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forlix · 1 year ago

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𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠・h.h.

— you're uninviting, there's no doubt about that, your resolve like unpolished diamond and tongue like broken glass. but hyunjin finds you're not half as impossible as everyone assumes you are.

words・11.1k

pairing・idol!hyunjin x female stylist!reader (inspired by this)

genres・fluff, angst, eventual smut so MDNI, some hurt/comfort, some humor, mc is a bad bitch and hyunjin is a #simp, enemies? to lovers, sexual tension, workplace relationship, mutual pining, slow burn, nonlinear narrative

warnings・reader vividly remembers an anxiety attack, alcohol is consumed, lots of compartmentalization and imperfect communication, complex people feeling complex emotions, smut warnings under the cut

playlist・farewell, neverland by txt・like crazy by jimin・black friday by tom odell・collide by justine skye・crying lightning by arctic monkeys

a/n・call me victor frankenstein bc i've given birth to a MONSTER (except i actually love and care for mine ofc). this was easily the greatest challenge of my fanfiction-writing career and it feels like my magnum opus; i hope it's worth the wait! also a huge shoutout to sahar for being my voice of reason and my biggest supporter :’) i don’t deserve u i love u

smut warnings・cunnilingus, overstimulation, creampie (practice safe sex!!), mild dacryphilia

Present day. Cannes, France. 5:54 P.M.

You’ve long made peace with the fact that Hwang Hyunjin is incapable of shutting up for more than five minutes.

As it is, the man has a mouth that runs like a cross-country marathon; then throw in his uncanny aptitude for annoying you, and what do you get? A nonstop slew of terrible jokes and teasing quips, tailored according to his thorough mental manual of what gets under your skin hardest and fastest.

This is the reality you live in, presumably because you were evil in your past life, and you’ve steeled yourself to see it through.

But twenty minutes have passed since you and Hyunjin ducked into the back of a cab and gave the driver the show’s address—and, as stunning as the red rooftops and lazuline coastline of Cannes are, you find you’re more interested in Hyunjin’s peculiar silence.

You move your gaze to his face. He’s looking outside, his chin resting upon the palm of his hand, the afternoon sunlight dusting over his chiseled features like polish on pottery; his complexion an exuberant gold against the cream-colored linen that makes up his clothing.

Maybe it’s because you opted for a simpler makeup look today, leaving the most telling contours of his face warm and bare, or maybe it’s because you’ve spent the last year committing his every mannerism and expression to memory. Nevertheless, you see through his pursed lips and tight brow right away.

“Nervous?”

Hyunjin’s head swivels towards you with a small snap, like he’s forgotten you’re here. His lips fall open, their glossy peach color glinting with the small shift.

“No,” he replies reflexively, but then his facade flickers. “Fuck, maybe a little. It’s just hard to believe, you know?”

You do know. It was a huge honor for both of you when Hyunjin was named the newest global ambassador of Versace. For you to be attending the brand’s pop-up show in one of the most beautiful cities in Europe, among some of the world’s most prolific creatives, is truly incomprehensible. Even you’ve been feeling antsy since you landed; you can only imagine Hyunjin’s anxiety.

You have never been good at consolation. You think your mouth is too coarse, your propensity for honesty too strong. But you’ve always known just what to say when it comes to him.

“Just remember who you are.”

Hyunjin takes a few seconds to process your words, but his understanding washes over his whole body; straightens his back; hardens his gaze. You don’t see this change in posture, though. You’re too busy looking anywhere else, all of a sudden feeling quite embarrassed.

Nor do you see the private smile that disperses across Hyunjin’s lips; his eyes softening so, so marginally when they peer at your profile; his hand twitching where it rests on his knee, as if contemplating reaching for you with a mind of its own.

Thirty seconds. That is the amount of time you have left to bask in this otherworldly tranquility. And then he speaks.

“I want you to meet my parents.”

Your arm reacts before your mind can. Without having to turn your head an inch, you smack him squarely in the bicep, sending him crumpling against his door with a bark of a laugh; “please,” he adds, and you’re biting back a smile as you hit him again, with less conviction this time.

The cab driver nearly misses an exit, too busy wondering about the peculiar pair in his backseat and the nature of your relationship. He can’t tell if you hate each other or if you’re married.

One year ago. Seoul, South Korea. 8:42 A.M.

“I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me.”

“For my newborn daughter.”

“Yeah, okay. I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me for your newborn daughter. What does that brat have that I don’t?”

“My genes, to begin with.”

“That’s unfair. She’s using—”

An important-looking pair of women step out of the nearest elevators, the clacking of their heels ricocheting sharply off the lobby walls. Hyunjin straightens his back so quickly he thinks he pulls a muscle. He and Seojun incline their heads in perfect sync, their “good morning”s prim and professional.

“She’s using cheats,” Hyunjin hisses the second the women are out of earshot again, and this wrests a laugh from the older man at last.

Around one month prior, Seojun confided in Hyunjin that he and his partner were expecting their first child soon, and that he would be putting his career on indefinite hiatus to welcome her into the world.

Hyunjin had never felt so conflicted in his life. On one hand, he’d grown closer to his stylist over the last two years than he’d thought possible, and he knew it was stupid to be anything but delighted for him and his expanding family. On the other hand, it was precisely because they’d become so close that he wanted to grab the man by the ankles and shake the decision clean out of his body. He couldn’t imagine a dressing room or tour bus without him.

Today is a Saturday, but it’s also Seojun’s last day with the company. Hyunjin dragged himself to the JYP building at half past eight with much less reluctance than he let on. He wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

“Fourth floor,” Seojun instructs after the pair enter the elevator, and Hyunjin presses a knuckle to the according number. “Thanks.”

The doors slide shut; the floor numbers tick upwards.

“What was her name again?” Hyunjin asks.

“Y/N,” Seojun returns. “Y/L/N.”

“Is she here already?”

“No, she’ll be here at nine.”

There’s a small pause.

“Hyung.”

“Hm?”

“I feel like I’m being married off to another family for political reasons.”

“God, I can’t wait to be free of your theatrics.”

At this, the two men make eye contact; exchange smiles. The elevator announces their arrival to the fourth floor, and they step through the doors.

“You’ll be in good hands,” Seojun reassures. “She’s the best of the best. I hear she’s basically running the industry these days. I’m surprised she agreed to take you on.”

“I’m surprised an old fry like you knows someone like her,” Hyunjin replies, and the look Seojun gives him is so withering that he thinks he pulls a muscle again with his apologetic bow.

“You’re not wrong, though,” Seojun concedes. “We happened to work on the same project back when she was still a small name, and we’ve kept in touch ever since. She’s a great kid. Ambitious, hardworking, strong as hell—”

They arrive outside their destination, and Hyunjin holds open the door to the conference room. Only to find that Seojun has stopped in his footsteps, temporarily stunned by a new realization.

She reminds me of him.

“He’s forgotten how to walk,” the him in question whispers like he’s narrating a nature documentary, and the moment is over. “Is this what fatherhood does to a man?”

Seojun kicks Hyunjin into the room by the seat of his pants.

The minutes pass slowly. Seojun moves his eyes between the door and his phone every few seconds, visibly antsy about the imminent meeting. In the meantime, Hyunjin makes the groundbreaking discovery that these office chairs are absurdly and almost suspiciously comfortable. All it takes is a chin upon his palm and a few seconds of shut-eye, and he’s suddenly slumped over the table, snoring softly into the crook of his elbow.

At 8:57, Seojun’s phone lights up with a new notification. At 8:58, he notices that Hyunjin is asleep, and closes his hand around the crumpled receipt in his pocket. At 8:59, he scrunches said receipt into a ball and launches it in Hyunjin’s direction. It hits him squarely on the head, and the boy is nearly knocked to the floor like a bowling pin.

“For that,” Hyunjin sputters, “I’m the godfather.”

“Absolutely the hell not.”

Then, it is 9:00.

When the door of the conference room opens, Hyunjin is still trying to gather his wits, wondering if the bastard is leaving the makeup industry to secretly pursue a career in professional basketball. He just barely notices the unfamiliar figure who steps into his line of vision.

“There she is,” Seojun greets warmly, rising to his feet right away. “God, how long has it been? Two, three years now?”

You’re not doing anything remarkable when Hyunjin sees you for the first time, simply walking across the room and bowing graciously in Seojun’s direction, but he is immediately under the vague impression that you’re cutting through space as you move, scorching the particles of air that dare obstruct your path.

With his head cocked slightly to the left, like a fascinated puppy, Hyunjin watches the stunning smile that forms on your lips when you take Seojun’s hand; your finger as it tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear with the elegance of rippling silk. His mind feels impossibly slow, like you’ve tapped open his skull and robbed him of his ability to think.

Then, you toss Hyunjin a look over your shoulder, and he’s reminded of lightning forking towards the earth. Terrifying, volatile, beautiful.

“Something like that,” you say, turning back to Seojun, and time starts to move again. “It’s great to see you again, Mr. Lee. Congratulations on the baby.”

“Please, Seojun is fine,” he answers hastily. “And thank you. Thank you for all of this, actually. I can’t tell you how excited we are to have you.”

“You’re too kind—I’m excited too.”

Upon uttering the word “we,” Seojun delivers Hyunjin a fleeting side-eye; he takes the hint and pushes himself to his feet, feeling uncharacteristically clumsy as he moves towards you.

The second time he meets your gaze, it feels wrong, almost, for him to hold it for as long as he does. Like he’s approaching your throne with his chin held high and eyes fixed forward instead of his head sweeping the ground.

Except he swears he senses a strange warmth within the rings of your irises, and he spends every second of eye contact following, chasing it, almost craning his neck with how badly he wants to get a closer look. Until he’s as close to you as is socially acceptable for a first meeting and comes to a halt.

He ends up losing its trail, but he won’t forget that it’s there.

“My client, I’m guessing?” You say, extending your hand. “Y/N. It’s a pleasure.”

Your fingers are freezing cold where they meet his, and Hyunjin already knows that melting the permafrost that coats your flesh and guards your soul will be the tallest task of his life.

But he finds his next words accompanied by an involuntary smirk; he’s nothing, if not tenacious.

“Hyunjin,” he returns. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

Nine months ago. Paris, France. 6:16 P.M.

Hyunjin isn’t sure why—maybe you forget that he can still steal glances at your reflection over your shoulder or through the gaps of your fingers—but he’s learned over the last four weeks that you’re different, gentler, when you’re doing his makeup.

Your cold hands request instead of demand that he angle his head a certain way or suck in his cheeks. Your syllables are rounder somehow, your voice never traveling above a murmur. Even your eyes mellow out when you move in really close, your pupils dilating as you detail the final touches to the fresco you’ve painted upon him.

Your expression doesn’t give you away (it never does), but his hunch is that there’s a sprinkle of doting somewhere among the intense focus. That would explain why he feels like a flower in the moments when your fingertips and gaze move so carefully over his skin, like you’re touching his petals, trying not to tear them.

Too bad you never let him daydream for long.

“Close.”

“Huh?”

“Your eyes. Close them.”

His lashes have hardly brushed his lower lids when you begin to empty what feels like an entire bottle of setting spray on him. At the moist surprise, Hyunjin’s features scrunch up around his nose and he lets out a distraught hack like an old man.

A few seconds later, the barrage stops, and he cracks open a wary eye to scope out his surroundings. You wait until he does this to give his face one last spurt.

“Witch,” Hyunjin mutters, clawing back up the vanity chair.

“Thank you,” you reply, completely earnestly.

And whatever Hyunjin was going to say next suspends instantly on his tongue when you bring the pad of your thumb to the very edge of his lower lip and drag it across the soft flesh. He wonders if you know how hard he tries not to look at your mouth whenever you tend to his. He wonders if there’s anything you don’t know.

“You smudged your lipstick already.” There’s a small streak of coral pink on your hand when it falls back to your side. “See? That’s why we need the setting spray.”

“Uh huh.” And Hyunjin spots a ghost of a smile flit across your face, gone nearly as soon as it appears. The only evidence of it ever existing is the quickened heartbeat it leaves behind within him.

“You’re done, by the way,” you say, stepping aside. “Take a look.”

He slips out of his seat and moves closer to the vanity, peering at his reflection as curiously as if he’s never seen it before. But that’s how he’s felt since he started working with you.

Seojun was right: you are the best that the makeup industry has to offer. Hyunjin has come to understand this for multiple reasons. Your phone screen is incessantly illuminated by new notifications and incoming calls. The other stylists heed your advice like it’s the law. Brushes and pencils move like water when it’s you maneuvering them. And then some.

He would call what you have “talent,” but he knows it’s more than that. You show him a new version of himself every time you turn a mirror in his direction, like there are facets of him that are visible to you and you only. As much as he delights in the notion that you have such intimate knowledge of him, it should be impossible, considering you’ve only known him for two months. So no, it’s not just talent that you possess. It’s some combination of talent, hawkish perception, and raw artistry that is utterly inhuman—and sexy as fuck.

Speaking of sexy. Hyunjin’s look is relatively rudimentary tonight, the makeup light, the outfit a simple black tank top beneath a jacket and pants made of bright red velvet. But it’s the details that tie the whole thing together: the wide, loose sleeves causing the jacket to slip continually off his shoulders; the inner layer tight in all the right places. His face doesn’t look half bad either, with the sultry carmine powder that fringes his eyes and the intentionally mussed state of his hair. He pushes a hand through the dark locks, regarding himself with thorough appreciation.

You appear in his periphery as you start cleaning up your work station. “You can just take the jacket off when your sweat glands start malfunctioning, by the way. I thought you’d appreciate that detail.”

At this, his smize cracks into a laugh, the sound loud and uninhibited and uniquely yours to hear. “You suck.”

He looks away from his reflection just in time to glimpse another of your phantom smiles, and he thinks it’s so painfully on brand that the two times it’s appeared tonight have both been from you making yourself laugh. You might be the most insufferable person he’s ever met. He might be obsessed with you anyways.

“Well?” You implore. “What do you think?”

“No notes.”

It’s the answer you’re expecting. You survey him from head to toe one last time, decide that you, too, are satisfied, and slip your makeup into your bag; hike its strap over your shoulder.

“I’ll see you after the show, then.”

You have an important conference call to attend before tonight’s concert, hence why Hyunjin had to come in early for hair and makeup. This is also the reason why the two of you have been the only people in the dressing room for the better part of an hour.

It’s rare that he ever gets you alone, and he doesn’t want it to end. Not just yet.

“I lied, actually,” he calls. “I do have notes.”

You already have one foot out the door when you hear this, and you turn around so slowly and in such disbelief that he has to fight to constrain his laugh—the concept of imperfection is truly unthinkable to you. Insufferable, like he said.

“Do tell,” you say, dropping your bag back onto the floor.

