "MY mother/girlfriend was abusive/toxic/neglectful and I've decided that you are personally attacking ME by having issues with how a character was written or utilized," but the beleaguered point,

That I keep trying to hammer in, over and over, across books worth of posts,

Is that these are trends. More than just a couple one-off examples. It's the fabric that has been woven over years, showing a lack of interest in, or even active prejudice of, women on behalf of the writers.

LONG STANDING trends, which have only gotten worse as the series progressed. From Yellowfang being harshly punished with a born evil son who ruins her life in TPB and the mistreatment of Squirrelpaw that begins in TNP, all the way up to the 7 Fridgenings of DOTC and Sparkpelt's PPD being a major character motivator for her son Nightheart.

So, I would stress that in your paper, and structure it less as "the Sparkpelt slide" and "the Yellowfang slide," and more as "The paternal vs maternal abuse" slide, and "the violence against women" slide. They're really big issues, there's tons of examples for each individual thing.

Anyway to leave off on a funny, look at this scene in Darkest Hour that I find unreasonably hilarious,

"Everyone who matters to me; my truest friend, my sensible and loyal warrior, the wisest deputy I've ever known, and 2 women." -Firestar, glorious idiot

He can't even think of a single trait for either of them what the hell does "formidable pair" mean lmaooo, when I finished a reread about a year ago this line killed me on impact.

[toubledrouble]

More pjo/hoo headcanons

Apollo kids exclusively work out with musics as a cabin, but they always argue about the playlist that should be chosen. Will uses councillor privilege to force them to pick country.

The Athena cabin has a projector for sure

Also, they have youtube premium because of lofi music

Apollo kids have been banned from using guns in training with others (they recreated the ten duel commandments from Hamilton and actually ended up shooting without missing the target. Now, they can only shoot on regular targets, not living ones)

Hephaestus and Athena kids are a living proof of the "an architect's dream is an engineer's nightmare" thing

There is definitely an Athena kid out there that hates math with a burning passion. Their mom isn't very happy about that.

Despite their rivalry, many Apollo kids have Ares cabin bffs - after all, they spend lots of time in the infirmary

Ares kids usually have a great relationship with their father - he is surprisingly encouraging and supportive

Will can definitely ride a horse and you can't convince me otherwise

Also. His mom has a yellow pickup truck with tons of stickers and a guitar on the backseat

Sally refused to use the subway ever since Percy was born (you know how the underground always smells like monsters and that's why Grover didn't notice the chimera? That was exactly why)

Percy used to cry in the seafood section of stores, especially if it had anything living there

Athena kids can achieve Eminem speed during debate, I will not elaborate any further

Oh also. They're not straight As kids, or at least not all of them, especially the older ones. I mean, the school system vs learning disorders? There's no way they're winning that fight entirely. They probably have the subjects they like and ace, and then the subject that are just there, and since they're not failing, they don't really care (yes this is about me getting a C from physics again, I hate physics)

Annabeth loves the "further is for physical distance, farther for metaphorical and father for emotional" tumblr post

Hera's cabin has a family portrait of the olympians, it's quite a bittersweet sight

Let Demeter kids have a scythe as their weapon of choice pls

Athena kids make so many lame nerd puns. Occasionally, a Hephaestus kid or a secret nerd will laugh.

Athena kids are definitely the type to fight the teacher about their grade. They will gather evidence that their answer is technically correct and either impress or annoy the teacher so much they will actually change their grade

All Athena kids have a resting bitch face (just like Hermes kids have a face that says they're troublemakers)

Hermes kids are naturally skilled at orientation on a map and in terrain

Hephaestus and Hermes cabin have once held a lock-picking competition (based on speed but also the amount of damage caused)

Every single person in the Athena cabin has seen both Dead Poets Society and School of Rock (and loved it)

For an absolutely nonexistent reason I think the Aphrodite cabin has some pro tip for washing blood out of clothes and stuff

Very stereotypical of me but in the Ares cabin, the strongest is the leader and their word is law, if you disagree, you gotta participate in a one on one fight of choice (it doesn't matter that much if you win, at least you still prove your bravery and the courage to stand up for what you believe in). Meanwhile, the Athena cabin votes on everything. And yes, they are proud of it. And yes, they have senate level debates where everyone uses whatever dirt they have on the others to win (because they probably know too much gossip without even really intending to) sometimes. Only sometimes.

Also. They have ostrakism which is basically a thing where you break a pot/vase/something, each person gets a piece and carves on the name of someone who is endangering democracy in their option. The person with the most votes gets chased out I think. Athena kids have changed up that part, they simply ban that person from voting for 6 months.

