#the song itself is not traditional or old

[terra-feminarum]

You know how media is full of casual violence towards women?

I found folk music type of song where the female singer sings (in thousands of years old Finnic poetic meter) about killing her fiancé called Kauno (an old male name meaning beautiful).

In the beginning, she laments others having better men. She sends him to fish, to hunt elk and bear, but he fails all the tasks. She sends him to heat up the sauna, but he doesn't even manage to light the fire.

She then heats the sauna herself, bathes first and then invites Kauno to bath. She throws more and more water to the stones and the sauna becomes unbearably hot, he tries to climb down to cool and he shouts for the door but she doesn’t let him escape. She then feels pity for him, so she grabs his hair and throws him on the floor and hits him in the head with a firewood among other methods of hurting him.

Afterwards she takes him to her arms and grabs his hair to carry him on her back. She takes him to a bog and leaves him there. She visits him several times and witnesses wild animals feasting on his body.

In the song he really does nothing wrong, except for being a bad hunter and terrible at heating a sauna. I feel a bit bad for him. But when have you last time heard a song or seen a movie where there was a good reason for a woman to be abused or killed?

[andy-wm]

I have thoughts on Jimin's SGMB

It's the gayest thing I've ever seen.

And by that I mean it's joyous, light-hearted, bright, and fun.

We can all agree, I think, that this is a happy and totally harmless song. Who could criticise Jimin for declaring his love in such a sweet and innocent way?

Of course not everyone will like it, and that's fine. You don't have to like everything he does - or everything BTS does - you are an individual with thoughts and feelings of your own - I hope. But putting that aside you'd have to be a troubled person indeed to take offence at anything here.

So, it is definitely a fan song, right? Jimin is singing to his fans... isn't he?

Maybe.

But if it is (I and I'm not convinced) it's not just a fan song.

It's sweet, so sweet, but....

Maybe it's a little too sweet?

We know Jimin is CUTIE SEXY LOVELY and LOVELY LOVELY LOVELY, but let's be honest, he's also a grown man. And Army are not children (mostly). In fact we have had many many conversations about how ARMY are not children.

But this whole production is pushing the sweet and innocent barrow so hard that I can't help wanting to look underneath and behind and inside to see what's really going on because it's so sweet it's hurting my teeth.

Compare the sophistication and self awareness of FACE to the bouncy, bright and child-like song-and-dance in the SGMB music video. They are WORLDS apart and we were told very specifically that the albums were linked.

"Following his first solo album, “FACE,” where he sought to explore his true identity, “MUSE” documents his journey in search of the source of his inspiration." said the Weverse notification.

So what's really going on here?

What are you doing Jiminie?

And more importantly, why are you doing it?

You could call it a pageant, or a carnival, or a circus - with Jimin as the ringmaster.

But my view is:

This a pantomime. And it's very clever.

According to the Oxford Dictionary, a pantomime is "A dramatic entertainment,  originating in Roman mime, in which  performers express meaning through  gestures  accompanied by music." Yes, that describes it.

Merriam-Webster tells us "[A pantomime] is an ancient Roman dramatic performance featuring a solo dancer and a narrative chorus" That also makes sense.

Oxford also specified that it's a modern BRITISH tradition. "a theatrical entertainment, mainly for children, which involves music, topical jokes, and slapstick comedy." It's a perfect fit.

The British link is already there - Jimin clearly told us he's influenced by The Beatles' Sergeant Peppers Album. There's also the styling of his suit. The stovepipe pants, narrow tie, and fitted jacket are very 1960s (and 1980s) British pop.

There's something old-school about a pantomime. It harks back to childhood, and to the nostalgia of holidays. And the styling of the MV is in keeping with that nostalgic feel too - from the Mountain scene with the vintage film title, to the intertitles - or title cards , to the circular frame of the opening scene.

But back to the Pantomime itself...

A quick google search told me the following are important elements of pantomime. And we have most, if not all of them in this production.

Gender role reversal - TICK

Slapstick comedy - TICK

Colourful costumes - TICK

Audience participation - TICK (the children ARE the audience)

Exaggerated facial expressions - TICK

Take another look at the music video - it's all there.

Wikipedia tells us that pantomimes traditional told fairy tales or folk tales - often love stories - and that the primary role in a Pantomime was:

The 'Principal boy', a hero or charismatic rogue, traditionally played by a young woman in men's clothing.

Smart, very smart. With all the other conversations we've been having a round gender this is totally on the money.

Wikipedia goes on to say "Another pantomime tradition is to engage celebrity guest stars... Contemporary pantomime productions are often adapted to allow the star to showcase their well-known act.... If the star enters into the spirit of the entertainment, he or she likely adds to its overall effect"

Welcome, Loco.

(yes, I know collabs are de rigueur, but that doesn't change the fact that it fits - celeb guests are an established practice in Panto.)

So if this IS a Pantomime (and I'm not saying it definitely is but it looks like one to me), then it's intended to be a sung-story, told as much through dance and gestures as through words.

If it's a pantomime, what is it about?

I'm glad you asked! This little charade is the story of a young person called Jimin who is looking for love. He finds romance easily enough...

but real love takes a little longer.

Fortunately for our hero, he's brave (he will confess to his lover) and he is patient (he encourages them to do so too).

In between, there are shenanigans and goofing...

But our Charismatic Rogue is charming (if devilish) and wins the hearts of the audience - and his lover.

Let's take a closer look at how the story unfolds...

At the start of the MV, as the initial credits appear, Jimin is on stage vibing with his band. Loco is chilling on a rock like a lizard in the sun.

We get the ye olde intertitles, welcoming the audience and introducing.... SMERALDO Garden Marching Band

It's not Smeraldo Garden - Marching Band. It's Smeraldo *pause* Garden Marching Band. Smeraldo (secrets) has the emphasis.

After the intertitles, the scene opens on a group of children - they are ostensibly the audience of the band. They're playing paper-scissors-rock to see who will call for Jimin's attention.

The children run over to him and the tale begins.

Jimin, the main character of this story, immediately launches into song.

He starts off singing about Bangtan - mentioning their harmony (song and personal I think), he shows the Bangtan hand gesture we all know so well, and he sings "we gift happiness every day".

But he mentions June 12th.

Why June 12th?

Why not 13th, their debut day?

BECAUSE THIS IS NOT A SONG for ARMY. He's making it clear that at this point he's referring to Bangtan specifically, not the whole juggernaut of the fandom and fame. June 12th precedes ARMY.

He's made it clear from the start - this is NOT ABOUT ARMY.

Then he leans in and whispers to the children - and the camera -"lets talk about us".

Look at the kids' faces - they're miming shock. Ooooohhh! This is a big secret he's about to tell them - and us.

Look at Jimin's expression - he's just a tad smug. This is not a shocking secret to him, this is a fun secret.

Yes, he is indeed the charismatic rogue of this story.

He sings:

"All the things we couldn't say before

And your hidden feelings too (just for you)

Don't you worry anymore

Since we're together now**

Let's be a little more honest."

So it seems our main character has a LOVER. Someone who couldn't be revealed and who hid their feelings.

<Wow, I have no idea who this could be...>

Hang on, what's happening in the MV??

On his journey, it seems our young hero has a few short-lived romances. And if you look carefully, they are all with men.

He accepts the rose from a man, and plants himself on the bench right up close to .... a man. He jumps up unperturbed, and gifts the rose to (you guessed it) another man.

Jimin manages to sidestep (or completely ignore) all the women except one, who he sends graciously into the arms of a random man before continuing on his journey.

Wait one moment... his romantic partners were ALL MEN??

ALL MEN??

ALL MEN?!!!!!

Yes darling, all men. Let's continue.

So, it seems none of Jimin's previous romances grew into anything more, but he takes his own advice with his mysterious lover and confesses first.

He smirks. He flicks his jacket with pizzazz. He's ready.

He sings:

"Ooooh I love you babe,

I'll come closer to you

I want to hold your hand,

I want you babe (yessir)

Please note the hand gesture in this choreo - it's another one we've seen many times.

The dance ends and Jimin scans the surroundings and spots his old friend...

[Enter stage left: Loco]

Oh look, the friend is a rapper a few years older than Jimin. They seem to have a lot of fun together, Jimin and his rapper friend. There are ZERO romantic overtones here. This guy happily goes along with all the goofing and silliness even though he looks a tiny bit mortified. Either they are both very good actors, or a lot of the time, Loco was holding in his laughter. And Jimin seems incredibly amused by that.

They hang out together until.... something in the atmosphere changes:

The colours become richer, light become warmer, and oh look....

It's *The Golden Hour*

I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP, PEOPLE. HE REALLY DID THIS.

Jimin leaves Loco, chasing the golden light as he sings about "the dazzling sky." Golden confetti (champagne, anyone?) falls all around him and then ...

fucking sunflowers bloom.

SUN FLOWERS.

BLOOM.

FOR HIM.

<I need to lie down and process this>

SUNflowers...

Remind me again what sunflowers are known for? Oh yes, they are symbolic of the sun. Guess what else? They turn to face the sun.

Yup, the sunflowers all turn their faces toward the camera. I'm not crazy, okay?! I'm not.

SMH... let's move on.

Jimin re-joins his band, and the sunflowers do their sunflower thing, and Jimin sings:

"So tell me how you feel,

let whatever you feel

wash over you"

Then he sings

"I love you babe, (yessir)

I'll come closer to you

I want to hold your hand,

I want you babe (yessir)

Please note the hand gesture again

👉 👈

The bridge is next, and Jimin takes us back to Bangtan. As all the stars appear (that ocean of purple light that surrounds them at concerts) and everyone takes their place on stage, they turn up the music. <Are my eyes watering? Perhaps>

"I think we're ready now

<NGL I may have shed a tear here>

Lets begin 1, 2

<Ok fuck, I bawled at this point. Goddammit Jimin!>

Put your hands up"

*cute wiggle-dance commences* and Jimin spots his good friend the rapper again, hiding on the sidelines. He pulls him into the chorus line and they do more silliness and everyone is having a great time.

Confetti- flower petals fall, there's laughter and happiness all around, and they bow and bid us good bye.

The show is over.

*THE END*

But wait, I am not done.

A few more things bear mentioning here:

I saw quite a few comments saying this song is for ARMY.

It is categorically NOT for ARMY. Besides the fact that we already have Closer Than This - a fan song - on this album, Jimin specifically chose a date before debut - before ARMY existed - to place in this song. No mention of ARMY at all. Accept it graciously, this is not for you.

I wanna hold your hand

This lyric is a reference not only to the Beatles song "I Want to Hold Your Hand", It's also a common theme with Jimin and Jungkook. We see them finding any feeble excuse to hold hands, shake hands, touch hands. Yes, we see you two...

I am you, You are me

The gesture used in the choreo when Jimin is singing his confession - I failed miserably to catch it in my screengrab but there's no doubt it's their "I am you, You are me" gesture. Take a look for yourself.

All Jimin's romantic moments happened with men.

I'm not saying in his life, I am saying in this MV. All of them. The only interaction he has with a woman is one brief moment where he grabs her wrist as she passes by and he swings her into the path of a guy behind him. He even scoots around the women and sidesteps them. That can't be accidental. He's making a point.