“You have any jewelry for me?”

You chew on this for a moment. You did have a selection of necklaces prepared for tonight, but they were heavy and numerous, not exactly the best-suited for the group’s dynamic sets. You still like them, granted, and you know Hyunjin would as well.

You articulate all of this to him, and he asks if he can take a look at them anyways. “Come here, then,” you say, the words so tantalizing when they fall from your lips that nearly trips over himself trying to obey.

You take out a flat rectangular box from your bag and set it down in front of the lightbulb-studded mirrors. Hyunjin observes quietly as you show him its contents: three thick, gold chains with varying lengths and boasting different pendants, plus a beaded bracelet and an assembly of rings of the same material. His devious plan aside, he does love the selection.

“You’re sure you won’t be uncomfortable?”

He nods, and you pick up the longest of the three chains; turn to him expectedly. He takes this as his cue to move closer to you, except he overshoots a little, and he feels the tips of his shoes accidentally bump into the ends of yours; discerns the warmth emanating from your body against his own. He expects a withering glare, a kick in the shin, maybe, but you don’t seem bothered by the proximity at all, unblinking as you bring your hands around the either side of his neck and fasten the first necklace with a soft tap. Your fingers then brush over his collarbones to adjust the pendant, and he thinks your hands would have to be numb not to perceive the frantic heartbeat threatening to burst straight out of his skin.

Entire minutes pass before Hyunjin musters the courage to actually look at you. By then, you’re already working on the third and final necklace. It’s not a surprise that your face is mere inches away from his; he’s been watching your reflections out of the corner of his eye; he knows you’re closer to each other than you’ve ever been. But there are parts of you that the mirror doesn’t show—the soft curve of your lashes, the concentrated narrow of your eyes, the shapely protrusion of your pursed lips—and these surprise him so thoroughly that he slips and slides out of his right mind.

You are the type of beautiful that’s been around longer than humans have, the same as that of the true blue color of forget-me-nots. And Hyunjin feels enveloped, intoxicated by you from this minuscule distance. The idea forms numbly in his head that maybe, just maybe, he was put on this earth to admire you.

In this inebriated state, he makes a venturesome decision.

When you finish centering the last pendant upon the his chest, you are about to take a step back and review the updated look, but you’re debilitated by the feeling of fingers grazing over your hip—lightly, so lightly that you mistake them for a gust of wind at first, but the contact is enough to push the small of your back against the edge of the counter. Then, both of Hyunjin’s hands reach behind you, pressing flat against the marble surface, and, just like that, he has you right where he wants you, ensnared between cold stone and hot flesh.

And so begins an equilibrium so fragile that it’ll shatter if one of you so much as blinks the wrong way, your rattled breath fluttering against his lips, his eyes dark and hooded and out of focus as they survey the fine lines of your expression. It still doesn’t give you away (it never does), but he finds that in this moment he just doesn’t care.

“Let me take you out,” he murmurs. “One date.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” You reply under your breath.

“You know what I’m talking about, beautiful.”

Upon uttering that last word, he angles his head almost imperceptibly, the movement challenging, daring you to say something about it. But you don’t. You merely hiss out a whetted “you’re fucking crazy,” and that’s his opening to drag this on a little longer; push your limits a little more.

“About you? Damn straight.”

At this, finally, fucking finally, there is a semblance of something in your face that isn’t just your usual mildly-irritated nonchalance. Instead, he detects surprise in the whites of your eyes as you widen them; as you part your lips with a response that only comes much later.

And he’s surprised by your surprise. Surely, with your skills of observation, you would’ve noticed long ago how his world shrinks down to only you and your gorgeous voice and your confident glare and your shitty sense of humor whenever he’s been granted the privilege of your presence.

This might be the first time he’s admitted it out loud, but he hasn’t tried—hasn’t been able—to hide how he feels about you, not now, not ever. It’s been that way since the moment the sole of your shoe met the carpet of that conference room on the fourth floor of the JYP building.

“Hwang—” You begin.

“Hyung!”

At the sound of a third, new voice, your arms tense like you’re about to shove Hyunjin off of you, but he only leans in further, so that his lips almost graze your jaw and your hands have nowhere to go except the taut surface of his chest. The surprise is gone; now you’re just pissed. He can feel the heat of your furious eyes and the tremor in your hands as you form fists around the fabric of his top. But he takes his sweet time in scooping up the bracelet and rings, and only afterwards does he pull away from you and straighten to his full height.

“Hey, Innie!” Hyunjin chirps, and Jeongin materializes in the doorway, looking thoroughly perturbed by the older boy’s sunny tone. “What’s up?”

In the meantime, you turn around to snap the lid of your jewelry box shut, and it takes a singular glance in the mirror for a truly horrible realization to settle upon your shoulders. You don’t think anybody would be able to tell even if you announced it outright, but you know yourself and the little nuances of your face all too well.

You’re flustered.

You feel like a horror movie heroine breaking the fourth wall.

“Nothing, weirdo. I was just announcing my arrival,” Jeongin says. Thank fuck you did, Hyunjin thinks to himself, completely unaware of the epiphany you’re having behind him. “Chan-hyung mentioned you were here already? Why?”

“She’s in high demand.” Hyunjin points out the she in question by jutting his chin in your direction. “The usual.”

“Ah.”

Jeongin inclines his head towards you in polite greeting. You return his hello, but your expression starts to feel tight when his eyes dart between the strange smile on Hyunjin’s face and your awkward stance (still glued to the edge of the counter) as he drops his duffel by the couch. The boy isn’t stupid, unlike his older counterpart.

“I saw a vending machine on my way here,” Jeongin says, turning to leave the room again. “You want anything, hyung? Noona?”

“I’m okay, thank you,” you say.

“I’ll have whatever you have,” Hyunjin says.

Jeongin flashes a thumbs-up and dips out of the room, perhaps a little more hastily than he intends to come across. And then there are two. Again.

You wait until you can’t hear his footsteps anymore, and then you turn to glower at Hyunjin so intensely that he thinks you’re about to place a curse on his whole bloodline.

Then, your phone starts vibrating, and he knows he’ll live to see another day.

“You still owe me an answer,” Hyunjin calls as you turn around and leave the room.

“Don’t hold your breath,” you reply.

One day, I’ll break her, is the predominant thought that resides in Hyunjin’s head as he slips on the remaining jewelry; watches your figure disappear around a corner. One day, I’ll break his face, is the predominant thought that resides in yours as you stalk away. That’s the two of you, in a nutshell.

Six months ago. Osaka, Japan. 3:03 P.M.

When you walk into the dressing room, you find Haeun hunched over an overflowing photo album with her hands forming fists in her hair, muttering to nobody in particular, “I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.”

There’s an amused look in your eye as you set your bag down by Hyunjin’s empty vanity chair. She hasn’t noticed your presence yet; approximately three hallways down, the members are rehearsing for tonight’s performance on the main stage of the Kyocera Dome, and the music is so loud that you think you actually saw the walls vibrating while you were in the hallway moments ago.

You rise to your tiptoes and encroach upon her, waiting until she’s within reach to tickle the back of her neck. She nearly flies out of her seat with a shriek that can be heard over the heavy bass.

“Never gets old.” You hand her the photo album that went soaring also, and Haeun snatches it back with an affronted flourish.

“I can’t remember the last time you said hi to me normally, unnie.”

“Me neither, now that you mention it.”

Haeun and Han are your favorite stylist-idol duo in the world because they’re so eerily similar—and it’s adorable. They both illuminate every room they walk into; they both have grins too big for their faces, laughs too loud for their lungs. You always regret leaving your sunglasses at home when you catch sight of the effulgent pair.

But today you cannot detect the usual radiance in Haeun’s voice, nor so much as a hint of her easy grin. Then again, that’s another quality that she and her client share; they’re both well acquainted with the burdens that come with unwavering passion.

Every stylist has their own modus operandi. Haeun’s is a scrapbook of images that she cuts out and saves from catalogs, advertisements, newspapers, et cetera. You’ve seen it many times before, but never in such a state: messy handwriting stuffing the margins to their very brims, numbers and symbols like clusters of rainclouds over a sea of different outfits, arrows and circles and squares highlighting pant cuffs and cascade collars and dangling earrings. Telltale signs that Haeun hasn’t a clue as to what Han will be wearing tonight.

You gnaw on your lower lip, deliberating your next move. You end up placing a firm hand against the album’s cover and pushing it closed.

“Come with me,” you say. “We’re gonna try a new approach.”

Haeun opens her mouth to protest, but unfortunately you have an extensive track record of being right.

“What do you have in mind?” She sighs instead.

“You’ll see.”

With that, you stand up, tuck a small towel under your arm, and angle your head in the direction of the music.

The two of you make your way through the labyrinth of hallways that comprise the venue’s backstage. Eventually, the color of the floor changes from speckled white to solid black, and you step onto the part of the stage that is concealed from the audience by drawn curtains and heavy equipment. You say a quick hello to the group’s manager as you dip past him, and eventually reach the edge of the curtains, where you and Haeun have a good view of the eight members as they run through their setlist for tonight’s concert.

Haeun settles into the spot beside you, still confused as she follows your gaze.

“Let me ask you this,” you say, just audible over the din. “Can you style a performer if you don’t know how he performs?”

And understanding seeps over her features like poured tea.

“I want you to watch him,” you continue. “Tell me how he performs.”

Han’s part begins, as if on cue. His voice rings out through the empty stadium as he ducks to the front of the formation, a microphone held loosely to his lips, his face taut with focus. Haeun stares at him for some time, silently trying to fathom her observations, but she sees you shaking your head in the corner of her eye.

“Don’t think, Haeun. Just speak.”

She blows out a deep breath before obliging. “It’s hard to picture Han doing anything but laughing or making other people laugh, he’s so goofy and lighthearted most of the time. But he’s like a different person on stage. He’s so intense, it’s almost intimidating. Not intimidating in a douchey way, though—you just get the impression that he’s very confident in himself and his music.

You don’t say another word, but don’t need to. She’s hit her stride.

“His voice and enunciation are so clear. It’s crazy how he sounds exactly like the studio recording. Plus, his delivery feels genuine; he’s not just reciting lyrics, but speaking straight from his heart.

“And this is gonna sound bad, but I didn’t know Han could dance. Like, yeah, I knew that he could dance, but not like this. His movements are so sharp that I feel like my attention is being—”

Right there.

She cuts herself off, reaching the same conclusion.

“It’s his turn to talk, and he wants you to cling to his every word," Haeun articulates slowly. "He’s demanding your attention. He needs you to listen. That’s how he performs.”

A satisfied smile bolts across your face like lightning. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Haeun pictures her scrapbook again, and there are now only a few articles of clothing and accessories that fit the framework you’ve helped her forge. She’s almost dizzy with disbelief, tearing her eyes from Han to look at you instead.

“You’re brilliant, you know that?”

“I do, but I appreciate the reminder.”

She can’t help but giggle. It’s a you answer if she’s ever heard one. “Do you do that with all of your clients?”

Haeun asks the question arbitrarily, without thinking. But you respond in a way that she doesn’t think she’s ever witnessed before, and she’s momentarily baffled by the sight: you hesitate.

As the song’s final chorus approaches, Hyunjin is the one folding himself into the center of the eight-person throng. You can only see his back from this angle, but even then it’s palpable how expertly and effortlessly he molds his body to the modulations of the music; how much fervor and feeling he expresses with every jerk of his spine and flex of his hands.

Within a few short seconds, innumerable descriptors and sensations skim the surface of your mind—but one word knocks the rest clean out of the water, the way it always does when you watch Hwang Hyunjin perform.

Artistry.

“No,” you reply. “Not all of them.”

And where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?

Haeun furrows a brow, understandably puzzled by this response, but you don’t elaborate. Partially because you feel like being coy, but mostly because you know that any explanation you offer will sound like a confession.

The song ends, leaving your ears ringing with the abrupt absence of sound. The members hold their poses with heaving shoulders, staring out into the empty stands until the stage manager’s voice comes through the monitors.

“And that’s a wrap! We’re all set for tonight. Good work, everyone.”

There is a ripple of movement around the stage as the boys relax. Jeongin jogs over to Minho, hoping to review a particularly challenging dance break; the manager asks Chan if he has a second to discuss travel logistics; Seungmin plops onto the edge of the stage and downs the rest of his water; Hyunjin beelines toward you the second he sees you, because of course he does.

You get a good look at him as he skips closer. Stray blonde locks plastered against his damp skin, tank top dyed several shades darker by the perspiration rolling down his neck, the muscles of his arms actually rippling as he swings them around stupidly, a shit-eating smile plastered across his stunning face.

You’re annoyed before he says a word.

“I didn’t know they were letting fans backstage now,” he hums happily. “Want an autograph, gorgeous?”

“Put a sock in it.” You whisk the towel you’ve been holding in his direction. “Wet freak.”

But he catches and tosses it over his shoulder straightaway, and your heart sinks to your fucking ankle. You’ve seen this movie before. You know how it ends.

“No.” You take a shaky step back. “No, nope, don’t even think about—”

The next thing you know, Hyunjin is lunging towards you and winding his arms around your waist, nearly sweeping you clean off your feet as he pulls you into his sweaty embrace. To your complete dismay, your face presses flat against the clammy plane of his chest. “Call me a wet freak again, go on,” he manages to say through his laughter.

In response, one of your hands wriggles free of its slippery prison and snatches the cuff of Hyunjin’s ear with impressive accuracy. He yelps and loosens his hold on you, but doesn’t relent completely, not even when he catches sight of the murderous expression on your face and cackles so forcefully his whole head is thrown back.

You tighten your grip. “Wet,” you seethe, “freak.”

“Ow—okay, don’t make it hot, what’s wrong with you?”

“Wha—what’s wrong with YOU?!”

As the two of you dissolve into your fatuous arguing, Haeun is no longer sure that she’s still standing here. She’s not even sure if she’s in her right mind anymore. She thinks she might be hallucinating the way everything about Hyunjin softens next to you, or the way your biting tone only seems to nibble when it’s him on the receiving end.

“Psst. We’ve been placing bets on them. You want in?”

Han suddenly materializes next to Haeun, and she would have been jumpscared into a different dimension if she wasn’t so fixated upon the bizarre occurrence before her.

But what if she’s not hallucinating?

No, not all of them, you’d said, like you were disclosing a forbidden secret.

“Yes,” she says, and Han beams. “Absolutely.”

Three months ago. Seoul, South Korea. 2:26 A.M.

On a tranquil Saturday night, you’re sitting at your desk, your knees tucked to your chest, the newest episode of your drama playing quietly on your laptop, a half-empty glass of rosé and open sketchbook laid before you. This is your happy place—a safe haven that the trials and tribulations of the real world can’t reach. But you think you’ve really gone and lost your mind when you find yourself thinking about your job.

