#the search system here may be awful but man

[sagesparrow394]

Bro avoiding spoilers on twitter is so hard what do you mean I have to mute 50 different versions of “//jrwi riptide oneshot spoilers” I mean “//jrwi oneshot spoilers” I mean “//riptide oneshot spoilers” I mean “//jrwi riptide spoilers” I mean-

[little-diable]

A secret to hold, a secret to share –Professor Aaron Hotchner (Profiling 101 Series, Part 6/?)

Chapter six, here we go! Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated. Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: The reader enrolls in professor Hotchner's class "Profiling 101", a man she has always looked up to, a man who treats her like an asshole from day one. Will her need for academic validation manage to push the two closer together? Will her bright mind push her into the world of Aaron Hotchner and the BAU team? Will he manage to keep his distance before the world he tries to protect her from can get its grasp on her?

Warnings: 18+, full on smut (finally), oral, piv, some tension

Pairing: Professor!Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader (2.7k words)

Profiling 101 Series Masterlist

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Seven

“Have you all read the email I sent you Friday evening?” Aaron Hotchner’s voice echoed through the room, eyes searching the crowd of students, actively avoiding (y/n)’s gaze. A sigh threatened to leave her, wondering if he’d ever go back to treating her like he had done the morning they had spent in his bed before the situation had escalated into whatever it was now. 

Since most of them shook their heads, not daring to look at the frowning professor, he let go of a deep exhale, clearing his throat to start speaking once again,  “Next week we will start with our presentations, you can choose any case, active or historic. The case will also be the topic of the paper you’ll have to hand in at the end of the semester, so choose something you’ll find enough literature and information on. I don’t think I need to tell you that you need to focus on profiling and how the cases should be worked with.” 

(Y/n) couldn’t stop the wave of excitement from flushing through her, no matter how awkward things were between her and Aaron, she wouldn’t allow their back and forth to stop herself from being excited about researching and presenting something she loved to focus on. Giddiness shook through her system as she scribbled down notes, barely listening to him reminding his students that they needed to email him their topic and their preferred date for their presentation. 

Aaron was once again cut short by the fleeting time, ending the class with a loud “I’ll see you next week” leaving him. The second the words left him though, his eyes snapped towards (y/n), finally, tilting his head towards the door to wordlessly ask her to meet him outside. It felt like a déjà-vu, reminding her of the awful conversation they had shared the last time she had been in his office.

Nervousness guided her every step as she met him outside the room, following him through the crowd of students to find their way to his office. Nothing had changed since the last time she had been in the room, plopping down on the black couch that felt all too comfortable. 

“I need to apologise for the way I spoke to you at the BAU, (y/n). I have to admit it took me a while to see through this mess, but the team is quite fond of you, they know how to guide me whenever needed.” A surprised huff left (y/n), barely audible, yet loud enough to draw a low chuckle from Aaron. “It’s not my intention to play any games, as you called it. But being around you confuses me, I meant it when I told you that I can’t understand what you’re making me feel. It’s wrong of me to have these desires, you’re my student, and you’ll probably join the BAU fairly soon, adding another line I shouldn’t, can’t cross.”

“So, where does that leave us?” (Y/n) whispered her words, eyes snapping down to her hand as Aaron’s big one found hers, fingers slowly interlacing themselves with hers. Silence engulfed the two, slowing their racing heartbeats, and relaxing into the couch they were sitting on.

“The rational decision would be to leave whatever there may be between us in the past.” With a hum leaving her, (y/n) squeezed Aaron’s hand, hoping that the touch may encourage him to keep on speaking, to mention another way out of the mess they were tangled in. But he kept quiet, momentarily allowing her mind to wander, focusing on the thoughts she had pushed away for the past hours.

Ever since she had received the text, (y/n) had been wrecking her head, trying to figure out who could be the one that had messaged her. She hadn’t told anybody about it yet, not wanting to take away the team’s attention from more important tasks. But even though (y/n) tried to distract herself, she couldn’t shake the anxiety sticking to her. An anxiety only Aaron could eventually free her from, she was sure of it. 

“I don’t want to leave this behind, Aaron.” His free hand found her cheek, watching her move closer with a soft smile growing on his lips. The sight had something almost unfamiliar to it, a sight she hoped she’d never forget. “But I guess we can opt to meet in the middle. I won’t be your student much longer, and then I’ll not be your student or your team member, at least for a few months. Enough time to figure out where we want this to go without any rules or laws holding us back.” 

“This isn’t fair on you, (y/n).” The soft smile on Aaron’s lips fell as he spoke his words, tongue darting out to wet his lips, thumbs stroking her knuckles. Only the humourless laugh leaving (y/n) managed to force his eyes to snap back up to meet hers. 

“I think it’s on me to decide what’s fair and what isn’t. Don’t take that choice from me, please Aaron.”

……

(Y/n) couldn’t stop her laugh from rumbling through her as she watched the chaos unfold in front of her, wide eyes focused on Spencer and Derek. The scent of freshly made pasta filled her with warmth, hand wrapped around her glass, feet placed in Penelope’s lap. She hadn’t been able to shake off her excitement as Dave had invited her for his pasta night, grateful for the somewhat fatherly love the man shared with her. 

“When did you start working for the BAU?” (Y/n)’s question forced Penelope’s eyes away from Derek, watching him lift Spencer off the ground as if the man had no weight to him. It took her a few moments to reply, mind racing, unable to think through the tipsy fog she was trapped in.

“Years by now, but I’m so grateful about working there, it’s the family I always looked for.” The smile widening on Penelope’s lips had an addicting effect to it, making (y/n)’s smile grow even wider. Deep down they wouldn’t see through the walls she had pulled up, needing to ask questions they’d instantly get suspicious of when they were sober enough. 

“And did you build all the software and stuff yourself, or does anybody share these with you?” Ever since she had received that text (y/n) had tried to figure out who had sent it to her. But even though she knew that it hadn’t been one of the team members, she couldn’t help but wonder if any other agent was behind all of this. 

“Of course I did.” A tipsy laugh left Penelope, fully turning her body towards (y/n). The blonde woman studied her friend for a few moments, leaving (y/n) panicking, wondering if Penelope saw through the questions all too easily. “It’s my baby, of course, I don’t share it with anybody.” Another laugh left her, a laugh (y/n) tried to mimic, drowning yet another sip to let go of her uneasiness. 

Whoever had sent her the text must have managed to hack into the system without Penelope realising it, and follow (y/n) around without her knowing about it. The thought of having a pair of unfamiliar eyes on her left her shuddering, needing to bite down the need to cry about this. 

“I’m about to head home, do you want me to drive you back?” A big hand was placed on (y/n)’s shoulder, eyes drawn from Penelope’s glistening ones to Aaron’s coffee-coloured ones. She shot him a soft nod, rising to her feet before she pulled Penelope in for another hug to say goodbye. Aaron studied her every move, watching (y/n) hug the others before she followed him out of the mansion, cuddling into her jacket to shield her body from the cold evening. 

Ever since their talk in his office, the two had tried to adjust to their new situationship, if one could call it that. While they had settled on the fact that they couldn’t put a label on their relationship till she’d graduated, neither of them was ready to let go of the other, forced to give in to the confusing pulls they felt. 

With one hand placed on (y/n)’s knee, Aaron began to drive them back to her apartment, enjoying the comfortable silence wrapping itself around the two. Even though her thoughts were still racing, trying to figure out who was toying with her, she couldn’t help but feel giddy next to Aaron, grateful that they could finally be honest with their emotions, their longings, and perhaps even their desires. 

“Do you want to come in for a few?” Her soft voice filled his car, watching Aaron ponder over the question before he murmured a soft “Of course”, following (y/n) into her apartment. The second they crossed the threshold, the door fell shut with a soft thud, his lips were on hers, pressing (y/n) against the door. With her hands in his dark hair, she kept him close, struggling to keep breathing as her adrenaline thumped through her veins. 

No words were needed to be spoken as she parted from him, heavily breathing. She took his hand, and led him to her bedroom, squealing as Aaron pushed her down on the mattress. His laughs made her heart skip beats, silently thanking her lucky stars for allowing her to feel whatever she was currently guided by. 

Their lips met once again as his hands tugged her dress down her frame, settling between her thighs with his knees pressing into the mattress. Both tried to drown out their thoughts, fully focusing on one another and the feeling of their bodies searching for their closeness. Within moments (y/n) found herself wearing nothing but her underwear, dilated pupils watching Aaron undress, exposing his scars to her, scars she reached for with trembling fingers, softly tracing them.

With a loving smile widening on his lips, Aaron tilted her chin up, eyes finding hers as he kissed her, pushing (y/n) back down with his hands working on her bra, lips instantly finding their way to her hardening buds. Her moans echoed through her bedroom, urging Aaron to use more pressure, hands fisting his dark roots to hold on before she’d slip away into the new dimension he was about to push her into.

“I have pictured this moment so many times, and yet it had never felt this good.” His confession drew another moan from her swollen lips, hands letting go of his hair to pull him even closer, legs finding their way around his waist. She could feel his hardening cock, begging to sink into her, to feel her walls flutter around him as Aaron fucked her hard, forcing her to forget her name with the intense waves of pleasure swapping through her. 

“Me too, fuck, so many times.” Aaron shot her a smirk as he kissed his way down to her panties, eyes wordlessly asking for permission before he pulled them down her legs, groaning at the sight of her dripping heat. No further word left the tall man, head buried between her thighs to let his tongue explore her dripping heat. 

(Y/n)’s moans reverberated through the room, growing louder, and stronger with every flick of Aaron’s tongue. His name rolled off her tongue as he buried two fingers in her cunt, forcing her walls to adjust to the unfamiliar touch, hoping that this wouldn’t be the last time he’d touch her like this. She tried to watch him, tried to keep her gaze focused on the excitement burning in his pupils, but the second his fingers found her swollen spot, her head rolled back, giving room to yet another moan. 

“You taste so sweet, baby, my perfect girl.” His praises shot shudders down her spine, making her heart skip beats with her lungs aching to cling to some much-needed air. Within a few seconds, Aaron managed to push her closer to the edge, watching pleasure tug on (y/n)’s features with a satisfied grin glued to his lips. “Let go for me I’ve got you.”

She came on his tongue with his name leaving her again and again, riding out her orgasm. Her pants filled the room, slightly groaning as Aaron let go of her, rising to his feet to get rid of his clothes, eyes not breaking contact once. “Are you sure that you want this?”

“God, Aaron, if you don’t fuck me soon I’ll throw a tantrum, I’ll promise you that much.” His chuckles bubbled out of him as he watched (y/n) reach for a condom, stretching it out for him to take. For a few seconds, they were engulfed by silence, allowing the two to momentarily relax as he positioned himself, fingers interlacing themselves with hers before he pushed into her.

Both moaned in unison, eyes fluttering close to relish in the shared closeness, wanting to soak up every passing second. Aaron took his time with his thrusts, not wanting to rush anything, needing to feel her flutter around him, wordlessly telling him how much she enjoyed this. 

“More, please.” Her whispers left Aaron smiling, adding more speed to his thrusts, staring down at her with adoration swimming in his pupils. Both were taken up by their emotions, the need to feel their highs flushing through them, the insatiable need for one another neither of them could shake. 

She sneaked one hand between their connected bodies, circling her pulsing bundle to give her the last needed push, calling out his name as her orgasm flushed through her. He followed (y/n) down the edge a few moments later, groaning into the crook of her neck. Neither of them dared to move, staying connected, limbs and hearts, souls intertwined by the love thumping through their veins.

“How about a shower?” Aaron murmured the words against (y/n)’s lips, pressing a kiss to them before he let go of her, rising from the mattress to get rid of the condom. She could only nod, kissing him once again, allowing Aaron to pull her to her feet. Slowly she guided him towards her bathroom, freezing in their step as the sound of her doorbell ringing echoed through the apartment. 

“I’ll take care of it, you can start the shower.” She watched him leave her side, momentarily disappearing to put on some clothes, but (y/n) didn’t move, body taken up by a weird sensation. Her heart stared racing, mind catching up with the secret she had tried to keep from him, eyes growing wide as Aaron opened the door, eyes wandering down the hallway before they focused on a small wooden box placed in front of her door. “Did you order something?”

“No.” (Y/n)’s whispers left him frowning, eyebrows furrowed as he reached the box out for her to take. Her fingers started shaking, teeth forced into her lower lip. Without needing to open it, she could tell that it was yet another warning, struggling to undo the tight bow that had been wrapped around it. Her heart started pounding as she slowly placed the box down, taking off the lid with a shaky exhale leaving her. 

“I should have known you enjoy playing games, (y/n). Let this be my last warning, I always win.”

Aaron read the words out loud, eyes finding her glassy ones as he reached for the picture that had been attached to the text. Another picture of her and Aaron, drawing a sob from her trembling lips. 

“(Y/n), what is that all about?”

[daphnefisherofficial]

bugna: TAKIPSILIM | destiny's twilight

CHAPTER SIX

Pairing: MCU Moon Knight System (Marc/Jake/Steven) x Avatar Fem!Reader

masterlist | previous | next chapter

CHAPTER SIX - COFFEES, PANINIS, AND MUSEUM DREAMS.

"When Marc mentioned he had a twin, I never imagined you'd be 'identical'," you quipped, shaking your head in amazement as you sized up the man in front of you, who bore an uncanny resemblance to your recent acquaintance, Marc Spector.

Steven flashed a mischievous grin and shrugged apologetically. "Should've given you a heads-up, right?"

You chuckled in response. "Absolutely. But I have to admit, it's a pleasant surprise. I'm thrilled you could make it today."

Amusement danced in Steven's soft brown eyes as he replied, "Wouldn't have missed it for the world. Only a complete fool would pass up this opportunity."

"I like your way of thinking," you said with a grin. "How about grabbing a quick coffee and panini before the program starts? It should kick off in a few minutes. You can join me on the way or hang out with the others inside, your call."

Steven's stomach rumbled in agreement as he chuckled sheepishly. "Haven't had lunch yet, to be honest. I'd love to join you."

"Of course!" you exclaimed warmly. "Let's get some fuel in you before the tour."

Together, you exited the British Museum, basking in the warm glow of the afternoon sun casting its radiance over the historic building's ancient façade. The museum's grandeur never ceased to amaze you. After a few walks, you stepped into a cozy coffee shop just around the corner, where the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and toasted sandwiches filled the air. At the counter, you both placed your orders—cappuccino for you and Earl Grey tea for Steven—along with a scrumptious panini to share.

With snacks in hand, you made your way back to the British Museum's majestic entrance hall, where your professional duties awaited. Clearing your throat, you addressed the eager group of potential tour guide applicants who had gathered there.

"Thank you all for being here today," your voice resonated through the room, capturing the rapt attention of the aspiring tour guides as you introduced yourself. "I'm Mira Batala-Carter, a curator specializing in Egyptian Art, Sculpture, and Written Culture here at the British Museum."

A hushed awe filled the room as the applicants regarded you with admiration. They had come to vie for the coveted position of exhibit tour guide at one of the world's most prestigious museums, and now they were about to learn what it took to secure such a role. Among them, Steven stood out, his demeanor relaxed and enthusiastic as he absorbed every word of your introduction.

"I've had the privilege of working with the Department of Egypt and Sudan for many years," you continued, "beginning as an assistant to one of our previous curators, may he rest in peace. Egyptian culture has always been my bread and butter, and it should become yours as well, considering you've all applied for this position."

The applicants nodded, some exchanging glances filled with nervous anticipation. They knew they were in the presence of someone who lived and breathed the subject matter they so dearly cherished.

"In a few weeks, we will be hosting an exhibition featuring The Great Ennead of Ancient Egypt," you informed them. "We're looking to expand our current roster of tour guides, and judging by the turnout today, it's going to be a highly competitive process."

Pausing for dramatic effect, you let the gravity of the situation settle in. Then, you offered a warm smile, easing the room's tension.

"However," you said, your tone encouraging, "don't view this as a competition. We're searching for advocates—individuals who can convey the rich history of Egypt to a group of five-year-olds and make them want to return. That's your mission."

The applicants exchanged intrigued glances, some breaking into smiles. It was evident that you sought not just knowledgeable guides but passionate storytellers capable of igniting curiosity in young minds.

"Now, let's get into the nitty gritty details of the application process, shall we?" you continued, your voice businesslike once more. "Each of you will have a brief one-on-one interview with me. Following that, we'll proceed with a guided tour for my evaluation."

The applicants nodded in understanding, their faces reflecting a mixture of excitement and nervousness. This was their opportunity to prove themselves in the world of museum education.

"One more thing," you added with a compassionate note, "I will personally inform the shortlisted candidates and provide feedback to those who don't make it, allowing them to explore other opportunities. We value the effort and passion each of you has brought here today."

With that, you concluded your introductory speech, leaving the room buzzing with anticipation. The aspiring tour guides were about to embark on a journey that would test not only their knowledge of Egyptian history but also their ability to share that knowledge with the world in the most engaging and enchanting way possible.

Among the applicants, you spotted Steven, his supportive smile eliciting a reciprocal one from you. Today promised to be an intriguing day, and you eagerly anticipated how it would unfold.

As the tour guide interviews commenced, candidates streamed in and out of your office, their resumes showcasing impressive credentials, extensive educational backgrounds, and impeccable work experiences. They approached you with heads held high, eager to make a lasting impression.

However, you couldn't help but notice the stark contrasts in their demeanor. Some appeared so nervous that they struggled to form coherent sentences, fidgeting in their seats and avoiding your gaze as if you held the secrets to the universe. Their anxiety tugged at your sympathy, despite your efforts to create an informal atmosphere.

On the other end of the spectrum, a few candidates exuded an air of entitlement, seemingly the embodiment of nepotism. They rambled on about their achievements, leaving little room for your questions. It appeared they believed their qualifications alone guaranteed them the position.

A handful of candidates did capture your interest but fell short of something intangible. It wasn't just their impressive qualifications but something in their character and presence that you sought.

Outside your office, Steven Grant sat patiently on a wooden bench with fellow tour guide applicants, engaging in light conversation about their experiences as guides. The amiable British man radiates warmth, drawing some applicants toward him.

Steven shared his journey, describing his transition from a gift shop attendant to aspiring tour guide. Some were impressed by his audacious career change, recognizing the determination it took to make such a leap. Others, however, scoffed at the idea, doubting Steven's chances in this competitive field. Still, a handful of individuals remained encouraging, genuinely wishing him luck with his application.

As the afternoon faded into early evening, the number of applicants dwindled to the final four. Interestingly, Steven would be the last to undergo the interview—the ultimate contender.

"I can't believe this," Steven mumbled, his nerves palpable to the American man residing in his mind. "I think I might be sick."

Stay calm. Marc reassured, ever the embodiment of encouragement. You just need to be yourself and let your passion shine through.

"I'm trying, mate," Steven muttered, exhaling deeply as he adjusted his collar repeatedly. "This is the biggest opportunity I've ever had. I can't mess this up, bruv."

You've got this, Steven. Marc declared with a reassuring smile. You've prepared for this moment your entire life. Remember, you know more about Egypt than all these tour guide applicants and curators combined.

Steven nodded, his confidence bolstered by Marc's words. As the time for his interview with you approached, he took a deep breath, ready to make the most of this opportunity. You finally called his name from outside your office, and he knocked softly before entering. Steven stepped inside with a tentative smile, a mix of excitement and nervousness evident in his demeanor.

"Good evening, Steven," you greeted him with a warm smile, gesturing to the chair across from your desk.

"Good evening, Mira," Steven replied, taking a seat as his voice tinged with a hint of nerves. "Great to see you again."

"Nervous?" you asked, raising an eyebrow as you leaned back in your chair, regarding him with sympathy.

"A bit, yeah," he admitted, shyly scratching the back of his head.

"Don’t be. I don’t do the old-fashioned way of job interviews; they're quite dull," you chuckled, aiming to put him at ease. "Let’s treat this as a normal conversation between friends, yeah?"

"Oh, sure," Steven replied, his eyes lighting up with pure relief as he visibly relaxed. "Just a casual chat then?"

"Exactly," you affirmed. "So, how have you been?"

"I've been doing pretty well," Steven shared, his nerves slowly fading as he launched into his job-hunting journey. "I've applied to a couple of museum and library jobs in the past few weeks. This would be my seventh job interview."

"Interesting," you mused softly before offering an encouraging nod. "Maybe this is your lucky seventh, I hope."

"I hope so too," Steven replied with a hopeful smile.

"Now, I've had a look at your CV," you continued, shifting the conversation to his work experience. "You worked at a gift shop in the National Art Gallery, right? I think Marc mentioned it to me a few days ago."