The addition of 'yessir' in the lyrics makes it clear that he's confessing to a man.

I cannot see any reasonable way to refute this. The BH subtitles include it even though you have to listen carefully to catch it. THAT IS A CHOICE, NOT AN ACCIDENT.

"Even though we're together now"

These lyrics could mean theyre an established, committed couple. But if we think a little broader than that, and a little more literally, who is he together with right now?

It's strategically brilliant.

This is his 'tell all expose' but he has built in a rock solid escape clause by using the panto format. Staging the whole love story - including the prior boyfriends and the man he's now in love with - as an over the top comedy show makes it easily dismissible as pure fiction. By including the fantasy/magical elements he just makes it more so. Deniers will be able to come up with a dozen reasons to reject this... 'It's a fantasy story', 'not all songs are autobiographical', 'he's making a point', 'he's raising LGBTQIA+ awareness'... all true maybe, but that doesn't change the fact that this is HIS song, about HIS muse. If you've been paying attention (and even if you haven't) you will know this is certainly not pure fiction.

AND FINALLY....

The most important one, I left till last. I actually want to scream this, in all caps, in the biggest font possible. But I will restrain myself.

The song is bookended by references to BTS.

That is hugely important. For those who may not be aware, this is a literary device. Bookending a story provides a start and end reference point. Here, the Bangtan bookends provide context for the rest of the lyrics - they frame the lyrics within them. That means the events happening in the song, happen within the context of Bangtan. Reading between the lines, the person he is singing to/about is within Bangtan.

This is not reaching. This is like mixing blue paint and yellow paint together. You will get green paint.

💛+💙=💚

So yes, this song is the gayest thing I've ever seen.

And I DO mean it's joyous, light-hearted, bright, and fun.

But yes, it's also absolutely and totally really really GAY

🏳️‍🌈🐥🦄🌈🏳️‍⚧️🌻🐰☀️🏳️‍🌈

Thank you Jiminie

[lauraneedstochill]

Confess the longing you are dreaming of

summary: Aemond thinks the woman he has to marry is the most impudent and unsufferable he’s ever met. He’s also never wanted anyone so badly. pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Martell!reader (third person, no mention of Y/N) warnings: bantering and teasing, mentions of unpleasant sexual experience, praise kink (guess who’s got it), a dollop of softness, mild smut (... for starters ;) author’s note: couldn’t get the idea out of my head and spent a few sleepless nights writing this. I imagine her brothers as Pedro Pascal and Oscar Isaac ✨ words: ~8000 song inspo: Hozier — Better love

>>> Aemond isn’t present when the idea is voiced the first time — he has a hunch that his grandsire is to blame for that. No doubt, Otto was the one to plan it out, come up with arguments served with his persuasive tone. He’s always loved to make arrangements and strike deals, each one of them to play into his hands, and Aemond hates the thought of being just another pawn of his.

He is blindsided at the breakfast but it’s made sound carelessly mundane — as Otto puts down his cup, he throws him the proposal, the way one would leniently throw alms to the poor. And Aemond thinks he must’ve heard him wrong.

“Marry me to... Who?” the prince asks, hardly covering his surprise.

His grandsire directs his gaze at him, the old man’s mouth twitching into a condescending smile. Since Otto isn’t keen on idle talk, he tells him plainly:

“You’ve long been of age, Aemond, you know that,” his knife scratches the plate as he cuts the meat, his eyes not moving from the prince. “House Martell holds power, and we’ll be fortunate to have such allies. Besides,” he pauses to take a bite, and Aemond gets annoyed at waiting; Otto chews, then adds, “I’ve only heard good things about your bride-to-be. Wouldn’t you confirm, Ser Criston?”

The mention of the knight is unexpected to them both — Aemond turns his head to meet Ser Criston’s puzzled look. But the brunet effortlessly copes with his emotions:

“We met when she was just a kid. But I knew she’d grow into a fine lady,” he easily agrees. Mayhaps, too easily for Aemond’s liking so he makes a note to talk about it later on.

His grandsire only lets out a pleased hum. “Well, I’m under the impression she will make a good match for our prince,” and Aemond feels that Otto carefully picks each word, “She’s said to be both beautiful and smart, and known for being quite independent,” he’s usually so stingy with his praise, it’s worth its weight in gold.

But that is not what Aemond hears. The choice was made for him, and his rejection of it makes him paint a portrait less alluring — a pompous wayward woman raised in the traditions that are starkly different from his; and yet, it is expected of him to accept it freely. His wounded ego simmers at the thought.

“I’d add another word to that,” Aegon chimes in, half-drunk already, “Everyone knows the Martells to also be promisc—”

“Look who’s talking,” Otto glares at him, and Aegon shuts his mouth.

The word is left unsaid, only the meaning of it isn’t hard to guess, and Aemond feels embarrassment creeping up his cheeks and weighting down his chest. He deems himself an educated man, well-read and eager to put his knowledge to the test, but he has yet to learn of carnal pleasures. A memory is clawing out: him, ten-and-three and plied with wine, laid on a bed that smelled of sweat, a naked woman next to him. Despite her tireless attempts, he wanted none of it, and the repulsion made him sick — and then it made him hate the act itself.

He did go to the brothel through the years, tried watching, touching, looked at bodies of all sorts, only it felt like putting paint over a rotten wall. He felt constrained, and lacking in some way (perhaps, in many), and more so awfully incomplete. Not once he sensed a spark, a pleasure he would crave, and no amount of effort could help him fill the emptiness inside.

He quells the feeling, pushes in indifference instead, and glances briefly at his mother. She meets his eye but only grants him a faint smile, her own gaze lacking any protest.

“Her brothers wrote that they would visit in a fortnight,” Alicent peacefully explains. “It is our duty to ensure a royal welcome.”

“Brothers?” Helaena blithely chirps. “How many does she have?”

“Four but only two of them are coming,” Otto tells her softly, then looks at Aemond, adding in a voice more wily. “I am convinced they really want to see whom their dear sister is about to marry.”

He doesn’t spell it out but the implication can’t be clearer — Aemond must play the part and make a good impression. As if impressing just one stranger wasn’t tedious enough.

As if he isn’t vexed already by how unsuitable he finds her.

>>> Frustration grows in Aemond with each day, takes roots, and clogs up all his thoughts. Some other man would’ve been glad — he often heard that the Martells are quite the lovers. He can’t admit it to himself how much he’s bothered by his own misfortunes on the love field.

He bottles his emotions up and doesn’t utter any word of discontent, nor does he ever speak of the awaited visit. Although he makes just one exception.

“My grandsire mentioned that you knew her,” he reminds Ser Criston one day after training.

The knight nods. “I crossed paths with Quentyn, he’s the oldest. She used to come to watch us train.”

“What was she like?” Aemond carefully wonders.

Ser Criston ponders for a minute, polishing his sword. “She was a quiet little girl, kept to herself. A lot of boys were always chasing after her, and she paid them all no mind,” he smiles at the memory. “But I remember one of them who was... particularly pesky. His charms didn’t work on her so he got offended, rude, followed her around. She tolerated him for over a month. One morning, he was hassling her in the training yard, and she just took a spear laying nearby — and smacked him with no warning,” he shakes his head but it’s apparent that he isn’t judging. “She didn’t use the pointy end but she got him good. And then she told him that next time he would think twice about his actions. She was impressive for a ten-year-old,” he muses and puts the sword away, then turns to Aemond, giving him a wistful stare. “Frankly, I think that you will like her.”

He does, for just a second, as his mind rushes to paint the image of a fearless little girl; and then he mercilessly wipes that image off. Maybe in other circumstances, he could’ve found amusement in that story, but Aemond only huffs and thinks back to the list of all her traits he prematurely made up. He adds “rebellious” to that list, and his self-doubt is a venom that clouds his judgment. He’s in no rush to find a cure.

>>> Their ship arrives a few hours earlier than planned — and after the dock watchers break the news, the bustle begins. Maids, servants, guards all run and faff about the castle, the dining hall gets filled with smells and noises, plates and dishes clanking.

Aemond is not excited in the slightest.

He dresses up reluctantly, each piece of clothes only dampening his mood that’s been already sour for the past two weeks. He all but drags his feet into the dining hall and by the time he reaches it, he looks so grim that one may think the prince’s preparing for his death, no less.

The minutes fly too quickly for his liking — they barely have time to sit, his mother nervously toying with the tablecloth already, and then the guards rush to announce the guests. Surprisingly, she’s not among them. The prince thinks he should be relieved; deep down, there is a splash of worry fizzling in him.

Her brothers walk in calmly in a cloud of servants bearing gifts. Their kinship is immediately clear — both tall, broad-shouldered, and dark-haired, self-confidence subsisting in their every step. The oldest is distinguished by a touch of gray in his short beard, his gaze more focused, a slight smile plastered on his face. The other one shamelessly stares at every maid his eyes can catch.

“Your grace, it is a pleasure to finally meet you,” Quentyn reaches their table first, and Alicent walks down to greet them. He keeps his distance and his smile, his tone is measured. “We were so sad to learn that the King has fallen sick. But I can tell the Kingdom is in great hands. And —”

“Women’s hands do have a healing touch,” Oberyn smoothly interrupts, his accent a bit thicker, his voice honeyed. “I will prefer a Queen over a King at any given day. Unless, of course, your husband can compete with you in beauty... I somehow doubt that.”

A shade of disapproval grazes Quentyn’s face but Alicent is too amazed to notice. The compliment may come off as blunt but she still takes it well, her smile embarrassed yet sincere.

“I hope you will enjoy your stay,” she tells them humbly, then looks over the crowd. “But may I ask where is the lady we’ve been waiting for?”

“She made a stop on our way to catch up with an old friend,” Quentyn answers, ready to explain, “It’s been years since we’ve met Ser —”

“Still can’t believe he is the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard,” Oberyn chuckles. “I think it’s all the armor that makes it look like he poses a threat. But you may reconsider if you see him in the nude.”

This time, the older brother glares at him with warning, and there’s a lull in their conversation, while Aemond’s struggling to hear what made his mother’s cheeks so red, his mind nervously preoccupied with someone else —

her laughter enters first.

It’s bright and joyful, a sound so lovely it might be enough to crack up his restraint. But then he spots her, and it feels like his whole body flares up at the sight.

She’s walking with her hand under Ser Criston’s arm, and Aemond’s never seen a dress that covers so much but hides so little. It’s muted orange, floor-length, made of sumptuous silk, with two long slits along the sides, curves of her thighs beguilingly seen through. Her neck and arms aren’t covered, and the material is intricately stitched around her waist to show a few more glimpses of her sun-kissed skin. The waves of her long hair fall on her shoulders and frame her face, each feature of it striking but her lips stand out the most — full, plump, and reddish. Not once before Aemond found the thought of being kissed so tempting.

She doesn’t even turn her head to look at him. She’s talking to Ser Criston quietly, and he’s engaged in conversation, unusually relaxed. Their difference in age is obvious, and the knight seems like just another relative of hers, but an uneasy feeling still leaves a bite on Aemond’s chest. He can’t imagine her so carefree — so beaming and compliant — by his side. His jealousy tastes bitter like a stale wine.