Athena kids with learning disorders. That's all I want to say.

Mentioning my previous 'Athena cabin has a Pallas cat' headcanon

Also Athena kids are the people who will point out historical stuff behind the names of places or companies (example: my country has a shopping centre called palladium, i instill the lore of the original palladium on anyone unfortunate enough to be there with me)

Apollo kids personalise their instruments - stickers, paint, carved initials, cool straps and other accessories, you name it!

They also have a whole row of those instrument hangers, yk what i mean?

[ziinesso]

Numerous are the expressions of his love: his habit of bringing you breakfast in bed every sunday; his whispers to compliment those jeans of you, his favorite jeans; the way he hold you close in a crowded place, tightly, an arm around your waist... The list is long. And yet, though it isn’t numbered, you always have to start with the same thing.

The first time it happened was during a small gathering, the day he introduced you to his friends. The evening was coming to an end, and you were all comfortably seated on the couch. You found yourself facing him, at the other end of the coffee table, at the perfect angle for him to keep an eye on you and your facial expressions. Indeed, meeting multiple people at once could be stressful. You were smiling. He was relieved. Your laughter was natural, you actively participated in the conversation. He watched you thrive in his world, and he was happy.

This didn't escape the notice of his friends.

"C/N? Is that it? We lost you? Can’t be focus when your girlfriend is around? Don’t worry, I mean, Y/N is not going to disappear. You can look away for a second."

Just like that, C/N became the guy who is obsessed with his girlfriend. C/N, the sentimental one, the one who stares at his girlfriend. C/N, the deeply in love one, the one who can't take his eyes off his girlfriend. C/N, the subject of teasing. Teasing that strangely warm your heart. After all, wasn't it the best proof of his love? Seeing him blush without realizing it? Stuttering that no, he wasn't staring at you, he, he, he was just looking at you, you are his girlfriend, he had every right? There was no better evidence. Seeing him helpless in the face of their teasing, helpless in the face of his undeniable love for you.

- iwaizumi, tsukishima (hq) ; chifuyu, rindou (tr) ; ace (op) ; nanami (jjk)

[galadrieljones]

i actually wonder why you ship daryl and beth? i see them as friends and yeah i watched their scenes over and over and i didn’t see any love between them. And i see beth younger than him and i see daryl see her as a friend and sister So what is your reasons to ship them anyway!?

I'm going to assume this question is in good faith and that you are genuinely interested in why I (and many others) ship bethyl, so I'll answer in good (albeit cautious) faith. I'm also going to tag some of my friends and mutuals at the end who I would like to encourage to share why they, personally, ship bethyl.

First, know that I don't care if people don't ship bethyl. I also am not beholden to shipping "canon" ships. I don't care about any of that, and I think it's boring to restrict one's interest in shipping to what is canon or what the fandom accepts. You're free not to ship bethyl, and I won't be mad. That's your choice!!

BUT, since you're here of your own volition, realize that I personally don't buy the bethyl bond as "sibling-coded" argument at all lol. I can understand if someone just doesn't want them to be together, because they want Daryl to be with another character or something. That's fine and perfectly rational. I can also understand if someone does not like age difference ships, and they reject it on those grounds alone. Okay! That's your preference. BUT, Beth was 18 by the events of "Still." And the argument that they share a "sibling-coded" bond has never held water for me. Believe me when I say that I can see the argument for C*ryl before I can see the argument for Daryl and Beth being "sibling-coded," and that's saying a LOT. I've literally never had anyone successfully explain this perception to me using actual evidence from the show or from the actors/showrunners outside the show. It is ALWAYS subjective. And when confronted with evidence of a bethyl romance, these same people tend to just invoke their *age difference* as if that, in and of itself, is a dealbreaker.

IMPORTANT: It's NOT a dealbreaker, but some people in fandom these days mistake personal preference for moral paradigm, and these people tend to be very judgmental and to screech a lot and to spread rumors and to bully others. The same exact thing is happening to Neggie. But I'm not going to get into that right now.

Now, you say you don't see how they could possibly be "romantic." Of course, that's totally fine, but you will need to try and explain this to thousands of people lol. I am actually not super interested in going through, in detail, why I ship bethyl from a defensive position. I'm very sick of defending something that is, frankly, entirely unproblematic and also...popular! Other than Rickyl (which is a non-canon slash ship), Bethyl, even ten years after her exit from the flagship, is still the most popular TWD ship on AO3. It was popular at the time that the show aired. Jeffrey Dean Morgan's wife ships bethyl lol. Bethyl is not "weird." It's not even a rare pair!