"Yes, that's right. I worked at a gift shop," Steven confirmed, recalling his most recent job before his dismissal. "I sold museum merchandise—everything from toys and sweets to accessories."

"I see. How was your experience there?" you inquired, genuinely interested.

Steven hesitated briefly before deciding to be honest. "Not too bad, except for some colleagues who barely remember my name, and my old boss who's a living nightmare–”

You couldn’t help but let out a hearty guffaw, prompting Steven’s eyes to widen as he slowly realized what he just blabbered. “Oh, bollocks, I shouldn’t have said that”

"Don't worry about it," you reassured him with a soft chuckle. "It's normal to speak candidly about our superiors, especially if they haven't been good managers, right?"

"I guess," Steven agreed, grateful for your understanding. “Still, me and my bloody mouth doesn’t know when it should shut up”

"I'd rather you be honest and open with me, especially if we'll be working together," you emphasized. "I want us to have a good professional relationship, yeah?"

"That's actually a good point," Steven agreed, feeling more at ease.

"There you go. Much better," you said before finally getting to the heart of the matter. "So, you want to be a tour guide here at the British Museum. Why?"

"Why? Well, that's pretty self-explanatory, innit?" Steven replied with enthusiasm. "This is one of the best museums in the world. Why wouldn't I want to work here?"

"I can't argue with that," you admitted, nodding softly as you made a few notes. "But why the interest in Egyptian history and culture?"

Steven's face lit up with passion as he began to explain. "Egypt is a treasure trove of wonders—mythology, mummification, the study of ancient texts, and archaeological discoveries spanning thousands of years. I could talk about it all night."

"I don't mind," you replied with a curious smile, jotting down a few more notes. "It's fascinating the way you talk about Egypt. Your enthusiasm really shines through."

"Thanks, I guess," Steven shrugged, not quite sure how to respond to the compliment. "I've read and studied a lot about it, for sure."

"I can tell," you said with a knowing smile before moving on to the next phase of the interview. "As you may have heard, part of the application process includes a guided tour."

"Yes, I remember," Steven nodded.

"Don't be nervous. It's designed to assess your tour-guiding skills," you reassured him. "Just be yourself."

"Natural, got it," Steven said, his determination returning. "I'll be myself."

"Are you ready?" you asked, standing and offering him a reassuring smile.

"As ready as I can ever be," Steven replied, taking a deep breath as he prepared to seize the opportunity to prove himself as the ideal candidate for the job.

END OF CHAPTER SIX.

masterlist | previous | next chapter

[yellowkitkieran]

I have a Kieran request🙋🏼‍♀️ hello👋🏻 could I have a fem reader who is Kieran’s girlfriend who plays for arsenal women’s team and Kieran and some of the lads from the men’s team go to watch the CL semi at the Emirates, reader is playing and has a nasty tackle put on her and she tears her ACL and Kieran goes into protective bf mode and comforts her through going to the hospital getting the ACL diagnosis and then the rehab and getting back on the pitch please. Thank you so much 😘

Support System (Kieran Tierney)

Masterlist

Word Count: 2.1k

When Kieran arrived at the Emirates with Martin and Bukayo, he'd buzzed with excitement. Watching his girlfriend play in the semi finals of the Champion's League, in front of a packed house? Hell. Yes. He is the proudest man on earth when he takes his seat in the Arsenal box, surrounded by staff, players, family and friends that had come to see the women's team take on their opponents. 

Everyone's fingers and toes are crossed for a win, of course wanting to see their counterparts through to the final. Kieran goes full fan boy when he sees you step out of the tunnel, standing up out of his seat and screaming at the top of his lungs like you could hear him on the pitch. Your hearing may be sharp, but it's definitely not sharp enough to pick out his voice from the tens of thousands of fans packing the stands. 

When you kiss your wrist four times and pin your eyes on his box, Kieran grins. He knows you see him; you're drawn to him like a magnet, the same way he is when you're watching him play. Kieran is in awe when he sees the switch flip in you, going from cheeky girlfriend to stone cold footballer in a matter of seconds as the Champion's League theme plays over the speakers.

"She's gonna score, I can feel it," Kieran says to his mates with a goofy, excited grin. 

Martin just nods, which Kieran accepts because he knows Martin is analyzing the players with a captain's eye in search of any potential weaknesses. Bukayo matches Kieran's grin, "I bet she will mate, especially with you here! She's got it all to play for. She's their leading goal scorer, isn't she?"

"Got that right! My missus has scored more than even you this season. Her left foot is incredible."

"We could use her on the men's team," Martin jokes, earning him a laugh from his teammates. The trio falls quiet as the captains trade flags and the teams fall loosely into their positions on the pitch. 

The Arsenal women's squad is a force to be reckoned with. The eleven women on the pitch are menaces from kick off, nutmegging their opponents left and right. A general sense of frustration settles over the away fans corralled in their corner, their angry chants rising above those in favor of the hosts. 

You play beautifully, just like always. Kieran shouts encouragements each time you touch the ball, heart swelling when some of your footwork puts his own to shame. God, he could learn so much from you if he had the time to sit in on some of your training sessions. Maybe that's something he'd need to bring up to Arteta-

A simultaneous gasp goes up from fans of both teams, a ripple of unease moving through the crowd as you go down hard from a rough tackle. Kieran swears he can hear your immediate shout of pain, like his senses are hyper aware of what's happened. You crumple to the pitch, fingers digging into the grass. Something tells Kieran you aren't acting, not based on the way your team rushes to surround you.

"That was bad," Martin murmurs beside him. "Like, season ending bad."

"She's still not up," Kieran notes, on his feet and craning his neck to see you on the near touchline. He's too high up, you're facing away from him; he can't judge your expression to get an accurate read on the severity of your injury. But from the way your shoulders shake, he's positive it isn't good. Not at all. You don't cry unless you can't walk it off- if you're sobbing on the pitch, something has gone terribly wrong. His stomach churns and he might be sick then and there. 

Show me you're alright, love. Show me that this is just some showmanship to get you the advantage. 

Focused as he is on you, Kieran doesn't notice the other defender being red carded until Bukayo mentions it. Truthfully Kieran doesn't care; he needs to get to you. That's all he knows. Because you still aren't up, they're bringing out a stretcher board, and that's his final straw. 

"I'm heading down," Kieran says to no one in particular. He snags his jacket off the back of his seat, feet carrying him to the door while the image of you going limp when you hit the pitch replays in his head over and over. 

You're hurt. Kieran has potentially just watched your season end. Your knee bent the wrong way when you went down… nothing about the situation gives him any sort of hope. 

No one tries to stop him as he navigates down to the belly of the stadium, swiping the id card he keeps in his wallet to gain access to the player area. His heart stops as soon as he pulls open the heavy steel door- he can already hear your sobs. 

He half runs to the medical suite, purposely averting his eyes from the changing area attached to it, focused only on you. 

Your left knee is already wrapped in ice. One arm is thrown over your eyes, your pained breathing interrupted now and again with raspy sobs. It's so much worse than he thought. The medical staff doesn't even try fixing the issue, most of them mulling about whilst one woman gently props your knee up so the swelling doesn't constrict your blood flow. 

The few staff members step back when Kieran approaches. He lays his hand on your shoulder, crouching at the head of your stretcher so he can murmur in your ear, "I'm so sorry sweetheart. I'm so sorry."

Kieran's voice only makes you sob harder. Your arms automatically reach back to find him, fingers curling in his hair to the point of pain. He lets you do it though, knowing it's nothing compared to what you're going through now. 

"It fucking hurts Key," you grit out, tipping your head back to look at him with red rimmed eyes. "I'm fucked aren't I? I'm so fucked."

He kisses your forehead, pulling up a chair to sit next to you so you can see him properly. He smooths a hand over your hair, using the other to bring one of yours up to his mouth to kiss your knuckles. 

"I'm not a doctor sweetheart… but I'm afraid I think your season is over." Panic flashes in your eyes. Kieran wants nothing more than to take away that feeling. He wishes he could tell you everything would be fine, that it was nothing more than a sprain. He knows better though, so he waits while you go through a myriad of emotions in the blink of an eye. 

"But the world cup-"

"I know, baby. I know." The last thing you need to do is dwell on what could have been. Your call up had meant the world to you. Representing your country this summer in Australia was all you had been able to talk about for months. Scotland had finally qualified, you were set to be their captain-  you were going to lead the women's team to glory, to their first major trophy. 

"It's my ACL, isn't it?" Your eyes are pained when they meet Kieran's brown ones. "It's torn, I can feel it. No one will tell me what they think, Key." He knows you're asking for a lifeline. You want him to lie. He can't do it- he can't give you that hope when he isn't certain there is anything to give. 

Kieran leans forward and kisses your cheek, lips lingering on your skin. "Whatever it is, you and I will get through it. Together."

Kieran becomes your rock. He's at your side when you're taken to the hospital and told you'll definitely require surgery to repair your ACL. He's the shoulder you cry on when you're given a timeline. The questions fall to him, and he asks all the right ones to get the answers you need. Minimum six months, likely more with rehab. 

"Together," he reminds you as often as he can. "Together, together, together."

*********

"Alright my love, ready to head inside?"

"I think so."

"Let me come get your door for you."

You've not been back at the training grounds since your injury. Silence ruled the car ride, the dewy morning clinging to the atmosphere and further dampening what should have been an exciting day. Yes, you were on crutches and no, you definitely wouldn't be training three days after your surgery, but at least you could see your teammates. 

Kieran had thought that being at one of the places you both feel at home might provide the push you need. Lately you've been plain depressed. He doesn't blame you for it, though he does want to make sure you're pulled out of it as quickly as possible. 

You don't move when Kieran opens your car door. He waits patiently to give you time to process. You stare into space for a solid minute, then jump when Kieran lays a gentle hand on your arm. 

"Sweetheart? Let's go inside and say hello to your girls."

"Oh, um- right." You take hold of Kieran's hand and swing your good leg out first, placing all your weight on it as you stand. Your braced leg comes next, and you rely heavily on Kieran to keep you steady until he can pass off your crutches. Only when you nod does he let go, allowing you to start the slow, long walk to the building. 

Your movements are stiff and awkward. The crutches are an adjustment that you're still getting used to. Kieran is nervous with each step you take, his hand hovering inches from your back so he can grab your belt if you start to tip one way or the other. He is your protector now more than ever. His job is to ensure you make it through this injury stronger than you were before. 

You pause halfway to the door, obviously exhausted. Kieran sets his hand on your lower back and gives you an encouraging kiss to your temple. 

"Take your time," he says softly. He doesn't want you over exerting yourself and causing further injury. 

"This is fucking embarrassing," you mutter, closing your eyes to stave off tears. "I can't even make it from the car park to the door- I'm a professional athlete! I should be able to run for miles and not feel a thing!"

Kieran steps in front of you, ducking his head so you're forced to meet his eyes. "Hey. Hey- you had a very tough injury only a week ago. It's affected you physically and mentally sweetheart, and I know it's a huge challenge. But I promise you, I know you'll bounce back. I'll be cheering for you every step of the way. Together, remember? I've got your back."

Kieran knows he's gotten through to you when you draw a deep, even breath. Your eyes become hardened chips of steel, determined to overcome this hurdle. 

"Alright, let's move."

You make it all the way inside and down to the women's changing room in one fell swoop, Kieran beaming with pride the entire time. He doesn't follow you inside the women's room obviously, but he does hear the immediate cheers from your team as soon as you're through the door. He smiles to himself, leaning on the wall outside and catching snips of what your girls are asking. 

"-how long? Shit-"

"-Is the pain alright? Surely they must-"

"How's Kieran been with all this?"

That's the question Kieran wants you to answer. He sidesteps closer to the door, praying he can hear you through the wood. 

"Key? He's been perfect. I don't think I'd be standing right now if not for him." Your words lift a weight off Kieran's chest. "He says we're in this together and so far he's held his word. It's easier when there's someone in your corner, you know? He helps take away the stress by reminding me what I'm working towards… being out here with all of you again. The good thing is, Kieran won't let me stop until I get there."

[autolenaphilia]

Misandry is not real: Part 4 (i think, whatever)

The analysis on the transunity blog is absolutely nonsensical. And them unironically believing in misandry is a major part of it. Well I have to give them props for being honest and outright saying the word "misandry". Other misandry truthers like genderkoolaid use cutesy neologisms like "anti-masculism". This text is still awful though, and very mealy-mouthed and confused about what it actually claims.

The reason transunity using the word "misandry" is remarkable is because the term originated among the antifeminist men's rights movement which denied patriarchy was real and argued instead men were systematically oppressed by society, which they called misandry.

Of course transunity is trying to spread this term among progressive tumblr folks, so they soften the term. they only describe "the experiences of men affected by a disdain for, or hatred of men." Of course this is how the blog and much of tumblr understands oppression in general, as individual acts of aggression. There is no systemic understanding of oppression, how it creates an underclass out of an marginalized group of people. So this softening of the term actually places misandry on an equal plane with actual oppression.

The posts add the caveat that "In cis society, misandry isn’t systemic." Yet this caveat is dubious in itself, as it reveals a weak understanding of systemic oppression. And it of course starts to be undermined in the following sentences.

"But it is common nonetheless. Misandry becomes more damaging if someone is marginalised alongside being a man." I'm tempted to add that everything before the but is a lie. The article starts treating "misandry" as if it's some intersecting oppression alongside other oppressions. One that apparently even non-marginalised men can experience, by implication.

The two examples the post gives are "the defecit (sic) in mental health support or DV shelters for men." The lack of mental health care being a male specific problem is laughable. They may have a point about domestic violence shelters for men, but that's a very old MRA/anti-feminist talking point.. The MRAs never build them and instead starts relativizing domestic violence by arguing the violence shows a "gender symmetry".

And while the article claims it's not systemic in "cis society", it's apparently part of transphobia. It's one of the three tools of transphobia, so it's apparently an integral part. "when misandry is mentioned on this blog it has a strong trans context attached to it. Applying this to cis dynamics doesn’t work" the writer agues.

Yet this relies on a separation between cis society and trans people that doesn't make sense at all. We trans people live in a cis-dominated and cisnormative society, that's the problem. Trans people might make trans subcultures, "trans contexts", but those are always trapped in cis dynamics. That's why transphobia exists, and it's systemic. So no, you can't claim misandry isn't systemic in cis society and yet claim it's an integral part of the systemic oppression of transphobia, it's a contradictionary position. Any analysis of transphobia can't be separated from cis society. Either transphobia isn't systemic (which it obviously is) or misandry isn't, which is also obviously true.

Now men can be oppressed, but it's never for being men. Men can be affected by racism, ableism, class, homophobia and transphobia and so on. But it isn't made worse by them being men (in fact being male is a privilege), which any comparison between men and women prove. It can often take different forms from the same oppression aimed at women, but that's the absence of misogyny, not the presence of any mythical misandry. (as another person's tumblr post more or less put it but which i can't find now because tumblr's search system is garbage).

Of course, what really got me going here is the vile suggestion that the rote cause of transfem's oppression is misandry, which this article engages in. "For trans women, terfs may apply misandry in a way which misgenders them and uses trans women’s agab against them." Actually fuck you, this is transmisogyny. Calling trans women men is textbook transmisogyny, not misandry. It's the most shallow form of analysis, to go "that terf called a trans woman a man, that means this is actually misandry, i'm so smart." It's looking at the rhetoric transmisogynists uses, and not analyzing the underlying systemic causes.

"midandry (sic) is based on how the transphobes perceive trans people. Not how the trans people actually identify." Actually you are just perpetuating that misgendering, fuck you.

In reality, transmisogyny is a systemic oppression that makes transfems into an underclass, an oppression that men benefit from. For the misandry analysis of our oppression to make sense, it would mean men are part of that underclasss, which they aren't. Misgendering us as men is part of transmisogyny, but our oppression is far broader than misgendering rhetoric.

Sure they call us "men", but it's just hurtful rhetoric. If they actually treated us as men, our position would be a lot different. They may talk about transfems being violent and male, but it's not rooted in any kind of hatred towards men and their violence. In fact it's to justify male violence towards us. In terf rhetoric a trans woman using a woman's bathroom is "male violence", a male cop using violence against her is not.

Transunity says that misandry is "punishment for proximity to masculinity." And tries to understand transmisogyny through that lens. But in fact, transmisogyny is if anything the opposite. Being transfem usually entails rejecting manhood and/or masculinity and embracing womanhood and/or femininity. This is not universal, butch women may not reject masculinity and embrace femininity, NB transfems may not embrace womanhood. But this is how transfemininity is seen.

And in a society that hates women and what's associated with them, that's the ultimate sin. Trans women being assigned male at birth and rejecting in favour of being women challenges the misogyny of patriarchal ideology.

Calling transfems men is a form of violently reassigning us to the gender we have rejected. It's that rejection of maleness that inspires the misgendering, the repeated insistence on a supposed objective reality of our maleness. It's punishment for rejecting masculinity and maleness, rather than the opposite.

The stated purpose of the transunity blog is to promote as the name implies, unity among trans people. A noble-sounding goal. The problem is that it's terrible at doing that. You are not going to get many trans women in your unity movement by trying to rehabilitate anti-feminist concept of misandry. And you are not going to do that by misgendering transfems by taking transmisogynist rhetoric at face value, and attributing to misandry what is actually transmisogyny.

[rookie-critic]

Memories of Murder (2003, dir. Bong Joon-ho) - review by Rookie-Critic

Prior to 2019 (really 2020, if we want to get really specific) there probably weren't a lot of people in the States who could tell you who Bong Joon-ho is if pressed. Nowadays, after Bong's historic first non-English language Best Picture win for Parasite, most people would at least identify the name as familiar, and for good reason. Parasite is undoubtedly amazing; its message is both regionless and timeless, it has superb acting and brilliant cinematography, it is one of the best films of the modern era, if not any era. However, prior to Parasite, back in the days when Bong's fanbase outside of his native South Korea was limited to foreign film lovers and people who really liked Snowpiercer, most people would probably point to his breakout film, Memories of Murder, as his best work, and for a lot of the same reasons that people point to Parasite as his best now.

I'm not entirely sure why it has taken me so long to sit down and watch this considering how much I've enjoyed the other films of his that I've seen, but I'm glad I finally did. Following the true story of the detectives that investigated the Hwaseong serial murders of the mid-80s to the mid-90s, the film works as both a gripping crime thriller and a social satire of the failings of the legal system and the corrupt nature of a lot of its employees. One of our protagonists, Detective Park Doo-man (played brilliantly as always be Song Kang-ho) as well as his partner Detective Cho Yong-koo, are horrible police officers. They fake evidence, they torture victims until they'll confess to anything to make it stop, and they scoff at real investigative discoveries and excuse them as the other detectives "watching too many crime movies" (which in and of itself is an amazing line that both pokes fun at and winks a respectful eye towards the crime films that it follows in the legacy of); all they care about is putting someone away, regardless of if the person is actually guilty of the crime they're accused of committing or not. You can watch the film purely from a plot perspective and be entertained and engrossed, but much like Parasite, the true genius of it lies within this satirical commentary.

The knowledge that maybe the killer could have been stopped, victims could have been saved, if more resources had been poured into actually searching for the real killer instead of trying to put away people who obviously had nothing to do with it is maddening, but somehow Bong is able to inject humor throughout the film that makes all of these frustrating people and darker moments have a brief sense of levity without taking away from the nature of the subject matter. It's truly amazing the way he is able to craft stories that are not only interesting from a surface level perspective, but that contain darker themes and complex social commentary that even casual moviegoers can pick up on and appreciate, and then even with all of that blend comedy and drama so seamlessly you rarely notice the change. Another element of the film that I personally found brilliant, and that I briefly mentioned above, is the way that it seems to be a love letter to the crime dramas/thrillers that came before it and a criticism of them at the same time. If you've been following my reviews for awhile, you'll know how deeply I appreciate films that are able to strike that balance (Scream, Nope, etc.). The ability to acknowledge the problems with a genre without completely dismissing the films that portray those flaws as lesser or bad is something that just appeals to me on such a core level. This may just sound like a meeting of the Bong Joon-ho Fan Club, but it is truly awe-inspiring that he can make a film that has something for everyone in it, and can make everyone enjoy the other bits that, in any other movie, they may not have.

Now, Memories of Murder isn't perfect, it is only Bong's second film and some of those early film maker pitfalls exist here. A lot of the first half of the movie tends to drag a bit, and there may be certain scenes that could have cut or sequences that could have been re-edited to keep that sense of urgency (or maybe even the lack thereof on the part of the detectives) a little more present and flowing. Also, and I know I just got done ranting about how great this exact quality was, but sometimes the injection of humor could overtake the film a little too much. It doesn't happen but maybe once or twice, but I did take note of those moments as something that stood out to me, at least. Outside of these few kinks, Memories of Murder just further proves that Bong Joon-ho just knows what he's doing, and I can safely add another film to the "great" column of his filmography, and hopefully soon I can finish out watching the rest of them.