He hears his brother let out a short laugh. “It’s not like they were fucking,” Aegon carelessly notes. “Please ease your outrage before she runs away.”

“I don’t remember asking for advice,” Aemond snarls.

“You do look like you need it,” the blond comments, then goes back to drinking.

She gracefully approaches them, her voice melodic like a murmur of a river. “Forgive me, your grace, for being late, I haven’t seen Ser Criston in some time,” she tells his mother. “He was once a dear friend of mine.”

“I only helped to shush away a few of your admirers,” the knight cackles, earning a smile from her.

“I hope you are making use of all his talents,” she says to the Queen, making her face flush right away.

She delicately moves on to another topic. “It is a pleasure to have you here, you must be tired from taking such a long trip.”

“We found it quite enjoyable,” Quentyn remarks politely. “The beautiful sights along the way are worth the journey, and your city has some great views too.”

“Can’t say I’ve heard great things about your food,” Oberyn grins. “Hence why we took the liberty to bring some of our own,” he signals to the nearest servant, who runs to open one of the trunks they carried. “The dornish fruits are also my sister’s weak spot.”

“As if you don’t gorge yourself on them!” she jests, letting go of Ser Criston’s arm at last. “My brother is a glutton, your grace, please excuse his manners in advance.”

“You can call me Alicent,” his mother corrects her warmly. “Only seems fair to continue this discussion at the table,” she slightly moves away to let the girl go first.

Aemond unintentionally stiffens and only when he stands up from his chair to greet her, she finally does look at him. In contrast to her countenance, her gaze is dark and piercing, and the prince is staggered by how unreadable it is. Her brothers glance at Aemond briefly — Quentyn is pensive, while Oberyn looks like he wants to bite his head off; neither says a word.

She’s seated to his right, and she leaves behind a trail of scent — apples and plums, and he can’t help but catch the movement of her hips under the flowing dress. The words all mash and fall apart, and he can’t pick a single one to strike up a conversation.

Aegon is sitting next to her, and his patience only lasts a minute. “Never knew Ser Criston was such a ladies' man.”

“I’m sure he succeeded on that front but we are merely good friends,” she answers calmly, keeping her eyes on servants bringing fruits — blood oranges and pomegranates, robust grapes, and ripened cherries.

“You two seemed more than friendly,” Aegon presses, his tone evidently taunting.

She picks a golden apricot and runs her thumb over its fragrant surface. “Maybe it’s the wine that makes you see things,” she rebuts and takes a bite out of the fruit, a drop of juice risking to escape her mouth but she wipes it swiftly with her finger. She catches Aemond looking, and his cheeks heat up.

“We’ve never seen him in the company of a woman,” the older prince points out, filling up his cup once more.

She takes out the kernel and eats up the fruit, her mouth glistens. “Aren’t the knights of the Kingsguard forbidden to marry?”

“Never stopped them from bedding whoever they like,” Aegon remarks crudely, and Aemond is thankful that their mother is too preoccupied with Oberyn’s tireless chatting.

“Maybe some men have the decency to follow orders,” she responds, unbothered, taking a cherry and clasping it with her lips. Aegon doesn’t seem to notice and only gulps the wine and rolls his eyes. Aemond can’t look away.

“Aren’t you Martells known for not following the rules? I thought unruly was in your house’s motto,” Aegon argues, a corner of his mouth curled in a smirk.

She takes another cherry, the third in a row, her lips already stained with juice. “I think you keep getting your facts wrong,” she brushes him off, and Aegon goes to object some more but spills the wine right on his shirt. The displeased cry brings Aemond out of his trance.

“He tends to do that when he’s drunk,” the one-eyed prince coolly interjects.

Her eyes flicker to him, then she fully turns her head. “So you can actually talk,” her teasing comes off soft but her gaze still burns. “It’s good to know.”

“You seemed preoccupied with someone else,” he musters an excuse.

“Do you expect your wife to never speak to other men?” her voice almost betrays her disenchantment.

“No,” Aemond quickly answers, caught unawares by how strained his thinking process is. “She— you are free to choose your friends, of course.”

“I’m flattered,” her tone suggesting otherwise, “Not that I would ask for anyone’s approval,” she reaches for a plum; he closes his eye with a sigh.

Aegon comes to stand in between them on the pretext of needing another carafe of wine: “I didn’t mean to interrupt your friendly bickering, please continue.”

“It seems like Aemond isn’t in the mood for talking,” she doesn’t look at him, the tip of her tongue darting to lick her finger. “And I am never in the mood for begging.”

“My brother’s hospitality leaves much to be desired,” Aegon takes a sip. “So I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer,” his hand falls on her chair. “But if you ever wish to be... well satisfied, all you have to do is ask me”.

It’s hard to tell if Aegon’s actually that drunk or merely provoking (or if he’s got a death wish, Aemond wonders).

She replies without much thought. “Well, if I ever find myself in need of...,” she trails off with a smile but her gaze gets harsh — her words then follow, “My choice won’t fall on you,” the smirk falls off Aegon’s face, and she glances straight at Aemond, adding, “I like them taller.”

But her straightforwardness is met with his resistance, with the deep-rooted unacceptance of his lurking needs. He adds “indecent” to the list, and they speak no more.

>>> Her boldness doesn’t pose a problem to anyone but him. To his surprise (or more so to his shock), his mother gives in first.

The morning can’t come fast enough for Aemond after he spends the night tossing and turning. A few hours later he rushes to the garden for a walk, overwhelmed by restlessness his training didn’t help him cope with. That’s when he sees it — a spot of yellow shining through the trees. He somehow knows it’s her without further confirmation but still, his feet carry him on.

Her dress is vivid like a field of marigolds, her hair plaited, wrists adorned with golden bracelets. He slackens pace and peers into her — and he wants nothing more than to drink her up, her whole appearance is the sweetest nectar... Until he hears another sound and realizes she is not alone, and it’s his mother sitting by her side, wrapped in her favorite green and, unexpectedly, in glee. He can’t remember when he saw her laugh like this — out loud, giggling, tears at the corners of her eyes are not from sadness but from joy.

“My dear, that is so improper! Did he apologize at least?” Alicent inquires with a smile.

“Oberyn rarely does,” she tells her serenely. “His lover looked way more ashamed. I hope each of your rooms has locks, gods know I don’t want to walk in on him again.”

Unlike his mother who is covered by the shade of trees, she’s bathing in the sun, the soft light caressing her skin, and Aemond’s eye greedily follows every ray. In barely a minute he feels warm all over.

“I hope that Aemond’s chambers got locks too,” she adds all of a sudden, a bit louder, and his chest is splashed with cold.

His eye moves to her face, and she’s already looking at him, direct and daring. He knows he’s hidden by the trees but there’s no hiding from her gaze.

Aemond turns away and steps back in haste, his abashment mixed with grievance at her implication. He believes someone like her would never lust for him, and her jokes at his expense not only hurt but prompt his resentment to grow stronger. He adds “deceptive” to the portrait of her he is so adamantly set on painting.

>>> She wins Helaena’s heart with ease. His sister fondly compliments her brooch — a little poppy made out of gold — and she gifts it to Helaena the same day. The silver-haired princess grabs at chance to show her own collection, and they spend the day looking through the jewels spread over the floor, sitting right there and equally amused.

And that’s how Aemond finds them. He only planned to see his nephews but hearing her voice coming from Helaena’s chambers makes him slow his step.

“... And this one he gave me for my latest name day,” Helaena babbles cheerfully.

“Aemond clearly spoils you,” she laughs without a shade of envy. “As he should!”

“He is very kind at heart,” Helaena eagerly assures her. “You will be happy with him, I am certain of it.”

There is a pause that makes him feel uneasy, makes him sneak up closer to the room.

“I do believe he’s not an evil man,” she finally says, “Maybe he just wasn’t made for marriage.”

Surely she can’t see him through the door but he can swear that he feels her gaze, like a silent challenge, a hidden mocking. He barges in without a knock.

Helaena beams. “We were just talking about you!”

His sister’s dress is milky blue, modestly pretty, and loosely fitted. It’s also treacherously pale compared to the liquid gold the Martell girl is dressed in. She’s sitting with her feet under her thighs, the bending of her back is bare and in plain sight. He should’ve walked away the second he heard the sound of her voice because not looking at her seems impossible.

“Oh, you came to see the twins? They are with Aegon but I can call— No, I will bring them back myself,” Helaena springs to her feet, rosy-cheeked and smiley, and leaves the room before Aemond can protest. And then it’s just the two of them.

He takes a breath and makes an effort, with his jaw tense and his blood rising, to drag his eye away from her. It feels as pointless as ignoring sunlight in an open field on a summer day. Only her beauty is more brazen — and so is her wit.

“I take it, gold isn’t your favorite color,” she speaks up with an impish tone. “Would be a bad idea to wear it on our wedding then.”

She never comes too close, always just a little out of reach, and yet he feels as if her presence grips him, weakening his will. He doesn’t want to be with her until he is — and then he has no wish to leave.

It scares Aemond as much as it spikes his anger.

“Why did you agree to come?” he bristles.

“You are not asking about your sister’s chambers, are you?” she clarifies, and he hears her smiling.

He tells himself he only needs to cast a glance to check.

He does — he meets her gaze — her earrings catch the sunlight and cast a trail of glares — the scattering of specks play on her skin, her neck and collarbones, sneak to her upper chest — his own is heaving. His struggle only lasts a moment but it leaves him short of breath. He isn’t looking anymore, his eye trying to discern the pattern on the drapes behind her.

“Our marriage, how do you benefit from it?” he hates how hard it is to control his voice.

And how she watches him intently without giving him a clue of what’s on her mind.

“I plan on visiting my family a couple of times a year. It will be easier to do on dragon back,” she doesn’t sound spiteful when she says it but her words still sting.

He can’t stop an image flashing through his mind: her on top of Vhagar, lungs full of air, pressed to him. It’s tempting — to have her in his hands, and yet the vision is too intangible to cling to. Instead, he thinks that in just three days she learned to play him like a harp, his years' worth of self-control is merely a sand castle against the tide of her sharp tongue.

He only snickers dryly at her reply, then they both hear the sound of running footsteps. Jaehaera and Jaehaerys rush to greet him — but almost instantly abandon, the kids' attention drawn to the shining golden dress.

He thinks “unruly” suits her better than does “pompous”. He comes up with a fake excuse to leave; the image of her stays with him.

>>> He picks more adjectives as the week goes on — she’s audacious, disobedient, wanton. She moves around the castle as if she owns every room she’s in. She wears less, and even on rare occasions when she doesn’t, her defiance more than compensates for it. She never shies away from a deep neckline, nor does she feel the need to hold back her resounding laughs. Her jewelry clinks, each of her dresses is brighter than the other, but it’s her wicked mouth his eye always falls on first.

More times than not, Aemond can’t tear his gaze away, each meal for him now both a torture and a feast.