AND YET, to put so briefly, if you *actually* care: I PERSONALLY love bethyl because I believe their characters exist in beautiful harmony. Beth is an artist. Her priority is beauty and continuously discovering what it means to live. She believes in the goodness of people. She is a religious character who has faith in God's love. She is, as Norman put it a long time ago, like a little light at the end of the tunnel for Daryl. She reminds Daryl of what it means to live, what it means to trust people and to have faith. She protects him from his own demons and reconnects him to the beauty that remains in a dying, horrific world. Daryl tends to forget about his own well-being and his own happiness. He prioritizes brute survival, because he was taught to do this over many years of emotional and physical abuse as a child. He is "used to things being ugly" and he frequently blames himself for things that go wrong. He closes himself off to others because he has a difficult time trusting that they won't abandon him or die. At the moonshine shack, Beth confronts him on this, and he confronts her right back. Beth isn't used to being challenged by men. But he challenges her to be better and to face her own insecurities as well. He makes her stronger. She pries open his heart. At the moonshine shack, she physically grabs him to remind him that he is still alive, and that everyone they've lost was once alive, too, and that just because they might be dead now, that's not his fault. The two of them still alive, while others are dead, that's not his fault, and there is still goodness in the world and things worth living for.

Speaking of physical touch, you really should rewatch "Alone" if you want to understand the physical and romantic chemistry between Beth and Daryl. There is literally so much that I could go through, but I don't have time lol.

The moment I fell in love with bethyl was actually in "30 Days Without an Accident," when Beth embraces Daryl in such a way that reassures him that he is not alone in a desperately lonely situation. Both characters are battling demons in this scene. But it's somewhat subtextual. If you don't watch closely, you may miss it.

That said, as has been established, a LOT of people did NOT miss it lol. It's just that a lot of people also want Daryl to be with someone else, or they feel the need to moralize on the internet. Neither one of those things is relevant to me, though I accept them as realities.

Anyway, I hope this helps! ->

@sasusc @frangipanilove @twdmusicboxmystery @pipergirl17 @sweetz1919

@emsee22 @drewmoll03 @bookqueenrules @bethiscomingsoon

@angelthefirst1 @bethgreeneprevails @im-immortal @rose-andthe-thorn @wdway @boltthrutheheart

and anyone else, I know I've forgotten some people 😩. I just went off the top of my head, so please chime in on why you love bethyl, or feel free to completely ignore this ❤️

[ac3ifix]

hi idont really know what fandom you write for, but can you please do a male reader fic where the reader is chubby and can it be smut if not just some cute fluff thank yoou and also any character of your choice

Hi hi!!

Thank you for requesting, ily for this. You said ‘male reader’ so I assume you mean C!male reader and I'll be more than happy to oblige.

Now featuring: Kyoya Ootori

CW: Comfort smut, Oral (reader receiving, (I think)), Chubby reader, aged up characters, insecurities, mischaracterization of Kyoya

WC: Like 600-ish cuz i can't for the life of me write 1000 words :3

—------------------------------------------------—

You couldn't help but stare at yourself. You hated how your body was proportioned, it was just too off for your liking. You hated how big your thighs were, you hated how your stomach always hung over a bit, and most of all, you hated your stupid chubby cheeks. They made you look like a child and it bothered you so much.

You hear the door open but you don’t pay it much mind, until the bedroom door opens and you yelp in surprise.

“Calm down love, it’s just me,” Kyoya laughs, stepping into the bedroom. He pauses in the doorway, a frown on his face. “What's wrong, my love?” He asks, seeing the tear stains on your face.

“Nothing,” You mumble in response, wiping your face with your shirt.

Kyoya walks over to you, wrapping his arms around your waist. “I asked you a question, I want an answer, baby.” He whispers in a smooth tone.

“Just.. Feeling a bit off today,” You say in a pained voice, your voice breaking as you speak.

“Off how, baby?” He asks in a sweet voice, hugging you tighter than he was before.

“I just feel off,” You mutter in response, just wanting to change the subject at this point.

“I think I might know something that could help you,” He whispers into your ear, a smirk evident in his voice. Gently, he picks you up bridal style and carries you over to the bed behind you two. He sets you down and gently spreads your legs, positioning himself between them. He reaches up and digs his fingers under your shorts waistband, looking up at you for consent. You nod at him, allowing him to remove your shorts. Once your shorts are off he gently teases your hard-on through your boxers.

“Mmff- Kyo!!” You whine, reaching down to pull down your boxers.