Well, not your job, exactly. More like the man who makes your job feel fucking Sisyphean.

You know your way around fabric and foundation better than anyone, but you have never struggled with anything as much as you have trying to navigate Hyunjin. You show up to work every day ready to just put some makeup on the man; instead, you wind up stumbling around the potholes of his dimples and the hills of the veins that run over his forearms and hands like a hopeless drunkard. Scouring the creases of his smile and the oscillations of his voice like they’re topographical maps. Mentally replaying your interactions with him time and time again like you’re monitoring security footage, trying to detect illicit activity in every casual touch he leaves on your shoulder or waist; every babe or gorgeous he throws your way, seemingly without a second thought.

You’ve been trying to understand him and his intentions for seven months now, and your efforts have yielded no fruit whatsoever, save for a few theories that you feel insane for even humoring.

You down the rest of the blush-colored liquid, and as you set down your empty glass you notice your fingers itch with a familiar urge. The pen that you’ve been twirling over your knuckles stills, then swivels; its tip hovers over the last free corner of the sheet of cartridge paper below you. And then it presses upon the surface and starts to move, as naturally as if on its own.

When you were little, you came across a children’s book that you no longer remember the name of, about a little girl with a magical pen that brought her every drawing to life. You decided then that you would one day be that girl.

At some point, the subjects of your incessant sketching became almost exclusively runway models and makeup advertisements. You cemented that you wanted to work in fashion as early as your high school graduation, and by then you already possessed the conviction and charisma of the industry’s most experienced members. Your portfolio was stellar; your personality prophesied of wild success. So your career took off, propelled by the neverending positions and projects that various companies continually laid before your feet.

You stand and pad to your kitchen to refill your glass, only to bring the entire bottle of wine back to your room instead. With one hand, you flick the cap off and lift the whole thing to your lips; with the other, you seize your pen again, not wanting to lose momentum.

For the year or so after you joined the industry, you basked in your idyllic prosperity. Even the doodles you scrawled on random napkins during banal business lunches would appear on some of the world’s most renowned faces the next week. You had indubitably become the little girl from your story; made a career out of giving your imagination tangible form. And what a fruitful career it was going to be.

If only you knew how it would strengthen you in ways you never wanted.

The first time someone called you cold, it took you a while to realize that they were talking about you. The phrase was said so casually and lightheartedly that it sounded at first like a piece of unimportant small talk. But the whisper of cold bitch was then followed by a bout of stifled laughter and what was undoubtedly your name. Your heart stopped along with your footsteps, and you looked towards the source: two interns whose names you had yet to learn, while yours was already in their mouths.

You felt nothing until you were three stops away from your apartment, and then the bottom of the subway gave out beneath you and suddenly you were feeling everything. Only confusion, hurt, and rage at first, but then the other emotions that you’d been smothering tirelessly for who-knows-how-long tore free of their cerebral shackles too, and together they formed an amalgamation of anxiety that closed up your throat within seconds.

As your pen studs details into a shapely jawline, you remember how you’d shoved your way off the subway and made a mad dash into the night air. You remember how you collapsed against a utility pole in an unfamiliar neighborhood, how your knuckles paled around the ashen wood, how your tears tumbled over your lips and salted your tongue. You remember wanting to go home so badly that you thought your ribcage would cave in on itself with the weight of it. You remember begging for air, for you.

By the time the oxygen had returned to your lungs, the streets were empty save for you, crouched on the curb, your face buried in your arms, spent, shattered, and alone. You were only nineteen at the time.

You are now twenty-two, and the word “cold” has become a regular guest in the lodgings of your heart. You never invite it over, but you’re no longer surprised to find it at your door. It’s a thief, swiping pieces of you when it thinks you’re not looking—a fragment above the fireplace, a scrap from the cracks between the couch—and you know whenever you’re being robbed, know that you lose parts of yourself upon its every visit. But better that than acknowledging what you lose.

You allow it to walk away with full pockets every time.

Hyunjin does not.

“Three words to describe yourself. Go,” he said a few days ago, the two of you heading back to the tour bus after a filming session.

You were so used to these irrational inquiries of his that you didn’t bother trying to dodge this one. “You first.”

“Smart, sexy, suave,” he said immediately, but burst into a sheepish laugh at the sight of your weary glare. “Fine, fine, let me think. Ambitious, for one. Introspective, definitely—maybe overly so. And artistic. I’d like to think so, at least. Satisfied?”

The most creative person you knew doubting his own ingenuity was absurd to you, but you nodded begrudgingly. It was a good answer, for the most part.

“Now you.”

Honestly, the thief had surfaced the moment you heard the question, but you weren’t sure if you wanted to inform Hyunjin of its existence. Not because you didn’t trust him—you did, more than you had anyone in years—but because you didn’t know what you’d do with yourself if he agreed. You weren’t sure your heart would be able to take it.

When you met the boy’s gaze, though, the carob brown of his eyes was so curious and so comforting that you suspected that was never a possibility.

“Cold,” you mumbled. “I’ve been called cold before.”

There was a pregnant pause. You found yourself holding your breath. And then—

“That’s a joke, right?”

Hyunjin began to count off his fingers.

“Mean. So mean. Impossibly, infuriatingly confident. Talented, stubborn, strong. Funny, sometimes, I guess, though I’d rather you hit me with a metal pipe than admit that ever again.”

At this, you caved; a laugh erupted from your lips, leaving a genuine smile in its wake.

“Determined. Eloquent. Bossy. Some kind of evil, twisted genius. Contemplative, caring, compassionate. Fearless,” he went on. “You get my point. You’re a lot of things, Y/N, but cold isn’t one—”

He was about to say something mind-numbingly stupid. You could sense it in the air.

“—and not just because you’re hot.”

You smacked his bicep, the smile on your face now an uninhibited, helpless grin. And as he vanished into a fit of high-pitched laughter, you thought you sensed him crack open your door and slip your missing artifacts back to their rightful places.

Hyunjin began to climb into the bus, and you caught the cuff of his sleeve, your feet still planted on the pavement.

“Thank you,” you said.

The tremors of his fond chuckle traveled to your very core.

“Idiot,” he sighed softly.

Idiot, you write, and the drawings are complete.

When you stand up, the bottle is mostly gone—and so are you. You splash some water on your face in lieu of your skincare routine and prod the inside of your mouth a few times using a dry toothbrush, and then you dive beneath your duvet and are dead asleep in minutes. Your slumber is interrupted only by dreams of a world where your theories about Hyunjin aren’t just theories.

If you’d had even one mouthful less of rosé, you might’ve remembered that you picked up your phone and opened your most recent conversation somewhere between steps two and three.

[3:10 A.M.] To: Hwang Hyunjin (Stray Kids, JYP) Audio Message.wav

Hi. I’m drunk and I’m going to regret this tomorrow. But that’s tomorrow’s business. There’s something I need to tell you tonight.

After I moved to Seoul, I used to get these bouts of homesickness. Not in a standard ‘I wanna go home’ kind of way, but in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below me. I was always ready for it to swallow me alive. I would’ve been happy for it to.

But I haven’t felt that way since I met you. I realized this not too long ago, and it threw me for a fucking loop. I’ve never felt seen the way you see me. I’ve never been known the way you know me. Every time I look at you or hear your voice, it feels so much like returning home that I don’t have to dream of it anymore.

You called me fearless the other day, but you’re wrong. I’m terrified. I’m terrified that history is going to repeat itself, that another home will slip through the cracks between my fingers and there will be nothing I can do to stop it. And that’s why I’m so hesitant towards you, towards whatever this is, because I don’t want to go through that ever again.

So the thing I need to tell you is that I care about you. I care so much that I’m scared speaking it into existence will make it real and vulnerable to all the worst parts of the world. But it’s not speaking it into existence if I’m drunk, right? Maybe I have no idea what I’m talking about. Maybe you’ll never even hear this. So it doesn’t count. That’s how that works, surely.

Sorry if this was totally nonsensical. And sorry that I’m so bad at feelings. You must think I’m impossible, and I don’t blame you.

Good night, Hyunjin. Thank you, again.

One month ago. Los Angeles, United States. 12:37 A.M.

When Hyunjin steps out of the hotel’s tall glass double doors, he’s wearing a teatree facemask, and his bags are draped over the crooks of his elbows like he’s an upper-echelon socialite on his way back from a lavish shopping spree. And then he sees you standing next to the curb, and the situation dawns on him in bits and pieces.

You’re the only one here. The vans that were supposed to take you to the airport are nowhere to be seen. Boarding begins in four minutes.

A soft flinch crimps his features. Oops.

“Tomorrow night,” you’re saying into your receiver, but your attention is on him only, your penetrative gaze putting the dead in deadpan. “The absolute earliest. You’re sure?”

When you finish listening to the manager’s response, you heave a sigh that sags your shoulders and end the call with a jab that should’ve splintered your screen protector.

Then, you start walking towards him.

“Hi,” Hyunjin says, his eyes pleading for mercy. “You are so talented and beautiful. I don’t tell you that often enough, do I?”

He expects you to grab him by the cuff of his ear again, to throw him a retort that’s twice as mean as it is witty, something along those lines. But you merely push your suitcase in his direction, and it is then when he notices that your face is hard enough to chip enamel; that your eyes are eerily, entirely empty. The tendril of warmth that’s always dancing among the subtleties of your expressions, that he’s always pursuing to the very borders of his dreamscapes, is nowhere to be seen.

A shiver travels down Hyunjin’s spine as he curls his fingers around the plastic handle.

Something’s not right.

“We’re gonna have to stay here another day,” you say. “Can you check us in? I have some calls to make.”

“Us?” Hyunjin repeats.

“Junghan could only reserve one room,” you reply, your phone already glued back to your ear. “The hotel is fully booked for the next few months.”

With that, you’re already preoccupied with the next thing, turning to the side to reschedule a meeting. But Hyunjin can only stare blankly at your profile, trying and failing to grasp that he’s going to spend a night with the subject of his every daydream. Though you might be leaning more towards the nightmare end of the spectrum at the moment, considering the way your head snaps back in his direction like a woman possessed.

Go, you mouth, and he obliges.

A few minutes later, Hyunjin is in the elevator by himself. He speculates it’s an ingenious, intentional choice that the lights are turned off, so that whoever’s inside can watch the psychedelic lights of Los Angeles sprawl further and wider the higher they go. But he can’t think of anything except for the subzero nothingness where your irises should’ve been.

Hyunjin’s initial guess was that he crossed a line with this missed plane, but the more he thinks about it the clearer it becomes that this isn’t an isolated issue. It’s the culmination of something bigger. Something continuous.

You have become as familiar to him as the lines of his eyes or the ridges of his knuckles. He’s learned where to look for your feelings when he can’t find them in your face; studied your words and the undertones of your voice like they’re verses of scripture. Yet, it was around two months ago when Hyunjin looked at your side profile and couldn’t recognize you. He’d blinked, startled, and then you’d asked why he was looking at you so strangely, and everything returned to normal. He wrote it off as a side effect of sleep deprivation and paid it no more mind that day.

Except it happened again a few days later; again, not too long after, and Hyunjin began to suspect that he was losing his mind. You didn’t seem all that different—a bit more taciturn than usual, maybe, but you’d been busier than usual, too, your workspace always full of empty coffee cups by the end of the day, the pages of your planner more colorful and crammed than ever. The minor variances never struck him as a reason for worry.

“Stupid,” Hyunjin whispers bitterly.

He replays your interaction one more time. You, shoving your suitcase against his palm, telling him to go check in. Him, fastening his hand around the handle, sensing the bottomless void within you, feeling like he’d been dismissed from before your throne.

As he steps off the elevator and walks towards your designated room, he doesn’t understand how or why—but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s failed you.

Nearly an hour passes. The room only has one bed, so Hyunjin turns off the lights, folds himself onto the armchair by the floor-to-ceiling window, drapes a complimentary robe over his shoulders, and tries to sleep. He doesn’t know why he even tries. He’s exhausted, but he knows damn well there’s no hope of him getting any rest until he has you in his proximity again.

He doesn’t look at the door when he finally hears it open, but the knot of tension in his chest comes undone as soon as your silhouette appears in the hallway. He takes out his first real breath since leaving you at the hotel’s entrance.

You hear the sound it makes. You fall still.

“Hyunjin?”

His heart physically aches at how tired you sound. “Yeah?”

“Oh, you’re awake,” you answer. “Move to the bed. You’re not sleeping on that thing.”

He remains where he is, his chin resting on the side of his fist, his eyes glued to the flickering panorama of neon lights below him. You crouch to unzip something, and there’s a heavy thud of metal meeting cloth, presumably your laptop being tossed onto the bed’s mattress.

“Hello? Did you—”

“Is everything okay?”

A short pause follows his interruption.

“I still have a few emails to write, but everything’s been rescheduled, so as long as you don’t miss tomorrow’s flight, too, we should be—”

The robe slides off his lap as he pushes himself to his feet. “That’s not what I mean.”

The only source of light in the room is the lone light above the entrance, but it’s enough for him to see your face and the surprise etched upon it. You open your mouth, utter one syllable, and stop yourself immediately after, stunned into silence by the sobriety in Hyunjin’s expression.

“Enlighten me, then,” you say finally.

“You really don’t know?”

“What is there to know? That you missed a flight and pissed me the fuck off? Trust me, I’m aware.”

“No, that’s not—”

“So what are you talking about, then? Why are you talking in riddles? Fuck, what is it that you want from me?”

There’s real frustration in your voice, and it’s the first time you’ve shown him any emotion in pure, unadulterated form. With this, Hyunjin understands that he was right; this conversation is heading towards a culmination of some kind, and so are you, with the devastating force of a natural phenomenon.

He wonders if you’re prepared to destroy yourself, too.

“I know how you are around me,” you whisper. “You’re always acting like you’re trying to unearth something, and I figure this ‘something’ must be wonderful, because you look at me like I’m made of stars; you speak to me like you’re serenading a lover. But I am constantly, ceaselessly haunted by the possibility that this ‘something’ doesn’t exist, that you’re looking for the wrong thing in the wrong person.

“I know it’s selfish to ask for anything more than what you’ve already given me—you’re so kind, Hyunjin, and you’ve been nothing but since the day we met. But grant me one more wish, even if it is the last time you ever do.

“Tell me what you see in me,” you plead. “Otherwise, I will spend the rest of my life mourning the months of yours that you wasted on me.”

With that, it occurs to Hyunjin, falls upon and cracks open his mind like a piece of firewood, that you have never been aware of—never asked for—the throne you sit upon.

For an indeterminate amount of time, the two of you stay there, standing in silence on opposite sides of your dark hotel room. You haven’t felt anything like this in a long time, your chest heaving with your heavy breaths, your vision muddied by both the lack of light and the desperation searing through your windpipe.