He watches as she parts her lips, puts them around a luscious grape, a cherry, or a peach, she swipes her tongue to lick up every running drop, savoring its tang — and keeps eye contact with him. He barely can taste the food he’s eating, and no wine can quench his thirst, his body flooding with a feeling he can’t define, his heart adrift.

He tries to fight it off with all our strength. He scratches off “unruly” to write down “unabashed” instead.

But then the dinner comes, and even though he’s never had a taste for sweets, he thinks he’d eat them from her lips (deep down, he wants to). The lies he tells himself are brittle like the flesh of fruits under her teeth.

>>> He comes to think “insufferable” fits her the best. That thought rings in his head while he is standing in the stable, his eye on anything but her. He was informed she wished to pick a horse, and he begrudgingly agreed to come, only to keep up the pretense.

What turns out to be much harder is for him to keep restraint. The dress she’s wearing might as well be a chemise — it’s just as light and white, and much to his discomfort, it also tirelessly risks hiking up to expose more of her legs.

Discomfort, mayhaps, isn’t the right word for it.

He stays out of her way but, unsurprisingly, he ends up looking — at how she walks, spring in her step, swinging her hips. She gives each horse a piece of apple and feeds them by hand, strokes their muzzles, and then she mounts and rides them, one by one. She grabs the reins, her foot easily finds the stirrup, and as she swings her leg over the saddle, her dress slips up, showing a few inches of her skin.

He swallows thickly, glances more intently — over her dainty ankles, bending of her knees, he notes how smooth her skin is, soaking up the sun. Her dress then billows slightly, and his eye glides higher, hungry, follows up the contour of her thighs that bounce a little as the horse gallops.

He feels it blooming — a sensation with no name that travels from the lower chest down to his very navel, then spreads and tightens all that’s underneath.

He is so deep in his enthrallment, he doesn’t hear the steps approaching until there’s someone standing next to him. Quentyn stays silent for a minute, throwing him a sideways glance.

“My sister’s always been terribly picky,” the man says out of the blue, “And usually it’s hard to meet all of her demands,” — it doesn’t seem like it’s the horses he is talking of. The vagueness of it makes Aemond focus as he takes his eye off her but Quentyn doesn’t elaborate, giving him a smile instead. “I do admit, your patience is commendable. Some other man would’ve already interfered just to wrap the process up.”

“I was under the impression she doesn’t need anyone’s help,” Aemond replies evasively.

“You guessed it right,” Quentyn titters, his tone veiled with the same unclear meaning when he adds, “The only thing left for us all is to accept it,” and with that, he goes to join his sister.

When Aemond — tamely, almost yielding — takes a peek at her, his gaze collides with Oberyn’s who clearly watched them talk. Unlike his older brother, he prefers to stay away, but the mischief in him pairs really well with danger. He grants Aemond a nod, switching attention back to her, his threats unspoken for the meantime.

For just a second, it gives Aemond pause as he finds it odd that no one brings up their wedding, and no announcements have been made ever since she came. He doesn’t mull over it for long because her laughter interrupts his thoughts (or maybe he just yearns for any chance to look at her). She rides around the yard, her hair floating in the wind, a little breathless but breathtaking, her lips enticing and her curves making his throat dry.

He tries to ground himself, to look for explanations, for some reprieve from the entrancing spell he’s under — he’s never been so close to losing reason —

out of the corner of his eye, he sees a couple of guards dropping their gaze in poor attempts to stop themselves from gawking; it reins his passion, bringing back his jealousy instead. He’s way too used to seeing himself unworthy to even entertain the thought of having her, and his denial prickles. He wants to burn his feelings out, and anger helps with that — it breaks out and engulfs him fast, hardening both his heart and gaze.

“Quentyn is the friendliest of the two, and you couldn’t hold a conversation?” Aegon appears out of nowhere, seemingly displeased despite the bottle in his hand. “Must you always be so gruff? I stayed behind in hopes you’d make it work!” he waves at Oberyn then glares at Aemond, waiting for a reply. “Are you pretending to be deaf or...?”

“Must she test my patience?” Aemond mutters, his tone not jealous but exasperated, his eye boring into her, “Putting herself out like that for all the men to see.”

Aegon being speechless is a rare sight. He cannot fathom it at first, looking from Aemond back to her, confusion sobering him up. And then he grins, realization creeping up on him; there are some things he’s always quick to notice.

“It’s funny that you say that,” he leans in to tell him and catches Aemond’s gaze, “Since it’s just you who’s staring,” Aegon pats him on the back and leaves to greet her brothers.

Aemond tries to choke it down — his irritation and his shame combined, but it’s too much for him to handle, his head and heart clearly in conflict. He doesn’t wait for her to make a choice, retiring without sparing her a glance (a fear nibs at him that if he looks at her once more, he will stay rooted to the ground).

He doesn’t leave his chambers for the remainder of the day, dining all alone and fuming all the same. He’s usually good at curbing his emotions but he is having trouble understanding them, wanting nothing more than to erase all memories of her. But even in his solitude, he catches himself thinking — about her cunning smile and swaying hips, her eyes on him, his hands wanting to roam and touch and —

Aemond shoves unwanted thoughts away and goes to bed earlier than usual. He remains steadfast in his resolve to find some peace, he makes a conscious effort to shift his focus to all the boring, random things his mind can come up with until he is too tired to care.

But then he falls asleep, and his subconscious welcomes her. He sees her right before his eye in that obscenely short white dress, there are no people in the yard, her tantalizing moves all meant for him. She hops off her black horse and walks to him without a single word — anticipation makes him drop his guard and hold his breath — and then he feels her lips on his, her body pressing into him, his hunger for her ruining his self-control, the kiss is searing, suffocating, driving him insane, his fingers pulling up her dress —

he wakes up painfully aroused.

He lays in bed, his heartbeat rushing, his breathing ragged, and vision blurred. While he’s still grasping for the remnants of his dream, he sneaks his hand into his breeches, wishing he could rip her dress off and sheath himself inside her, spread her on his bed, and drink every salacious sound she makes... It only takes him a few strokes to spill over his fingers; he can’t remember if he’s ever reached his peak so fast.

And only then, as he comes down from his high, it hits him, like lightning in the dark — in spite of her remarks, her audacity, her dresses, and every cruel adjective he’s found for her, he’s never wanted anyone so badly. Aemond sits up abruptly, his sleep gone, giving way to stubbornness that comes hand in hand with reticence. He persuades himself that he’ll suppress this — the spark, the pleasure that he craves, and he won’t be a slave to his desires.

He’ll rid himself of feelings, of this lust. Inevitably it will wane.

>>> It doesn’t.

Desire is a guest that never leaves, unwanted but demanding space, attention, time. It slips into his thoughts the moment he wakes up, it whispers in his ears, never giving up, it’s layered in between his clothes and his skin. He hides it well from everyone; it lodges deeper into him.

Desire is a cherry in her mouth, each fruit she bites in, savors, drinks the juice from. He doesn’t want to watch — he can’t take his eye off her, caught in his fervor like in undertow, the flavor of her lips the only one he truly yearns for.

Desire bruises more than does a hit, cuts deeper than a blade, and there’s no weapon he can fight it off with. His training brings him no relief, and he can’t sweat it out or wash it off him, and even while he soaking in a bath, it feels like longing only rises back with steam.

Desire waits for him at night, stands by his bed, slides right under the covers with him. He dreams of her, and in those dreams, her body sings under his every touch, trembles from his praise, his hands and mouth paint her with marks and kisses. He wakes up with his chest aflame and out of breath, and then it takes all of his willpower not to crawl to her.

It staggering how much he really wants her, and he hates himself for it.

>>> It’s been three weeks and they have barely shared a word. He does his best to cut down their encounters and avoid her, he doesn’t argue and takes no offense, he hopes that if he pulls back just enough she will give up and let him be.

Aemond spends his evenings in the study, his table piled with books, and for a couple of hours, it does help to take his mind off things. The night already steals in while he’s searching through the shelves for scrolls, too caught up in the process to pick up the creaking of his door.

Her gaze nearly scalds him. He only looks up out of surprise — and then he freezes at the spot, his heart a stone that plummets to his stomach.

Out of everything she’s worn, this dress might be the one to bring him to his knees — the cutting out the front so low, his eye falls in the hollow between her breasts; he envies fervently the golden chain that rests there. He takes in her whole body, bare arms, and flaunting forms, all clad in deep dark green. He’s never seen her pick that color (and he can’t help but think she put it on for him).

He’s brought back from his stupor when their eyes meet — and startled by the determination in her gaze.

“Ser Criston told me that you missed your training,” she stately starts walking toward him, “Quite a few times this week.”

“I found myself preoccupied with other things,” he clears his throat and clasps his hands behind his back, the scrolls forgotten.

“With reading, I assume?” she almost sounds aggrieved (he wants to ask what else she’d rather have him do) but then her tone gets jaunty. “Would you mind if I join?”

“Actually, I would,” Aemond takes his eye off her, his coldness feigned. “I’d like to avoid distractions.”

And more than anything, he would like for her to leave; she’s not the one to give up so easily. “Maybe we can learn some things together?” she nonchalantly insists, and that ambiguity — deliberate or not — leaves his face suffused with pink.

“I highly doubt you take interest in the things I study,” he manages, his crudeness biting his own tongue.

She only sneers, already nearing his table. “You surely rush to judgment.”

“And I am never wrong.” (Although he’s been wrong once before.)

“That’s very humble of you.” (And she’s tenacious with her intent to prove him wrong again.)

“I am surprised you know that word,” he replies too hastily — and instantly regrets his outburst.

And his attempts to get away from her could’ve been valiant, but only left him feeling like a coward.

She’s got enough courage to spare. “Oh, my apologies, did I strike a nerve?” her hip grazes a stack of books. “You sound so displeased with my behavior,” she puts her hands right on his table, her cleavage in full view.

“You interrupted my studies,” he’s looking only at her face.

“Just this one time,” she clears up, her sly smile is a dare, “Sounds like you have quite a few complaints.”

Damned be her dress and the day he laid his eye on her. “It’s clear as day that we have nothing in common,” he hisses, her persistence molding his anger. “From your bawdy humor to your reckless behavior and your...,” he struggles to push the word through his mouth, “vulgar dresses — everything suggests that we will never make a good couple.”

He catches a gleam in her gaze but it’s not threatening nor hurt — and when the corners of her mouth curl up, her face expression actually looks amused. “I didn’t realize my presence tormented you that much,” she crosses arms over her chest, her hands under her breasts; he looks away that very instant. “So will it please you if I take my vulgar dresses and go back home and leave you be?”

He wants to say it will — he’s thought of it for days — but now he isn’t sure. The dreams he has of her will hardly be enough as every image he collected has got nothing on the real form.

“Is there anything that does?” she asks him suddenly and takes a step in his direction, and then another one.

Belatedly, he realizes that he’s backed against the wall. The air in the room heats up, and Aemond moves back to his table, fingers holding to its edge to find some balance. “...Does what?”

“Please you,” she swiftly clarifies, now standing at arm’s length.

“That isn’t any of your concern,” he wants to glance away and yet, his eye is drawn to her.

“I am inclined to disagree,” her lips stretch into a smile. “Shouldn’t a wife know how to make her husband feel good?”