Score: 9/10

Currently streaming on Hulu.

[magicalbuffalotransformerman]

Swamplanding

[men on man action.]

[as has been posted recently, bonecrusher's current location is unknown. most of the team is focused on the logistics about finding the hunchback, how patchwork'll patch him up if he's injured, how they hope groundrumbler didn't fuck with anything back home.]

[the ones who aren't thinking of the logistics, simply put all of their energy and mental health into finding bonecrusher, no matter the cost. those in particular being the other three corners of the love square {BB, RJ, FM} for mostly obvious reasons, and his older brother who's just trying to see to it that bonecrusher still lives; gravedigger.]

[gravedigger and terraterror have been paired together to search in southern america - somewhere around florida, i would assume - based on some hints gravedigger brutally and also metaphorically ripped out of an autobot soldier.]

[here, we join the two in a small swamplandish area, wading through water as they search for somethin'.]

TT: ...so, fill me in here. what was it that 'bot two days back told you?

GD: oh, nothing in particular. just the fact that bay-op's captured him and is trying to brainwash him.

TT: i take it that's why you haven't been talkative?

GD: tch. sure.

[movement in the area ahead. terraterror and gravedigger's combined attention are locked ahead, their primaries whipped out in a sparkbeat.]

...

[no movements. may have been an alligator.]

TT: alligator?

GD: can't be too sure.

[the two cautiously continue ahead, both decepticons on high alert for any more movement. terraterror's turned his light bars on.]

[every step brings a heightened sense of anxiety within the two. gravedigger hadn't been trained for high-stress situations such as 'stalked in the swamp by an unknown threat', so he's a little more on edge than terraterror is in this situation.]

[...hours pass. the sun passes by overhead, silent as it's always been. the skies darken with every minute. terraterror's light bars are becoming more and more effective the closer the night comes.]

...

[the only thing on gravedigger's mind at this point is just seeing bonecrusher again, preferably alive.]

[a tree creaks, as if it were being weighed down. the decepticons' attentions whip over to the tree in question.]

??: Friendly, friendly. D-don't shoot.

[A wounded Autobot soldier stumbles into view, collapsing in the dirty water of the swamp.]

TT: prove it.

??: Look, I don't mean any harm- [The soldier hacks up a bit of blood, their faceplate having been damaged by the local alligators.] -w... what brings you two here?

TT: looki- GD: none of your fucking business, boy.

??: ...I guess it's too personal for you to reveal to a dying, nameless hunk o' scrap like me, eh?

GD: [approaching the soldier and digging into its back with his claws:] how do i know you don't have a direct commline to any high-ranking autobot scum?

??: K-knowing you Decepticons? Probably won't l-let me prove it before you kill me. I g-get it, just... c'mon. Let me rest for a bit.

[...an all too brief moment of silence is cut short by an irritable growl from gravedigger, whom drops the soldier back into the swampwater as requested.]

??: I take it you're... that one Decepticon's twin brother. Bone... something.

GD: smart bot.

TT: do you know where bonecrusher is?

??: ...He's not on any mainlands.

GD: any hemispheres?

??: Uhh... northern, I think.

TT: any more specific answers for us?

??: Look for Autobot defence systems around the Yukon. Optimus probably put down some turrets.

GD: ...yukon...

[the two decepticons think for a moment.]

TT: ...aw, fuck.

??: [The near-death soldier rights himself, leaning against the tree once more.] What's the sitrep?

TT: we've only sent one guy to yukon.

??: Should probably provide some backup, then - and good luck, as well.

GD: do you want to be put out of your misery?

??: No, thank you. I'll let the native lifeforms rip me apart if I don't die beforehand.

GD: mm.

[terraterror opens up a spacebridge with assistance from nebula over the comms, wiping his feet on the wet grass and wandering through.]

GD: for what it's worth... sorry about the aggression.

??: No, I get it. You're worried for your brother. Don't waste any time on me.

GD: ...alright. rust in peace, soldier.

??: Aye.

[gravedigger turns to leave, hopping through the spacebridge moments before it closes and leaving the autobot soldier to his fate.]

...

[Such is life.]

[electricwhale]

My Tech Norms

In the hustle and bustle of today's fast-paced world, I've found my unique way of navigating life: embracing technology with open arms. I'm an 18-year-old college student studying medical technology in the vibrant and humid city of Metro Manila, Philippines. But I'm also a tech enthusiast who believes that blending modern innovation with our daily lives can lead to exciting and meaningful experiences.

In this corner of the internet, I invite you to join me on a journey where I'll be sharing my lifestyle, one that's deeply intertwined with the wonders of technology. As I tread the path of medical studies and the digital age, I've discovered how technology can enhance our lives. Whether by streamlining our routines, connecting us with people worldwide, or adding a touch of convenience to our everyday existence.

But beyond the gadgets and gizmos, there's a story behind each technological choice I make: a purpose that journeys beyond the screen. I'm here to show you that technology isn't just about the latest trends; it's about how we can craft a lifestyle that reflects who we are and what we value with the countless applications and services readily available to us.

Welcome to my world—where lifestyle meets technology with a purpose.

To start things off, I'll share my understanding of technology. Technology is artificial virtual products that can manifest physically through vision, hearing, and touch. They can come in various shapes and sizes with different purposes and impacts.

Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. I stand by that saying, and to help set a positive and energetic mood for the rest of the day, I complement my breakfast with music. I reside with my family of five, and our place isn't spacious. Therefore, I keep to myself with my earphones to avoid making unnecessary noise.

I mainly stream my music with Spotify. Thankfully, they have a student subscription discount for only PHP75 a month. So, I can listen to my music all day. To top it off, with Spotify's AI DJ, I can never have a dull listening experience.

After breakfast comes my studies. I am a MedTech student at CEU Manila, where the learning modality is hybrid. The mode of instruction is predominantly online through CEU LEAPS. It is from the Canvas infrastructure.

Canvas is a cloud-based learning management system (LMS) developed by Instructure. The service caters to more than 10,000 educational institutions around the globe for both online and hybrid learning modes. Canvas also uses several third-party services, such as Amazon Web Services (AWS) and Google Cloud Platform (GCP), to provide additional features and functionality.

And like how I complement my music experience with an AI DJ, I also partner my studies with what I see as an improved Google search, the new Google Bard. It can assist me with fetching many specific data I may need. My favorite feature would probably be its native Google Drive PDF/Document searching, allowing me to delve into my notes and reference my old works.

Apart from my online studies are my on-site laboratory classes. I often need hard copies of lab worksheets, and that's when my handy printer saves the day. I am blessed to have been able to afford one. It comes with a handy scanner. Conveniently, the printer can be accessed remotely through the EPSON iPrint App.

While on the topic of face-to-face classes, my favourite transport service app is Angkas. The app is the cleanest and most straightforward among those I've tried. When you open the app, you are met with the previous service you've availed. In my case, choosing my pick-up and drop-off points for their Angkas Passenger service is always at the forefront.

Another app I very much appreciate when going out is the Weather app on my phone. It provides a handy widget, allowing me to view the weather for the day at a glance on my home screen.

I hope you've enjoyed this glimpse into my tech-infused lifestyle as a medical technology student here in Metro Manila. As I continue to explore the ever-evolving world of technology, I'm reminded of a quote by Marc Benioff: "In the world of technology, the only constant is change." I hope this opportunity to share my modern instruments of self-improvement and expression inspires your tech life! Let's continue improving alongside our tech.

[bao3bei4]

fan language: the victorian imaginary and cnovel fandom

there’s this pinterest image i’ve seen circulating a lot in the past year i’ve been on fandom social media. it’s a drawn infographic of a, i guess, asian-looking woman holding a fan in different places relative to her face to show what the graphic helpfully calls “the language of the fan.”

people like sharing it. they like thinking about what nefarious ancient chinese hanky code shenanigans their favorite fan-toting character might get up to⁠—accidentally or on purpose. and what’s the problem with that?

the problem is that fan language isn’t chinese. it’s victorian. and even then, it’s not really quite victorian at all. 

--------------------

fans served a primarily utilitarian purpose throughout chinese history. of course, most of the surviving fans we see⁠—and the types of fans we tend to care about⁠—are closer to art pieces. but realistically speaking, the majority of fans were made of cheaper material for more mundane purposes. in china, just like all around the world, people fanned themselves. it got hot!

so here’s a big tipoff. it would be very difficult to use a fan if you had an elaborate language centered around fanning yourself.

you might argue that fine, everyday working people didn’t have a fan language. but wealthy people might have had one. the problem we encounter here is that fans weren’t really gendered. (caveat here that certain types of fans were more popular with women. however, those tended to be the round silk fans, ones that bear no resemblance to the folding fans in the graphic). no disrespect to the gnc old man fuckers in the crowd, but this language isn’t quite masc enough for a tool that someone’s dad might regularly use.

folding fans, we know, reached europe in the 17th century and gained immense popularity in the 18th. it was there that fans began to take on a gendered quality. ariel beaujot describes in their 2012 victorian fashion accessories how middle class women, in the midst of a top shortage, found themselves clutching fans in hopes of securing a husband.

she quotes an article from the illustrated london news, suggesting “women ‘not only’ used fans to ‘move the air and cool themselves but also to express their sentiments.’” general wisdom was that the movement of the fan was sufficiently expressive that it augmented a woman’s displays of emotion. and of course, the more english audiences became aware that it might do so, the more they might use their fans purposefully in that way.

notice, however, that this is no more codified than body language in general is. it turns out that “the language of the fan” was actually created by fan manufacturers at the turn of the 20th century⁠—hundreds of years after their arrival⁠ in europe—to sell more fans. i’m not even kidding right now. the story goes that it was louis duvelleroy of the maison duvelleroy who decided to include pamphlets on the language with each fan sold.

interestingly enough, beaujot suggests that it didn’t really matter what each particular fan sign meant. gentlemen could tell when they were being flirted with. as it happens, meaningful eye contact and a light flutter near the face may be a lingua franca.

so it seems then, the language of the fan is merely part of this victorian imaginary we collectively have today, which in turn itself was itself captivated by china.

--------------------

victorian references come up perhaps unexpectedly often in cnovel fandom, most often with regards to modesty.

it’s a bit of an awkward reference considering that chinese traditional fashion⁠—and the ambiguous time periods in which these novels are set⁠—far predate victorian england. it is even more awkward considering that victoria and her covered ankles did um. imperialize china.

but nonetheless, it is common. and to make a point about how ubiquitous it is, here is a link to the twitter search for “sqq victorian.” sqq is the fandom abbreviation for shen qingqiu, the main character of the scum villain’s self-saving system, by the way.

this is an awful lot of results for a search involving a chinese man who spends the entire novel in either real modern-day china or fantasy ancient china. that’s all i’m going to say on the matter, without referencing any specific tweet.

i think people are aware of the anachronism. and i think they don’t mind. even the most cursory research reveals that fan language is european and a revisionist fantasy. wikipedia can tell us this⁠—i checked!

but it doesn’t matter to me whether people are trying to make an internally consistent canon compliant claim, or whether they’re just free associating between fan facts they know. it is, instead, more interesting to me that people consistently refer to this particular bit of history. and that’s what i want to talk about today⁠—the relationship of fandom today to this two hundred odd year span of time in england (roughly stuart to victorian times) and england in that time period to its contemporaneous china.

things will slip a little here. victorian has expanded in timeframe, if only because random guys posting online do not care overly much for respect for the intricacies of british history. china has expanded in geographic location, if only because the english of the time themselves conflated china with all of asia.

in addition, note that i am critiquing a certain perspective on the topic. this is why i write about fan as white here⁠—not because all fans are white⁠—but because the tendencies i’m examining have a clear historical antecedent in whiteness that shapes how white fans encounter these novels.

i’m sure some fans of color participate in these practices. however i don’t really care about that. they are not its main perpetrators nor its main beneficiaries. so personally i am minding my own business on that front.

it’s instead important to me to illuminate the linkage between white as subject and chinese as object in history and in the present that i do argue that fannish products today are built upon.

--------------------

it’s not radical, or even new at all, for white audiences to consume⁠—or create their own versions of⁠—chinese art en masse. in many ways the white creators who appear to owe their whole style and aesthetic to their asian peers in turn are just the new chinoiserie.

this is not to say that white people can’t create asian-inspired art. but rather, i am asking you to sit with the discomfort that you may not like the artistic company you keep in the broader view of history, and to consider together what is to be done about that.

now, when i say the new chinoiserie, i first want to establish what the original one is. chinoiserie was a european artistic movement that appeared coincident with the rise in popularity of folding fans that i described above. this is not by coincidence; the european demand for asian imports and the eventual production of lookalikes is the movement itself. so: when we talk about fans, when we talk about china (porcelain), when we talk about tea in england⁠—we are talking about the legacy of chinoiserie.

there are a couple things i want to note here. while english people as a whole had a very tenuous knowledge of what china might be, their appetites for chinoiserie were roughly coincident with national relations with china. as the relationship between england and china moved from trade to out-and-out wars, chinoiserie declined in popularity until china had been safely subjugated once more by the end of the 19th century.

the second thing i want to note on the subject that contrary to what one might think at first, the appeal of chinoiserie was not that it was foreign. eugenia zuroski’s 2013 taste for china examines 18th century english literature and its descriptions of the according material culture with the lens that chinese imports might be formative to english identity, rather than antithetical to it.

beyond that bare thesis, i think it’s also worthwhile to extend her insight that material objects become animated by the literary viewpoints on them. this is true, both in a limited general sense as well as in the sense that english thinkers of the time self-consciously articulated this viewpoint. consider the quote from the illustrated london news above⁠—your fan, that object, says something about you. and not only that, but the objects you surround yourself with ought to.

it’s a bit circular, the idea that written material says that you should allow written material to shape your understanding of physical objects. but it’s both 1) what happened, and 2) integral, i think, to integrating a fannish perspective into the topic.

--------------------

japanning is the name for the popular imitative lacquering that english craftspeople developed in domestic response to the demand for lacquerware imports. in the eighteenth century, japanning became an artform especially suited for young women. manuals were published on the subject, urging young women to learn how to paint furniture and other surfaces, encouraging them to rework the designs provided in the text.

it was considered a beneficial activity for them; zuroski describes how it was “associated with commerce and connoisseurship, practical skill and aesthetic judgment.” a skillful japanner, rather than simply obscuring what lay underneath the lacquer, displayed their superior judgment in how they chose to arrange these new canonical figures and effects in a tasteful way to bring out the best qualities of them.

zuroski quotes the first english-language manual on the subject, written in 1688, which explains how japanning allows one to:

alter and correct, take out a piece from one, add a fragment to the next, and make an entire garment compleat in all its parts, though tis wrought out of never so many disagreeing patterns.

this language evokes a very different, very modern practice. it is this english reworking of an asian artform that i think the parallels are most obvious.

white people, through their artistic investment in chinese material objects and aesthetics, integrated them into their own subjectivity. these practices came to say something about the people who participated in them, in a way that had little to do with the country itself. their relationship changed from being a “consumer” of chinese objects to becoming the proprietor of these new aesthetic signifiers.

--------------------

i want to talk about this through a few pairs of tensions on the subject that i think characterize common attitudes then and now.

first, consider the relationship between the self and the other: the chinese object as something that is very familiar to you, speaking to something about your own self vs. the chinese object as something that is fundamentally different from you and unknowable to you. 

consider: [insert character name] is just like me. he would no doubt like the same things i like, consume the same cultural products. we are the same in some meaningful way vs. the fast standard fic disclaimer that “i tried my best when writing this fic, but i’m a english-speaking westerner, and i’m just writing this for fun so...... [excuses and alterations the person has chosen to make in this light],” going hand-in-hand with a preoccupation with authenticity or even overreliance on the unpaid labor of chinese friends and acquaintances. 

consider: hugh honour when he quotes a man from the 1640s claiming “chinoiserie of this even more hybrid kind had become so far removed from genuine Chinese tradition that it was exported from India to China as a novelty to the Chinese themselves” 

these tensions coexist, and look how they have been resolved.

second, consider what we vest in objects themselves: beaujot explains how the fan became a sexualized, coquettish object in the hands of a british woman, but was used to great effect in gilbert and sullivan’s 1885 mikado to demonstrate the docility of asian women. 

consider: these characters became expressions of your sexual desires and fetishes, even as their 5’10 actors themselves are emasculated.

what is liberating for one necessitates the subjugation and fetishization of the other. 

third, consider reactions to the practice: enjoyment of chinese objects as a sign of your cosmopolitan palate vs “so what’s the hype about those ancient chinese gays” pop culture explainers that addressed the unconvinced mainstream.

consider: zuroski describes how both english consumers purchased china in droves, and contemporary publications reported on them. how: 

It was in the pages of these papers that the growing popularity of Chinese things in the early eighteenth century acquired the reputation of a “craze”; they portrayed china fanatics as flawed, fragile, and unreliable characters, and frequently cast chinoiserie itself in the same light.

referenda on fannish behavior serve as referenda on the objects of their devotion, and vice versa. as the difference between identity and fetish collapses, they come to be treated as one and the same by not just participants but their observers. 

at what point does mxtx fic cease to be chinese? 

--------------------

finally, it seems readily apparent that attitudes towards chinese objects may in fact have something to do with attitudes about china as a country. i do not want to suggest that these literary concerns are primarily motivated and begot by forces entirely divorced from the real mechanics of power. 

here, i want to bring in edward said, and his 1993 culture and imperialism. there, he explains how power and legitimacy go hand in hand. one is direct, and one is purely cultural. he originally wrote this in response to the outsize impact that british novelists have had in the maintenance of empire and throughout decolonization. literature, he argues, gives rise to powerful narratives that constrain our ability to think outside of them.

there’s a little bit of an inversion at play here. these are chinese novels, actually. but they’re being transformed by white narratives and artists. and just as i think the form of the novel is important to said’s critique, i think there’s something to be said about the form that fic takes and how it legitimates itself.

bound up in fandom is the idea that you have a right to create and transform as you please. it is a nice idea, but it is one that is directed towards a certain kind of asymmetry. that is, one where the author has all the power. this is the narrative we hear a lot in the history of fandom⁠—litigious authors and plucky fans, fanspaces always under attack from corporate sanitization.

meanwhile, said builds upon raymond schwab’s narrative of cultural exchange between european writers and cultural products outside the imperial core. said explains that fundamental to these two great borrowings (from greek classics and, in the so-called “oriental renaissance” of the late 18th, early 19th centuries from “india, china, japan, persia, and islam”) is asymmetry. 

he had argued prior, in orientalism, that any “cultural exchange” between “partners conscious of inequality” always results in the suffering of the people. and here, he describes how “texts by dead people were read, appreciated, and appropriated” without the presence of any actual living people in that tradition. 

i will not understate that there is a certain economic dynamic complicating this particular fannish asymmetry. mxtx has profited materially from the success of her works, most fans will not. also secondly, mxtx is um. not dead. LMAO.

but first, the international dynamic of extraction that said described is still present. i do not want to get overly into white attitudes towards china in this post, because i am already thoroughly derailed, but i do believe that they structure how white cnovel fandom encounters this texts.

at any rate, any profit she receives is overwhelmingly due to her domestic popularity, not her international popularity. (i say this because many of her international fans have never given her a cent. in fact, most of them have no real way to.) and moreover, as we talk about the structure of english-language fandom, what does it mean to create chinese cultural products without chinese people? 

as white people take ownership over their versions of stories, do we lose something? what narratives about engagement with cnovels might exist outside of the form of classic fandom?

i think a lot of people get the relationship between ideas (the superstructure) and production (the base) confused. oftentimes they will lob in response to criticism, that look! this fic, this fandom, these people are so niche, and so underrepresented in mainstream culture, that their effects are marginal. i am not arguing that anyone’s cql fic causes imperialism. (unless you’re really annoying. then it’s anyone’s game) 

i’m instead arguing something a little bit different. i think, given similar inputs, you tend to get similar outputs. i think we live in the world that imperialism built, and we have clear historical predecessors in terms of white appetites for creating, consuming, and transforming chinese objects. 

we have already seen, in the case of the fan language meme that began this post, that sometimes we even prefer this white chinoiserie. after all, isn’t it beautiful, too? 

i want to bring discomfort to this topic. i want to reject the paradigm of white subject and chinese object; in fact, here in this essay, i have tried to reverse it.

if you are taken aback by the comparisons i make here, how can you make meaningful changes to your fannish practice to address it? 