When Hyunjin finally begins to speak, his words wrest the oxygen from your lungs.

“After you moved to Seoul, you used to get these bouts of homesickness.”

Your mind careens; your heart reels.

“They came in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below you.” He takes a tentative step towards you. “You thought it was going to swallow you alive. You would’ve been happy for it to.”

You never got to listen to your voice note. You were blacked out when you recorded it and horrified when you discovered it in your chat logs the next morning; the wretched thing was unsent so quickly that you couldn’t check for a read receipt.

But there’s not a doubt in your mind that these are your words falling from Hyunjin’s lips.

“You haven’t felt that way since you met me, though.” He is only a few feet away from you now, and getting closer still. “You’ve never felt seen the way I see you. You’ve never been known the way I know you.”

God, you said that? Did you propose to him too?

“You’re terrified that another home will slip through the cracks between your fingers and there will be nothing you can do to stop it.” Hyunjin flattens his left hand upon the drywall next to your ear; pushes you back ever-so-gently against the hard surface. “I must think you’re impossible.”

And he brings his face so, so close to yours; looks at you with so much adoration, so much tenderness, that you feel the final bulwark around your heart fracture—

“I don’t,” Hyunjin breathes, cradling your cheek, “because you’re not. And I want to prove it to you, even if it takes me the rest of my life. That’s what I see in you.”

—and crumble.

You form fists in the lining of his hoodie. Hyunjin’s hand tightens where it lays over the curve of your jaw.

When you crash your lips upon his, he tastes the metallic sheen of electricity and the salt of tearwater both; he witnesses crying lightning, for the first time in human history.

Present day. Cannes, France. 9:15 P.M.

Hyunjin never thinks when he fucks you.

One part of it is that he physically can’t; his cognitive facilities shut down when he has you quivering beneath him, like his desire to pleasure you is too overwhelming for his mind to bear. The other part is that he doesn’t want to. He’s afraid that the voices of cynicism and trepidation that plague his mind every waking moment will taint the actualization of his wildest dreams.

Lucky for him, you manage to erase his mind on a daily basis with only one accidental touch or an apparition of a smile, so he doesn’t stand a chance whenever you let him between your legs.

“Trust me?” He whispers, imprinting the words upon the inside of your thigh.

“More than anyone,” you breathe, and just this has him tenting against his satin slacks.

Hyunjin used to see you scolding managers or moving racks twice your weight and think that was you in your element—tonight, he learned otherwise. You were so confident that even just the way you puffed your chest out prompted heads to turn and low voices to ask for your name; so charming that even by the end of your self-introduction you had every guest you spoke to eating out the palm of your hand.

Eating out your pussy, though, is Hyunjin’s privilege alone.

He wraps his fingers around the hem of your dress and pushes it upwards, creating a halo of red fabric around your midriff; slides your panties off your legs and tosses them over his shoulder. All obstacles out of the way, Hyunjin winds his arms around your thighs and pins your hips to the mattress, slotting himself between your knees as they fall apart. Your ankles fold over the top of his head, and you’re about to ask if he’s okay like this, but then you feel the hot muscle of his tongue trace over your dripping folds—and every word of every language you’ve ever known is dispelled from your brain and your mouth in the form of a stuttered, euphoric moan.

He teases you first, drags his mouth over you so that he’s lapped up all of your slick, and just when you feel your patience thinning he pulls you apart with reverent hands and begins to suckle on your clit, as attentive to your every solicitation as always. You arch your back so high off the bed that your ankles knock Hyunjin’s head down a few inches, but the new angle is even better; grants him access to more of you.

He reinforces his grip around you, presses his torso right up against the side of the mattress, and gorges: sluices your labia until you’re spilling from his chin onto the sheets; flicks against your bundle of nerves until it’s pulsating and swollen on his mouth; fucks his tongue against your favorite spot until you’re curling your toes, seeing the whole solar system.

“Coming,” you blabber after some time. Tell me something I don’t know, he thinks to himself. “Coming, Hyune. I’m—fuck—”

Hyunjin is aware of the way you clench so hard around nothing that your pelvis hurts. He is aware of the way you’re so dilapidated from pleasure that you’re genuinely struggling to breathe. He doesn’t care. He wants to get the cadences of your climax tattooed into the gray matter of his brain, and there can’t be rests in the sheet music, can there?

He presses a hand flat on your stomach in preparation for your body’s protest, then returns his face to its place between your thighs; starts to leave kitten licks around the edges of your puffy folds before you can finish riding out your high. You press your tongue against the back of your front teeth, emitting a pained hiss as you draw a sharp breath, tears stinging at your eyes.

“Son of a bitch—”

“Trust me?” He asks again, his voice vibrating against your sore cunt, and your complaints quiet into whimpers as you bring a hand over your quivering mouth, and nod.

At least Hyunjin bridles his thirst the second time he eats your pussy open, his lips smacking openly and slowly over your every inch except the one that would be truly unbearable for you right now. He’s so rough and so fucking careful at once like he can’t decide between obliterating and worshipping your cunt.

He’ll end up doing both.

Within a few minutes, your legs have gone slack on either side of Hyunjin once again, and another coil has begun to tighten behind your bellybutton, equal parts pain and pleasure—but he knows your pussy just as well as he does your person by now, and it’s not long before the former is compounding with the latter.

Round two has a faster ascent and a steeper drop. He finds your spot again with the precision and ease of a trained marksman and fixates upon it like a man starved. It has your cries devolving to incoherent profanities and, to his unfettered delight, your foot actually shaking, your heel tapping against the back of his neck every time it comes down.

As if referencing a metronome, Hyunjin matches the rhythm of his tongue to your accelerando. Only when your leg is nearly convulsing does he wrap his lips back around your clit; slide two fingers into the place he leaves empty and pumps them into you until you are liquifying, igniting around him, your mewls lamenting the second orgasm he plucks from your core.

After your body has stilled, Hyunjin lifts his head, his face drenched in perspiration and saliva and you. His eyes travel over the slopes of your arms and the hills of your breasts, over the tears streaming from your eyes and staining the pillow you lie on. It is this last bit that has him shrugging off his shirt and undoing his dress pants with one hand, palming his throbbing cock with the other.

He clambers over you, and the kiss that follows is filthy, your mouth falling apart when he rolls your nipples between his fingers, strands of spit suspending between your tongues before dripping down onto your collarbone. You can sense what he wants in his craving lips, his pleading tongue—and you know he won’t ask for it. He’s tested you enough tonight; he’d rather your comfort than his pleasure.

But you guide his leaking head to your entrance, returning his stupefied look with a watery smile.

“Love me?” You ask this time, for the first time.

There is not even a nanosecond of hesitation when he answers, “with everything in me.”

He comes inside you the moment he bottoms out, your name leaving his lips in breathless, desperate repetition like a broken prayer as he topples off the same cliff he’d dropped you from moments ago. You curl a hand in his hair as he stutters against you, bring your lips flush against his ear, and whisper that you love him too—and the sight of you beneath him blurs he also starts to tear up.

This is the reality Hyunjin lives in, presumably because he was a saint in his past life, and it would be his utmost pleasure to see it through.

Two years later. Milan, Italy. 11:28 A.M.

For the last half hour, a ray of sunlight has repeatedly struck the diamond that sits between the second and third knuckle of your ring finger, and the Vogue journalist on the other side of your desk thinks he is slowly losing his vision. But when he asks his final question, your hand comes to a much-appreciated stop, the fountain pen you’ve been twirling around clattering to your tabletop.

“Where do you find your inspiration?”

As the journalist blinks the phosphenes from his eyes, he finally manages to get a good look at the face of Versace’s newest designer, and he detects something ineffable and warm in your expression.

“My inspiration, hm?” You fall silent for a short time, thinking. “If you asked me this at the start of my career, I’d have said ‘people.’ Their postures, their expressions, their wardrobes. I knew I was a goner when I watched a fashion show for the first time and noticed how the models’ attire helped them harness their innate power and grace—I wanted to orchestrate that kind of symbiosis, too. In that aspect, nothing has changed, actually. I still find wonder in human beings, and not just the ones on the runway. I think it would be difficult not to, don’t you?

“Some time ago, a good friend of mine was having trouble with an outfit for her client. She asked me a similar question, and only then did I realize that it was no longer just people that inspired me most, but a singular person. I had always been skeptical of the idea of a ‘muse’ until I met him. But I could only spend so long denying how he ventured closer to my soul than anything ever had, how he knew me and saw me like nobody ever could. He understood my art. He was my art, so—”

Your eyes dart over your ring, and the journalist would’ve flinched out of habit if he wasn’t so mesmerized by your eloquence.

“—where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?”

A few seconds elapse, and then you clear your throat and straighten your back, returning to your office from your trip down memory lane.

“That’s the long answer, anyways. The short answer would be my fiancé.”

The journalist laughs, and he doubts you’ll give him this next piece of information—but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.

“And who would that be?”

He’s right. You don’t answer the question. But you do flash him an enigmatic smile, and for some reason it reminds him of lightning.

🔖 (send an ask to be added)・@astraystayyh・@like-a-diamondinthesky・@fire-08・@starsandrqindrops・@txtxlz・@laylasbunbunny・@strayghibli・@nuronhe

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mostlysignssomeportents · 6 months ago

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FCC strikes a blow against prison profiteering

TOMORROW NIGHT (July 20), I'm appearing in CHICAGO at Exile in Bookville.

Here's a tip for policymakers hoping to improve the lives of the most Americans with the least effort: help prisoners.

After all, America is the most prolific imprisoner of its own people of any country in world history. We lock up more people than Stalin, than Mao, more than Botha, de Klerk or any other Apartheid-era South African president. And it's not just America's vast army of the incarcerated who are afflicted by our passion for imprisonment: their families and friends suffer, too.

That familial suffering isn't merely the constant pain of life without a loved one, either. America's prison profiteers treat prisoners' families as ATMs who can be made to pay and pay and pay.

This may seem like a losing strategy. After all, prison sentences are strongly correlated with poverty, and even if your family wasn't desperate before the state kidnapped one of its number and locked them behind bars, that loved one's legal defense and the loss of their income is a reliable predictor of downward social mobility.

Decent people don't view poor people as a source of riches. But for a certain kind of depraved sadist, the poor are an irresistible target. Sure, poor people don't have much money, but what they lack even more is protection under the law ("conservativism consists of the principle that there is an in-group whom the law protects but does not bind, and an out-group whom the law binds but does not protect" -Wilhoit). You can enjoy total impunity as you torment poor people, make them so miserable and afraid for their lives and safety that they will find some money, somewhere, and give it to you.

Mexican cartels understand this. They do a brisk trade in kidnapping asylum seekers whom the US has illegally forced to wait in Mexico to have their claims processed. The families of refugees – either in their home countries or in the USA – are typically badly off but they understand that Mexico will not lift a finger to protect a kidnapped refugee, and so when the kidnappers threaten the most grisly tortures as a means of extracting ransom, those desperate family members do whatever it takes to scrape up the blood-money.

What's more, the families of asylum seekers are not much better off than their kidnapped loved ones when it comes to seeking official protection. Family members who stayed behind in human rights hellholes like Bukele's El Salvador can't get their government to lodge official complaints with the Mexican ambassador, and family members who made it to the USA are in no position to get their Congressjerk to intercede with ICE or the Mexican consulate. This gives Mexico's crime syndicates total latitude to kidnap, torture, and grow rich by targeting the poorest, most desperate people in the world.

The private contractors that supply services to America's prisons are basically Mexican refugee-kidnappers with pretensions and shares listed on the NYSE. After decades of consolidation, the prison contracting sector has shrunk to two gigantic companies: Securus and Viapath (formerly Global Tellink). These private-equity backed behemoths dominate their sector, and have diversified, providing all kinds of services, from prison cafeteria meals to commissary, the prison stores where prisoners can buy food and other items.

If you're following closely, this is one of those places where the hair on the back of your neck starts to rise. These companies make money when prisoners buy food from the commissary, and they're also in charge of the quality of the food in the mess hall. If the food in the mess hall is adequate and nutritious, there's no reason to buy food from the commissary.

This is what economists call a "moral hazard." You can think of it as the reason that prison ramen costs 300% more than ramen in the free world:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/20/captive-market/#locked-in

(Not just ramen: in America's sweltering prisons, an 8" fan costs $40, and the price of water went up in Texas prisons by 50% during last summer's heatwave.)

It's actually worse than that: if you get sick from eating bad prison food, the same company that poisoned you gets paid to operate the infirmary where you're treated:

https://theappeal.org/massachusetts-prisons-wellpath-dentures-teeth/

Now, the scam of abusing prisoners to extract desperate pennies from their families is hardly new. There's written records of this stretching back to the middle ages. Nor is this pattern a unique one: making an unavoidable situation as miserable as possible and then upcharging people who have the ability to pay to get free of the torture is basically how the airlines work. Making coach as miserable as possible isn't merely about shaving pennies by shaving inches off your legroom: it's a way to "incentivize" anyone who can afford it to pay for an upgrade to business-class. The worse coach is, the more people you can convince to dip into their savings or fight with their boss to move classes. The torments visited upon everyone else in coach are economically valuable to the airlines: their groans and miseries translate directly into windfall profits, by convincing better-off passengers to pay not to have the same thing done to them.

Of course, with rare exceptions (flying to get an organ transplant, say) plane tickets are typically discretionary. Housing, on the other hand, is a human right and a prerequisite for human thriving. The worse things are for tenants, the more debt and privation people will endure to become home-owners, so it follows that making renters worse off makes homeowners richer:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/06/06/the-rents-too-damned-high/

For Securus and Viapath, the path to profitability is to lobby for mandatory, long prison sentences and then make things inside the prison as miserable as possible. Any prisoner whose family can find the funds can escape the worst of it, and all the prisoners who can't afford it serve the economically important function of showing the prisoners whose families can afford it how bad things will be if they don't pay.

If you're thinking that prisoners might pay Securus, Viapath and their competitors out of their own prison earnings, forget it. These companies have decided that the can make more by pocketing the difference between the vast sums paid by third parties for prisoners' labor and the pennies the prisoners get from their work. Remember, the 13th Amendment specifically allows for the enslavement of incarcerated people! Six states ban paying prisoners at all. North Carolina caps prisoners' wages at one dollar per day. The national average prison wage is $0.52/hour. Prisoners' labor produces $11b/year in goods and services:

https://www.dollarsandsense.org/archives/2024/0324bowman.html

Forced labor and extortion are a long and dishonorable tradition in incarceration, but this century saw the introduction of a novel, exciting way of extracting wealth from prisoners and their families. It started when private telcos took over prison telephones and raised the price of a prison phone call. These phone companies found willing collaborators in local jail and prison systems: all they had to do was offer to split the take with the jailers.