“We are not married yet,” he tries to argue weakly.

“I’d like to learn beforehand,” but her assertiveness works quicker than his doubts.

The time is still, and seconds drag like hours. His heart leaps at the thought of being all alone with her, his concentration crumbling, his self-restraint already hanging by a thread.

“The way you look at me suggests you aren’t averse to the idea,” she tells him in a low voice, her eyes two glowing embers. Aemond gulps, she deftly rounds the table. “You act so cold and so collected,” she muses, coming closer, and he helplessly steps back. “But I am yet to meet a man who would deny himself the pleasure of laying with a woman,” her voice is warm and warming; his legs bump into the chair, prompting him to sit.

He hesitates for barely a moment but his quick reaction fails him because the next thing he knows, she’s standing next to him, her golden chain casting a blinding glint — he blinks — and then she’s straddling him, her thighs on either side of his.

Aemond’s mouth falls slack as he becomes aware: to lift her he will have to touch her. He glances down at her legs that sneaked out through the long slits of her dress, all bare to the very hips before him.

“I wonder if you are too spoiled by the attention of the ladies? Mayhaps you’ve got so satiated, the intimacy doesn’t bring you any joy,” she runs her fingers up his chest.

He only finds it in himself to shake his head. She isn’t satisfied with that reaction. “Or do you simply find it boring and have a taste for something else?”

Objection bubbles in his throat but he gets no chance to voice it — he barely registers a clinking sound before he feels cold steel pressed under his chin, her fingers wrapped around the hilt of his own dagger. He meant to leave it at the training yard but it completely slipped his mind.

“Does this work better? I’ve heard that you Targaryens have peculiar tastes,” her other hand lands on his shoulder, his chest is stirring with emotions he can’t read.

“That’s not— No,” he mumbles, his voice raw, the weight and feeling of her body overwhelming.

She cocks her brow at him in disbelief. “No? So it’s just plain old satiation then?” she makes no attempt to press the blade but her questions do get pushy. “Must be so hard when women throw themselves at you ever since you were... What was it, ten? Twelve years of age?”

He would expect her to sound teasing — instead, he hears disappointment. That’s the reaction he is used to getting.

“My brother took me to a pleasure house when I was ten-and-three. He said it’s time to get it wet,” he forces out, “And it was...,” awful and humiliating, something he wishes to forget, “...Not what you are describing.”

Her face expression changes — first surprised, then splashed with sadness, and her every feature softens. Aemond sees her opening her mouth to speak but he averts his gaze, abasement scrabbling at him. His eye falls closed, and he keeps thinking that now she will get up and leave, and there won’t be any wedding, and he’s got no reason to get so overly upset already, and —

she sheathes his dagger without a word, the unexpected movement making him breathe out.

And then she dips her head down, and her lips fall on his jaw. Aemond inhales sharply. Her mouth feels softer than it was in all his dreams, and she plants kisses down his throat, moving to the part of it the blade was pressed to. He doesn’t know where to put his hands while hers lock nimbly around his neck.

She pulls back slowly, and he dares to look at her again, trying to catch the merest shadow of pretense but there is none.

“I am truly sorry that you had to go through that,” she tells him quietly. “Have you tried some more since then?”

“I did,” his answer comes off hurried, blank, “I... I am aware of how the act is done.”

“How the act is done? Aemond, that doesn’t sound enjoyable at all,” she pouts, then gently caresses his face, her voice a tender whisper when she adds, “But it should be.”

He stiffens, waiting for the discomfort to wake up, for the aversion to coil his guts, to trigger the jarring need to move away. None of that happens. Instead, he feels her fingers running through his hair, a calming motion bringing only comfort, her every touch relieving tightness in his chest.

“You seem too tense... We have to work on that,” she joyfully murmurs. “Unless, of course, my worry causes you distress,” her fingers stop, “Do you want me to leave, my prince?”

“No,” he rasps, he almost pleads, “D-don’t.”

She hums with satisfaction, bringing her hands down to unclasp his leather doublet, knowing she won’t meet any resistance. He should resent her for this but he doesn’t (he didn’t and he won’t). The air lays cold over his shirt, and Aemond shivers; she moves her fingers down his firm chest with an unspoken admiration.

“Tell me how it usually goes,” she inquires, one of her hands finding its way back to his silver locks. “Do you find pleasure in undressing them?”

Her warmth envelopes him, scented with cinnamon and peaches. “They come without much clothes,” Aemond blurts out, earning another hum from her.

“And what about you?” she glances curiously at him.

“I don’t... I don’t like them touching me,” he timidly avows, and saying it to her does bring somewhat of a relief.

With both of her hands, she cradles his face, thumbs gently contouring his cheeks — he all but melts into her palms. “And yet you are so responsive to the touch,” her voice praises, “So pretty.”

She leans in again, leaving a kiss at the hollow of his throat — and then her mouth travels up, ardent and steady, and he squirms in place. Not out of discomfort.

“You are not supposed to rush it if you want it to feel good,” she whispers in his ear and moves back to catch his gaze. “You never rush into fighting so why love making should be any different?”

Astonishment brightens his face, and she chuckles lightly. “I must confess, I did enjoy watching you train, even though you never noticed. The way you move and twirl your sword,” she’s recollecting breathy, “You are so lithe and fast and so resistant... An infatuating sight.”

She holds his gaze and lifts her hand — he follows it, unblinking, until it finds one of the straps — she hooks it with her fingers. “Fairly soon it made me wonder how would your hands feel... on me,” his heart jolts at her words.

Slowly, she moves the strap aside, baring her breast for him; Aemond’s breathing hitches. She takes his hand in hers, planting a kiss over his knuckles — and then lets his fingers graze her naked skin.

“It was so cruel of you to rob me of my pleasure,” she laments, but he can barely hear a thing, his eye wide as he fixes on the soft swell of her breast, on how her nipple peaks so eagerly under his touch.

She guides his hand over her chest, down to her ribs and waist, letting him brush her every curve, placing his fingers firmly on her hip. And then she reaches for his other hand and lowers the other strap; his body trembles. The layers of his reticence are all peeled at once, leaving his desire raw and undisguised, unshackled. He’s drawn to fondle, clutch at her plump breasts but her grip is tight and taunting, not letting his fingers roam free.

Still, when both his hands sink into her hips, he realizes that he’s getting harder by the second.

It doesn’t go unnoticed by her. With a controlled, torturously slow move she drags her clothed core over his straining cock. His mouth stays closed but there’s a sound — a muffled moan caught in his throat.

“Doesn’t this feel good?” she teases, lightly tugging on his hair, her lips reaching the column of his neck. “With how much you read, I hoped you’d be more generous with words,” each of her kisses weightless like a drop of rain but then her mouth finds a spot below his ear and suckles at it, pulling a whimper from his chest.

He thinks he should... his mind goes blank after another movement of her hips, and she picks up the pace, merciless and sensuous. He tries biting down his moans but only hurts his mouth. She notices, her rapt eyes on him, and puts her finger on his lower lip:

“Please, don’t be shy with me,” she coos, her gentle touch soothing his bitten flesh, “Our desires coincide,” she earnestly affirms him — and the spark erupts and drags him into pure bliss.

He feels that his arousal leaks, his breeches way too tight to hide it, his fingers dig into her supple skin, but she gives no complaints. He watches breathlessly through his hooded eyelid as she grinds against him, then looks over her bouncing breasts, her nipples pebbled, and the pressure curls somewhere down his spine. She peppers him with kisses — the angles of his face, neck, everything that she can reach, except for his desirous mouth. And yet the softness of her lips and hands, her skin that’s draped with the redolent scent, the rhythm of her hips all bring him closer to the edge.

Her forehead is pressed to his, their lips an inch away but never fully touching. “Let go for me,” she says against his mouth, “My handsome, fierce dragon.”

That does it for him. He harshly presses her to him, then shudders with a strangled moan and comes undone, his eye squeezed shut as her name quivers in his mouth. The pleasure whirls him in and leaves him drained and stunned, a little bit light-headed.

It takes Aemond a minute to recover before he finds her gaze again — and in another minute he discerns her shallow breaths, her parted lips, brows slightly furrowed. He wants to ask her if she reached her peak, if he can help her with it —

but she pulls back.

She stands up and only briefly grabs his shoulder, steadying herself, then promptly puts the straps back on, fixing her dress. He wants to lend a hand but she moves it away, leaning in to lightly caress his face. “No, you don’t get to have me yet. I want you to admit it first, to say that you want me,” her words are laced with dignity but cooling to his mind.

She steps back, cruelly fast, the only consolation is her naughty tone. “Until then, I have to satisfy myself some other way. But I will think of you while doing it, my dear prince,” she promises, a ghost of a smile on her lips, and then walks out without looking back.

The silence feels unwelcome in the room and hangs over the ceiling like a cloud, but Aemond he is too dazed to move, spent and perplexed to wrap his head around it.

Desire, it seems, has come to stay.

But it’s not the only thing he’s feeling.

✧... YES, there will be a second part, it’s already in the works! ✧ and yes, I didn’t bother to rename Pedro’s character 'cause I adore Oberyn sue me

✧ just to clarify, I usually age Aemond up to 20 (or however old Ewan looks to you ;) ✧ I got inspired after watching the video for ROSALÍA’s “La Fama” (give it a watch, she is soooo 🥵) but I only found it because of this gorgeous gifset so shout-out to OP for giving me inspiration

✧ my recent fic (couples who kill together, stay together 🔥) ✧ my masterlist

thank you @amiraisgoingthruit for letting me tag you in every silly story of mine, hope you’ll like this one (if anyone else wants to be tagged, don’t be shy)

English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

[l1v1ngd3dgrrl]

Tulpar crew: Least to most likely to have an Alternative (Goth) Partner. [HC's]

AN: No one asked for this, this is purely my thoughts alone. (And yes when i said all I mean ALL...Minus Polle duh.) Please behave yourselves I'm BEGGING you

CW(S): Slight UNINTENTIONAL fetishization of Goth women (it's brief and no it's not Jimmy's doing. It's a reference to a meme, it'll make sense when you read it.)

MDNI banner: cafekitsune

Curly [Least]

I can hear your gasps behind the screen (I'm sorry!)

He doesn't mean it maliciously! I feel like he wouldn't like..Actively seek out a goth BUT he would date (and or marry) one if the chance presents itself.

doesn't really get the fashion aspect, but does like some bands (I can see him liking some of The Cure)

Swansea

Have zero clue when this man was born, or when Mouthwashing takes place. All I know is he's old (not like super old but old y'know)

..I don't think he's ever met a goth? Maybe like once and they were someone younger than him.

Finds the more 'traditional' goth looks annoying in a sense. Whaddya mean you did all that for some fashion?

Another person I can see liking very few goth bands..maybe a song or two. He can't tell you the name of the songs or what bands it is, but if you put on a song that he likes he'll kind of bop his head to it.

Daisuke

Honestly It's hard to pin point his type, based on in game dialogue he likes hot women (who doesn't) and since ones definition of hot varies who knows what he's into.

now me personally... I see him as a straight man BUT for the sake of this list he plays for all teams m'kay?