--------------------

some concluding thoughts on the matter, because i don’t like being misunderstood! 

i am not claiming white fans cannot create fanworks of cnovels or be inspired by asian art or artists. this essay is meant to elaborate on the historical connection between victorian england and cnovel characters and fandom that others have already popularized.

i don’t think people who make victorian jokes are inherently bad or racist. i am encouraging people to think about why we might make them and/or share them

the connections here are meant to be more provocative than strictly literal. (e.g. i don’t literally think writing fanfic is a 1-1 descendant of japanning). these connections are instead meant to 1) make visible the baggage that fans of color often approach fandom with and 2) recontextualize and defamiliarize fannish practice for the purposes of honest critique

please don’t turn this post into being about other different kinds of discourse, or into something that only one “kind” of fan does. please take my words at face value and consider them in good faith. i would really appreciate that.

please feel free to ask me to clarify any statements or supply more in-depth sources :) 

[apompkwrites]

reader impact || first meetings: adventurer edition

series masterlist characters: amber, bennett genre: fluff summary: a game has been released entitled genshin impact, consisting of otherworldly abilities relying on the basic elements of nature. the game follows the story of an interdimensional traveling twin in search of their other half. along this journey, they meet different characters that live in this world. including you. notes: i decided to put these two together since i've already done one for diluc!

amber's playthrough -

amber's more of an outdoorsy type of person but that doesn't stop her from streaming!

she likes doing camping streams where she just camps out in her backyard and shows her chat what she would normally do. and the occasional cooking stream to show how you can make good foods healthy <33

she has a little bunny that she shows on stream sometimes :))

there'll be some days where she just sits at home talking to chat about her day while playing with her little baron bunny.

she plays games occasionally, but their mainly adventure type ones that mimic the lifestyle she holds.

like minecraft, rust, any survival game really.

she's still very energetic so any stream of hers is just bustling with excitement.

she'd probably host some streams where she teaches basic survival techniques?? idk man i don't go out much AIHSDASHLDKJ--

anyway anyway, she got a bunch of requests asking her to play genshin ofc.

i mean?? cute game, cute models, cute characters, and aDVENTURE.

i feel like she'd go with the male traveler solely because it isn't very practical to go exploring/adventuring in a dress?? like girl's over here genuinely thinking about real life scenarios.

anyway she's sitting there after finding dvalin's corrupted tear and the cutscene plays.

she's there vibing with chat and her little bunny by her side because of course they'll be sitting there while she plays.

"hey you! stop right there!"

"aCK!"

please she screeched when you yelled at her--

and then she squealed when jumped in front of her character.

pLEASE

the camera showing off your cute little headband mimicking animal ears makes her melt.

and then you jump from the little cliff and you have to stumble to regain your balance?!?!??!

PLEASE YOU'RE SO CUTE

"may the anemo god protect you, stranger! i am (name), outrider for the knights of favonius."

catch her copying your little salute.

"they're so cute!!!!"

she will point out the animal ears constantly.

and then your vision has a cute little ribbon at the end of it!!!!!!

"just! just! just look at them!!"

and then you join her party officially!!!

please she switches to you automatically--

she'll just jump around for a few minutes to watch all your accessories bounce around.

and she can just tell that your story would be a delight to read about.

when paimon mentions her mc's missing sibling, you sound so soft and caring and just aGH.

and then she gets to try out your elemental skill and it's the aNIMAL THAT YOUR CHARACTER'S HEADBAND IS BASED OFF OF!!!

if it's a bunny she would definitely find a matching headband she can wear when she plays :00

her chat's usually a really sweet place to vibe and hang out but of course, there's gonna be those kinda people.

she catches wind of some people badmouthing you and calling you the worst character in the game >:((

she's not too keen on banning people for their opinions so instead...

"hey, guys, can we just have fun with this game? if you don't like how i'm playing you can always just?? leave??"

please girl's fuming inside but she's trying her hardest to be nice about it >:((

back to you <3

she'd get another pet that matches yours and name it after you or your elemental skill.

she'd find ways to copy your outfit too ngl--

she'd definitely cook your signature dish!!

gotta make it all cute for you <3

bennett's playthrough -

ah yes, our unlucky baby boy bennett <3

like amber, he really loves adventures!!

he's still pretty unlucky for some reason???

idk man he's just vibing and his bad luck says too bad,,,

he's kind of a baby streamer if you catch my drift?

like he's new to everything so he's just trying to figure it out.

he used to be in a streamer house but... yeah.

we don't like them anyway, it's fine.

unlike in the game, bennett's bad luck didn't bring the other members harm, it was just... little inconveniences i guess.

but he left so now he's all on his own!

he's kinda inexperienced in all of this but he's trying his best!

for now he's sticking to gaming because that's a majority of what he knows.

lots of survival games!!!

and, sadly, luck-based games.

his chat just wants to see if his luck impacts games!!

and it does,,,

luckily they request genshin, which has the best of both worlds.

bennett's got all of the adventuring and his chat gets to see his misfortune in action.

sadly you don't appear in the main archon quests so bennett actually goes a long while not knowing who you are :((

veterans of the game, however, know exactly who you are >:))

first, they'd help show you off by posting links to your splash art in his chat.

bennett, being the baby he is, just clicks on the links without a second thought.

and he's in aWE!!!

LOOK AT YOU!!! LOOK AT HOW COOL YOU ARE!!

"woahh!! who are they? can i meet them soon?"

cri

they tell him he has to roll for you and he's sad, but only for a bit!

at least you're not an exclusive character because if he were, he thinks he'd have no chance at getting you :((

but he can get you whenever!

anyway, one stream he's rolling because he's stocked up a bunch of primogems (which took a long time) and he's like might as well use them up now.

he gets a lot of weapons :(((

he's basically dedicated his whole team to c6ing his characters he has now because he "knows" he won't get a good character.

luckily the pity systems exist so he gets the occasional four star <33

so he thinks it's another character he already has, so he's very prepared to get another constellation in.

he's looking through the trash weapons and then splash art appears!

"wait... i recognize that--"

IT'S YOU.

HE WASN'T EXPECTING IT BUT IT'S YOU!!!!

"THEY'RE HERE! THEY'RE REALLY HERE!!"

his chats hyping him up as he's running around his room because they love him <33

please i love this boy with a passion.

he'll put you in his team automatically with all of his c5/6 characters asdhaklsf

he doesn't even care you get everything and anything he owns in the game <3

"this is your team! it's really cool! i'm (name), leader of (name)'s adventure team! is there... do you think we could team up? i-it could even be just once!"

"they're staying on my team forever."

he loves you so much.

not just because you're a cool character but because he can relate to you--

anyway, he goes to your voicelines because that's the only time he can actually hear you fully :((

he's genuinely excited to learn about your story.

and then he learns that you have extremely bad luck too???!?!?!?

please y'all can be unlucky together!!

would that cancel out or just make you more unlucky??

huh.

he gets all sad when he hears you talking bad about yourself so he's here to reassure you (even if you're a fictional character).

[missgeniality]

A Date With Destiny (m)

“Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves, alone - we find it with another.” - Thomas Merton

➺ Pairing: Jungkook x Female Reader

➺ Trope: Strangers to Lovers, Idol!AU

➺ Genre: Fluff, Smut, one comedian in the mix

➺ Rating: 18+

➺ Word Count: 11k

➺ Summary: You are a boss lady in the tech industry travelling to world for work. He is a chart-topping artist touring the globe to perform in front of millions of fans. In the cosmos of life, you are not likely to cross paths. Luckily, fate has a different plan for you two.

➺ Warnings: dom!jk, unprotected sex (sex is cleaner when you pack your weiner!), hickeys galore, lot of spit, oral (male and female receiving), balls receive attention, throat fucking, cum eating, edging, masturbation kinda?, cum play, pussy slapping, pussy sniffing, fingering, squirting, spanking, pain kink?, tit slapping, reader teases a bit but this man is a tease maestro, cum stuffing (is that a thing even?), Jungkook’s THIGHS need their own warning

➺ Author’s Note: @ppersonna​​ is an angel among us peasants. Thank you so much for all your help with this!   This is my first attempt at writing, and the tiniest feedback goes a long way! Hope you enjoy! 

When you die, the first pit stop you make is to the coffee gods. 

Without coffee, this whole month would have been a disaster. Back-to-back meetings, daily flights, countless documents being read, it’s a miracle your eyes are open and fully functioning. 

Being the Chief Technical Officer of a well-established company at your age had been anything but a cakewalk. You had strived hard and crossed many boulders to come to where you are. But if reaching that point required huge amounts of effort, now your work is tenfold. 

“Why can’t I just get longer flights so I can nap in them?” You mumble into your nth cup of coffee - not keeping count is for your own sanity. 

“Because longer flights apparently have crying children. You, our resident baby-magnet hypothesized that shorter flights equal more time in hotel rooms ‘sleeping’. Guess who sleeps in said hotel rooms? Everyone but you.” Your personal assistant and part-time truth-spouter Jake offers helpfully. 

“Past me was such an idiot.” You shoot back, wondering if you could inject the espresso right through your veins.

Jake pouts. “Woman, you take on jobs that an intern could do. If you weren’t such an unnecessary perfectionist I would be on the beaches of Thailand, getting sensual massages and eating some pretty pussy. But here we are, on our way to Seoul. So quit your whining because clearly, I have lost more.” 

“What if I wanted to do that too?”

“Can I watch?” 

“Right.” And that was the end of the conversation. 

Passengers on flight KE654 from Bangkok to Seoul are requested to report for boarding at Gate 45A. First Class passengers will be boarded first, followed by Business class and lastly Economy. Please keep your boarding pass ready for checking.

Jake stands up, groaning. “This is where we say goodbye. Do you wanna pretend like we’re strangers and have a hot one-night stand when we land?” 

“Sometimes I think it’s your natural response to flirt with a breathing being. Do you ever accidentally just, you know, flirt with a tree?” You try to sound sarcastic, but you’re genuinely curious. 

“If a day comes when a hot specimen like me has to flirt with a tree, humanity is doomed. Catch ya later!” He blows you a kiss before leaving for the restroom. You shake your head in awe, a small smile finding your lips. He knew how to get your mind off things.

For all his flirting, Jake’s interest in you is perfunctory. He looks after you, keeps you from starving or gouging your eyeballs out, and calms you when things are too hard. He’s seen your worst. You’ve seen him drunk out of his mind, bailed him out when he “accidentally” smoked up, and heard every new pick-up line his ingenious brain churned out. Basically, you’ve seen his worst as well. 

You take a look at your boarding pass. 3C. Jake would be in business class, and you in first. Not your choice, the company makes the rules. It's for the better, he says. Apparently, he can ‘prowl for his hunt better’, without your judgmental glare. You nearly vomit on him just for his choice of words.

Entering the flight, you stash away your hand baggage the first place you find the room and head to your seat and-

Holy. Shit.

Jeon Jungkook is sitting on your seat.

Jeon Jungkook is on your flight? 

BTS is on your flight? 

What are the odds?

Granted, you’re not a 16-year old obsessive fan, collecting photocards and waving light sticks through the screen, but even in your adulthood you’ve admired their music and shows, routinely keeping up with their discography. 

Hell, you even learned Korean years ago to better understand their songs. Maybe you are an obsessive fan.

But you can’t approach them like that. They no doubt want some privacy and not be recognized. God forbid you approach Jungkook with crazy eyes, just to be escorted off the plane for stalking. While you liked their work, you had your own, and getting thrown off this flight does not help you there.

So, you’re just gonna have to speak to him like just another passenger. 

BTS who? 

Biggest boyband who? 

You only listen to Frank Sinatra. 

“Excuse me?” You call out, a shiver of a whisper leaving your lips. You immediately chastise yourself for being so star-struck.

Big, round eyes glitter under the bucket hat. The softest ‘huh’ throws a lasso over your heart, and holds it captive. He adjusts his hat, inked fingers making a brief yet lasting appearance. The epitome of tenderness, you muse as his eyes flit here and there to figure out the situation. After finding no one to help him out, he gently offers “Yes?”

You feel extremely guilty for marring his serene face with creases of trouble. “I think this is my seat. See, 3C.” you say, pointing to the seat and then to your ticket for good measure. Did he suspect you recognize them? No. Do you look like you’re over-gesticulating? Totally. 

“Oh.” His brow distresses further, the sight has you ready to give the man your seat and hide in the bathroom for the rest of the flight. “But even I am 3C.”

His ticket shows the same characters as yours. 

Huh?

With both your faces contorted in confusion, an air hostess comes forward to help. 

“We both are booked on the same seat. How does that happen? Do I need to catch another flight?” You suddenly pour out, remembering the countless commitments you have in Seoul that would go down the drain if you don’t make it by tonight.

She's quick to reassure you. “Do not worry ma’am, I’m sure there must have been an error in the printing. I’ll be right back.” At the same time, Jungkook is approached by someone, probably one of their staff, to discuss the issue.

The air hostess returns smiling. “Ma’am, you both were booked on the same seat but this adjacent seat was left empty. We are extremely sorry for the error. You may take 3B.” She reiterates the same message to Jungkook in Korean, who then looks mighty relieved. 

Goddamn, his eyes got bigger. How much bigger can they get?

“All okay then?” He glances sideways, smile irradiating your senses and waking you up better than all the coffee could. 

“All good. Sorry for the trouble.” You add, even though it isn’t your mistake in any way.

“No no. No trouble” He beams back. 

Aw, you are in trouble. 

As the flight is about to take off, you can see the rest of BTS in the rows ahead of you, with some other staff members taking up other seats. There’s one old man with a scowl on his face, whom you can’t place with the BigHit group. Great, no crying kids. Unless the frowning grandpa snores to the heavens, you can actually catch a good four-hour snooze. Take that, Jake. Hope a kid blows snot in his face. 

Looking at your neighbor, you find him busy searching for a good video game on the screen. The other members seem to be using this flight to catch a nap, except him. You always wondered whether their on-screen persona was real or not. Now you could say at least one of his characteristics is true. 

Turning away, you bring your focus back to the document at hand. The schematics for a new product your company was launching. You had spearheaded its conception and looked over every single detail in its manufacturing. The Seoul branch is one of the main players in its production, and your last stop before heading back home. You must have every word in this file burnt in the back of your eyelids to make this deal smooth. 

Reclining your seat, and putting your legs up, you got down to business.

An Angel was calling you. 

You want to wake up, but you couldn’t, fearing the Angel would stop singing to you. Something is poking you, but the voice just drowns it all out.

Wait...

Fluttering your eyes open, you see Jeon Jungkook staring right at you. 

“Hi... They, umm--Food? Want to eat?” the Angel utters. Jungkook utters. Tomato, to-mah-to. 

“Oh!” you exclaim, wiping non-existent drool on your face. His palm on your shoulder quickly retracts at your exaggerated attempt to hide your embarrassment. “Thank you so much.”

Then, he does that thing. He smiles. Eye scrunch and all. 

Fuck the coffee gods. When you die, you want to meet the Grand Master and ask him what crack he was on to hand over so much power to one man’s smile. 

The food is placed on your table, and you thank the hostess graciously. 

“Do you need anything to drink?” She asks, to which you only shake your head. There was enough caffeine in your system to shoot a horse to the moon and you were still drowsy. There was no need to catalyze this process with booze.  

“Your Korean accent is pretty good.” Your next-seat resident comments. Ah, you had conversed with the hostess in Korean. 

“Thank you very much.” You giggle, roleplaying an acne-prone teenager talking to her hunk of a crush.

“Have you been speaking for a long time?” He pops a huge morsel of food after asking. Well, that’s another on-screen quality found to be accurate.

“Six years now. Comes in handy for my work.” 

“Oh! Did you have to learn it for work? That’s fascinating.” Another mouthful went in. You didn’t even know it was physically possible to hold that much rice using chopsticks.

“Uhh.. no..” You tussle your hair, trying to stop your cheeks from turning beet red, “I just listened to some music and consuming more content.. and subtitles are a bore, plus I needed a hobby at the time so..” 

Your unnecessarily long explanation was cut short by Jungkook’s child-like laugh, enjoying the pickle you were putting yourself in. 

“Hey! I just didn’t want to put you in an uncomfortable situation, that’s all.” you try to be cross, knowing it’s inconceivable since God himself seems to have given him whatever he wanted. If big ol’ Almighty can’t stand against his charms, you are but a mere pleb. 

He looks at you kindly. “Thank you, that was very thoughtful. I’ve been speaking to so many foreigners trying to get across to them I got surprised when you spoke so fluently.” 

He went back to chomping on his food like it was his last meal, completely unaware of your staring.  

You both speak for a long time. He explains their latest shoot and fan meeting, and you listen to him pour out his love for his job and fans as much as he could articulate. The rest of the emotion is portrayed by his now widest eyeballs (they cannot get any wider, you confirm by asking him - a request he apparently gets a lot) and intense gesticulation. It is very gratifying to listen to his past schedules, and you slip in a quick prayer for not having a job where you had to maintain public appearances while having a schedule as persevering as theirs. Sure, you had a ton of commitments. But can you throw your hair in a bun and aggressively scowl at a monitor and still meet your target? Fuck yeah.

You went on to tell him about yourself - your job, your travels, the reason you were in Seoul. He listens to them with rapt attention throwing in appropriate questions without interrupting your flow. He gives the right amount of sympathy; just enough to show that he understands why you have three sets of nightwear and a futon in your office, but not too much where it seems like you should “take a break” and “think about the joys of motherhood” - as you are often told. 

During the conversation, you digress a little to take in his slight features. The apple of his cheeks, in full display, when he tells you about how he pranked his members. The light pout of his lips when he talks about the times their path seemed too far-fetched, when every single obstacle felt like the end of their career. The stars in his eyes when he speaks of how he feels during tours, meeting the endless number of fans, the drive that keeps him going. They all make an endearing package. Eager to please, you kept the conversation going with gusto. The meal is followed by a snack break, after which you had effectively exhausted all conversation topics that could be brought up with near-strangers.

A quick alcohol break later, (yes, you caved, the catalyst was welcome) you both doze off, seemingly exhausted from recollecting respective timetables. He wakes up soon after to play video games and talk to the other members. But you fall into a deep slumber, with an Angel’s chuckles in the background guiding you through the sleep. 

Jungkook wakes up to see his character dead. The video game was forgotten after his conversation with you began. 

He spent an inordinate amount of time talking to you. And now that you’re asleep, he is only thinking about how much he enjoyed the conversation. Jungkook is not a speaker. His introversion leaves much to be desired in that department. Most of the time, his members cover for him, play the role of dutiful wingmen, and introduce him to their friends. And still, it took him a long time to talk freely.

But something about you made him open up.

Maybe it was the way you listened to him, lips slightly parted when you were absorbing every single word he let out. Maybe it was the questions you asked, treading lightly and skirting any personal questions. Maybe it was the fact that you pretended to not know him at first, mindful of his privacy. The butterflies in him could be explained by this.

But.

It could also be how graceful you looked, even though you’re dressed in sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. It could be how you carried yourself, with great elegance and poise, even though your work was taxing. It could also be your toe socks, and your glee when he showed you his.

Your personality is infectious. He already misses you, despite you being inches away, desperately wants to exhaust every second of this journey engrossed in you. 

He wonders if you feel that way too.

Speaking of whom-

A snicker escapes his lips when he turns to face you. 

In your sleepy haze, Jungkook sees that a) your mouth is wide open, b) your hands mindlessly fiddle with the reams of pages on your lap, and c) your eyes scrunch as sunlight pierces through the flight to bounce off your face. Cute, he muses, trying to locate the source of the criminal rays irking you. 

The window letting the sunbeam in is beside an old man sitting on the other end. He is eyeing the magazine in his hands with abject disapproval, like the booklet had sullied him and his family. 

Gathering up the courage, Jungkook calls out for the man.

“Excuse me, sir. Do you mind pulling the window shade?” He asks, in the sweetest voice that his hyungs would melt at first listen. 

Puppy eyes are met with the geezer’s piercing glare, making Jungkook wonder if he accidentally said something strikingly offensive instead of what he thought he said. About to backtrack his words and try again, he gets interrupted by the man letting out a big grunt, after which he continues in his endeavor to telepathically set fire to the magazine. He does not forget to give a nasty side-eye but completely refuses to comply with Jungkook’s request. 

“And my team thinks my glares are spooky.” You pique, having witnessed the whole interaction, “I ought to have him on board”. Jungkook snorts, and you take that to be his agreement. 

Pausing, you throw caution in the wind and add, “Thank you though, that was very sweet of you.”

He eyes you demurely. “No problem, you looked like you needed the rest.” 

“Listen, I-”

“So I was think-”

Ladies and gentlemen, we have just been cleared to land at the Incheon International airport. Please ensure your backpacks and suitcases are stowed away in the overhead compartments or underneath the seats ahead of you. The flight attendants are currently passing around the cabin to make a final compliance check and pick up any remaining cups and glasses. Thank you.