With the advent of the internet, things got far worse. Digitalization meant that prisons could replace the library, adult educations, commissary accounts, letter-mail, parcels, in-person visits and phone calls with a single tablet. These cheaply made tablets were offered for free to prisoners, who lost access to everything from their kids' handmade birthday cards to in-person visits with those kids.

In their place, prisoners' families had to pay huge premiums to have their letters scanned so that prisoners could pay (again) to view those scans on their tablets. Instead of in-person visits, prisoners families had to pay $3-10/minute for a janky, postage-stamp sized video. Perversely, jails and prisons replaced their in-person visitation rooms with rooms filled with shitty tablets where family members could sit and videoconference with their incarcerated loved ones who were just a few feet away:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/14/minnesota-nice/#shitty-technology-adoption-curve

Capitalists hate capitalism. The capital classes are on a relentless search for markets with captive customers and no competitors. The prison-tech industry was catnip for private equity funds, who bought and "rolled" up prison contractors, concentrating the sector into a duopoly of debt-laden companies whose ability to pay off their leveraged buyouts was contingent on their ability to terrorize prisoners' families into paying for their overpriced, low-quality products and services.

One particularly awful consequence of these rollups was the way that prisoners could lose access to their data when their prison's service-provider was merged with a rival. When that happened, the IT systems would be consolidated, with the frequent outcome that all prisoners' data was lost. Imagine working for two weeks to pay for a song or a book, or a scan of your child's handmade Father's Day card, only to have the file deleted in an IT merger. Now imagine that you're stuck inside for another 20 years.

This is a subject I've followed off and on for years. It's such a perfect bit of end-stage capitalist cruelty, combining mass incarceration with monopolies. Even if you're not imprisoned, this story is haunting, because on the one hand, America keeps thinking of new reasons to put more people behind bars, and on the other hand, every technological nightmare we dream up for prisoners eventually works its way out to the rest of us in a process I call the "shitty technology adoption curve." As William Gibson says, "The future is here, it's just not evenly distributed" – but the future sure pools up thick and dystopian around America's prisoners:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/02/24/gwb-rumsfeld-monsters/#bossware

My background interest in the subject got sharper a few years ago when I started working on The Bezzle, my 2023 high-tech crime thriller about prison-tech grifters:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865878/thebezzle

One of the things that was on my mind when I got to work on that book was the 2017 court-case that killed the FCC's rules limit interstate prison-call gouging. The FCC could have won that case, but Trump's FCC chairman, Ajit Pai, dropped it:

https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2017/06/prisoners-lose-again-as-court-wipes-out-inmate-calling-price-caps/

With that bad precedent on the books, the only hope prisoners had for relief from the FCC was for Congress to enact legislation specifically granting the agency the power to regulate prison telephony. Incredibly, Congress did just that, with Biden signing the "Martha Wright-Reed Just and Reasonable Communications Act" in early 2023:

https://www.congress.gov/bill/117th-congress/senate-bill/1541/text

With the new law in place, it fell to the FCC use those newfound powers. Compared to agencies like the FTC and the NLRB, Biden's FCC has been relatively weak, thanks in large part to the Biden administration's refusal to defend its FCC nomination for Gigi Sohn, a brilliant and accomplished telecoms expert. You can tell that Sohn would have been a brilliant FCC commissioner because of the way that America's telco monopolists and their allies in the senate (mostly Republicans, but some Democrats, too) went on an all-out offensive against her, using the fact that she is gay to smear her and ultimately defeat her nomination:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/19/culture-war-bullshit-stole-your-broadband/

But even without Sohn, the FCC has managed to do something genuinely great for America's army of the imprisoned. This week, the FCC voted in price-caps on prison calls, so that call rates will drop from $11.35 for 15 minutes to just $0.90. Both interstate and intrastate calls will be capped at $0.06-0.12/minute, with a phased rollout starting in January:

https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2024/07/fcc-closes-final-loopholes-that-keep-prison-phone-prices-exorbitantly-high/

It's hard to imagine a policy that will get more bang for a regulator's buck than this one. Not only does this represent a huge savings for prisoners and their families, those savings are even larger in proportion to their desperate, meager finances.

It shows you how important a competent, qualified regulator is. When it comes to political differences between Republicans and Democrats, regulatory competence is a grossly underrated trait. Trump's FCC Chair Ajit Pai handed out tens of billions of dollars in public money to monopoly carriers to improve telephone networks in underserved areas, but did so without first making accurate maps to tell him where the carriers should invest. As a result, that money was devoured by executive bonuses and publicly financed dividends and millions of Americans entered the pandemic lockdowns with broadband that couldn't support work-from-home or Zoom school. When Biden's FCC chair Jessica Rosenworcel took over, one of her first official acts was to commission a national study and survey of broadband quality. Republicans howled in outrage:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/10/digital-redlining/#stop-confusing-the-issue-with-relevant-facts

The telecoms sector has been a rent-seeking, monopolizing monster since the days of Samuel Morse:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/18/the-bell-system/#were-the-phone-company-we-dont-have-to-care

Combine telecoms and prisons, and you get a kind of supermonster, the meth-gator of American neofeudalism:

https://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/tennessee-police-warn-locals-not-flush-drugs-fear-meth-gators-n1030291

The sector is dirty beyond words, and it corrupts everything it touches – bribing prison officials to throw out all the books in the prison library and replace them with DRM-locked, high-priced ebooks that prisoners must toil for weeks to afford, and that vanish from their devices whenever a prison-tech company merges with a rival:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/02/captive-customers/#guillotine-watch

The Biden presidency has been fatally marred by the president's avid support of genocide, and nothing will change that. But for millions of Americans, the Biden administration's policies on telecoms, monopoly, and corporate crime have been a source of profound, lasting improvements.

It's not just presidents who can make this difference. Millions of America's prisoners are rotting in state and county jails, and as California has shown, state governments have broad latitude to kick out prison profiteers:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/08/captive-audience/#good-at-their-jobs

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/19/martha-wright-reed/#capitalists-hate-capitalism

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CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

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#pluralistic #prison tech #fcc #martin hench #marty hench #the bezzle #captive audiences #carceral state #worth rises #bezzles #Martha Wright-Reed Just and Reasonable Communications Act #capitalists hate capitalism #shitty technology adoption curve

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weirdmarioenemies · 1 year ago

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If you are a Fan of the Mushroom Kingdom, you've certainly heard the news by now, but just in case: Nintendo has recently announced that Charles Martinet is stepping down from voice work in Mario games. He will continue to work with the Mario series, now as a "Mario Ambassador", as which he will "continue to travel the world sharing the joy of Mario and interacting with [us] all".

We're not going to act like this isn't somewhat of a sad occasion. It is! We can assure that we, as Mario Fans, are saddened by the news. That being said, this is not a sad post. It is a happy post, to celebrate the joy and whimsy Charles has brought us with his voice acting for all this time!

Charles Martinet was, until very recently, one of gaming's most unsung heroes. I'm sure most of the public didn't think about him until he was snubbed for a celebrity casting in 2023's The Super Mario Bros. Movie. Even if we would't come to know his name until later on, for all of us here at weirdmarioenemies dot tumblr dot com, Charles Martinet was the voice of the most formative years of our lives, and the times we (and we're sure most of our readers) spent with his characters will stay with us forever. He is also a fairly prolific voice actor outside his roles within the Mario franchise, with credits in everything from Skyrim to JoJo's Bizarre Adventure.

However, Charles and Mario seems to be a match made in heaven, as he really seems to embody the spirit of Mario. Truly, they could not have cast a better talent for the character! Always jolly, kind, silly, and having so much fun, whether voicing the characters for games, appearing at events, or just making his own fun little videos!

It is almost surreal to think that we've come to the end of an era, but at the same time, it represents the beginning of a new one, for both Mr. Martinet and the franchise as a whole! We are so excited to see where both will go from here. We wish Charles all the best and hope he continues to have lots of fun doing whatever it is a Mario Ambassador does! We also wish luck to the new voices of Mario and friends, and hope they have a lot of fun with their roles! With all that being said, from all of us, thank you so much Charles Martinet. For everything.

#charles martinet #mario

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themyscirah · 4 months ago

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What runs/stories do you recommend for someone starting WW? Could you please be specific (/nicely)

Yeah ofc!

My Wonder Woman Starter Recs (specific style 😎)

First stops: for an initial introduction to Wonder Woman, I'd generally recommend going to at least one of three places first. These three are:

Wonder Woman: Historia: The Amazons by Kelly Sue DeConnick

Wonder Woman: Year One by Greg Rucka

Wonder Woman: the Hiketeia by Greg Rucka

Of these I generally recommend reading Historia first, as it's a retelling of the origin of the Amazons as a race and how Diana came to be (so it essentially starts from the beginning) and is also the most recent of the them (if that means anything). Something to note about Historia though is that it's a DC Black Label book, so it's events aren't strictly canon in the main DCU and there are some changes and new elements present. I don't think this is something that should discourage anyone from reading it though, it's the best WW origin story out there, and even in strict main canon over the years her origin is one that has had many fluctuations and small (& sometimes big) changes. WW:Historia is three prestige format (longer) issues.

You'll notice the third book there is WW: The Hiketeia. Hiketeia is a great book if you're looking for a view into Diana as a professional and experienced hero. It's a graphic novel so standalone and not too long, and has a great Diana and really interesting plot (Diana vows to protect a young woman and finds herself pressed against the wheels of Greek Tragedy). This is also the first work with Diana done by Greg Rucka, one of her most prolific and loved writers. A sampling of this work (and also Historia) I think gives a good guide to where to go next in terms of runs on her main title.

Wonder Woman: Year One is the second book on the list up there, but I'm mentioning it last here as it's a bit more complicated in terms of format. Unlike other year one books, WW: Year One is actually a series of issues on her main title, showcasing Diana's arrival to man's world in Rebirth (and also current p sure) continuity. The issue numbering for this one is strange (only the even issues 2-14 on WW (2016)) so I recommend looking for this in trade form if possible.

These 3 books I think give a taste of some of the best standalone stuff in the Wonder Woman mythos, and give the reader a good idea of where they may want to go next in terms of longer runs on the title. So I'll break that down here as a Step 2.

STEP 2: WHERE NEXT?

Here I break down some highly recommended runs based on what they have in common with the standalone books from step 1. As a rule, these runs are going to be much longer than the above and generally more connected to the wider DCU and other books. Look for the italics to see the introduction to each new work. Explanation paragraphs follow after each italic/bold rec.

Curious about Greek mythology in WW and the Amazons' origins after reading Historia? Liked the prescence of a supporting cast and Diana learning about Man's World from Year One? Willing to read a longer run? I recommend: Wonder Woman by George Pérez

George Pérez's time on Wonder Woman totally reinvented the character after Crisis on Infinite Earths, and is fundamental in establishing many core concepts of her lore. At 62 issues, 2 annuals, and a 4-issue crossover event at the end (War of the Gods), it's definitely a commitment to read, but it's the most enduring and well-loved run on Wonder Woman for a reason--it's just that damn good. Lots of focus on mythology (although with a lighter tone than Historia) alongside Diana learning her role in relation to Man's World & establishing herself as a hero and ambassador. Pérez's run also has almost-certainly the most expansive and developed supporting cast in WW comics, something that really drives the emotional core of the series, especially in later issues. Obligatory note that this series was written between 1987 and 1992 and contains some very occasional aspects that I thought were in some way dated/uncomfortable etc. while reading (details of Cheetah's origin, depiction of the Bana-Mighdall, Hercules) but despite that I still highly, highly recommend this run. The word fundamental cannot begin to describe it.

Liked the experienced Diana of the Hiketeia? Interested to see her attempt to balance the high stakes responsibilities of an ambassador and superhero? Looking for some really badass moments and fights? Haven't read enough terrible tragedy? I suggest: Wonder Woman by Greg Rucka 2003 EDITION.

Some of Diana's coolest moments of all time are collected here. Also one of her most controversial. The 1st Rucka run is very much the story for anyone who liked the Diana of the Hiketeia and the tragedy of that and Historia. 2003 Rucka Diana is a Diana tested, forced to make decisions that are anything but easy, and live with the consequences. She's extraordinarily capable, but her enemies know that and are prepared to that end. This run, along with the Pérez run, rank among my favorite Wondy comics of all time (those and Historia are my top 3). This run is such peak Diana, especially in terms of sheer badassery. Her final confrontation with Medusa is in my opinion perhaps the greatest Wonder Woman fight scene of all time. Her encounter with Athena in the second-to-last issue breaks me every time. Cannot recommend this book more.

*a note abt this run is that it is more context-dependent than the other ones listed here, as it's the run that finishes out the Wonder Woman vol. 2 book and so has some guest appearances from characters introduced in other prior runs (Artemis of Bana-Mighdall, Cassie Sandsmark, and Vanessa Kapatelis, to name a few). I read this run before knowing much (if anything) about any of them, and still enjoyed it a lot, so I wouldn't be worried about this really but just thought I'd mention it.

Rucka's 2003 run is published from Wonder Woman (1987) #195-226. You can also find it in trade and I believe(?) omnibus. Sometimes the Hiketeia is included in collections of this series, as the 03 run is thematically similar in many places, just with a much deeper look at Diana and the world & with higher stakes.

Liked the specific characters and plot threads of Wonder Woman: Year One? Want to see what happens with Diana's exile, or learn more about Barbara Ann? Want a Diana in between the extremes of young and highly experienced? Wonder Woman by Greg Rucka 2016 EDITION may be for you.

...yes I'm putting ANOTHER Rucka book on here. He writes a great Diana, what can I say. This run is the same one that Year One came out of, just the follow ups to that story and versions of the characters. I have this run listed as separate from Year One though, as there's some really big time skips since the events of that first volume. A lot of time has passed since then, and there's more history between the characters, not all of it without drama. This run continues to be weird with the numbering, as well as some artist changes, so I definitely recommend looking into reading this in trade format (physical or digital) if at all possible. My recommended reading order is WW 2016 by Rucka vol. 2 "The Lies" (Wonder Woman: Rebirth Special #1, followed by 2016 main title odd numbered issues 1-11), then Rucka 16 vol. 3 "The Truth" (odds 13-23) then Godwatch (evens 16 through 24) followed by 25? But The Truth and Godwatch combine near the end so that doesn't really work either. This run is so good but recommending it is such a pain because the numbering is so all over the place. On God I never know which order to read this in. Going to revoke my previous statement and say read it as Rebirth Special 1, then only odds 1 through 11, then from 13 through 25 normally. That may lead to some weirdness as you read because the two stories take place at different times and have different art styles, but they come together at the end pretty dramatically so I think it's less confusing to read it this way? Maybe? So strange bc this is one of the go to good starter runs and yet it's set up so unintuitively. If someone has a better way to read this then let me know and ill edit, ik this explanation is super confusing bc neither way to read it is totally ideal imo and I feel I definitely read it in a weird order.