Similar to Curly I don't think he actively seeks out Goths, but if you two get along and you happen to be goth then yeah.

Would be the type to post "Need me a big tiddy goth gf" as a JOKE, he's joking i swear guys pLEASE. (you cannot tell me that he wouldn't have some stupid shitpost account on instagram or something.)

If it upset you he's taking it down and apologizing over and over and over.

If you think it's funny it becomes a joke between you two.

He canonically likes thrifting so he'd be down to help you find new pieces for your wardrobe (we love a supportive man)

Jimmy

Hear me out-

He does kind of view you as like an accessory, or like a trophy. if you don't dress 'goth' all the time he will view you as fake and not 'goth enough.'

HOWEVER, I do see him having some base knowledge about Alternative subcultures. (I saw a headcannon from curly-my-beloved and that's what made me think about putting him here)

During his high school years he probably considered himself Punk or something. Maybe had one Goth gf that dumped him in a really really messy breakup.

Unironically He would be the fucker to see someone wearing a band shirt and go "name 3 songs" or give you a pop quiz about the band, and call you a poser or fake fan.

I can see him liking some Type o negative, but he strikes me as a metal guy. Metallica/ Rob Zombie maybe? (Every man I've had the misfortune of crossing paths with who was obsessed with either have been the most insufferable dickheads to walk this earth. don't get me started ughh.)

Anya

Firm believer that Anya is one of those goths who doesn't dress goth at all, but her entire playlist says otherwise.

Once in a blue moon she'll get all gothed up but with how busy she is with work and med school she doesn't have time for it.

I can totally see her being the most likely to have a goth partner.

You two share music recommendations often, and sometimes you get into squabbles about what band is considered goth or not. (with love of course)

she KNOWSS her subculture history. Ask her any question about the subculture and she's gonna give you a whole presentation on it.

[yuri-is-online]

Bro floyd is so handsome-

And he's weirdly the only twst character that I can describe as handsome??? Like every other character I like is either cute or pretty. Trey and leona might have been handsome to me at one point but I'm just. Not attracted to them yk? Even Jade! Jade is very pretty! He's my evil little wife! But floyd is like. The only one that's actually handsome, like in the traditional sense. At least to me he is. Just like. His mannerisms I guess... idk man he's cool as hell and weirdly reminiscent of dark vintage americana. Weirdest fucking aesthetic I can connect him to but fuck you I'm connecting them (national anthem demo 1 by lana. I was reading the lyrics and also the overall vibe of that specific version of the song just kind of cemented for me)

Idk dude sometime I just go into you inbox and dump out my twst thoughts with no real purpose or structure and this is one of those times 🦵...also it's 2 am so that probably has something to do with it. Good night Yuri!

The prequel to this ask and also still goodnight because it is rather late here rn

Floyd is very much a mob boss, old Americana, guy you obviously should not be attracted to but still everyone kind of understands why type of guy. He's handsome in italics, in a way that you giggle about and exaggeratedly wag your eyes because hey you could be joking.

He's that sort of handsome where most interested parties would ditch him after a weekend. Handsome in a way that sparks but doesn't start a fire, like one of his bad moods that's strong, horrible, and will do so much damage but is gone as soon as it's come on. Like a man desperate for a real connection and can't quite get it, who is looking into your eyes while it rains outside not saying anything but really wanting you to know it's real. Handsome like the guy who doesn't get the girl but everyone knows if the writer was paying attention to their own characters would have been the better choice.

Handsome in a way that's stammered out without a technicality offered by someone small, vulnerable, and foreign to everything he knows in more ways than just the one obvious fact who ignores all of that stuff. Handsome enough for the spark to catch and the connection to wrap itself around your waist and drag you into the ocean without a single scream because the part those stories often ignore is that there are people who would look at an eel three times there size and still "would."

He laughs, dizzyingly loud and all the things he is at once because what he thinks of you is much simpler than all of that. He thinks you're cute~ so cute he could just eat you up.

[mcyt-jukebox-bonanza]

Mcyt Jukebox Bonanza Event!

Jukebox Bonanza is an MCYT multi-fandom event held during the month of september where artists will take songs of their choice and create illustrations based on these songs. This is called a Jukebox Night, and it was popular in the hermitcraft fandom circa 2019. This event seeks to revitalize the tradition and create some fun art.

Every participant who makes at least one Jukebox Night will get their named added to the Jukebox Bonanza hall of fame, and artists who make more can reach higher tiers of victory! This event can be either casual or hardcore, depending on how many drawings each individual wants to make. (Sign-ups will be open for the duration of the event, so feel free to drop in even if it's halfway through September!)

Timeline:

August 17: The signup form drops and the discord server opens (having a discord account is required for participation in this event.)

August 24: song claims open! Each song behind a jukebox night for jukebox bonanza must be unique, so artists will claim a song before they begin drawing.

August 28: All first claims should be assigned. Once you receive confirmation of your claim, you can begin drawing. Additional claims continue throughout the month as individuals finish one jukebox night and request another song as desired.

September 30: creation period ends. You can't start any new drawings after this, but it's okay to finish one during the posting period.

September 30-October 7: posting period! Post all your jukebox nights and tag this blog so we can reblog the posts here. At the end, the mods will count up all the jukebox nights to declare the final illustration count and award victory tiers.

Sign up for the event by filling out THIS form! The link to the discord server is at the end.

FAQ and song claim information under the cut.

Who are the mods here?

There are two mods on this blog and on the discord server: Mod Idea (@paradoxlemonade) and Mod Ghost (@gay-ghosts).

Who can participate in this event?

Participation is open to all fans of MCYT ages 13+.

What's a jukebox night?

A jukebox night is a single completed illustration based on a song. They were usually square back in the day so they looked like the could fit on an album cover, but that wasn't a hard rule. Some had lyrics in the picture itself, and others had them below the drawing. For this event, a drawing is considered complete when it is fully colored and/or shaded.

What fandoms can I make a jukebox night for?

Although this tradition originated in the hermitcraft fandom, all MCYT fandoms are eligible for this event. Small MCYT, old MCYT, new MCYT, popular MCYT, and anything else are all fair game. If it's minecraft and it's videos, you can make a Jukebox Night for it.

What songs can I claim?

Most songs are fair game, but there are a few stipulations: Songs must not be graphically about sex or contain graphically sexual content, as this event is open to artists age 13-17. Additionally, no songs made by Wilbur Soot/Lovejoy are eligible for this event.

How do song claims work?

If you participated in mcytblr AU fest, then you might be familiar with this process. A google form will be posted at a determined time and all participants will fill it out. You must list at least one song, but you can name up to five. The first person to claim a particular song will be the one to receive it, so it's advised that you list a few in case your first choice is unavailable.

Once you finish your first Jukebox Night, you can fill out the form again to claim another song and receive a second assignment. You can do this as many times are you want, but you can only get a new claim once the drawing for your previous one is completed.

What can I depict in a jukebox night?

Pretty much anything, within reason. Canon events, canon divergence, AUs, headcanons, you name it! Shipping and violence are fair game as well. We ask that art made for this event be about the characters, not real people. Additionally, art made for this event cannot contain sexual content of any kind or anything that would warrant an E rating on Ao3, as the event is open to artists age 13-17. If you're uncertain about an idea, please reach out to a mod for clarification.

I have another question you didn't answer here!

Send an ask in and one of the event mods will get back to you!

[deafeningladyruins]

A Christmas Surprise

The abandoned carnival, usually a place of eerie silence and haunting memories, had transformed into a winter wonderland. Art the Clown had spent weeks preparing for this moment, determined to give her a Christmas she would never forget. He wanted to show her that beneath his eerie exterior, he could be tender and caring. It all began one crisp evening when she returned from a walk to find the carnival unusually quiet. The entrance, usually marked by rusting gates, now glowed with a string of twinkling lights. She followed the path illuminated by the lights, her curiosity growing with each step. As she rounded the corner, her breath caught in her throat.

Before her stood a sight that seemed straight out of a dream. The dilapidated rides and booths were adorned with garlands, wreaths, and ornaments. Strings of colorful lights crisscrossed above, casting a warm, festive glow over everything. Snow, either real or an illusion Art had conjured, blanketed the ground, adding a magical touch to the scene.

"Art?" she called out softly, her voice trembling with awe and emotion.

From behind a large, decorated Christmas tree, Art the Clown emerged, dressed in a Santa Claus suit. His ever-present smile now filled with pride and anticipation. He held out his hand, and she took it without hesitation, letting him lead her deeper into the transformed carnival. He had set up a cozy area with a makeshift fireplace, crackling with faux flames that provided both warmth and light. There was a small table laid out with a festive feast—roasted vegetables, steaming bowls of soup, and a perfectly cooked roast. Art gestured for her to sit, his eyes twinkling with delight.

As they enjoyed their meal, she couldn't help but be overwhelmed by the effort and love Art had poured into this surprise. "Art, this is incredible. How did you manage all of this?"

Art's silent response was a gentle squeeze of her hand and a warm smile. After dinner, he led her to a small stage, where a phonograph stood ready with an old record. He placed the needle carefully, and soon, the air was filled with the soft, melodic strains of a Christmas waltz.

Art extended his hand once more, inviting her to dance. She accepted, and they began to waltz under the twinkling lights, their movements graceful and synchronized. The world outside ceased to exist as they lost themselves in the music and each other.

"You're full of surprises," she whispered, her heart swelling with love and gratitude.

Art's eyes softened as he leaned in closer, brushing his lips against hers in a tender kiss. The moment was perfect, a blend of romance and magic that seemed to freeze time itself. As the song came to an end, Art took her hand and led her to a small clearing where a sprig of mistletoe hung from the highest branch of a bare tree. He pointed up, drawing her attention to the delicate green plant. She looked up and then back at him, a smile playing on her lips.

"Mistletoe?" she asked with a playful glint in her eyes. "How traditional of you."

Art's eyes twinkled with mischief as he leaned in, capturing her lips in a passionate kiss. The world around them melted away, leaving only the warmth of their embrace and the electricity of their connection. The kiss deepened, a silent testament to their love that transcended words. Afterward, Art led her to a cozy tent adorned with soft blankets and pillows, creating a sanctuary of comfort and warmth. Inside, the tent was warm and inviting, with more twinkling lights casting a gentle glow. Art had prepared everything to make her feel cherished and loved.

She climbed into the bed he had arranged, feeling the soft, comforting embrace of the blankets. "Art, will you stay with me tonight?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't want to be alone."

Art nodded, his smile gentle and reassuring. He lay down beside her, and she wrapped her arms around him, holding him close. As they cuddled together, the warmth of their bodies and the soft glow of the lights created a cocoon of safety and love.

Art rested his head on her chest, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. For the first time in his twisted existence, he felt a profound sense of peace and belonging. She stroked his hair gently, her touch soothing and tender.

"Thank you, Art," she murmured, her eyes closing as she drifted off to sleep. "This is the best Christmas I've ever had."

As the night wore on, they lay entwined in each other's embrace, finding solace and comfort in their shared love. In their hidden sanctuary, amidst the remnants of a forgotten carnival, they had found a place where their hearts could be free—a place where even the darkest souls could find light and love.