High-quality curses almost make it to heaven (speakers). The announcement dissipates all the courage you had mustered, feeling a rush exit your body. You had almost asked for his contact - and by the looks of it, he had wanted it too. Or maybe your hair is a rat's nest and he was just going to point that out. Guess you will never know.

You shyly smile at each other before going about following the instructions. Your half-read document gets stuffed back into its bag, to be read once you have no distractions in the form of eye candy armed with saccharine speech. Well, you have Jake to distract you plenty, but you can shoo him away by threatening his paycheck. 

As the flight descends, you look over to your neighbor - one last time, you guess - and surprisingly lock eyes with him. Anything that had exited you comes rushing back, veins in full alertness. A moment’s awkwardness later you both burst out laughing, each doing their best to hide their crimson cheeks. You find one more online fact to be true - Jungkook’s peak happiness laughter, eye crinkle and nose scrunch, can melt your whole entire heart. 

“Hey mami, come here often?”

“For the last time Jake, I will not hesitate to donate your bones for science.”

“Well, I heard bone, it's already a win for me.”

You let out a sigh of exasperation. There is no reforming him. 

“How was the flight?” Jake questions as you approach the baggage belt. Looking out for your somber black suitcase, you try to play it off like you did not spend the whole time in the company of a stranger who is on the fast track to your heart.

“The usual. Sleep, eat, read needlessly printed out documents that could have been shoved into on email, repeat. What about you?”

As Jake starts an account of his flight experience in exorbitant detail, you took the opportunity to try and find your ride. Once you locate it and get in, you catch the end of his sermon. 

“-and the name of the book will be ‘How to manage a farm - ‘cause chicks gon’ be crazy!’. What do you think?”

“I think it was a good idea I chose to zone out.”

“Y/N come on! It’s a self-help book for poor souls born without my raw charisma. Men and women out there want me, but I can’t satisfy them all. I will just resort to making more of me! It will have pointers, DIY’s and pick-up lines crafted by yours truly - wanna hear one?”

You throw your bag in front and turn to him. “Do I have a choice? Go ahead.”

Grinning like a Cheshire cat, he starts. “Am I cute? Squish my cheeks. Am I hot? Clap my cheeks.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Points for creativity. You’ll still get wine splashed at you.”

Jake was not one to give up. “‘It’s good we don’t need eye condoms, or you’d be on your way to delivery.’”

“Just… don’t have kids, okay? This gene must be stopped, right here.”

“Okay, this one is my all-time favorite. ‘Rack so big, I don’t motorboat, I motorship.’”

That’s it. The guffaw itching you since the start of this conversation is out of its cages, populating the air in the car. Wiping stray tears from your face, you face Jake, seeming very pleased with himself. Undoubtedly, he is coming up with absurd scenarios to ease your nerves. No book is in the works (one could only hope).

“Thank you, I feel much better now. You can stop coming up with these.”

The goof has the gall to look appalled. “I was going to cut you ten percent of my book commission but I guess that’s out. Hmph.”

“I’m at the receiving end of all these pick-up lines. I should make twenty at least for all the nuisance I’ve put up with.” 

“All right mami, we’ll shelve this for later. Here’s the schedule for today. You have a 10 a.m. breakfast meeting with Dr. Park Shin Young, Lead Research Scientist of the project. Then you have a bunch of seminars to attend, which will go on all afternoon. There’s a bar right beside this venue.”

“How is that pertinent?”

“So you know where to find me.” He continues, unperturbed. “After which there’s an evening meeting with the whole team to demonstrate the product and a marketing meeting right after.”

“Am I required for the marketing meeting?” Your expertise is limited to the technical field. PR work isn’t your cup of tea, but they stubbornly demand your presence. 

Jake exhales. “We’ve been through this. You CAN doze off during the meeting, but you have to be there. Just pretend you’re a college student, sitting in one class, completing assignments for another.”

“But if I’m there I feel the need to pay attention.” you whine.

“Clearly you weren’t one of those college students,” Jake says, perusing through his diary, “Stop being a pedant and do one of those things people do. Loving their jobs and whatnot.”

Before you can retort a reply, the driver pulls up to your destination and you exit the car. 

Eleven at night is when you finally check in to the hotel. The tedious day warrants your heels coming off before you even reach your floor. There’s an irritant drumming, from the balls of your feet right up to your temples, that beg for your attention. Setting your footwear on your bags, you massage your feet for temporary relief as the lift took you closer to a more permanent one.

Once your suitcase gets parked in the closet, you head to the bathroom to soak your day away with the bath bomb kit you were gifted in one of the seminars. The ball fizzles as soon as it hits the water, dispersing in tiny bubbles and a heady aroma of vanilla and lavender. The soft amber tones of the walls, the lambent gold lighting, and the ambrosial air put all your senses at ease. You sink in; the bathwater permeating warmth through your skin. Crackling bubbles with every move; the water teases your neck, soothing the laceration with every lick. Every pulse point on you is enhanced - you let yourself float wherever your mind takes you. 

A familiar face makes its presence known. You allow yourself to think about him, after pushing his visage away all day. Something about him… felt like home. Soothing, comforting, always speaking in dulcet tones unless something humorous pulled out a loud laugh. Even that wasn’t jarring; it was the exact opposite. Felt like sunshine filled your lungs every time he cracked up. Made you want to keep talking to him, keep him amused and entertained. You can’t imagine he converses with every stranger like that. 

But maybe he did; maybe this is some unspoken celebrity culture you were unaware of. 

All you know is that this was a once in a lifetime experience. There’s no way you are encountering another personage ever again. There’s no way you’re encountering him again. Luck can only thrive so far. 

So when you exit the bathroom, clad in a towel, remnant bathwater dripping from every end, the last thing you expect is Jungkook, spread out on the bed, casually flipping through his phone like it’s his own abode. 

“J-Jungkook?”

Y/N. In his room. In a towel. Dripping wet hair. Emanating a delectable aroma. 

Y/N. In person.

He is dreaming. He has to be. He's been thinking of you ever since the flight, so now he is delusional. Nothing else. There’s absolutely no chance that you’re in his room, let alone… like this. 

Right?

“What are you… what are you doing in my room?”

Wrong. 

Jungkook knows he should say something. He should not be gawking at you like he is doing now. But God. You look so pretty, eyebrows arched up in confusion, jaw about to be unhinged, hands fluttering around not knowing what to do. 

He forces his body to action.

"Y/N!" He exclaims, finally averting his eyes to face the wall. 

Pause.

"Wait, what do you mean MY room? This is my room!"

You’re baffled. "Huh? How is that possible? This was given to me!" 

“I really don’t know, Y/N, there must have been some confusion! Please, you have to believe me!” 

Jungkook wants to turn around and face you. He desperately wants to clear the air. He can see that this looks bad. He obviously looks like an enamored creep, waltzing into your space. You probably think he does this all the time. Many a time people have misunderstood him, his celebrity status not earning him many points. You must think the same.

And now you’re going to tell him to get out and never see you again, he hypothesizes. His brain is working overtime trying to remedy the situation, without noticing your now relaxing demeanor. 

“Oh, okay.”

“I’ll fix this, I’ll go to the reception and fix this. You don’t worry, I didn’t see anything, you can trust me, I’ll go an-”

“Hey, hey,” your tone gentle, “it’s okay, trust me. Just, let me get dressed and I’ll come down with you.”

Your soothing response almost has Jungkook on his knees. Whoever orchestrated this meet, he is just thankful for this good turn. Anyone else would go berserk, and rightfully so. 

But you’re not anyone else. 

He isn’t just anyone.  

Technically, he isn’t a stranger, you try to justify. You should have been more shocked, enraged, or at least doubtful of his intentions. But you weren’t. You had accepted his explanation, let him stay in your room while you changed in the bathroom, and now are en-route to the main desk to rectify this error.

The air around you two is strained; he won’t even look you in the eye. Any question you have is replied to concisely, leaving no room for a chat. Nothing to disperse the tension between you two. 

Like now, in the elevator, Jungkook has done the math and maintains the maximum distance between you. Opposite ends of the diagonal of this lift, his peripheral vision probably barely picks you up. However, his evasion helps in a way--you are able to study his full form.

He is dressed casually, and any lesser man would have seemed casual enough. On him, it is a whole new game. Ripped jeans hugging his sturdy legs, the slashed fabric allowing you a peek of his dangerous thighs. A plain white t-shirt tucked in to show off his lean waistline. The only thing holding you back from having a full-blown wet dream, wide awake, is his chestnut overcoat, saving his modesty and yours. 

Jake was right, eye condoms are the need of the century. 

To be fair, Jungkook had the worse end. He saw you scantily clad, post-bath glow and everything. You wonder what is going through his mind. 

Definitely nothing like the debauchery unfolding in yours. 

He has probably seen his fair share of women, and one hot to trot lady isn’t anything new. If anything, him dodging you is a sign of his civility, something you are lacking apparently--ready to jump his bones.

Stop thinking about his thighs, you whore. Get back home and trusty old Vlad the Impaler will take care of you.

The employee’s jaw almost hits the desk as Jungkook explains the situation. 

“Ma’am, Sir, we are extremely sorry about this confusion. We usually keep another key for family members, but somehow you got them both. We are deeply apologetic.”

“Yes, it’s okay, I’d just like my room key now and-”

“We will give you the best of our service to make up for this disorder. Not that we didn’t plan on giving you the best anyway, but now it will be top-notch! Please allow us to have your room cleaned again ma’am. Kyuyoung-ah! Get the people to prep 5338 and set 5337 again, and add more flowers!”

“Hey, that really won’t be necessary, we can just go back and forget about all thi-”

“And!” She continues, relentless, fully intent on doing her job, “Here are coupons for our round the clock pub! The ambiance is phenomenal, and our bartender makes a mean drink! You can use the facility for free during your stay. Hope this compensates for our gaffe. Once again, we are extremely sorry!”

She extends two passport-sized coupons that you hurriedly grab, wanting this quandary to end. 

The walk back to the elevator is less tight-lipped, only because Jungkook starts his deluge of apologies. Even though you had felt the same way on the flight, he was going overboard. You quickly assuage him and deflect his concerns.

“It’s okay, Jungkook. It really is. I know it was a mistake.”

“I know, but I shouldn’t have just walked in like that. I should have checked.”

Your expression is the visual form of a question mark. 

“Do you go around making sure your hotel room doesn’t have a surprise occupant?”

You’re taking this too lightly; it's obvious you are doing it for him. He can only laugh, broad delicious shoulders loosening in relief.

After a delay, you add, “You can’t help it if fate wants us crossing paths like this.” 

The quip makes Jungkook lose a beat. He cocks a brow in surprise - at that juncture, his features lose all boyish charm and turn unquestionably irresistible. 

Then, in a flash, the expression is replaced by his usual grin, back to his boy-next-door spirit. Are there world records for this speed? Jungkook needs to sign up to one.

Collecting the stars floating around your head, you return the favor, thankful that the barrier is now broken. 

After a quick break of courage gathering, you turn to him. “How come you’re staying in this hotel? Thought you’d be home.”

A thought is building in your mind; that this is too personal a question. But before you can take it back, you hear a chime. Jungkook moves. And somehow, you are moving with him. 

The elevator door opens, and people walk out. 

But that’s not where your attention is. 

You are focused on the sole patch of your body in contact with Jungkook’s arm. 

The palm of his hand sitting at the small of your waist is what had guided you away from the elevator. Even through the fabric of your t-shirt, his hand is sending goosebumps all over your body. The air feels twenty degrees too hot for you.

Jungkook is simply being his chivalrous self, while you are ready to get arrested for public nudity.

Woman, you are a disgrace. Get laid.

Jungkook will high five himself once he gets to his pad. 

Is it right to get so euphoric about the smallest act of intimacy? That too with a near stranger? He has no answer. You are special to him; that much he knows. And someone up there agrees with him as well, letting him run into you again (albeit under crude circumstances; he’ll take what he gets). In this proximity, he can hear the slight gasp that escapes you once you recognize his hold, feel your muscles tense, smell the flowery fragrance you still carry. The fragrance that takes his mind on a rewind routine; one he forces to a halt. He feels lewd for taking pleasure in that misfortune, but he can take pleasure in the present. 

Entering the elevator, Jungkook has taken note of one thing: the roles have been reversed. On the downward voyage, it had been him avoiding you. Now, even with the closeness, you refuse to meet his eye. Something on the carpeted floor has your unrelenting attention. Letting his gaze dip to you, he bit back a smirk. Good to know you are as affected by him as he is by you.

“It’s a shoot.” 

You relent, looking up to him. “Huh?”

“You asked me why I’m here, it’s a shoot. The site is close by, so we don’t waste time traveling. Once the shoot is done, we will get back home.”

“Ah, that makes sense.” 

You beg your grey matter to find some topic of conversation to halt the blood rushing to your cheeks. The atmosphere is frozen again, but not like last time. Any unease earlier present has drifted. The tension that once kept you from closeness now keeps you from moving apart. His hand sits unmoved, continuing to rest on your hip. Jungkook can hear the loud thudding of a heartbeat, but he cannot discern whether they are from his heart or from yours.

Continuing after a pause, “I will be here for a few days now.” he adds, the suggestive hint of the words masked by his innocuous smile. 

“Ah.” You lamely add. You ought to kick yourself - but at this closeness, you might hit him too. 

The span of your separation is contracting, even though none of you move. Like the land underneath you is shifting, because even Mother Earth can’t handle the sexual tension in this confined space. 

“Ma’am, Sir, you’re here!” 

The booming voice of an employee disrupts the scene. You jump, wondering how you didn’t hear the door open, while Jungkook takes a graceful step back unscathed. 

“Your rooms are ready, please follow me.”

The walk back is quiet, except for bashfully exchanged glances and racing pulses. When you finally reach your respective rooms, he speaks again. 

“Want to accidentally cross paths with me at the bar?”

The heat reaches your ears. A moment of silence prompts you to look up, and you are held hostage by his eyes. His gaze flickers, intense and probing. Then, as if it never happened, his eyes narrow and his smile softens, harmless and easy. Again, this has to be witchcraft.

“Maybe we’ll let destiny decide. Hasn’t failed us so far.” 

Now, alone in bed with nothing but your thoughts, you wonder when it will ever happen again.

Three days. Three days before it happens again.

Three days filled with conferences, a ton of files, and a lot of battery acid disguised as coffee. Apart from the success of your work, the highlight of your time is when Jake tried to fix his shoe heel at a meeting and ended up gluing his fingers together. In a quiet room filled with immersed employees, he had yelled, “Superglue, my ass!”. 

The punctuation was not vocalized. 

Tonight was your last night in Seoul. It was supposed to be a night to yourself, but an office party pulled you out of your cavern to get dressed. You put on an elegant dress, a black and silver number, only to find the ‘party’ was the most monotonous excuse of networking. High-end businessmen exchanging cards over non-alcoholic fizz was not your idea of a party, so you quickly excused yourself. 

The coupon still weighed heavy in your purse, carrying memoirs of the last time you saw him. You had wanted to go earlier, but always held yourself back. What if he wasn’t there? What if you missed your chance? Why did you have to sashay away with a cool statement that night instead of clawing your way through the lust-filled air and settling things then and there? 

You supposed a drink at the hotel bar on your last night couldn’t be a bad thing, even if Jungkook didn’t show up.

So here you are, sipping on your wine and trying to appear nonchalant as you look out the window overseeing the city’s skyline. One ear is trained to the door of the pub, the slightest peep from that corner alerting your antenna. 

So far, no sign of him. 

This won’t work, you tell yourself. Second time’s a charm, third time’s pushing it too far. 

But as you wave the bartender to top up your drink, the corner of your eye catches movement; one, two, three heads appear through the door. Signature multichromatic mops of hair make their way in, forcing your pulse to marathon mode. 

And then you hear it. 

You hear his trademark cachinnate echoing through the structure. Multitudes of contrasting sentiments fill your gut. Are you sensing relief, that fate served its purpose without fail? Or is it the anticipation of how events will unfold? A sense of titillation, that a three-day old bond makes you feel more than year-old relationships you’ve had? You pry your eyes from that direction, trying to appear aloof when you are anything but. 

When you think you’ve gathered your composure, you look up. Like a hare falling for its bait, you are trapped, because he is looking right back at you.

Jin and Jimin are laughing about something that happened on set today, but Jungkook only has eyes for you. He can’t believe his luck. 

The past few days, his schedule had no give. After every shoot, the only thing he remembered was taking off his shoes and falling into a deep slumber.

So today when the shoot wrapped up earlier, Jungkook grabbed his trusty wingmen and open bar enthusiasts to utilize his coupon, and possibly test his kismet.

“Wasn’t she on our flight?” Jin observes, tracking Jungkook’s sight. 

“Oh yeah! Dude, is she the one?” Jimin keenly notes. “How do you keep bumping into each other like this?”

Jungkook downs his whisky, the burn felt from the throat to his diaphragm. “I don’t know, hyung. I don’t know what to do.” Beckoning the bartender for a refill, he tears away from your sight. 

 “Okay, liquid fortification is all good but how about,” Jin stops briefly to pluck the coupon out of Jungkook’s hands, “we handle the drinks department while you attend to her?”

Jimin nods in assent. “The worst thing you could do is spend time with her slurring and garbling while she ditches your sorry ass.”

“Hey! I won’t do that. Just, ” Jungkook gulps, “I don’t know... We’ve met like, hardly a few times. It really doesn’t make sense. What if we’re not on the same page?”

Jimin frowns, and even Jin seems unhappy with his reasoning.

“Things don’t have to make sense. You’re two consenting adults. You like her. By the way she’s eyeing you right now, I’m sure the feeling is mutual. You said it’s easy to talk to her right?”

Jungkook pouts, but sees his point.

“Then go with that. Don’t chart out a plan, just go with your heart.” Jin adopts a soft smile of encouragement. 

“Meanwhile we will grab the others and exploit this coupon to the full extent!” Jimin gleefully appends.

Jungkook’s eyes crinkle as he laughs with the other two. They are right. Carpe diem, right?

Finding you again, his breath hitches. You look beautiful. The sleek black dress with silver embellishments over the torso. It hugs you in the right places, accentuating your already alluring frame. Your shoulders bare, elegant collarbones waiting to be tasted. Hair tied up, exposing the delicious curve of your neck, a stretch Jungkook wants to pepper kisses onto, without missing a spot. You look exquisite against the backdrop of the night.

Carpe noctem it is. 

“Did you really dress up to use the coupon?” The tongue-in-cheek query breaking your line of thought.

A breathy chuckle leaves your lips, hopefully masking the frenzy in your heart. 

“I had a party. A very dull party. Figured I preferred my own company over that.” 

“Do you prefer your own company over mine?”

He’s still standing, tall frame waiting for your permission to occupy the next seat. God, he looks amazing.

“Not at all.” The words leave huskier than you intend, but they convey the message.

He takes the seat, a mere step away, his cologne wafting over to your side. The alcohol buzz makes the scent feel stronger, every bone in you wanting to dive in nose-first. 

Apparently you have been staring, because he nervously chuckles “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Should you go the modest route or fuck it?

Fuck it.

“You look... great today,” is all you get out. Stupid brain spewing half-baked goods.

Understatement of the year. He looks like sin incarnate. All black attire highlighting his golden skin, the dichotomy of his whole look has you understandably tongue-tied. Black jeans - no rips, sadly- with a dark grey high-neck t-shirt, tucked in of course, because pain is the only constant for you. A black trench coat is thrown on top to seal the look. The obsidian outfit sends desperate need through your body, an intense desire to rip it all off surging through you. Somehow, through all these layers you can sense his fit body, his rippled muscles, his sturdy pecs, like they have an aura of their own. 

“Ah, thank you. You look amazing as well.” Halting a moment to sip his drink, he resumes.  “Sucks that you dressed up for nothing.”

“Well, you liked it. So it's not for nothing.”

If looks were potent, Jungkook’s own could set you on fire. Gaze coolly raking over your figure, the tick in his jaw betrays his reaction. A chill passes through every part of your body under his intense scrutiny.

“Are there other things you would wear… if I liked it?” He carefully treads.

“There are certain things I’m wearing right now that I’m sure you would appreciate.” 

If not for the shrinking distance between you two, you couldn’t have caught the low hiss. His animalistic need, usually kept well under control, is raging against its bonds, screaming to let go. Your exquisite gown, flowing down your curves, accentuating the swell of your ass - God save this dress from his feral hands. Against his will, he restrains himself. He would make this a lasting encounter. 

“How many drinks have you had?” He needs you to remember every single moment.

“Two glasses of wine, don’t worry. You?” 