“Shhh,” He whispers, “Just let me handle it, baby boy.” He carefully pushes your hand away and burrows his fingers under the waistband of your boxers, swiftly pulling them down to your ankles. Your cock springs up from the fabric and he gently takes it into his left hand. He deliberately strokes your cock with slow and teasing motions as he leans down and nips and kisses at your inner thighs.

“You’re so pretty,” He hums, pinching at the skin of your stomach.

“Kyo–” You whine. “Feels good.” You drawl.

“Yea? You like that baby? Doya want more?” He asks teasingly. You nod in response. “Alright then,” He says, slowly kissing up your thighs and making his way to your cock. Slowly, he takes the head of your cock into his mouth.

“MhmF- F-fuck-” You let out a strangled cry.

“Are you sensitive, my love?” He chuckles, the sound waves vibrating your cock. You let out a loud mewl from the pleasure.

His movements become more intentional as he sucks you off, slowly dragging his tongue up and down your shaft as you moan and whine helplessly. “Are you close, baby?” He Tuts. “Such a sensitive boy.”

“Yes! M’ so close, please let me come, Kyo-” You plea, your begs intertwined with moans.

“Very well, my love,” He says, sucking you off harder than before, clearly trying to make you reach your height. You buck your hips into his mouth desperately as you release. Come begins to drip from his lips as he pulls your soft cock from his mouth.

“Such a pretty boy, all for me,” He praises, climbing onto the bed to lay next to you as he whispers praise and sweet words into your ear.

[transmutationisms]

this hasn't happened to me in a long while, but when I was a kid getting weighed I remember a doctor pulling out a separate BMI chart for Asians with lower cutoffs. this was around a decade ago. no doctors have done this since. is that like, normal? or in any way meaningful?

'normal', unfortunately yes---I don't know that I've heard of doctors actually making up charts for this but it is a commonly held belief among physicians and epidemiologists that BMI cutoffs should be lower for Asians than for whites, because Asians supposedly have higher rates of weight-correlated adverse health outcomes (diabetes, CVD, &c) at the same BMIs.

meaningful is a different matter. there are two major and really damning issues with this belief:

firstly, the (handful of) studies documenting this disparity have all the same issues as any other medical literature on weight and health. we don't actually have good evidence to say that weight causes these health outcomes; it's difficult to disentangle environmental factors, or the fact that disease can often cause the weight gain itself, as in the case of diabetes or 'metabolic syndrome'. weight stigma, not interchangeable with weight itself, has a massive and documented negative effect on health outcomes. also, as far as I can tell, most if not all of the studies on this particular question seem to have been done using Asian-American subjects specifically, so that opens a whole host of further statistical ambiguities: you're talking about immigrant populations in the US. physicians love to interpret shit like this as evidence of biological racial differences instead of probing questions like: does this suggest that Asian immigrants to the US are subjected to forms of marginalisation that cause particular health effects? and the usual critiques of weight science include the problem that long-term deliberate weight loss is not achievable for th vast majority of people save through the development of behaviours that would otherwise be identified as eating-disordered, so BMI chart cutoffs are of pretty limited value for individual health guidance even if we were confident in their causal relationships.

secondly, and arguably even more fundamentally, any data that purport to differentiate people on the basis of race are data that are using an invented social category, not a 'natural' or biological one. there are absolutely health outcomes and conditions that affect different populations at different rates or with varying effects. but 'Asian' is not a coherent category genetically, epigenetically, historically, physiologically, or anything else. it's no more a 'real' biological grouping of people than 'white' or any other racial category. these are social designations, they're not biological facts. medicine that purports to display sensitivity to marginalised groups by reifying the biological ideology that defines them is reactionary at its core, and is not even solving the problems people think it is. when we lean on the idea of racial health disparities, we're basically relying on a crude average of a whole bunch of different people and groups who have been socially slotted into one 'race' category. this doesn't help people; on the contrary, it often obscures the actual rates of particular health issues in different populations: for example, the gene responsible for sickle cell anemia is common in families from many parts of the world, and sickle cell anemia is not a 'race-based disease' but an inherited genetic disorder. the allure of 'innate racial differences' as an etiological explanation is still pervasive and pernicious in medicine as elsewhere. Rana Hogarth talks about this in the epilogue to Medicalising Blackness, and I've also heard Iris Clever discuss it in conferences, although to my knowledge her published work focusses more on the epistemological architecture of genetic and anthropological databases. anyway my point is that, even if we solved all the issues raised in part 1 above and were confident that we had indeed pinpointed BMI cutoffs causally linked to adverse health effects, it still would be harmful and not helpful to set these cutoffs on the basis of 'race', which is a social system of categorisation and marginalisation and has no biological basis or 'natural' justification.