———

I’m back, I apologise there were a lot of stuff going on but I made it, hope you guys enjoy this little story.

Other stories

A Silent Affection

Carnival of Shadows

[tanadrin]

Imagine that a century or two from now, the eastern half of the United States is conquered by the Canadian Empire, its intelligentsia deported, its land colonized by Canadian immigrants, and its remaining people mostly gradually absorbed into a Neo-Canadian identity. The West reorganizes, developing a new political and cultural center, and comes to regard itself as the "true" United States, with the remnant culture of the East (by now much changed by Canadian rule) as representing an unchanged tradition stretching back to the time of George Washington. The holdout western half is subsequently conquered by the Reformed Mexican Empire, and while most of the population remains in situ, its elite is taken to Mexico City. There, for three or four generations, they do their best to maintain their distinct American identity, focusing on the American "civil religion," the distinctive political ideals and cultural features that mark them out as Americans, and come up with a new way of interpreting their history that allows America to be a perennial idea, something not directly physically tied to the territory of the United States, which no longer exists. They compose a body of historical works based on Washington Irving's rather fabulistic approach to early American history, the half-remembered popular versions of the stories of Columbus and the Pilgrims, the First Thanksgiving, even the Revolutionary War. They don't have access to the original texts anymore--let's say this is all taking place in a post-Collapse North America where long-range travel and communication is difficult and a lot of history has been lost--but they do their best. They append to these books, or include in their text, of history a copy of the Constitution, big chunks of the United States Code, and Robert's Rules of Order.

Subsequently, the Empire of Gran Columbia invades, conquers southern and central Mexico, and its Emperor lets the captive Americans go home. They return north, mostly to California, find that the version of American history and civics that is remembered there isn't the same as the version they have (not that the Californian one is correct--the Mexican Empire has suppressed English-language education and high culture in its Aztlani provinces), and set about reforming and reorganizing the Western States (as they're now called) to be more in line with the forms they brought back from the exile. In the meantime, other bits of important literature start being kept in libraries next to copies of the received histories: some bits of early American literature, like Hawthorne, the Song of Hiawatha, some highly abridged Herman Melville, Thomas Paine--heck, even some John Locke, and quotes or fragments from Shakespeare. Some traditionalists now argue the capital of the United States has always been located in San Francisco, and that Washington, D.C. only because the capital later, under the influence of Eastern heretics.

In the following centuries, the Western States retain their independence for a time, but eventually become a secondary battleground for a lot of other empires--the Mexicans, the Canadians, the Pan-Pacific Federation, and so forth. American culture remains distinctive, insulted in part by its unique traditions, though now everybody speaks Future Spanish, and only learns English to read the old texts. In this period additional material, including later compositions, continues to accrete, forming a distinct body of sacred American scripture, although it does not exist in a single canonical form. Attempts to reconcile distinct sources, like more literal and historically-grounded accounts versus the simplified narratives of figures like Irving, produce hybrid texts that sometimes are full of internal conflicts.

Oh, and through all this, some institutions of American government like the Supreme Court still function, although their rulings only apply to Americans, and there isn't much in the way of a federal bureaucracy.

Finally the Great and Sublime Brazilian Potentate conquers most of the Americas, sets up an American client state that roughly coincides with the heartland of the old Western States (California, Oregon, most of Washington and Nevada), and allows the Americans to elect their own President (subject, of course, to Brazilian approval). During this period, an apocalyptic street preacher from Los Angeles claims to have inherited the authority and power of George Washington, and is executed by the Brazilians; his later followers point to the prophecies of Emperor Norton, and out-of-context bits of a Quebecois translation of Moby-Dick and some Mark Twain stories to say no, really, he was George Washington. Inexplicably, a version of this religion becomes the dominant faith of the Brazilian Empire before it collapses. But long before then the American state in California fails, crushed when it tries to revolt against Brazilian rule; the remnant Easterners likewise dwindle down to only a few hundred souls living in a village in Alexandria, Virginia. Centuries from now, as the descendants of the descendants of the Brazilians colonize Mars, they will point to the sacred Americanist scriptures, the Neo-Americanist narratives of their prophet's life, and the letters written by the early leaders of Neo-Americanism, and say, "all of this was written by the spirit of George Washington, and is free from contradictions." Meanwhile the remnant Americanists, who have been writing about Americanism and how it applies to their everyday lives in the centuries since, and whose commentary has formed around the copies of the last editions of the U.S. Supreme Court Reporter (SCOTUS managed to outlast the final American state by a hundred years or so) plus the thoughts of the remaining Americanist community in Mexico, continue to regard their traditions as the unbroken and unaltered practice of American culture, politics, and ideals as they existed since the Revolutionary War.

This is, as far as I can tell, approximately how the Bible was composed.

[writerbugg]

Good Luck

Chapter # 5 Cinematic

Platonic Yandere Dc x reincarnated Reader

Wattpad

Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5 (You are here), Chapter 6

The whole tradition of cinema is dominated, really, by films about good guys versus bad guys, good versus evil. But we have very few films about the nature of evil itself. - Joshua Oppenheimer

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

Jon lies on his bed, staring at nothing in particular. It had been a few weeks since Y/n went with the Waynes, and he had to admit, the apartment felt empty without her.

Shifting around, Jon reaches for the picture frame on his nightstand. A soft smile spreads on his face as he looks at a seven-year-old Y/n standing with the Justice League, a contagious smile on her face.

"I wonder what she's doing now.."

──●◎●──

Y/n stands at the front doors of the manor, watching as Clark pulls into the driveway, discomfort bubbling in her gut.

Something told her this meeting wasn't going to go well.

"Y/n!" Clark quickly exited his car, rushing to Y/n and scooping her into his arm. "Oh Y/n, I'm sorry the others couldn't come and visit. They were too busy with work and school, but if the chance arises, I'll make sure they make it next time." Clark reassured the girl.

"Oh uh, that's good, thanks," Y/n muttered, leaving Clark's grip.

Clark frowns at Y/n's distant behavior, shooting a look at Bruce before smiling again. "I'm here to spend time with you Y/n, maybe try and jog your memory..." He reaches into his pocket and grabs two movie tickets. "See! I got us tickets to your favorite movie!"

Y/n takes one of these tickets. 'The Incredibles' strangely fits in this world.

A sigh resonates from behind Y/n, Bruce frowning at the two of them. "Clark, you know I can't let you do that. It's too soon to be trying anything yet."

Clark glares harshly at Bruce, "I don't see how you can stop me Wayne, and I'm pretty sure I know what's best for my kid."

Grabbing Y/n's hand, Clark drags her back to his car, ignoring Bruce's protest.

Clark makes Y/n sit in the front seat before going around the front and entering the driver's side. As if trying to comfort her, Clark gives Y/n a side hug as he leaves the Wayne manors driveway.

──●◎●──

Minutes go by in uncomfortable silence, the radio station humming some random song quietly, the low hum of the car engine filling the space between them. Clark, gripped the steering wheel tightly, his eyes darting from the road to Y/n. She was staring blankly out the window, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the glass.

"Y/n," Clark began, "I know you don't remember, but the last time we went to the movies together was your 13th birthday. You wanted to see the Incredibles then."

Y/n frowned, a knot forming in her stomach, guilt filling her, though she didn't know why.

"I thought... maybe if we watched it again, it might help jog some memories," he continued, the words coming out in a rush. "It's always been your favorite. You'd watch it over and over, even when I begged for something else." He let out a strained chuckle that seemed to contradict the radio's happy tunes.

Y/n didn't answer, continuing to look out the window at the passing buildings. Clark's heart ached with a dull, relentless throb. His mind raced back to the days before whatever this was stole his daughter away. He remembered her laughter, her curiosity, the way she would pepper him with questions about everything and anything.

Now, Y/n couldn't even look at him. Desperation gnawed at him, a dark shadow lurking at the edges of his mind. He needed to bring her back. He needed to see that spark in her eyes again, to hear her laugh, to know that she was still there, somewhere beneath that cold, nervous expression.

As they drove, Clark glanced at the rearview mirror, catching sight of his reflection. Lines on his face seemed deeper, his eyes hollow. He barely recognized himself. The effort of holding it all together was tearing him apart, piece by piece.

"Remember the time we went camping?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "You caught your first fish, and you were so excited you almost fell into the lake." He chuckled again, but it quickly turned into a choked sob. He bit down on his lip, hard, tasting blood.

Y/n gasped, "Clark-"

"Dad," he corrected sharply, his tone laced with frustration. "Call me Dad, Y/n."

Clark almost immediately regretted the sharpness in his voice as Y/n recoiled slightly, a look of guilt crossing her features.

"I-I'm sorry, sweetheart," Clark stammered, reaching out to touch her hand. "It's just... I want us to be a family again. I want... I want you to remember."

His heart almost completely shattered when Y/n moved her hand away.

The radio continued to play its happy tunes as the two sat in silence.

...

The car pulled into the parking lot of the movie theater, the neon lights flickering to life. Clark turned off the engine and sat there for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

"We're going to get through this," he said, more to himself than to her. "I promise you, Y/n. We'll find a way."

──●◎●──

Chapter 6

A/n: Sad times :,) Anyways, guess who's out of school AHHHHHHHH!!! And guess who's also going on a trip to EUROPE!!! AHHHH!!! I'm so excited y'all.

@rosecentury

[bangtanintotheroom]

6:42 AM (M)

Every hour, every minute, every second You know night after night I'll be fuckin' you right Seven days a week

• Pairing: Jungkook x (F)Reader

• Genre: Non-Idol!AU, Fluff, Smut, Established Relationship

• Rating: 18+

• Words: 1,973

• Summary: Jungkook is ready to kick off a new day of loving you.

• Warnings/themes: JK and Y/N are horny but in love 🥰, mentions of sex all over the house, mentions of oral (f. receiving), lots of kisses 🥺, fingering, hitting it from the side, unprotected sex, c*ckwarming

• Song Inspo: Seven - Jung Kook (Spotify | Soundcloud)

• Notes: As much as I loved Seven, I didn’t plan to write anything related to it until I got the sudden urge this past weekend. I’m in a fluffy mood lately and it clearly shows in this fic 😳 If anyone can guess what anime I’m talking about, I’ll give you a platter of cookies because wow, was it a passing line 😂🍪

• Notes (2): Thank you to my lovely Sunclair @minisugakoobies​ for reading over this for me! ☀️💖

• Taglist: @jimilter​ @joontied​ @minisugakoobies​ @minttangerines​ @sugalaritae​ @crisle19​ @codeinebelle​ @kookprada​ @saweetspoiled​ @effielumiere​ @m1sss1mp​

When Jungkook opened his eyes, the only thing he could see was the tangled mess that was your hair. Blinking to clear the sleep out, he pulled his head back to get a better survey of the bedroom. It wasn’t as dark as the last time he’d had his eyes open, but not bright enough to make out every feature.

Shifting his body enough that he wouldn’t wake you, he glanced at the clock on the nightstand.

6:42 AM.

Normally, Jungkook would grumble before rolling over and burrowing himself deeper into the Downy-scented covers. Why the hell would he get up at this time if he didn’t have anywhere to go?