“A shot of whisky, that’s all. Haven’t even finished my second drink.”

Gone were his cherubic appearance and dimpled smiles; the man in front of you is oozing pure sex appeal. His clenched jawline, furrowed brow, and perfectly placed tresses add to his raw masculinity. The cusp of your thighs is damp; if this is his effect here, what will it be behind locked doors? You wonder whether this is the same man that gushed about old-era video games in the flight. 

“Well, if you are wearing them for me, I’d be a fool to miss them.” he brings you back to the present. Twinkling eyes match your eager ones as you give a small nod.

Every step you take shoots a thrilling tingle through your spine. Every inch of distance closed forces you to close the next with doubled speed. Every foot forward adds to the thick air, laced with hunger, desire, and an inordinate amount of trust placed in the hands of a stranger. 

The first time you two walked back to the elevator, his move had caught you unaware. 

Now, the arm wraps around your entire waist, body flush against his, yet you yearn to get closer. 

Last time, you couldn’t match his gaze, skin burnt a crimson hue. 

Now, your eyes are locked together, any movement in your surroundings be damned.

Michael Jackson rising from the dead and performing Thriller wouldn’t tear you away from your current view (sorry MJ, maybe next time).

When the doors close, he places a palm on your bare back, bringing you to his chest.

“I’ve wanted this so bad, ever since I met you. It’s insane.”

The hand caressing your back makes you sigh. “Not if I wanted the same.”

His grip tightens. “The things I want to do to you...” eyes searching yours, ”tell me you can handle it.”

“Oh baby,” you drawl, “I’ll do whatever you want. Whatever it is,” your lips hover on his, “I can take it.”

The elevator doors opened too soon for your liking, and Jungkook drags you through the corridor. You’re practically hanging on to him, feet barely responsive, the faint buzz of wine making you giddy. His hawkish gaze soaks in everything you do, memorizing every response to his touch. 

You lean over to lay wet kisses on his neck. Pleasure searing through his veins, Jungkook’s knees almost buckle. He pushes you against a wall and locks you in with his form.

“Uh-uh-uh, honey,” he tsks, “you’re not making this easy on me?”

You pretend to ponder. “Well, I didn’t plan on making it easy.”

He smirks, all sex, and the wetness between your legs is making its presence known. Leaning into your ear, he whispers, “Unless you want me to have my way with you right here…” and all your brattiness dissipates. 

Satisfied, he grins. “Your place or mine?” 

“Hmmn, depends.”

He cocks a brow. “On?”

“Am I gonna be able to walk tomorrow?”

That damned smirk. “Your place it is.”

Jungkook’s lips are on yours the moment your door is locked. He cages you against its frame, teeth clashing and biting anything they find. You let your hands roam all over, searching for something to hold on to. A throaty sound leaves Jungkook when your digits card through his hair and tug on it, a sound you gladly swallow.

Time seems to have taken a break. Your thoughts are blank. You chase the kiss like it's the only thing you know, the only thing you’re born to do, your sole mission in life before you die. The bruising pace Jungkook set is eagerly matched by you. Gravity is slowly losing its meaning, and you’re nothing but a stray entity floating in space. And this kiss is your only source of air. 

Jungkook pulls you towards him, closing the nonexistent distance between you. Heat rises from his chest, the feeling is hypnotic beyond reason. A taste of you has ruined every other flavor. He kept his eyes half-open, sneaking peeks at your flushed face whenever you come for air. His fingers explored your body, grabbing your ass and pulling you into him. Your clothed crevice jolts at the friction, hips hounding for more.

The moan that leaves you gets muted, because Jungkook takes this opportunity to take control. Tongue forcing its way in to explore every corner of your mouth, it melds with your own muscle. If this were a dance, it would be a fierce tango, oozing with sexual tension. Breathing is now trivial, this kiss is imperative. 

Jungkook’s hands grab your hips and twirl you, both of you now facing a full-length mirror. You can witness your neckline being abused, mulberry blossoms left in place. The sight has your sex clenching, and lips liberated, you couldn’t stop yourself from mewling.

“Fuck, Y/N. I’m going to make you scream so loud, the hotel reception will hear you.”

With your head spinning in lust, you try to form your words right. “An- And what? Discuss how a second room for you was - oh god - was useless?” 

Jungkook pauses to admire his craft; your neck, shoulders, and collar are now littered with bruises, like a garden of hyacinth at his disposal. The view is maddening, your lusty gaze locked on to him in the mirror. His mane is tousled, no doubt your handiwork, and his hand is tracing the outline of your dress. 

“That cursed day,” He chokes out, “You were so fucking hard to resist you know?”

You turn back to face him, hand reaching back to undo your halter neck, “You have me now.” Stepping back, you let your gown fall.

He froze. You are standing in front of him, robed in only your black lace-embroidered strapless bra, and matching panties, each adorned with a white bow. The swell of your breasts barely caged in the cups, making Jungkook drool at sight. All the wind was knocked out of his lungs; you look like a prisoner’s last meal, waiting to be devoured. 

“On your knees.” he commands.  

Not a second is put to waste. You begin undressing him, unbuckling the pants and aggressively pulling them down. Next come the boxers, and you are faced with-

Wow.

You mean this in the nicest way, but, what a dick.

He is already hard, the mushroomed tip angry and red, leaking a drop of precum begging to be tasted. The girth exceeds your expectation, already visualizing the delicious visual of your cunt stretched thin. He is going to reach places even Vlad the Impaler couldn’t; you are already brimming with anticipation for the final act.

And his thighs. Nothing angelic about them. Taut. Muscular. Sinewy. Something uncivilized in you wants them to trap your frame between them, caging you, pinning you down. You press kisses on his inner thigh, letting your tongue poke out when you hear him exhale. A sharp bite shocks Jungkook, but you only smirk.

“Wanted to do that since I saw you.” 

The stare that meets you is practically challenging you to try that again, and perhaps reap some delicious consequences.

You bring yourself back, giving his cock the full attention that it deserves. Looking up, you see his half-lidded eyes, assertive and arresting, compelling you to go on. 

You bring your palm up to him. He raised a brow in question.

“Spit for me.”

Jungkook almost busts his load when he hears you. “Fuck, so dirty.” he garbles out. Rolling his neck in an attempt to divert his blood, he takes your hand and drops a thick glob at the center of your palm. 

A throaty moan arises from you, and his dick is harder than ever.

“Go on baby, show me you can suck dick like a champ.”

You give him a confident look; you’re about to rock his world. Starting with small licks, you tease the slit and taste the pre-cum lodged in it. Meanwhile, you work the spit along the shaft; you spit on it again, the original amount insufficient to cover the length. You can feel his dick twitching against your attention, eager to be sheathed. Interspersing with some long drags on the underside, you zero in on the pinched skin under the head. 

Jungkook is staring at your jerking him off. The sight of you, clad in lingerie is blowing his mind. If that was not enough, the mirror in front is providing a sumptuous secondary perspective. The smooth stretch of your back, the swell of your ass, the panty fabric barely able to cover the expanse, everything on you is making him short circuit. Seeing you on your knees, your deferential nature stirs something in him. If he doesn’t control himself, he will bend you in half and ride you to sunrise. He doesn’t want to scare you, but fuck, his depraved early man instincts are telling him otherwise. 

“What are you- ohhh, holy shi-”

Instead of slipping his cock fully into your mouth, you hold it up, and pay careful attention to his balls. Jungkook’s hands come to rest on your head, a telltale sign of his unraveling. With a smile, you let your tongue swipe through every nook and corner till they are coated in saliva.

“You think you’re such a fucking tease, ” He grabs you by your now unraveled tresses and pulls you back, “Ease up baby, your throat is in for a treat.”

In one quick swoop, he lodges himself at the base of your throat, provoking your gag reflex, but you restrain the urge to pull back. Breathing through your nose, you suck and swallow whatever you can; his girth isn't giving you much to work with.

Jungkook growls. “Such a tight fit. Like you’re meant to be like this. Forever.”

The last word slips out unwittingly. 

Alarmed, his eyes flit down to gauge your response, but all you are doing is looking back at him. 

Fuck, your dovelike eyes are captivating. They look so angelic, a complete contrast to the perverse posture you are in. Not an ounce of displeasure in response to his words. Pure, unadulterated affection for him. Only for him. 

“God, you’re going to be the death of me.” Jungkook husks. “You’ll do anything for me, you said?”

Muffled whimpers impart your compliance, and you bob your head up and down for good measure. The tip of his cock hits every ridge of your throat, the vibration releasing more fluid down.

“Pleasure yourself, baby. Touch yourself, but don’t you cum.”

Your brow distresses further, a disgruntled whine leaving you and reverberating around him. Already so turned on, the lightest friction would make you combust.

Jungkook’s teeth clench. “Edge yourself for me, sweetie.” 

It's like your body is tuned to his command. Slipping two fingers under the band, you part and slide them on either side of your throbbing nub. Despite you avoiding any pressure point that might push you over the edge, the pleasure threatens to tip you over. 

You look over for his approval. Swallowing, he nods. Your self-stimulation is making him dizzy. It's time to get serious.

“Such a good girl. Don’t stop, okay? I’m going to fuck your throat raw.” Starting with mellow jerks, “Hope you don’t have to speak anytime tomorrow.” he rasps.

The carpeted floor grazing your knees only adds to the revelry. You’re not in control of yourself anymore. The back of your gullet is aching as Jungkook shoves into you again and again. An amalgamation of his salty juices and your dribble lewdly coats your chin and neck; you must look ravished. Everything with Jungkook feels augmented; every single motion of his making your sex clench. 

He is close - you can feel his grip on your hair tightening. 

“Can I cum on you?” words slither through his clamped teeth. You frantically nod. 

With a loud grunt, he pulls you off and releases all over your chest, a stray pump landing on your chin. Thick liquid, dripping from your jaw onto your collarbones and breasts, the whole scene is filthy good. Your unfilled cunt is aching to be replete with the cum. 

Post-orgasmic glow is dazzling on him--hair drenched in sweat, tufts sticking to his forehead. His breathing is heavy and resonant as dilated pupils take in your soaked state. Bending down, he crooks a finger under your chin, anchoring his attention on your dewy stare. The onyx embers in his eyes bore into yours, studying for any hesitation in them. A microscopic moment of tenderness, unspoken words exchange between you. 

Satisfied to find only searing hunger, his digits collect the beads of cum on your jaw, pushing them back into your mouth. Your eyes roll skyward, relishing the briny taste, nearly asking him to do it again. Leaning further, he grabs the wrist of your hand that is thoughtlessly rubbing your sex - you didn’t even realize you were still doing it. You feel drained, like you orgasmed vicariously through him. 

“My turn.” He wears a devilish expression on his archangel eyes.

Lips connect once again as he pulls you up. If he tastes himself, he is relishing it, with his tongue exploring the deep cavern. With wobbly ankles, you let him guide you to your bed, dropping on your back. He follows you, pouncing on you, plunging into your mouth again like a beast hungered. Bodies melting together like an icicle under the summer blaze, your hands hunt to frisk his skin. Realizing he is yet to undress, you yank at this t-shirt, attempting to liberate him from the offending fabric.

“Tsk, greedy.” he bit your ear, soothing the sting with a kiss. 

“Cruel is what it is.” You huff, like everything he’s doing is not a blissful affair. 

How do men do that? Violently ripping their shirt off and leaving a messy mop of hair in its wake, nevertheless looking like they could walk a runway the next instant. Jungkook was no exception. The moment he pulls his shirt off, you are rendered speechless.

Chiseled chest like the work of an artisan. Droplets of sweat race down the paths traced by the sculpted abs, an intense desire to taste them forming in you. He is a mesomorphic dream who puts Greek gods to shame. Swallowing, you let your hand trace the outline of his pecks, feeling him shudder against your touch.

“Jungkook, please.”

Who was he to deny you?

Leaning up to you with a wicked smirk, Jungkook drops a thick line of spit right on your hardened nipple. The concoction of his cum and spit soaks through the lacy material. A lone finger circles, avoiding the spot that requires the most attention. You arch your back, begging him for more, just more of anything. The wet fabric amplifies the emptiness in your cunt. 

“Aww,” he coos, clearly amused by your neediness, “undo this for me, sweetness. Let me see you.”

Moving at lightning speed, you unhook the bra, swinging it away to a corner of the room. 

“Oh no.” He mock-frowns, veins bulging on his arm as he controls himself. “Look at these tits, fuck.” Mind reeling with ideas, filthy ideas, of all the things he wants to do to you. “You’ve ruined everything else for me.”

You tremble. “Good, so have you. Want you for myself. Want you,” pulling him close, “to do your worst.” you end with a whisper.

Jungkook’s jaw tightens. “Careful what you ask for,” he grits before diving headfirst into your bosom. 

He licks and laves and bites and laps--your breasts are on fire. Continuing his marking spree, new blemishes make an appearance on your torso. Nibbling on one nipple, he pinches the other; pulling moan after moan from you. 

Your hips barely touch the bed, bucking up in response to Jungkook’s sinking teeth into your ample bust. He has decided to not leave an inch without his saliva, and like a man on a mission, covers every part with rapt attention. 

“Yo- You don’t have to--oh holy fuck--you don’t have to, cover me in marks you kno--ohh my go-” The sentence is spastic, piercing mewls breaking your flow of speech and thought. 

“These fucking tits,��� roughly clasping your pert breast in his large palm, “they look so much better like this.” The proud smile he shows has not the slightest hint of regret. 

Catching a break, he twiddles your nipples, letting his other hand sit on your covered sex. He is teasing you; you recognize that. Just giving you opportunities to disobey, to take all the pain he has to offer.

It’s a good thing you like the pain.

You slowly roll your hips, trying to grind against his palm, taking whatever help you can get.

A sharp smack lands on your clit, shooting your eyes open - you don’t even know when they closed. Jungkook’s hand is soothing the site of the blow, the pain converting to pleasure under his touch. 

“Patience, sweetness,” the gravely whisper sending tingles down your spine, “such a good girl for me.”

You give him a slight nod - he smacks you again, once, twice, thrice, without a break. Your entrance is smarting, but you want to give him everything. Biting your lips to stop the labored moans escaping, you clench your eyes and savor the burn.

Your show of obedience has Jungkook’s heart thronging. Fuck, he was enjoying toying with you. Playing you like a fiddle. You produce every tone he desires in the form of wanton melodies, he wants to play them over and over again like his favorite song.

“How are we doing?” he asks, a shit-eating grin plastered on him. Before you could answer, his fingers shallowly enter your soaked pussy, still hampered by the cloth. 

“You- fuck, you said I was the tease here?” Your hands are at his wrist, begging to pull the scrap of cloth aside and have his way. 

He comes to face your sopping mound, pausing only to speak “Never said I wasn’t,” and starts pressing soft, feathery kisses. “That day, seeing you dripping in that towel, I dreamt of having these legs around me.”

“I swear, at least take it off - oh Jungkoo-”

Without warning, he kneads your ass and pushes you into his face. 

You feel like you’ve been on the edge for hours. The suckle on your engorged clit along with the abrasion of the lace gets you so close. So damn close. So, so clo-

The tightness in your belly finally snaps and you howl, gushing your vat of arousal onto his face. The high was more intense than you had imagined, so high that you wonder if you will ever find your way back to reality. You feel like a rock in space, aimlessly floating in the vast nothingness.

You dimly notice Jungkook toying with the lacy hem of your panties, pulling it back to snap it against your hip. The sting is soon forgotten, along with your panties flung across the bed, as he parks himself back between your legs.

“You smell incredible.” He approves, taking a long whiff of your honeyed center. “Look at you, so messy.” He licks a long stripe along your crease. “Messy girl, I should clean you up.”

“Wait Jungkook-” you oppose, lids heaving in pleasure. “I need you inside me, please. I can’t take -oof”

Gnawing at your sodden folds, he let his nose press against your clit. “You’re so fucking tight, you think you can take me?” He shakes his head. “Gotta stretch you out, gotta make me fit.” He presses his tongue against your nub, feeling it throb in anticipation. “And I think you can give me one more.” He ends, before invading your drenched channel with two fingers. You are putting up with his torments the best you can; walls fluttering against his lips, legs entwined behind Jungkook’s back trapping him between your thighs. 

“Ah! God - I, I can’t-” Your eyes are screwed shut, hands bunching the sheets in your grasp.

His fingers fluctuate between scissoring motions, their lengths opening you up for him and curling inside, fingertips finding the rough patch inside. He adds a third finger, pussy straining to accommodate them all. Your thighs clench in the burn, and he groans into your pussy at the pressure. Increasing the pace, he pumps into you harder and faster, sucking your puffy lips in tandem. 

“Please, please, harder - let me cum - please oh go-” 

“Fuck yeah baby, your pussy is just sucking me in. You like that? You like me shoving into your cunt?”

“Uungh yes yes I love it!”

“Doesn’t it hurt? Or are you such a slut for pain? Tell me, tell me you’re a pain slut.”

“Fuck, Jungkook, don’t you stop- I am! I am a pain slut! Your pain slut!”

“Goood girrrll,” he husks out. Even though he is taking charge, your words are what control him. “Only mine. My pain slut will come for me now.”

A spray of cum ejects out of you, coating Jungkook’s chest and inundating your legs. The coherent part in you recognizes that you just squirted, but the neanderthal side shuts all recognition of anything that is not Jungkook’s cock. Even after two climaxes, you are hungry to get more. More of him. 

If you don’t fuck him now, you will lose your capability to reason. 

Limbs still heavy and reeling from the ravaging, you pick your pieces and drag Jungkook to the headboard. 

“I’m going to ride you.” you declare and straddle him. 

Jungkook is staring fixedly at your still-leaking cunt. Running his tongue over his lower lip, and licking the remnant syrup of your release. You position yourself, letting the drippage fall directly on his erection. He twitches, eyes still feasting on the mess you are making. 

Finding purchase on his shoulders, you lower yourself. Jungkook’s breath staggers as you drag your inner lips along his hard shaft. You repeat this motion till your fluids drip to his balls. 

“Y/N, I swear to God, if you don’t stop with this-”

“You’ll do what?” you challenge, an eyebrow raised in response to his threat. 

He grabs you by your waist, jerking you up before bringing you down on his dick. Your cunt, creamy from his earlier ministrations, gives no resistance to his hardness. His cock twitches inside as you bottom out. Pulling you closer, he bites your lip and tugs at it. 

“I’ll do this.”

A sharp spank makes you clench around him, the supple flesh of your ass ricocheting in response. 

“Go on baby, ride me.” 

The low-grained command sets you in motion. Slowly gyrating your hips, you feel every ridge of this length inside. Jungkook’s grip on your waist tightens, and you’re sure you will see evidence of it tomorrow. Your grasp on his shoulders isn’t faring any better. 

“You’re so tight, fuck, and so wet. Who made you like this, huh?” A second spank punctuating his question.

“Oh God, you-”, you barely manage to recognize your own voice, “You, Jungkook! Only you!” 

“That’s fucking right, only me.” 

Hips snapping, he meets you halfway. Both of you are lost in each other, lewd sounds of your skin slapping and juices quelching barely muffled by your desperate whines and moans of passion. Eyes locked in like magnets, neither of you could look away. 

Jungkook pulls back a little, slapping your jiggling tit. Your sex clenches, and the following slap has you lodging yourself in the crook of his neck, searching for a reprieve. 

“Want some help?”

One swift move and you are on your stomach, face pushed into a pillow, and ass out. A final spank lands right in the middle, and you can feel it pulsate everywhere. He pushes back into your glistening core, taking control of your pleasure and pain. One hand carding through the nape of your neck, pushing you down, the other hand grabbing your waist and setting the pace. The new angle hits deeper, you feel so full. 

“Jungkoo--unghh I need to cum! Need to- umph- cum so bad!” You are wailing at this point, shame lying somewhere near your flung clothes.

“Fuck, babe, me too. Go ahead and play with yourself, nice and slow.”

It takes a few swipes for the tightness in you to detonate. Tears flood your face as you unravel, your orgasm crashing into you like waves of a tsunami. You clench tight, wetness flows out of your hole as Jungkook pumps in and out, chasing his high. 

He comes undone soon after, ropes of his ejaculate filling your insides. He stays in, plugging you as if to not allow any of it out. But as his member softens, he gives in, turning you on your back to meet his face. 

Butterfly-soft kisses are exchanged after the blazing encounter. He asks you if you’re okay between breaths, a tender murmur you almost miss, as if you weren’t screaming your lungs out moments ago. Nuzzling into his neck, you confirm.

A snort disrupts the silence. Looking up, you see Jungkook chuckling.

In response to your cocked eyebrow, he says “Want to talk about what a freak you are?”

“Want to talk about what a hypocrite you are?”

“Hey, you asked me to spit on you!”