Going to call that a good rundown of some of my greatest recommendations in terms of Wonder Woman comics. If anything wasn't fully clear here or anyone (not just anon) has questions or wants to talk abt WW comics/my choices feel free to send as many asks or dms as you want. Have a good day everybody, & as Diana says, may the glory of Gaea be with you <3

#slept on this post for longer than i wanted to but yeah 👍#ive got to go to bed now but this is how id do it #start w the great minis/short ones and then follow your favorite themes into the amazing longer runs #also ik there are some stuff ive seen recommended a lot that arent here. (namely the simone run and legend of ww by liz denae(?) but thats #bc i havent read them yet. also even if so idk if id send them rhere first when this exists #theres sooooooo much rucka on here to be so honest but i dont apologize. there for a reason #also didnt mention the other 2 runs i see starter recommended all the time which is nu52 and tom king bc uh no <3. we dont do that here.#yeah theyre easy to jump on bc they both start with 1 but theyre not a good representation of diana the amazons or why people like diana. or #in tk's case theyre just kind of mid/bad and weird.#idk. not worth mentioning so i didnt #anon if this isnt specific enough for you feel free to follow up. especially about the rucka 2016 because that one is weird with the reading #order and i think i only made it more confusing w my explanation there #diana of themyscira #reading guides #answered

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just-a-little-silly · 2 months ago

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Ikemen Sengoku: Arundhati☀️

A Character Profile (Sort of)

Taglist!

@queengiuliettafirstlady @ike-garden2024 @sh0jun @welp-back-on-my-bs @colourless-hydrangeas @oda-princess @obeymetalesandikemen

Thank you guys for liking Arundhati <33 It means the world!! And as always please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list!!

Name: Arundhati Ayyadurai

Brief Profile.

Meanings:

•Arundhati- Washed by the rays of the sun

•Ayyadurai- Clever

‘Aru’ - [A shortened version of her first name.]

A name she allows those who struggle to pronounce ‘Arundhati’ call her + used by most (if not all) acquaintances and close friends.

Date of Birth: December 5th.

Place of Birth: Kerala, India.

Positions/Occupations:

[Former]: Undergrad at California Institute of Technology (Caltech).

She got a Bachelor of Science degree in Chemistry with a minor in Aerospace Engineering.

[Former]: Model.

An international ambassador for luxury brands [ie. Chanel, Dior, Prada, etc]. Her responsibilities included participating in model campaigning for companies, attending shows and managing brand publicity. She enjoyed her work quite a bit and started working at the age of 20.

[Current]: Kunoichi.

She’s worked for several spy masters of the Sengoku Era. Notably, Mochizuki Chiyome and Takeda Shingen. She currently serves as one of Shingen’s famed Mitsumono.

Current + Most Notable Relationships with the Canon Cast:

Sarutobi/Mikumo Sasuke: Her canon partner.

Arundhati’s main ship is with Sasuke.

Takeda Shingen: Shingen is a father figure to Arundhati and in turn he sees her as a daughter.

Uesugi Kenshin: Kenshin and Arundhati come to see each other as siblings. Oftentimes he will call her his kunoichi (much to Shingen’s ever so slight displeasure considering she is one of his Mitsumono).

—> In truth, Arundhati is both a Mitsumono and a Nokizaru (unofficial but everyone who knows her also knows that she’s just as loyal to Kenshin).

*More will be added later on.

• Alternate AU ships: There are alternate versions of events where Arundhati ends up with the following warlords/characters:

Oda Nobunaga and Date Masamune.

Admittedly, these ships are yet to be explored in depth (I just think the dynamics are interesting.)

More Notable Details:

• Arundhati’s main titles are “Bronze Blade” (her more initial title) and “Kunoichi of The Shining Sun” (what people call her the more prolific she gets).

• Arundhati wears a mask when in her ninja attire for the sake of total anonymity.

A sketch of her mask:

• Arundhati is very proud of being Indian and almost always tries to incorporate her culture into her attire and accessories.

• She speaks fluent English, French, Tamil and Japanese

• Arundhati’s main motifs and symbolisms all relate back to the sun.

• Since all the canon IkeSen characters have animals, Arundhati’s would be a lioness named Mihira.

Brief Background (pertaining to how she traveled back in time):

Aru’s story starts in Paris where she was finalizing arrangements for her marriage to one of her closest college friends and Michelin star chef, Gaël.

She’d been dating Gaël for a few years at that point and didn’t think twice when accepting his proposal. However, their relationship hadn’t always been the best but both parties were trying to ignore how fast it was all falling apart in lieu of focusing on their respective careers.

It all truly burns down when Aru gets a message from her manager informing her of a particularly amazing opportunity to take part in a modeling campaign and establish her own makeup line based in Kyoto. She found it absolutely perfect since both her father and elder sister Ichiyo were based there (context: Aru’s mother, Janaki Ayyadurai, divorced Aru’s father and remarried a Japanese businessman, Harue Akiyama, when Arundhati was eight. Harue coincidentally had a daughter named Ichiyo. Arundhati and Ichiyo became two peas in a pod in record time and have been each other's closest confidants ever since). Ecstatic, she ran into Gaël’s arms when he came home from work that day to tell him the news. Yes, it would mean pushing back dates of their engagement by a few months, potentially close to a year but that wasn’t too much to ask, was it? After all, the opportunity Aru had in front of her wasn’t likely to pop up again. To her it was now or never and she thought Gaël would be supportive.

Gaël was not supportive.

Gaël was furious.

He lashed out at Aru with venomous words, questioning why she refused to get a “legitimate job” with her degree that she’d worked so hard for. In the end, he proposed an ultimatum: the job or being his bride. Heartbroken and rather furious herself, Aru was forced to realize just how awful her relationship with Gaël really was, how little he valued her and how unhappy she was through it all. She ended up breaking off the marriage, the engagement, all of it, then and there.

She booked the next available flight to Kyoto and was off.

She arrived in Kyoto in the wee hours of the morning, entirely unaware that by midnight of that very day, she would find herself 500 years in the past.

But before that, a party.

Arundhati had texted a group chat of her closest, most valued people in her life (apart from her parents) about the situation. She needed good drinks and her loved ones. And thus, she found herself surrounded by friends and cheer in the penthouse apartment her father had bought for her and her sister, overlooking the sparkling cityscape of Kyoto.

That night, after a few too many drinks, the group found themselves wandering the city. They come across the Honnoji monument when thunder claps in the distance and lightning flashes across the sky. A torrent of rain whips down upon them all and in a matter of moments, they’re gone, separated, sent tumbling through time and space- spread far and wide across the Sengoku Era (also yes, the others in the group are all my other OCs for this verse).

Arundhati arrived in the province of Iga in the year of 1578.

(this would be roughly around the time Sasuke arrives in Echigo and four years before Mai in Azuchi).

Now, “arrived” is a rather plain way to put it. You see, she actually happens to crash straight through the roof of one Mochizuki Chiyome’s home. Chiyome would go on to become one of Arundhati’s very first mentors. She teaches Arundhati all the ninja arts in her possession, shaping her to be a legendary kunoichi. While her life is an undeniably dangerous one, it’s also quiet, still and on a good day, tranquil.

That changes two years into her time in the Sengoku Era.

Takeda Shingen, a famed warlord characterized by his brutality in battle and vast, interconnected network of spies, the Mitsumono, comes to hear about some “bronze blade”.

In all honesty, he thought it to be some funky, insane new weapon at first until he heard various accounts and realized they were just about an insanely talented ninja. A ninja who was ridiculously hard to find.

Yet the second the tracks point towards Iga, he’s able to contact someone who most certainly knows quite a lot about this “bronze blade”.

To keep it brief, Shingen and Chiyome are contacts of one another and he manages to get Chiyome to introduce Aru to him. Rather, he gets Chiyome to let him spectate a training session she takes part in anonymously.

It's worth noting that by this time Ichiyo had started a life in Echigo and had mentioned a few times that she had a sister who looked nothing like her, a foreigner and thus, Shingen knew right away that he was looking at Arundhati.

Things go very quickly from there. Shingen reveals his identity, the fact that he knows where Ichiyo is and that he is willing to take her in as a Mitsumono. She accepts and begins the new chapter of her life in the Sengoku Era in Echigo under the banner of the Takeda.

Aru is reunited with her sister and is a crushing, humongous, gargantuan disappointment to Kenshin who thought Shingen was going to bring back a funky blade to spar with. Arundhati responds to this by saying she would very much like the opportunity to kill him. Kanetsugu then recoils in horror and Kenshin has found an addition to his very small collection of favorite people.

—x—

Something I admittedly do not touch upon as much as I should is the effect that such a drastic life change has on Arundhati. This feels like a rather obvious point but I do want to mention it. Aru is light, she’s naturally a warm, welcoming, magnetic person. People find themselves drawn to her because she is charismatic and is able to charm a crowd with ease. At least that’s how she was before traveling to a much darker, much colder time.

Her experience as a ninja obviously reshapes her, changes very core things about her. Here, Aru is otherworldly, distant, detached- just as bright and eye-catching but unreachable, ethereal. Only a handful of people (the court of Echigo, and a few others) can see past that veil.

It’s also worth mentioning that Arundhati is not always a kind person, nor an understanding one (she tries to be but does fail at times), at least not right after the events of traveling back in time.

Even though she is perceptive and loyal, she can be equally as ruthless, have tunnel vision and has lost a part of her compassion throughout the years as a result of what she’d been through herself and what has been done to others. That being said, Arundhati grows. She learns to find the light she once lost and slowly becomes a new version of the person she once was.

#this was more of me rambling about her than a character profile lmaoo #yap yap yap i do #Please excuse any typos I’m sure theres a ton :((#oc #original character #ikemen sengoku #ikesen #art #oc art #ikemen sengoku arundhati #ikemen sengoku sasuke #ikesen sasuke #ikesen sasuke x aru #cybrid ikemen #LONGGG POST

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everybodysinvited · 1 year ago

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LGBTQ+ History! We'Wha

Continuing on from my last post, let's look at another gender-non-conforming historic figure in celebration of Trans Awareness Month!

We'wha was a Zuni Native American from the 19th century who gained notoriety and fame for their prolific work as a cultural ambassador and educator on Zuni culture. We'wha was lhamana, which is someone, who takes on both female and male orientated roles within their tribe as well as dressing in male and female clothing.

"The Zuni lhamana, like other Indigenous social, cultural and ceremonial roles, exist in an Indigenous matrix...[lhamana] cannot be reduced to a conventional set of gender roles or even modern transgender or genderqueer ones" - quote from Wikipedia page 'Lhamana'

It's important we celebrate other gnc identities throughout history as it helps once again, reiterate the statement that queer has always been here! Plus it's fun to learn!

Image & text descriptions in ALT

#education #sex educator #everybodys invited #teaching #lgbtqplus #lgbtq history #lgbt history #lgbtqia #lgbtq community #queer history #trans awareness #transgender awareness week #transgender awareness month #gender identity #we'wha #id included #id in alt text

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scifigeneration · 2 months ago

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Carl Sagan’s scientific legacy extends far beyond ‘Cosmos’

by Jean-Luc Margot, Professor of Earth, Planetary, and Space Sciences at the University of California, Los Angeles

On Nov. 9, 2024, the world will mark Carl Sagan’s 90th birthday – but sadly without Sagan, who died in 1996 at the age of 62.

Most people remember him as the co-creator and host of the 1980 “Cosmos” television series, watched worldwide by hundreds of millions of people. Others read “Contact,” his best-selling science fiction novel, or “The Dragons of Eden,” his Pulitzer Prize-winning nonfiction book. Millions more saw him popularize astronomy on “The Tonight Show.”

What most people don’t know about Sagan, and what has been somewhat obscured by his fame, is the far-reaching impact of his science, which resonates to this day. Sagan was an unequaled science communicator, astute advocate and prolific writer. But he was also an outstanding scientist.

Sagan propelled science forward in at least three important ways. He produced notable results and insights described in over 600 scientific papers. He enabled new scientific disciplines to flourish. And he inspired multiple generations of scientists. As a planetary astronomer, I believe such a combination of talents and accomplishments is rare and may occur only once in my lifetime.

Scientific accomplishments

Very little was known in the 1960s about Venus. Sagan investigated how the greenhouse effect in its carbon dioxide atmosphere might explain the unbearably high temperature on Venus – approximately 870 degrees Fahrenheit (465 degrees Celsius). His research remains a cautionary tale about the dangers of fossil fuel emissions here on Earth.

Sagan proposed a compelling explanation for seasonal changes in the brightness of Mars, which had been incorrectly attributed to vegetation or volcanic activity. Wind-blown dust was responsible for the mysterious variations, he explained.

Sagan and his students studied how changes to the reflectivity of Earth’s surface and atmosphere affect our climate. They considered how the detonation of nuclear bombs could inject so much soot into the atmosphere that it would lead to a yearslong period of substantial cooling, a phenomenon known as nuclear winter.

With unusual breadth in astronomy, physics, chemistry and biology, Sagan pushed forward the nascent discipline of astrobiology – the study of life in the universe. Together with the research scientist Bishun Khare at Cornell University, Sagan conducted pioneering laboratory experiments and showed that certain ingredients of prebiotic chemistry, called tholins, and certain building blocks of life, known as amino acids, form naturally in laboratory environments that mimic planetary settings.

He also modeled the delivery of prebiotic molecules to the early Earth by asteroids and comets, and he was deeply engaged in the biological experiments onboard the Mars Viking landers. Sagan also speculated about the possibility of balloon-shaped organisms floating in the atmospheres of Venus and Jupiter.

His passion for finding life elsewhere extended far beyond the solar system. He was a champion of the search for extraterrestrial intelligence, also known as SETI. He helped fund and participated in a systematic search for extraterrestrial radio beacons by scanning 70% of the sky with the physicist and electrical engineer Paul Horowitz.

He proposed and co-designed the plaques and the “Golden Records” now affixed to humanity’s most distant ambassadors, the Pioneer and Voyager spacecrafts. It is unlikely that extraterrestrials will ever find these artifacts, but Sagan wanted people to contemplate the possibility of communication with other civilizations.

youtube

Carl Sagan, offering his unique commentary in a scene from ‘Cosmos.’

Advocacy

Sagan’s scientific output repeatedly led him to become an eloquent advocate on issues of societal and scientific significance. He testified before Congress about the dangers of climate change. He was an antinuclear activist and spoke out against the Strategic Defense Initiative, also known as “Star Wars.” He urged collaborations and a joint space mission with the Soviet Union, in an attempt to improve U.S.-Soviet relations. He spoke directly with members of Congress about the search for extraterrestrial intelligence and organized a petition signed by dozens of prominent scientists urging support for the search.

Carl Sagan, speaking out against the use of nuclear weapons, at the Great Peace March in 1986. Visions of America LLC/Corbis via Getty Images

But perhaps his most important gift to society was his promotion of truth-seeking and critical thinking. He encouraged people to muster the humility and discipline to confront their most cherished beliefs – and to rely on evidence to obtain a more accurate view of the world. His most cited book, “The Demon-Haunted World: Science as a Candle in the Dark,” is a precious resource for anyone trying to navigate this age of disinformation.

Impact

A scientist’s impact can sometimes be gauged by the number of times their scholarly work is cited by other scientists. According to Sagan’s Google Scholar page, his work continues to accumulate more than 1,000 citations per year.

Indeed, his current citation rate exceeds that of many members of the National Academy of Sciences, who are “elected by their peers for outstanding contributions to research,” according to the academy’s website, and is “one of the highest honors a scientist can receive.”

Sagan was nominated for election into the academy during the 1991-1992 cycle, but his nomination was challenged at the annual meeting; more than one-third of the members voted to keep him out, which doomed his admission. An observer at that meeting wrote to Sagan, “It is the worst of human frailties that keeps you out: jealousy.” This belief was affirmed by others in attendance. In my opinion, the academy’s failure to admit Sagan remains an enduring stain on the organization.

No amount of jealousy can diminish Sagan’s profound and wide-ranging legacy. In addition to his scientific accomplishments, Sagan has inspired generations of scientists and brought an appreciation of science to countless nonscientists. He has demonstrated what is possible in the realms of science, communication and advocacy. Those accomplishments required truth-seeking, hard work and self-improvement. On the 90th anniversary of Sagan’s birth, a renewed commitment to these values would honor his memory.

#science #science communication #Carl Sagan #astronomy #space #SETI #astrophysics #astrobiology #Mars #Venus #space exploration #extraterrestial life #Comos #Outer space #Youtube

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uldren-sov · 5 months ago

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oc smash or pass

(art done by the lovely @aevari)

tagged by both @camelliagwerm and @sotc (tyty!!) Tagged by two people so you get two ocs!! I had to really comb through the ocs and in the end I had to end up with the titans Synnaeth and Erzsébet. While I would smash all my ocs I do think they're the strongest contenders. So, enjoy!!

Pros and Cons

❄️Synnaeth Ama'stacia

Elven Silver Dragonblood Sorcerer of no small renown and power.

Ambassador and practically elven nobility

Definitely acts like a queen, at least, for better or worse with all the regal bearing and particularity that brings

Exacting, perfectionist, and unyielding, but getting with her means she holds that high opinion not only of herself but of YOU too

KNOWS she looks good and highlights it whenever she can

You'll never need air conditioning ever again and the best person to snuggle with (if she lets you)

Scales. Does get more dragon-like. It's up to YOU if that's a pro or con :3c

Enjoys being in control .... take it how you will :)

🔓 Erzsébet

Prince of Dusk, one of the most powerful Syndicate Princes in all of Zarkany

Loves showing off and the extravagance that her position brings

But that's only one half of the coin

beneath the mask, the reality is she's a woman of the people, compassionate and kind

Chalktown native (the poorest borough of Zarkany) and supporter of the people first and foremost

Revolutionary and the most prolific thief in Zarkany

Big cat lover (rip to anyone with cat allergies)

Affectionate and passionate, with an emphasis on the passion

as opposed to the STICK BUG that synne is, erzsy definitely has some assets she shows off :3c

World hard and cold, tiddy warm and soft

Adventurous - in more ways than one ;)

going to tag: @plushchimera @cytharat @meonlyred @fetabathwater @shaydh as always feel free to ignore or change around the format as you like!!

#oc meme #poll meme #oc smash or pass meme #i so wanted to put camy on here but there's no weight class that she could compete in #like have my baby rockstar with Trauma and then against... who? the god of life death and the sun? the revolutionary academic? the assassin #poor camy.

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renaultphile · 5 months ago

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EF Benson's skating career

I have been having a great time trying to find out more about EF Benson's legendary figure-skating prowess. Here are the only pictures I could find of him in a pair of skates:

Of course he has written prolifically on on the subject, including a detailed handbook of the 'English' style, and a wonderful book on Winter sports in Switzerland, which is worth a look just for the stunning photographs by Mrs Aubrey le Blond who also took the photos above.

There was one thing I couldn't verify and that is the oft-repeated claim that he represented England in International competition. I think perhaps that might be an exaggeration, but I would love it if anyone had any information on it. There's no doubt though that he was passionate about the sport and a great ambassador.......

#E.F. Benson #Figure skating #early days #Winter sports

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deadpresidents · 8 months ago

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James Buchanan's Advice to Abraham Lincoln

John Hay was one of America's greatest diplomats. He served overseas during the Administrations of Andrew Johnson and Ulysses S. Grant, worked in the State Department of Rutherford B. Hayes, and held the nation's top two diplomatic posts -- Ambassador to the Court of St. James and Secretary of State under Presidents William McKinley and Theodore Roosevelt.

Hay also may have been one of 19th Century America's most prolific and talented writers, an astute observer of everything and everybody. Late in life, he and his close friend, Henry Adams, became such institutions of Washington, D.C. society that today the Hays-Adams Hotel is literally one of Washington, D.C.'s great institutions.

But in March 1861, the 22-year-old Hay was in the nation's capital for the very first time, and he was there as one of the two private secretaries (along with John George Nicolay) to Abraham Lincoln, who was about to be inaugurated as President of a rapidly fracturing United States. Even at that young age, however, Hay's gift of observation were apparent -- and one of the reasons why Lincoln had brought the young man with him to Washington from Illinois.

On March 4, 1861, Lincoln was inaugurated as President, and Hay was nearby when Lincoln met with the outgoing President James Buchanan. With Southern states seceding and Civil War approaching, Hay was curious to hear what advice or words of warning President Buchanan might have for his successor. As Hay later wrote, "I waited with boyish wonder and credulity to see what momentous counsels were to come from that gray and weather-beaten head. Every word must have its value at such an instant."

Buchanan had spent decades in Washington and was arguably the most experienced person to ever be elected President when he won the 1856 election to succeed President Franklin Pierce. Despite his vast experience, however, Buchanan's Presidency had taken place in the midst of one of the most difficult moments in American history -- a moment that Abraham Lincoln was now sharing. As John Hay listened carefully, the 15th President, with his head cocked to the left to compensate for the fact that one of his eyes was nearsighted and the other was farsighted, spoke to the 16th President.

What Buchanan said to Lincoln was indeed memorable to Hay, albeit not very momentous: "I think you will find the water of the right-hand well at the White House better than that at the left." Hay would recall that Buchanan "went on with many intimate details of the kitchen and pantry. Lincoln listened with that weary, introverted look of his, not answering, and the next day, when I recalled the conversation, admitted he had not heard a word of it."

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xx-meowcchiatto-xx · 8 months ago

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xX_ummm well ? don't know how long ?t was actually there ?t smelled we?rd yestern?ght and got way worse ton?ght so hopefully not long but ?m ok!!!!!!! ?t was mak?ng me l?ghtheaded so ? called to get ma?ntenance on ?t......... ? d?dnt th?nk ?t was ser?ous enough for a sufferh?ve v?s?t so um!!! ?m just at a fr?end's h?ve for now................. my head feels better_Xx

xX_?t was the ac spec?f?cally!!!!!_Xx

xX_there was a gas leak ?n my h????ve ;__; ........ ?t's ok now but l?fe would be so much eas?er ?f someone culled meeeeeee_Xx

xX_rattl?ng my l?ttle scarbucks branded coffee mug aga?nst the bars of my sh?tty enclosure and cry????nnnggggg_Xx

#prolific ambassador #affoGATO post

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uwmspeccoll · 2 years ago

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Staff Pick of the Week

Ernest Thompson Seton (1860-1846) was a prolific Canadian-American author and wildlife artist, who was also one of the founding pioneers of the Boy Scouts of America. Woodland Tales is a reflection of his interests in the natural world, consisting of short stories about animals and the seasons. He split the book up into parts that he labeled as “Things to see in Springtime” or “Things to see in Wintertime,” with matching short stories. Throughout the book you can find many of his illustrations.

I was shelving something else when I found this book on accident, and I’m glad I opened it. The illustrations and stories vary between feeling like it’s something out of a fairy tale to something more scientific, such as a field guide. As a nature-lover myself, this book was a great find!

This particular edition is the 1922 printing of the book, originally published in 1921 by Doubleday, Page & Company In Garden City, N.Y. Another interesting thing about the book is the curious details I learned about Doubleday when researching it. For instance, during the relocation of the firm to Garden City in 1910, some of their operations were done out of a train station! The founder Frank Nelson Doubleday either ghost wrote or edited John D. Rockefeller’s autobiography, and he was also friends with Mark Twain and Rudyard Kipling. Another interesting thing to note is that one of the company’s partners, Walter Hines Page, was also the ambassador to Great Britain during World War I. The Doubleday company and later its then president and CEO Nelson Doubleday, Jr., the grandson of the founder, owned the New York Mets baseball team from 1980-2002. What quirky little things to learn!

Beginning in the late 1980s, Doubleday began a series of mergers, becoming a a division of Random House in 1998 and merging with Knopf Publishing Group in 2009, which today is part of Penguin Random House. I ended up learning more about the publisher than about the author or title, but that’s the rabbit hole one goes down sometimes when selecting a staff pick!

View more posts with illustrations by Ernest Thompson Seton.

View more Staff Picks!

-- Sarah W,. Special Collections Undergraduate Intern

#Staff Pick of the Week #staff picks #Sarah W.#Ernest Thompson Seton #Woodland Tales #Doubleday Page & Company #Doubleday #Frank Nelson Doubleday #Walter Hines Page #Nelson Doubleday Jr.#publishing history

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deepspacedukat · 2 years ago

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One-Way Mirror

This one is way longer than I anticipated, which is the last thing I expected given all the crazy things that happened all at once in the last few days. (Good things, I promise! Just a lot of them lol.) If anyone wants to see the version of Mirror!Shran that I’m writing about, @thylekshran made a gorgeous edit which can be found here. Also, I realize all three of these bois served on different ships/in different places, but for the sake of the story/smut we’re going to pretend they were all on the ISS Enterprise. As usual, italics indicate flashbacks. Anyway, enjoy!

Day 4: Come Inflation

SoC prompt list here. SoC Masterlist here. Cross-posted to AO3 here.

~*~

Mirror!Shran (ST:ENT) x Reader, Mirror!Soval (ST:ENT) x Reader, Mirror!Trip (ST:ENT) x Reader

[A/N: This is smut, so 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI!!!]

Warnings: Interspecies sex, Human/Andorian sex, Human/Vulcan sex, exhibitionism, voyeurism, come inflation, dirty talk, being allowed to watch as an incentive to keep a secret, all acts are consensual, slightly subby!Soval, oral sex (female receiving), mind meld, telepathy, brief mention of torture, Mirror!Archer being prejudiced against Vulcans, transporter accident because of course, Andorian orgasms are...prolific, suspend thy disbelief.

~*~

“I think it’s time you thank your hostess for so graciously allowing you into her quarters, Crewman,” Shran called from his seat on the bed directly behind me. Soval’s eyes were locked with mine as his hands slowly caressed my legs. “Go on. Give her what she needs.”

Kneeling between my open thighs, the Vulcan gripped my hips to keep me steady and licked his way up toward the dampness between them. Whimpering as his slightly-rougher-than-a-Human’s tongue finally began exploring my labia, I let my head droop backward onto Thy’lek’s shoulder. A rough moan from the side of the room reminded me sharply of Commander Tucker’s presence.

How had things spiraled out of control so quickly? One moment I was escorting Ambassador Soval back to the Enterprise from a diplomatic mission, and the next, I felt as though the air had been stolen from my lungs.

I’d swayed as the transporter room materialized around me, my surroundings flickering from the familiar bulkheads and deck plates to something...slightly off. Just before I could topple over atop the transporter pad, though, a pair of strong arms wrapped around my middle, steadying me.

“Are you alright, ma’am?” Soval asked from behind me, and when the world stopped spinning, I opened my eyes. Why did Soval have a goatee? He hadn’t had one when we requested to be beamed back aboard the Enterprise, and why the hell was he in a Starfleet uniform? He’d been in robes only a few moments before. At my confused expression, he looked almost alarmed. “Do you require medical assistance?”

“No, no, I’m fine. I...I just got dizzy for a second, there,” I answered as I attempted to steady myself on my feet.

“Are you sure? We wouldn’t want someone as important as you collapsing on us,” a second voice called, and I looked over to find Captain Archer at the controls, also wearing a different uniform. There were leather straps and odd metallic embellishments. I glanced down and saw that I was wearing something odd, as well - a pair of low-rise uniform pants and what was essentially a cropped uniform top. What the hell was going on, and why was the Captain treating me like I was dignitary? He made sure all his officers knew that we were important, but everything about this seemed wrong, including the giant yellow insignia behind him where the Starfleet logo should be. “I doubt the Emperor would forgive us for allowing his niece to be injured as soon as she beamed aboard.”

Emperor? What Emperor?

As soon as I straightened up, Soval’s hands fell away and he took a hasty step away from me as he averted his eyes.

“Another second and I’d have had to put you in the agony booth, Crewman. You should know better than to touch a Human without permission - especially that Human,” Archer said, and I blinked in confusion.

“My humblest apologies, Commander.”

“You’ll still be punished, of course.”

“No, actually, he won’t be punished. Soval, you didn’t do anything wrong,” I blurted looking between him and my Captain. Was this man really my Captain, though? And was this really Soval when he acted so subserviently? Everything seemed so strange. “He doesn’t need to apologize, and he definitely doesn’t deserve to be disciplined for helping me.”

After a slight hesitation, Archer stood straighter and nodded his head.

“Understood, ma’am. If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you to your quarters,” he said walking around the edge of the control station and offered me his hand. “There are a few propositions I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Actually, I think I’d prefer if Soval showed me the way,” I said, and both men looked at me oddly. “Unless you object...?”

“Not at all, ma’am. I’ll alert the General about your arrival. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you again,” Archer said as he turned to the Vulcan. The venom was evident in both his voice and his expression. “Try not to embarrass us, Crewman.”

The Captain Archer that I knew would never treat anyone with such blatant disrespect and hatred. Whatever this was that I’d stumbled into, I needed to find a way home. Quickly.

Soval had led me down two long corridors before he worked up the courage to break the silence.

“I do not mean to speak out of turn, ma’am, but I am grateful for your intercession on my behalf,” he said, and I looked up at him as we stepped into the turbolift together.