You mock-gasp, hand on chest for the extra effect. “My breasts need medical attention after your attention! Freak!” 

Laughter echoes in the room as you two tumble in the blankets, and you feel his release seeping out of you. Turning to him, you pout, “Your mess is leaking out of me.” 

Jungkook gets up to leave the bed, and you expect a wet towel coming your way. 

What you don’t expect is him parting your legs, gunmetal eyes following the rivulets escaping your abused hole. 

“Your cunt smells so good with my cum on it,” he purrs. 

He gathers the escaping thick liquid and pushes it back into your quivering core. 

Jolting with oversensitivity, you try to stall him but he is fingering you with a vengeance. The ache and soreness soon dispel, bringing forth a new wave of ecstasy. His unrelenting stare concentrates on the mix of fluids on his fingers. With a few strokes on your sensitive bundle of nerves and fingers stuffed inside, you come again, legs shivering and pussy overflowing, his juices intermingled with yours. 

You are dazed; you’ve lost track of everything. The room is spinning in front of you and your body feels like lead. All you can manage is to arch your neck, and plead, “No more, you freak.” 

Jungkook giggles, eyes crinkling in good humor. Ah, the duality of this man is a force to reckon with. You can’t believe this is the same man that fucked you into your bed like a primordial beast. There’s no way you can move anytime soon. 

After a clean-up interval, you are wrapped in each other's arms, melting into the embrace. His musky fragrance putting you at ease, you tuck your in the nook of his neck, basking in the aroma. Hands pressed against his broad chest, exuding warmth for you. His hand cradles your head, snuggling in closer till there is no space to cover. Sweet nothings whispered into each other’s lips, tender kisses exchanged in place of the scorching ones that had passed. You drift in and out of your slumber, fearing the sun would ascend too soon and break you apart. 

A dim glow from the other end of the bed wakes you up. On turning you find Jungkook, dressed in his now-wrinkled clothes, seated on the edge. His gaze, pensive. You lay a hand on his thigh.

“Oh, did the light wake you?”

The alarm on his face makes you smile. “No, your absence did.” 

The corners of his mouth turned up, eyeing you with softness. 

“I have an early schedule. I didn’t want to wake you, but, ” he lets his palm rest on yours, “I also didn’t want to leave without it.”

Neither of you know how to walk away from this. The silence is deafening, unuttered sentiments hanging in the still air. Jungkook’s chest is heavy. 

This is insane. He wants to lay you against a bed of flowers, treat you like the delicate petal you bear resemblance to, worship your body till the sun succumbs to your blazing passion. How is he to explain that his heart is beating through his chest for someone he knows for mere days? He rifles through his memories for a similar instance. 

He finds none. 

Maybe you don’t feel the same way. Maybe, you are blissfully unaware of the tumultuous emotions lurching in the pit of his belly. He can’t assume you will echo his lovesick needs, but he can’t let go. 

You inch closer. 

Fervid feelings die hard. He probes your eyes searching for an intensity matching his. 

You let your lips convey the answer.

Passionate as ever, you draw him into the kiss. His lashes flutter against your rosy cheeks. At the moment, there is no dominance in him. Almost like his tongue, dragging across your swollen lips, is healing the brutality of last night. If you pull back, he comes after you; an incessant tug of war no player wants to win. 

“Please Jungkook,” you choke between kisses, “Please tell me this isn’t the last of us.”

He is hovering on top of you, the galaxy in his eyes twinkling at your words. 

“Please, I don’t want this to end.” You continue against his lips. Head versus heart, you fought a losing battle; how were you to stall the inevitable? Fueled, you plunge your tongue into him, determined to make your ardor known. The void of ferocity is filled with slow sensuality; like he is the sole reservoir to quench your thirst. 

“Y/N”, he breathes out, “I feel like I know everything about you and nothing about you at the same time.” Resting your foreheads against one another, he continues. “I’m not about to let fate decide when we cross paths again.”

A grin finds your lips. “Destiny really pulled its weight here, didn’t it?”

He wordlessly nods, not wanting to break the tranquility in place. However, it is short-lived; his phone’s ringer makes sure of it. 

“Yeah, I’ll be right down.” Something the speaker says turns Jungkook scarlet red. “I said I’ll be right there!” he yells before ending the call.

“The members are asking why I wasn’t in my room.” he clarifies, waggling his brows.  You join his laughter, happy to have just the simple moment with him. 

After exchanging numbers (and a photo for keepsake), Jungkook presses one last kiss, lips promising to find each other again. Somehow, you don’t say goodbye. You just stare at his disappearing body, confident that the next encounter is not far. 

Jake is babbling about his night, how he managed to ditch the god-awful party and hang out with some overenthusiastic college-goers who paid for his drinks with their trust fund dough. This is usually the time you ask him if he’s proud of mooching off of children, but today his exaggerated narrative is cracking you up. 

His forehead creases. “What’s up with you today? You haven’t vowed to skin me alive even once.”

“You like it when I threaten bodily harm?”

“I’m kinky like that.”

You just shrug. Erotic images make a fleeting appearance in your mind, but they are interrupted by your flight announcement. 

“Aren’t you glad this is over? You can go back to overworking yourself in your office instead of a hotel!” Jake remarks, throwing his bag over his shoulder. “At least your back won’t break in the travel.”

Thinking over your experience in the city, you confess “Actually, I look forward to returning here.”

A thought slips in, curving your mouth into a smile. You quietly add,

“And yeah, my back was broken all right.”

Thank you for making it to the end! Please do let me know what you think!

[krispytidalwavesheep]

Hopes and Dreams Part I

.I have this idea in my head since I saw the first trailer of Resident Evil 8, which was in March? This will be multichaptered and english isn’t my first language, so if anyone of you likes the story enough and is willing to be my beta, I would greatly appreciate it. *** About the story: Reader was Alcinas first lover and got reincarnated over the centuries. Alcina lost her everytime and after the fifth, she just gave up on ever finding reader again, because she couldn’t take losing her anymore times. But as fate would have it, the reader will find her.... Chapter One

Five. Five times Alcina has seen you reincarnated and crossing her way, and yet, fate always found a way to take you from her. The last one was particularly grueling. She remembered the day she lost you, as if it happened yesterday and considering her immortality, it may have been. You looked so happy and excited when you said your goodbyes, and Alcina could understand that. The titanic was a big thing then, even more so after the tragedy that unfolded. You were one of the many victims of the sheer stupidity of men, at least in her opinion and she hasn’t been the same since. Every single one of your deaths was devastating, but the last one was the one that broke her. Bela was there to take care of her, but something died within Alcina when she heard that fate had taken you away from her yet again.

When Cassandra and Daniela came into her life, it certainly helped, but she still grieved for you to this day. Usually, she would search to the ends of the world for you, but she couldn’t stand to lose you, if she ever found you again. She couldn’t do that to either you or herself.

She straightened her dress when she got to her feet again, gently stroking a hand over your grave. Well, the first you, anyway. The only one where any remains were found to be buried. You loved the lake near the castle, no matter in which life. Some asked about the tombstone, but she would just smile and say that it was someone she cherished when she was young, never revealing the whole truth. The first you lived the longest and happiest, before Alcina was turned. Centuries before Mother Miranda found out about her and the other lords.

Her musing was disrupted when she heard distant howling. It seemed like Heisenberg’s Lycans had found another victim, and they were oh so messy in their killing. She harrumphed and started her trek back to the castle, ignoring the ever-closer growing howling. That was until she heard rustling and a figure, cursing like a sailor rushed out from the bushes. Your eyes met and time seemed to stop for both of you.

***

You were furious with yourself for letting your guard down. You have been hiding away in this remote village for two years now, so far avoiding any supernatural beings. But it seems your luck had run out. You were checking your traps in the forest, never noticing them sneaking up on you. Which was a feat in and on itself, normally you could smell them miles away. During your travels you had to fight of many supernatural beings, a pack of Lycans shouldn’t be a problem, but the forest was dense in these parts and you knew when you were at a disadvantage. So, you ran, hoping to distract them with the chase long enough to form a plan.

Meeting her wasn’t part of the plan. You have never seen the lady of the castle, but you heard enough to know exactly who you were looking at, her height being one dead giveaway. Yet something about her made you stop dead in your tracks, the pack of Lycans chasing after you completely forgotten. Her honey-colored eyes stirred something in you, some feeling of familiarity you couldn’t quite place. Your heart clenched, not entirely in an uncomfortable way, because she was just so stunning. If you weren’t gay before you sure as hell were now. What intrigued you even more was the look of utter shock in her eyes, mixed with other emotions you could have named, if it weren’t for the Lycan crashing into you and propelling you down the small cliff you hadn’t noticed before.

“Motherfucking mutt!” you hissed and pulled the knife from your boot. You skillfully spin the Lycan underneath you, stabbing the knife into the Lycans chest to soften your fall. But another four already jumped right after you and you were still distracted by the lady, who apparently decided that watching you would be a nice way to kill some time. With a sickening crunch from the dead Lycan you landed on the edge of the lake. The others where circling you, growling menacingly. With another sickening crunch you pulled your knife free and took a defensive post. You kept most of your concentration on the Lycans, but the woman was still distracting you somewhat.

‘Might as well try to impress her’ you thought and grinned up at her, which was your second mistake that day. You felt sharp claws digging into your left leg and hissed in annoyance.

“Not cool, man!” you huffed and kicked him in the throat. The desire to impress equally impressive tall, beautiful women left your mind and you made quick process of the remaining Lycans standing in your way. You kicked the corpse of the one that got you for good measure, cursing under your breath. When you turned around you noticed that the lady had made your way to you, still staring you down as if you were the weirdest thing around here.

“I would help you, but it seems you have the situation under control,” she said, and a shiver ran down your spine. Her voice was like liquid honey and your heart clenched again. You absentmindedly rubbed your chest and said “Well, they are not the first supernatural being I have encountered, and they aren’t the most dangerous ones.”

She seemed impressed with your answer if the slight smirk was anything to go by. Her gaze wandered down to your leg and something in her eyes changed. Some far away voice in your head screamed for you to run from her, but you felt weirdly safe around her.

“Believe me when I say that I taste quite awful,” you said and grinned. That seemed to pull her out of her daze, and she stepped closer to you. You gulped a bit when the realization of how tall she truly was hit you, but you wouldn’t back down either. Craning your neck to keep looking at her face you stood still and waited. You should be scared shitless and still you felt as if no danger was coming your way. Yet.

“You should take care of that, before you attract more of them” she simply said and turned around. Sheer stupidity, paired with a malfunctioning brain to mouth barrier made you utter your next words “Well, shouldn’t you be the one to help me out, considering that I only got hurt, trying to impress you?”

She turned around so fast that you just knew she popped something. She was upon you in seconds and hissed “Excuse me?”

“I- I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” you stuttered and felt a blush creeping up your face. All her beauty and your weird feeling aside, she was still someone infinitely more dangerous than 200 Lycans combined. What exactly had you gotten yourself into? 

***

Seeing you tumble out of the woods came as a shock to her system. No matter how many times you got reborn, she would always recognize you, though you certainly looked more different than ever before. Not that Alcina had much time to look at you, when just a few seconds after your eyes met a Lycan barreled into you. Her feet moved on her own, ignoring the other Lycans tumbling down the small cliff, when she rushed to the ledge of the small cliff just in time to see you landing on the dead Lycan.

You were certainly feisty and skilled this time around and the grin you threw her way made her feel things she thought long buried. Until one Lycan got to you and she saw red, but when she came down, she only saw you kicking a dead Lycan before he turned into dust. Alcina was rather impressed when you made that off-hand comment about encountering other beings before. Which would explain why you didn’t react to her like normal people do.

No matter how many times you two met in the course of history, there were certain things that never changed: you always looked similar to your you before, and your smell. Looking at you now, she realized that this time, a lot has changed. The most obvious being your smell. You still smelled like you, but something was underneath all that, that made you somehow all the more alluring to her. Something in your blood sang to her and it confused her a great deal.

You were always kind of shy and timid around her when you first met, but the confidence you oozed made you all the more attractive and Alcina felt as if she was betraying your past lives with that thought. Hearing that you encountered supernatural beings before made her stop dead in her tracks. What was your life like until you met? What happened to you to change you so fundamentally? But your next words shocked you more than she would ever admit

“Well, shouldn’t you be the one to help me out, considering that I only got hurt, trying to impress you?” you said with such an insufferable grin that Alicna had the impulse to strangle you for the first time in her long life.

“Excuse me?” she hissed and clenched her hands. Not that you would notice. But apparently you didn’t mean to say that, if your blush was anything to go by. Still, Alcina was fuming at the blatant rudeness, but also shocked at your bluntness. Your new personality was… still somehow endearing and interesting. She couldn’t fit your current you into the picture she had of you which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

“What is your name?” Alcina asked and took a few steps back to get a better look at you. The smile you gave her was apologetic when you said “Excuse my poor manners, I really don’t know what has gotten into me today. My name is y/n.”

“I am Lady Alcina Dimitrescu, but you will call me Lady Dimitrescu or my lady. You would do good to remember your manners, little one.” She said and offered her hand to you. You gave her another stunning smile as you took her hand and bowed to give kiss to her knuckles that did ABSOLUTELY not fluster her, before you purred, “It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady.”

You would be the certain death of her this time around. She was certain of that. She should keep her distance from you, it wouldn’t do to become to attached to your, your attitude would get you killed rather sooner than later. But what she said was: “Come now. The castle isn’t that far, and night is almost upon us. It wouldn’t do to stay out here, with you being injured.”

[punemy-spotted]

The Price You Pay Chapter 7: Abeyance

Pairing: Mob!Steve Rogers x Reader; Senator!Andy Barber x Reader

Warnings: Rape/Non-Con elements, Dub-Con, Dark!Fic, Abuse of Legal System, Murder, Character Death (minor, possibly major), Love Triangle, Political AU, Mafia AU, Workplace Sexual Harassment, Abuse Mentions, Possessive/Obsessive Characters, Other Chapter-Specific Warnings May Apply, Possible Dead Dove: Would Not Eat

Chapter Warnings: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat; Angst-lite; Funerals; Mention of Dead Bodies; Alcohol Mention; Character Death; Drinking; Hell; Mention of Contract Killing;

Chapter Summary: Funerals are for the living, and your new life begins here.

Chapter 1; Chapter 2; Chapter 3; Chapter 4; Chapter 5; Chapter 6

Notes: The funeral arrives! Most of this chapter is Steve’s POV because as it turns out, I’m terrible. I hope it’s okay?

Thank you all for reading and commenting! As always, feedback is greatly appreciated, even if you’re yelling at me.

Not beta-read, these sins belong to me and me alone.

All of my work is 18+ Only, Minors DO NOT INTERACT. I do not consent to my work being posted anywhere besides Tumblr or Ao3 and I post my work there myself. Do not copy, translate, or repost any of my content.

A pillar of the community has fallen, shattered remains laid to rest in pine and silk. Here come the mourners too, arrived to coat themselves in the dust that remains as they lament the broken, leaking roof he never held up with any sort of honesty. And as you enter the too-crowded funeral home, the sound of quiet weeping not enough to drown out the blood pounding in your ears, all you can think is, Embalmers do strange work.

You narrowly avoid the temptation to kick at the rubble, holding your curses behind clenched teeth and another ruby-lipped smile, the knife-dagger of your hate turned towards his soul and you pray for things like fire in lieu of grace, for screams in lieu of hymns, for pain in lieu of peace. Another link in your chains has crumbled, rust all that remains of that sallow, waxen face. There are no tears to shed for the man in the box and you don’t bother to pretend, not prone to hysterics like the wailing law clerk in the back-right of the room, clutching her swollen belly and crumpled into a heap in her boyfriend’s arms.

Not. Anymore.

There he goes, less than a plinth in the marble halls of your memory, left to rot as you approach that box where he lays seemingly asleep but you know.

You know the hateful breath he draws has ended. You know that the peace of his passing means the peace of your living.

It’s another kind of game, a dance, a ruse, an art the way you carefully sidestep the eyes of a widow you’ve never met before and the sons you remember being ten years younger. Men now, both of them, suspicious eyes and searching glances, as if seeking to remember where your razorblade smile and hate-cold eyes exist in their memory.

Andy Barber stands beside you as your guide and shield against the daggers of curiosity and concern, making quiet conversation as he keeps his hand secure to the small of your back. Steady.

Funerals are for the living, you recall someone telling you once, and though the dead remains in his place of dishonor, Andy comes alive as the seeming guest of honor. In some way you’re almost awed by it, catching glimpses of the truth in the twist of his smile and the choice of his words and yet watching how no one around him seems to notice. They see the way he moves the conversation forward, steers eyes away from you and the deceased, away from him and the trust. The practiced politician, burying his pain with… all the ease it requires.

You almost envy him.

You don’t have to do this, he told you in the car, your taxi ride on the way here a tense one as he tried to bring blood back to your clenched fists, knuckles pulsing at every stoplight.

I need to, you countered, not meeting his eyes, solicitous and warning all at once.

You told him.

You told him in the hotel room you stayed in, told him after it became impossible to ignore. That anxious pull at your center, wanting and fearing all at once, knowing what happens if you go and the uncertainty of if you don’t.

You didn’t tell him everything, of course. You know well enough not to do that.

You signed a death warrant. You bloodied your hands. You may not have killed him but you put him in the path of men who did and heart attacks are convenient half-truths for the living to pretend with. Yours is a rotten empire built on lies and fear and though truth bolsters all, the shattering of the veil between you and Andy Barber would bring it all down. You’re sure of it.

So you watch him instead, remembering the things you said, responding to his constant refrain, If he’s hurt you, Sunshine, just say the words, but he never directly asked who he was, did he?

So you made him the man in the box.

Not a lie.

An omission. He did. And he would again, if not for the ties that bound you to a different kind of cage.

You remember other things too. You remember the way he squeezed your hand, the way he pulled you close, the way he held you and you didn’t cry this time, but he shook. Shook with a fury you anticipated and a knowing you didn’t, let his jaw tighten until it pulsed with the force of every bitten-back word, every helpless moment, until his tongue finally managed to promise, I failed you once, I won’t again. Let me help you, Sunshine.

You don’t believe him. You won’t. You can’t.

You’ve been your savior this long, know only you can save yourself, but he is the next safe thing, the next harbor in the storm and you might as well let yourself rest for as long as you can before you start running again.

That doesn’t stop the tension now, in this moment, nor the coiling nervousness leaving sickly guilt in its wake, not exactly banished by a hard swallow or a ten-second count.

Are you alright? Andy Barber’s voice is low against your ear as he guides you to sit, honey-water on your senses, a cool breeze to ground you back and you nod. Alright. You’ll manage.

You always do.

You ruined his life, he justifies everything so well.

You ruined his life, and that feels like the final hammer, the chaff falling away as he immortalizes his hate in cement-grey floors and chain-linked cuffs.

You ruined his life, the only answer he can give when the sky opens its torrent and demands to know why.

Steve Rogers knocks back another glass of whiskey, well aware that he shouldn’t — it’s halfway to empty and he’s sure this particular bottle could mortgage a house — and tries not to pay attention to the gnaw at his gut, uncomfortable with guilt and the things it bears.

You came to him first.

You came to him first, you came to him and you asked him for help and you sank right into his arms like he swore you would the first time you faced him down — in that courtroom you turned into a battlefield, the space you staked your claim. How does he lose even when he wins, wins your submission, wins your body, wins your pleasure?

He doesn’t leave room for love.

Shit like love, well.

That’s the shit that gets him in trouble.

That’s the shit that makes him forget the terms of a contract, makes him start asking questions, makes him start wondering if he’s really got the right to demand your exclusive surrender, make you his to possess and pleasure, all in the name of business.

He knows the answer to all those questions too. That’s the problem. He knows, he knew, he will always know — he doesn’t. He doesn’t, he shouldn’t, he couldn’t, and he did it anyway.

Men like him ought to know better.

One more drink. One more drink and the burn in his throat is somewhere between comfort and penance while he watches the city below, standing in the darkened space of your office, empty of you. Outside the sky rumbles black and grey, paints the city in a dull iron and concrete and he’s almost glad for it.

Almost.

The door to his your office opens and there’s a moment, a flash, a hope that it might be you walking in on heels so sharp he’s occasionally surprised they don’t cut the hardwood floors, might be you with your lips so ready to snipe at him, might be you he can apologize to again and again and again. It will never be enough.

It. It is not you.

It’s Bucky instead, looking… better these days. Better than the man in the orange jumpsuit or the furious-faced felon facing him the day after he found out the deal Steve had made with a certain soon-to-be-former District Attorney.

You ruined his life, Steve thinks to himself again, justifying his hate for the umpteenth time.