“I only did what was right, but you’re welcome.” We walked quietly for a few more moments before a scream echoed down an adjacent hall. Alarmed, I grabbed Soval’s arm and sprinted in the direction of the shouts until we came across a group of officers watching as a man screamed inside of a clear tube. Was that the Agony Booth that Archer had mentioned? A torture chamber? Stopping short, I felt my heart clench and my face twist in horror. What sort of hell was this?!

Silently, Soval placed his hand on my shoulder and turned me away, coaxing me down the corridor back the way we’d come before anyone even noticed we’d been there. Soon, we’d reached the door to what I presumed were my quarters, and the Vulcan had ushered me inside.

“Ma’am, if I may say so, you seem...unsettled,” Soval said, and I looked over at him as my breathing sped up. “Are you certain that you do not require medical assistance?”

“Of course I’m unsettled! The whole universe has gone insane in the blink of an eye!” I snapped, and Soval flinched as if he was afraid I was going to slap him. My frustration drained away, and I placed a hand softly over his chest. Lowering my voice, I spoke as carefully and deliberately as I could, apologizing in his own language. I hoped that would convince him of my sincerity. “Ni'droi'ik nar-tor. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”

“Du stariben Vuhlkansu?” He whispered as he blushed a deep emerald green. ‘You speak Vulcan?’ I’d been learning the Vulcan language in an attempt to show Soval that...well, that I was dedicated to learning more about the galaxy and about his people. The Ambassador didn’t seem to be the same person as the Soval in front of me, though.

“Ha, osu, tonk'peh goh wuh pi’.” ‘Yes, sir, but only a little.’ Despite my lack of further knowledge, Soval seemed pleased by the information.

“It is an honor that you would know even a single word, t’sai,” Soval murmured with something nearing adoration. “May I ask how you learned a language that is frowned upon by your own people?”

Well, this was the moment of truth. Taking a deep breath, I looked up into his eyes.

“I learned a few words from the wisest man I know - a Vulcan Ambassador named Soval...from you, osu,” I admitted, watching as his lips parted in silent surprise. “The rest I learned with some assistance from my ship’s first officer: Sub-commander T’Pol.”

As I spoke, Soval blushed and ducked his head.

“No Vulcan since Solkar has ever been an Ambassador to Earth, nor could one hold such a high rank within Starfleet. You are mocking me,” he murmured looking more hurt than I could have imagined.

Even now, I couldn’t help but marvel at the openness of his expressions. The look of near reverence that Soval gave me as he made me convulse on his tongue was so unlike that of his counterpart. His neatly-trimmed goatee tickled my skin just enough that I trembled at the sensation.

“What a sight,” Trip murmured as he palmed the bulge in his uniform. Seated on a chair not far from us, the Chief Engineer watched with rapt attention as General Shran’s lips trailed down my neck.

“Beautiful,” the Andorian breathed as he repositioned me. Soval laid back on the bed, and I was lifted onto his lap so that I could straddle his hips. The tip of his leaking lok jutted hot and ready up from his groin, pressing insistently against me. The Vulcan grasped my waist, letting out a whimper as I guided him to my entrance.

“I’m not mocking you, Soval,” I’d promised grabbing his wrist lightly with one hand and using the other to coax him into looking at me again. “Look within my thoughts. See the truth in my memories. I know you can, because you have done so with me before.”

“You speak of forbidden knowledge and acts which have been banned in the Terran Empire. You claim to know me, yet prior to today, I have only ever seen your image in reports regarding the Empire’s success,” he stated sounding shaken but hopeful. “It is...not logical to assume that you are telling the truth. You are attempting to trick me...to find a reason to punish me.”

“I’m not, Soval, I promise.” Lifting his hand to the side of my face with my own, I noted that his breathing had sped up. “Please...”

Cupping the back of my head with his free hand, Soval began to whisper the phrase I’d heard from him back home on more than one occasion.

“My mind to your mind...your thoughts to my thoughts...” Memories flashed through my consciousness as he sifted through them, then they paused on the day that I met Ambassador Soval. A wave of emotion floated across our connection, and this Soval’s voice came out rough and quiet. “That is me, but...how...?”

Eventually, he severed the meld and looked at me in wonder.

“You...are not the Emperor’s niece. You are the woman I just saw...a Lieutenant from another place...another universe in which...all species are equal,” he whispered as if it was some terrible secret. Given everything that I’d seen so far, I supposed that it was. “More than that, you care for the Soval whom you showed me.”

Nodding my head silently, I stood on the tips of my toes and kissed away the single tear that had fallen before wrapping my arms around him. He’d hesitated for barely a breath before returning the gesture and holding me close.

The contrast between Vulcan strength and the gentleness of Soval’s touch was evident then just as it was as he whimpered and groaned beneath me. Lifting his hands to my lips, I kissed his fingertips and skimmed my teeth gently against his palms. A pair of blue hands wrapped around my hips, taking turns strumming my clit.

One of Soval’s hands slid up and cupped my cheek, easing his thoughts into my head.

“Ashaya, I give myself to you in the hopes that you find me worthy,” he thought at me just before he gave a strained shout. With a few final, stuttered thrusts, he buried himself inside me as deeply as he could and released, pulling me over the edge with him.

When I finally melted back against Thy’lek’s chest, Trip moaned, and the three of us looked over to see him masturbating to the sight of the three of us.

“It seems we have a captive audience,” I murmured, and a light, airy laugh breezed across my neck from the Andorian holding me.

“Well, ain’t that cute?” Soval and I both started at the sound of Commander Tucker’s voice. Turning slightly, I saw him leaning against the doorway that presumably led to the bathroom. That was definitely Trip, but something had happened to his face. A plasma burn? The aftermath of an explosion? Despite what may have caused it, half of his face was one big scar. My stomach churned at the sight of a man who was my friend looking so injured and...well, menacing as he pointed the tool he was using at me. “I woulda never thought the Emperor’s favorite niece was soft for Vulcans. It would be a shame if the General found out. After all, your fiancé isn’t exactly an understanding man.”

Fiancé? What the hell was he talking about? Swallowing nervously, I tried to logic out how I should approach this situation, but Soval spoke up before I could.

“Then I suppose Captain Forrest and Commander Archer should be notified of your indiscretion with T’Pol,” he stated sounding more confident than I’d yet heard him.

“You keep your pointed ears out of this, Crewman,” Trip snarled leveling a glare at him before turning back to me. “Now, how about the two of us discuss this situation like civilized Humans?”

“How about you go fuck yourself?” I retorted taking a small step toward Trip. We were so busy getting ready to tear each other to pieces that none of us heard the door to my quarters open with a hiss.

“Having a party, are we?” The three of us turned at the question, and my eyes went wide at the sight of Thy’lek standing in the doorway. He was here in this strange place - yet another familiar face playing an unfamiliar part - but more than that, he looked different. He was missing his right antenna, his left eye was a milky white that spoke of blindness, and a scar stretched across it vertically from brow bone to cheek. He took a few steps inside the room, glancing between myself, Trip, and Soval.

“Sorry, General. I’m just finishing up a repair on this shower unit. I should be finished in just a moment,” Trip said gesturing to the panel that was still hanging off the wall. “Unless you’d prefer I finish later–”

“No. Carry on, Tucker,” Shran said quietly, never taking his eyes from me. “And the Vulcan?”

Soval didn’t seem especially ready to speak after his burst of confidence moments before, so I answered in what I hoped was a steady-ish voice.

“I felt a bit dizzy getting off the transporter pad earlier. Soval was kind enough to make sure I got back here safely,” I said, and he glanced over at the Vulcan for a moment. Soval’s eyes were still downcast, as if he was in a room with superiors, or something. He’d said something about Vulcans not being equals in this Empire, so I suppose this sort of behavior was conditioned into him.

That didn’t mean I had to like it, though.

“Yes, I was alerted about your unsteadiness almost as soon as it happened,” Shran said turning his attention back to me and closing the distance between us with a few final steps. Reaching out and moving a lock of hair behind my ear, I couldn’t stop the way my breath hitched in my chest at the tenderness of his movements. Thy’lek looked at me curiously for a moment before carefully cupping my cheek. After the confusion and fear and harshness that was prevalent in this strange universe, I welcomed this instance of gentleness, closing my eyes as I leaned into his touch. When he spoke again, his voice was so low I nearly missed it. “You’re not afraid of me anymore...?”

The ease with which this Thy’lek was able to make me feel comfortable and safe was almost startling. Apparently, no matter how many iterations of him I encountered, I was bound to feel like I belonged around him.

As he lifted me off of Soval’s lok and swiftly slotted himself inside of me, I whimpered at the sensation of being stretched in an entirely new way. I didn’t get a chance to look at what exactly he was hiding beneath that uniform of his, but it was a very different shape than what I was expecting.

“Are you alright?” Thy’lek whispered, pausing to give me time to adjust to him. He trailed kisses and barely-there bites down my shoulders. It struck me that even this battle scarred and hardened version of my friend was gentle and considerate. There wasn’t a question in my mind about whether or not I could trust him not to hurt me.

My eyes snapped open at his question, but I didn’t pull away from his hand. Had the other me really been afraid of him?

“Should I be afraid of you?”

“No, but...that never stopped you before,” he murmured. “I have never known you to be afraid of anyone or anything...except me, of course. Was it my eye...my scar?”

This whole universe had to be composed of opposites. I had always felt safe with Thy’lek. Reaching up, I braced my hands on his shoulders and kissed his cheek.

“I think it makes you look strong. That scar is a physical reminder of the difficulties you’ve overcome, the things that you’ve survived. If I was afraid of you before, then I was an idiot,” I whispered as his eyes widened.

“...Are you sure that you’re my fiancée?” Shran asked in an awed sort of voice. “I realize that the emperor ordered you to agree to this marriage. Despite rumors to the contrary, I have no intention of harming you. You’re not obliged to lie to me about how you feel.”

“Thy’lek...I’m not afraid of you,” I promised, and almost before I stopped talking, he was on me, kissing me as gently as I always imagined that my universe’s Shran would.

“General, I never pegged you as the type to be on the side of a Vulcan sympathizer,” Trip called from the side where he stood with his arms crossed and smug smirk across his lips.

Ah, shit.

The Andorian in my arms pulled back slightly, looking between myself and Soval with a renewed type of understanding in his eyes.

“There’s a first time for everything, Tucker,” Shran responded drawing himself to his full height and grasping my hands. “I’ll protect both you and Soval.”

“Why?” I couldn’t stop the surprised question from tumbling between my lips.

“You’ll be my wife in a few weeks. Besides, I’m the one who was given this betrothal as a favor from your uncle. The least I could do is protect the gift I’ve been given,” he murmured, and I blinked up at him.

Soval finally raised his eyes and looked at my fiancé in astonishment before taking a slow step toward us.

“Do you care for her, Crewman?” At Soval’s blushing nod, Shran smiled. “Then spend the evening with us. Andorians are used to having four people in sexual encounters. Three isn’t so different of a number, as long as you’re alright with that, of course?”

I was already in an upside down universe. Why not? What harm could it do to enjoy myself while I was trapped in this hell of a place? Both men were attractive in their own ways in my universe as well as this one. Besides, getting home would be difficult. If I didn’t manage it, at least I’d have cultivated some positive companionship.

“I look forward to it,” I murmured as I met Soval’s gaze, feeling my heart speed up in my chest.

“As for you,” Thy’lek growled as he walked toward Tucker, pulling his ushaan-tor from its sheath. “You have two options. The first is that I tear your head from your shoulders and claim you assaulted the emperor’s niece. Not a soul would dare question me. The second is that I give you an incentive, and you remain silent and alive. Choose. Now.”

“Do I get to pick the incentive?” The Engineer’s eyes bounced between the man and the blade.

“Choose your next words carefully, or they may be your last,” Thy’lek warned, but ‘careful’ didn’t seem to be in this Trip’s vocabulary.

“You and the little princess seem to have chemistry. Since Pointy, here, is allowed to stay for the show, I want to stay, too,” Tucker said looking me up and down. “Never seen a gal take both an Andorian and a Vulcan before.”

The General let out an incredulous huff of laughter.

“Is that all? Poor boy. Did your little Vulcan beauty give you up after her pon farr ended? You must not have been that good of a fuck, then,” Shran crooned as he pulled me into his arms. The wide-eyed look of embarrassment plastered across Trip’s face made the General laugh. “Oh yes, the whole ship knows about that. Ah well, I don’t see the harm in indulging you. Better to keep the troops happy than to have them stab me in the back. Unless, of course, you’re not comfortable with that?”

Directing his last question at me, Thy’lek gave me a smile that was eerily similar to that of his counterpart. I gave in instantly and dragged him into a kiss.

Soval sat up beneath me, and his lips met mine just as Shran’s met that sensitive spot just below my ear. As the Vulcan’s fingers brushed over my clit, I let out a muffled shout against his mouth. The General gave a few rough grunts, then stilled inside me, filling me more than I thought was possible. Looking down when I felt my abdomen grow taught, I noted with an exhausted sort of disbelief that there was a slight bulge where he’d fucked me full of his seed.

Trip let out a strangled shout from his seat as he came as well, but none of the three of us paid any attention. We were too busy catching our breath and melting into one another.

“You’re not her, are you?” Thy’lek murmured against the side of my head a few moments later as Commander Tucker took his leave. I froze. Soval’s eyes met mine, and he seemed as curious as I did about what the General would say next. “You keep looking at me like...like you’re surprised that I look this way...as if I’m not worth less than you just because I’m Andorian. She hated me simply for existing as I am. You can’t be her, so...who are you?”

“I’m her, only I’m from another place...some sort of parallel universe, I think.” I felt his breath gust over my skin at my answer, and he held me just a little tighter. “I don’t know how I got here.”

“Then I’ll try my hardest to get you home. If...If I can’t–”

“If you can’t, then I’ll at least have you and Soval to protect me,” I replied kissing his cheek. “I only hope that my counterpart hasn’t caused too much damage in my universe...”

~*~*~

Vulcan Words:

Ni'droi'ik nar-tor. = I am sorry.

Du stariben Vuhlkansu? = You speak Vulcan?

Ha, osu, tonk'peh goh wuh pi’. = Yes, sir, but only a little.

t’sai = lady, madam

~*~

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@android-boyfriends @attention-bajoranworkers @bigblissandlove1 @darkmattervibes @emilie786 @horta-in-charge @live-logs-and-proper @slutty-slutty-vulcans @starrynightgardens @toebeans-mcgee @wafflingchemist

#deepspacedukat fic #Mirror!Shran x Reader #Mirror!Soval x Reader #Mirror!Trip x Reader #I'm not sure how well this came out #I'll probably have to rework this at some point in the future #SWEET MOTHER OF PEARL THIS TOOK SO LONG TO EDIT

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