But Bucky doesn’t look too ruined now, does he? Not now, as he looks at Steve standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, brooding with a bottle of drink and lets his jaw set hard, holding himself back from whatever cruel remark he thought he could make about the King of New York melancholy over one former flame.

He walks closer instead, lets the heavy wood door slam shut behind him, lets his eyes scan every corner like he’s scouting, like he’s waiting for someone to leap out and throttle him. You’ve been here a while, he points out, a little cautious and a little not, Didn’t check into the house last night. You camp out here?

The answer has to be obvious, doesn’t it?

She’s in Boston, is all Bucky gets, at least for now, as he sips this time, lets metal clatter against glass and then closes his eyes, Gone to the funeral.

Figured. You uh. Send someone after her?

Send someone after her? To do what?

A set of suspicious blue eyes flicker from the reflection in the window over to the former boxer to his left, brow furrowed deeper than before, if that were such a thing. To tail her?

Bucky doesn’t respond.

Not yet.

The tension in the room hangs in the air like a gallows, lever waiting to be pulled before the floor drops out from underneath him, waiting for answers he’s already dreading, even as he anticipates having no idea what they mean. Bucky — having learned to be judicious with his words for once — moves around the room, learning it a moment.

You look like shit, a digression, a change in topic, and far from the kindest thing to say to a man looking like he’s on the precipice of slamming a fist through plate-glass window, but it’s also not the worst thing, and therefore it remains. A streamer. An invitation. A rope ladder meant to pull him from the maelstrom of whatever cloudburst has him under its thumb. Regret.

Is that all you came to say?

No, it’s a simple response, filling the air with its heavy silence and then… one, deep, long-suffering sigh.

He should say something about the way Barnes pokes around the room, opens drawers until he finds… something, the brooding King isn’t actually watching save for what he can see reflected back in the window. He should say something, but he doesn’t. Lets silence sit between them like an oppressive and unwelcome guest, leering at them both.

Daring them to say the obvious.

Daring them to bring down the thunder and the fury.

I’m fine. A lie. I don’t need anyone hovering over me. Another lie.

Petulant.

That’s what he sounds like. Petulant. And judging by the way Bucky snorts, derisive and unamused — or distracted, again, carefully observing his phone for a moment — he sounds it to everyone else in the room.

D’you want me t’say I told you so now or after you’ve finished brooding?He’s merciless. He’s never actually had it in him to be tactful, and Steve’s far from a pretty baker with a mean left hook to keep him distracted.

Are you defending her? He’ll let himself sound surprised, raise one eyebrow as watches his childhood friend stand back, preparing for some onslaught or another.

She came with a contract. You’re the one who fucked it up.

He knows. He knows he made it different. He made it about something else. More than money, more than power, more than control. He made it about the only person he’d met who’d been openly willing to stand against him. Risk life and limb against him. Win against him. Playing cat and mouse, he was always the apex predator and then you stalked into that courtroom, prim and proper, lookin’ right out of a goddamn crime drama in a suit he’s pretty sure you got tailored for that specific occasion.

Not like any prosecutor he ever met. Not an ounce of stress on your face, no furtive glances at your second chair, hopin’ some supervisor would come save you when you fumbled your words. You never fumbled your words.

They were knives. Knives right out of your mouth, cutting away at the veneer of legitimacy he kept over everything he did — just a corporation with its own private security, nothing more and nothing else, so what if people got hurt, they probably needed to in the first place — until you laid it out for the world to see, bare and raw and bleeding truth.

He wanted to see you just like that. Bare. Vulnerable. Seen.

And what did that earn him but obsession and then heartache, clearly? He could have had you. Fucked and soft in his arms, could have asked no questions, could have done as he did and won you.

You could have hated him but you needed him.

You came to him first. You came to him and you sank into his arms and that submission should have been enough but it wasn’t and this is the consequence of getting fucking greedy.

I tried to talk to her.

Before or after? You talked to the target too — you never talk to the target, your own rules.

Do the job. Don’t ask questions. That was the policy, and he.

He doesn’t even do these things. What King does his own dirty work, what King leaves anything but a chain of plausible deniability wherever he goes? Keep his hands clean, keep the fall guys safe, keep him out of trouble. Except now? Now he’s here.

In trouble.

I should—

You’ve done enough, Steve.

That.

Stops him.

Well. Not quite.

The roar is a rush, blood through the ears and glass shattering hard against plate glass, leaving little more than dust for… some poor sod to clean up later, Then what? What else? What else is he supposed to do, as he finally loses the long-held control he’s barely clung to since the moment you walked into his life and upended it. What is he supposed to do? Make amends? How? He barely hears himself — and frankly, he’s not sure Bucky hears him either, so used to tuning out the things Steve says in anger — just a burst of pain pulsing through his whole self, a drumming heartbeat and then.

Exhaustion.

And Bucky Barnes, having heard his best friend, his childhood friend, the stupidest man alive in this moment vent his rage in one barely coherent rush of yelling, does little more than grab the remote to connect his phone to the television hanging from the office wall, meant to be used for presentations.

This one needs no powerpoint.

Just a headline, and then, Someone opened fire at Judge Pierce’s funeral. There’s confirmed casualties. The Senator’s been shot.

[bloodcrownedking]

anyway i think we’re all tired of hermit!tommy uwu therapy fics so heres a list of dsmp x hc fic ideas that could potentially be interesting

rendog fucks around and ends up on the dsmp. At first he assumes that everything is just super dramatic and into roleplay, so mans just goes along with it. By the time it becomes clear that it is in fact not roleplay, rens already too invested and ends up right in the middle of Everything. Afterall, hes no stranger to a system of 3 lives and murder.

when players die regularly, they usually don’t fully crossover to the realm of death. they just respawn. however, the boatem hole is not a regular cause of death by any means, really its more of a cosmic disturbance. Kristin takes notice of this, and as the goddess of death, she takes it upon herself to investigate. does philza get involved???? who knows

ive been saying this for so goddamn long but fuck dude if youre gonna write any sort of ‘dsmp character somehow gets to hermitcraft and there is healing therapy’ then foolish gamers is the best dsmper to do it with. His entire character is about how he used to be a violent death god, before eventually giving that up, to become a pacifist and turns to building! as he said it makes him feel like hes “fixed things from his past”. its a type of catharsis for him. So when quackity comes along and tell him that his builds are worthless and he was really only useful as this fuckin death god (a part of himself that foolish seems to dislike) that destroys foolish! and now hes trying to find the balance between pacifism and being able to protect those he cares about, whilst also desperately trying to find purpose. u cannot tell me that this man wouldnt thrive on hermitcraft.

not technically hermitcraft, but since wilbur soot feels the need to continuously make pointless ghostbur angst, i like the idea that sometimes, when someone from last life permadies, the universe messes up a bit and they are sent to the train station, Not for long, just a couple hours at most. but i think this would just be an interesting concept to explore further

and lastly, tommyinnit and the nho. You may be thinking “that sounds fucking awful” and thats the point! At first, when tommy shows up in the jungle in a confused haze, everyone, including tommy, wants him gone, but, with no idea how to actually get this kid back to the dsmp, he ends up sticking around for a while. bdubs and tommy get along shockingly well. Etho and beef are fairly neutral, although the kid can be a nusiance. But doc hates him. Theyre just so different in near every aspect. A few weeks pass, and the jungle begins to change. It latches onto bdubs. As it turns out, when tommy accidentally jumped servers, a bit of the corruption of The Egg had come with him, and that changes to match the environment, manifesting as The Jungle. When bdubs disappears entirely, the rest of the nho begin their search, and as much as doc might want tommy gone, hes the only one of them who has expirience with the egg.

[brawltogethernow]

@mirrorfalls​ submitted: Came across this while searching for James Bond’s scrambled-eggs recipe (long story). Your thoughts?

~~

But did you find James Bond’s scrambled eggs recipe?

In this article, Scocca laments his inability to find accessible, lighthearted superhero comics suitable to read with his young son, while also demonstrating a mysterious aversion to looking at DC and Marvel’s lines of comics for children, which is where the accessible, lighthearted superhero comics suitable for reading with young children are. He wants his elementary schooler to be able to safely have the run of all superhero media so he doesn’t have to touch the yucky baby books.

This is not an industry-wide crisis. This is just one dude who got paid to write an article where he accidentally exposed one of his personal hangups.

The child headed toward the trade paperbacks of Marvel and D.C. superhero titles on the side wall […] a few steps in front of me. […] Is he with you? a clerk asked me. I said he was. You know, the clerk said, we have a kids’ section. The clerk gestured backward, at a few shelves near the entrance. I said, Thanks, we know and tried throwing in a little shrug, as the kid kept going.

You can’t just turn a seven-year-old child loose in a comic-book store to look at the superhero comic books. […] My seven-year-old really wanted to see that last Avengers movie […] that is, he wished it were a movie he could see, but he understood that it was, instead, a movie designed to scare and sadden him—a movie actively hostile to people like him.

They have a children’s section. Because comics are a medium suitable for stories for everybody, and they are sold in comic book shops, which have sections, like bookstores. You can use this organization to find books that you know in advance are suitable for children. What goes in that category is determined by industry professionals. This area will be bigger the bigger the shop is. These comics are not lower quality that titles from the main lines. They are actually slightly better-written on average.

Your local comic book shop has considerately wrapped Empowered in a plastic bag, so your child will not be drawn in by a colorful superhero and accidentally read a graphic scene. If you think your kid might find a memoir about internment camps upsetting, it is your job to notice them picking up They Called Us Enemy and read the blurb on the back before you let them have it. This comic adults are meant to read is in a comic book shop because that is where comics are sold. Not every public place is supposed to be Disneyland.

Movies have ratings systems. If you do not want your child to watch a PG-13 movie, you will find that most superhero cartoons are for children. They are about the same characters. Some are quite good! I really enjoyed Earth’s Mightiest Heroes. Your child may like Avengers Assemble. At least I think that’s right. I’m always mixing those titles around.

This is a deeply weird bias for Scocca to casually demonstrate, because he identifies in the article that real childishness is striving for empty maturity.

He compares an old comic,

[…]a 1966 Spider-Man comic in which Spider-Man meets, fights, and defeats the Rhino; participates in a running argument between John Jameson and J. Jonah Jameson about his heroism; buys a motorcycle; breaks up with his first girlfriend, Betty Brant; flirts with Gwen Stacy; and reluctantly agrees to let Aunt May take him to meet her friend Mrs. Watson’s niece, Mary Jane.

and a new comic,

[…]a 21st century comic book in which Thor, brooding in a Katrina-destroyed New Orleans, beats up Iron Man. He also yells at Iron Man a lot about some incomprehensibly convoluted set of grievances, including involuntary cloning, that he believes Iron Man perpetrated against him while he was dead(?), and then summons some other Norse god from the beyond somehow for reasons having something to do with real estate. I think. Where the 1966 comic is zippy and fun and complete, the whole contemporary one is muddled and lugubrious and seems to constitute a tiny piece of a seemingly endless plot arc—simultaneously apocalyptic and inert.

and concludes that the edgier comic is actually less mature. This is true. (This is not news about mediocre comics.)

It also has nothing to do with either comic being child-friendly, the article’s nominal thesis, except in the sense that ASM #41 (yes, I eyeballed that from that summary, yes I am just showing off now) is better written, making it more everyone-friendly. It also has practically more space dedicated to word balloons than art and is about a college student juggling girl problems and a part-time job with a tyrannical boss. But the immature one, as Scocca points out, is dour.

These are both teenagery issues, separated only by quality. It’s true that lots of new comics published by the big 2 are bad in the specific way Scocca describes here, taking themselves too seriously and hauled down by associated stories instead of buoyed by them. Some are not! Some titles from these companies’ main continuities are zippy, contained, and child friendly. Give your child The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl! Or if you like vintage comics so much better, why don’t you…buy some?

The books on the kid’s rack are good and fun and totally suitable for parents to read with their children without wanting to scoop their eyeballs out. Scocca cites the Batman ‘66 comics as the brightly colored, tightly written all ages solution to his problem about sharing superhero stories with his son. My local comic shop stores this title in the kid’s section. I am glad that Scocca’s does not, as he seems to have a peculiar aversion to looking for comics to read with his son there.

Scocca cites Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse as a superhero movie he could watch with his kids. (I was surprised when this line made it sound like he has several. I don’t want to assume the other one isn’t in this article because they’re a girl, but I very much am assuming that.) Great! Go to the kid’s section and look for Marvel Adventures: Spider-Man. It’s a fun, zippy title directly inspired by ITSV where Miles, Gwen, and Peter superhero together. It’s much more tightly written than most of the various Spider-Verse comics, which are ambitiously messy ubercrossovers. You may not want to give those to children because they include murder and so on, but also you just have the choice between the two as an adult reader deciding how much continuity you want to deal with. Adventures is one of the only titles I would buy on sight before corona. The kid comic rack is a reliable place to take a break from How Comics Get Sometimes regardless of how old you are.

This article makes me feel quarrelsome. Maybe it’s that it doesn’t seem like exploration of a single idea so much as a loosely grouped bundle of things to kvetch about. Maybe it’s that the experience of getting into superheroes that Scocca describes experiencing, projects his seven-year-old son will experience, and from which he extrapolates a metaphorical microcosm of the history of the genre is completely alien to me.

Comic books [and] comic-book movies—are […] trapped in their imagined audience’s own awful passage from childhood to adolescence. A seven-year-old has a clean […] appreciation of superheroes. They like hero comics because the comics have heroes: bold, strong, vividly colored good guys to fight off the bad guys and make the world safe.

But seven-year-olds stop being seven. […] They become 13-year-olds, defensively trying to learn how to develop tastes about tastes.

The 13-year-old wants many things from comics, but the overarching one is that they want to prove that they’re not some seven-year-old baby anymore. They want gloomy heroes, miserable heroes, heroes who would make a seven-year-old feel bad. (Also boobs. They want boobs.)

Not because of the boobs line, although that does illicit an eyeroll that this gloomy thinkpiece is fretting over preserving the superhero experience of little boys who resemble the little boy the writer was while casually dismissing everyone else. I was one of those unlikable little seven-year-olds with a college reading level and the impression that maintaining it was the crux of my worth. I only read Books - distinguished media you could club someone with. I have a formative memory of pausing, enraptured, in front of a poster for Spider-Man 3, preparing to say that it looked pretty cool, and being beaten to the punch by my mother making a disparaging comment about how the movie was trash. It wasn’t out yet, but it was a superhero movie. That meant it was for loud, brainless children.

That was the total of my childhood experience with superheroes, excluding being the unwilling audience to incessant renditions of “Jingle Bells, Batman Smells” that left me wondering why in god’s name Batman’s sidekick was named Robin. I certainly never visited a comic book shop. I got into TvTropes, which got me into webcomics, which got me following David Willis, who got me into Ask Chris at ComicsAlliance, which led to me rewarding myself for studying like a demon for the AP tests with three volumes of Waid’s Daredevil, pitched as a return to the character being colorful and swashbuckling. I was seven…teen.

This is of the same thread as Scocca’s point that immaturity is running from childish things. It leaves me baffled that he doesn’t follow that maturity is embracing them.

I will disclose here that while I think it was dumb I had to overcome my upbringing’s deeply embedded shame associated with enjoying arbitrarily defined lowbrow media and children being childish, I think it’s fine that I was allowed largely unchecked access to technically age-inappropriate content. In my limited experience, content small children are too young for is also content they’re too young to understand, so it kind of just bounces off of them, and what actually ends up terrorizing them is unpredictable collages of impressions that strike out at them from content deemed perfectly child-friendly. I would not forbid a seven-year-old I was in charge of from seeing an MCU movie unless I had a reason to believe that specific child would not take it well. These are emotionally low-stakes bubblegum films. It will probably be easier to socialize with other kids if they have seen them.

But then, when I picture being in charge of a hypothetical child, I usually imagine this being the case because they are related to me, and the pupal stage in my family strongly resembles Wednesday Addams. ALL children love death and violence, though, right?? This isn’t a joke point. I know it looks like a joke point.

The MCU thing seems especially weird in light of the article’s particular focus on Spider-Man, which is the kiddie line of the MCU, even if they refused to waver from their usual formula enough to get a lower rating. Though I am more inclined to describe it as “preying on the young” than “child-friendly”.

(MCU movies are increasingly dubious propaganda, but I would not judge them in front of a child who wanted to watch them for that reason, just in case this led to them partaking of them without me the second they were old enough to and then they grew up to run a blog about them while our relationship suffered because they didn’t feel like it was safe to talk to me about their interests…Mom.)

I tried to overcome the philosophy of letting anyone read anything while compiling this handful of mostly-newish superhero recs for the road that anyone can read. (Handily, I have been in spitting distance of being hired as a comic shop clerk enough to have thought about it before):

For actual children:

Marvel Adventures Spider-Man (the new one is reminiscent of ITSV, the old one is more like 616) any DC/Archie crossover, Archie’s Superteens The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl (for bookish children who think they’re too good for comics and adults afraid of the kid’s section) Teen Titans Go (even if you hate the show) Superman Smashes the Klan

For teens:

Ms. Marvel Young Avengers (volume 2) Unbelievable Gwenpool Batman: Gotham Adventures Teen Titans Go (the tie-in comic based off the old show was also called this)

Here are a bunch of relevant C. S. Lewis quotes.

[norvem]

two sides of the same coin

Both you and Bo become use to the slow acceptance of each other’s presence

w: stockholm syndrome.

He sees you around more often then not, scrubbing away at something or scurrying away from him, either or doesn’t matter he can see how tense the small muscles on your back becomes whenever he’s near. Like he’s some lion whilst you being the small mouse who’s wondered too far from home, he almost laughs at that. Although Bo won’t lie — admitting it however is different — you’re presence has became a much needed one, Ambrose seems a lot more tidier even livelier thanks to whatever cleaning you’ve been doing. Not that you could do anything else. You’re stuck here, no way out, time never moves forwards or backwards. An eternal purgatory.

You’ve become witness to many sides of Bo Sinclair; the charming, the downright awful and what could have been. It doesn’t take you to put two and two together, the pieces aren’t all there but it’s enough. A cruel childhood had nursed the sadistic man who stands beside you, fed him on poison, he feeds on that poison soaking it up in his system and letting it spread like wildfire, infecting everyone he touches — you, his brothers and god knows who else. However sometimes the poison quiets and you’re left with a man who may have led a fruitful life for himself; of course you can’t always pity him, when you hear those girls screams and can only imagine what goes on at that gas station for days on end, it makes you really think who’s really responsible for all this hurt in his life. There’s a guilt that gnaws at your head whenever you find yourself enjoying his company somewhat. Don’t forget what he’s done what he could do to you. It all swirls around in your head, haunted by the screams of those who were close to you and the complete strangers, they all seem connected to you in one way or another, you let them die and they haunt you till you’re stricken with sickness and grief.

Sometimes you find yourself caring for Bo in desperate times. He storms in like a wounded animal blood leaking everywhere as he knocks into various trinkets unable to hold his own weight up. At first you freeze, he’s badly hurt — clutching his breast face contouring in pain — it’s a sight you thought you never see him in, always playing it cool, no one could ever touch him and for the longest time you believed them; but for the first time ever you doubted Bo Sinclair, reminding yourself he’s just as human as everyone else. He barely makes it over the pool table before you rush over, your hands keep themselves to your chest afraid of his bite. He glares at you and you step back, he’s breathing heavy and not long after his body lurches forward almost colliding with the floor had the pool table not been there. You gasp rushing forward to him, his breathy is raspy. He’s on the edge of death — letting him die would be easy it would be the least he deserved with all the horror he’s committed, but the thought doesn’t cross your mind — your searching frantically, trying to scream for Vincent, all over the house whilst Bo’s groans become background noise.

You don’t know how long it took to patch and clean Bo up but by the time it’s all done you’re covered in Bo’s blood. The bright red liquid stains your hands leaving every inch covered, the smell is sickening. A hand touches your shoulder much gentler then what you’re use to. Vincent stands over you his hands much less stained then yours however his apron is covered in it. Bo’s or a victim’s? You don’t even want to think about it. He gives a nod and you wave a hand. “I’m ok really.” You turn back to Bo who passed out long ago, he looks peaceful. You turn back to Vincent. “I’m glad you were there Vincent I — Bo — wouldn’t have know what to do if you weren’t here.” Vincent merely shrugs as if this is somehow normal for him. “Thank you.” You repeat the phrase again and Vincent nods again one last time before turning around to leave. Leave and go work on his latest innocent victim. You can feel the tightness of your throat as silent sobs escape your mouth. You actually felt sorry for him, you felt scared he may be died. You’ve betrayed all those people, all those women he’s hurt. You’re nothing but a pitiable monster.