But today?

His pierced lips curled with eagerness.

Today, he had a mission to complete. The earlier, the better.

Resting his body completely now, he watched your profile as you still ventured in dreamland, lips parted as you let out soft breaths. You always lamented the fact that you tended to drool in your sleep, but Jungkook wouldn’t let you finish before telling you that he thought you were the most beautiful thing in the world, drool on your face or not.

Even as he admired you, he felt his heart picking up in rate and a stirring in his groin.

It didn’t help that your bare body was pressed against every inch of his under the comforter, legs tangled in the mutual desire to be as close to each other as possible as you fell asleep last night.

He could visualize every inch on the fly. Every scar, mole, stretch mark.

Then again, if he didn’t by now, he’d be disappointed in himself. Spending the last few days inside of you in some way or another was guaranteed to sharpen his memory.

Jungkook licked his lips as he reminisced on what the two of you had been up to. You both agreed to take vacation around the same time, planning to go somewhere to relax. But when it came closer, no one had any suggestions nor the energy to travel. It was a mutual decision to remain home and just take it easy.

Although, take it easy was far from what was happening.

On Saturday night, the two of you shared a bottle of wine and somehow, some way, the conversation ended up on sex. It wasn’t the topic itself that was unexpected, but how it deviated that made Jungkook hold back a giggle just now.

You had questioned whether it was possible to have sex for a week straight, thanks to a passing line in an old anime you revisited. Your boyfriend humored your sudden query, entering into a conversation that should not have lasted almost an hour. But you had opened up a box that neither of you wanted to close.

By the time the bottle was on its last drop, you and Jungkook decided to test this theory out, starting on Monday. Sunday was designated as laundry day and neither of you planned to shake up the tradition.

As soon as the two of you woke up Monday morning, your boyfriend was grabbing at your half-asleep form. You had called him an ‘insatiably horny monster,’ but he was quick to defend his desires as he worked at your clothes. He just had so much love to give you. It made you give a laugh that swiftly morphed into a gasp as a tattooed hand dove between your legs.

And then the rest was history.

Sex wasn’t delegated to the bed only.

Jungkook would make love to you on the couch.

Jungkook would fuck you while you were bent over the kitchen counter.

Jungkook would hold you up against the wall if he was feeling adventurous (although you freaked out when you felt him nearly drop you a couple of times).

Jungkook would even have you ride him as he sat on the bench in the shower, the water making every inch of your bare skin glisten like diamonds.

No area in the house was off-limits.

While he was reminiscing on the last few days, you were beginning to wake up. Opening your eyes a mite, you could tell it was earlier than expected. You figured that Jungkook was still asleep as well, but when you turned your head, you were greeted with dark, loving eyes. A sight that never failed to bring a smile to your lips.

“Good morning.”

“G’morning, babe.”

He was quick to place a peck on your slightly chapped lips, lingering for a moment before pulling away.

“Slept well?”

“Mhm. You?”

A bunny-like grin sprung up on his handsome face.

“Of course.”

A giggle left you at his answer. He didn’t stay with the world of the living for long after laying down in bed; the much-needed shower the two of you had taken before sapped the last bit of energy he had. This was pretty much what had been happening since Monday night.

But judging by the way his hands began roaming your body, he was wide awake now.

Someone didn’t want to waste time today, huh?

“Kookie…”

“Yeah?”

You bit back a smile as you felt his fingertips dancing under the curve of your breast.

“What are you doing?”

Jungkook kept them moving as he leaned in next to your ear, sleep still lingering in his voice as he whispered, “Starting our day off right.”

Your hunch was correct as he started decorating your neck and shoulder with kisses, each press kicking off sparks underneath your skin.

“What about breakfast?”

Another kiss.

“I ate last night.”

You hummed, both at the feel of his lips and his reply.

“Pussy doesn’t count as actual food, baby.”

Now a light dig of teeth into your skin.

“It does to me.”

You weren’t surprised at his insistence; once his mind was set on having sex, there was little that could sway him off the path.

It was a new day, also…

Making your decision, you shifted your body to press back against your boyfriend, feeling his cock twitch from the movement. You slowly wiggled your hips, making deliberate grinds with your ass on him. The act earned a quiet groan from Jungkook, the arm underneath your body tightening its hold while his hands slid up to cup your breasts, fingers greeted by your stiff nipples.

He immediately began teasing them, savoring the breathy sighs you made as you kept rubbing back on him. Every second that passed ended up with the warmth between your legs increasing because of his touch. You could feel him getting harder and harder, starting to hear him make sounds of his own as well. Your lover must have been running out of patience as one hand began trailing down your body, its intended destination clear.

You were about to roll onto your back to give Jungkook easier access until you felt that same hand take a hold of your hip. He eased your confusion by saying softly, “Stay like that.”

Relaxing into the mattress again, you were bombarded with kisses and bites to your neck once more, the sensations of that and the fingers on your nipple combining into something wonderful. Wonderful enough that you were caught off-guard when you felt the other set of digits beginning to explore a more intimate part.

Jungkook knew your body like the back of his hand. Knew what areas made you keen or tremble with need. How to get you so worked up that you would be begging for him to fuck you silly. He tended to like bringing you to that point.

Yes, it was a bit selfish on his part, but he couldn’t help but admire the faces and sounds you would make in such a vulnerable state. It made him feel good that you granted him the privilege to witness that sight and also be the one to fix the problem.

As of now, said problem was a result of you rolling your hips down on his hand as two of his fingers took their sweet time massaging and stretching your inner walls. The side of his thumb would brush against your clit, but it just wasn’t enough pressure.

“Jungkook—”

Pausing his movements at the frenzied way you said his name, Jungkook realized that he wasn’t feeling very patient himself this morning. He was quick to slip out of you with a light squelch before taking your leg to rest it on top of his muscular thigh. Taking a hold of his stiff cock, he lined himself up with your entrance and slid into his rightful place with little resistance.

The sounds of satisfaction the two of you made melded and joined the early morning air in the room, quickly followed by the occasional smack of your bodies against each other. Every loving whisper he’d utter into your ear would be returned with words of your own, ranging from praise to pleas for him to not stop.

A useless request, honestly. He would never stop. Not when you felt this amazing.

At some point amidst the fog of pleasure shrouding your brain, you realized that the two of you hadn’t kissed since waking up. Wanting to fix that immediately, you turned your head back, almost enough to pull a muscle in your neck. You husked your request, your boyfriend jumping on it with lightning speed.

The angle made it a little uncomfortable, but you couldn’t care at the moment. Not when he was filling you up and loving you so well.

Just as you felt a jumble of knots deep in your belly, Jungkook’s movements became less fluid and moderate, bringing more speed and power into it. He was just as close as you were. But you didn’t even have to ask him to help you with hitting that high point. As soon as you opened your mouth, his hand went straight to working over the bundle of nerves above where you two were joined.

His actions caused the heat in the bedroom to rise higher and higher until it became unbearable. Just when you felt like you were at your limit, shock-waves slammed into your body. They rolled through you and towards Jungkook as well, announced by the desperate groan he gave as he buried himself and painted your throbbing walls.

Neither of you wanted this beautiful moment to end.

But alas, the pulsations slowed down, leaving your sweat-soaked bodies to assimilate to calm again. You could barely register the warm palm rubbing your waist gently, only able to fully focus when you felt a kiss to your cheek. Your head turned back again, ignoring the slight twinging ache in your neck, to take in your boyfriend’s flushed and damp face.

Jungkook was quick to give you one of his winning smiles, chocolate brown eyes damn near sparkling. Now that the room was brighter, you could see more of the little details you loved. Taking everything only made your still pounding heart skip.

A swell of emotions inside made your voice express them openly, watching the corners of his eyes crinkle at the three words you often told him. He repeated them back to you, followed by a long and languid kiss. The two of you stayed like that for a while, him still nestled in your warmth while words continued to be traded, the sun rising further and further in the sky to illuminate the bedroom fully.

At some point, you remembered that it was Friday. Which meant there were still two more days of you and Jungkook indulging in each other’s bodies.

You couldn’t think of a better way to spend your vacation.

©bangtanintotheroom, 2023. Crossposted to AO3. Do not repost to other sites or copy without permission.

[bookshelf-in-progress]

The Beggar's Door: A Retelling of "King Thrushbeard"

Oh, yes, King Gregor had a temper, but in this case, it was more than justified. You see, the king had gone through all the expense of hosting an enormous ball so every eligible suitor on the continent could vie for the hand of Princess Dulcibella, and what do you think she did? Not smile and curtsey and thank them for the honor, that’s for sure. She rejected every man to his face! And not politely! The princess had a tongue like a whip, and she scourged those high and mighty men with every insult you can imagine before declaring she would have none of them as a husband. Some of them were on the verge of declaring war.

So none of us were surprised when King Gregor, in a towering rage, summoned Princess Dulcibella to the throne room the next morning.

Princess Dulcibella was a beautiful maid—fair and willowy—and she walked toward her father with as dainty a step and as innocent an air as any woman who ever lived, humming a traveling minstrel’s tune.

“Daughter,” the king declared. “I have brought you here to meet your husband.”

The princess stopped humming. “Tradition states that a crown princess may choose her own husband.”

“Tradition also states that if the princess refuses all her suitors, she is wed to the first man to come into the king’s presence.”

Princess Dulcibella’s lovely face paled. “You would not be so barbaric.”

“You have left me no other choice.” The king pointed to the grand doors through which the princess had entered—the only entrance that had been left unbarred. “Your husband—the man of my choosing—will enter through that door at the stroke of ten.”

Everyone knew who that would be—Baldric of Eldria, a brute and bore (and, some said, a usurper), but king of the wealthiest nation on the continent.

At his words, a door opened—but not the great door.

In a shadowed corner of the throne room, a forgotten, barely visible door swung open on rusted hinges.

The king whirled upon his chamberlain. “I said all the doors were to be barred!”

The chamberlain was deathly pale. “Tradition states that the beggar’s door can never be barred.”

An old tradition, the beggar’s door, one that said the poor must be able to approach their king for help in desperate need, or else the kingdom would fall. No one had used the door in generations—but the door had remained open.

Through that door came a ragged young man, tattered shoes on his feet and a lute on his back. With a smile, he bowed to the princess, as graceful as any courtier.

“My king and my lady,” he said. “If you can spare a coin for a starving minstrel, I would be glad to repay your kindness with a song.”

He had charm, that ragged clown, and probably a nice face somewhere under the layer of dirt.

Princess Dulcibella smiled upon him—men had crossed continents for that smile—and, in the sight of a stunned crowd in the throne room, the minstrel began to sing.

O, come away, my fine young maiden Though I’ve no place to call my own We’ll wander through the wooded valleys And make the wild world our home

You know the song, but you’ve never heard it as he sang it. He had a voice like love itself come to life—as if he’d come a-purpose for wooing. We all were spellbound. The princess was enchanted.

He sang a verse or ten, and when the song finally faded, the king was the first to remember the purpose of the day. For all the unexpected happenings, he hadn’t forgotten his rage. He’d lost his chance at an alliance, but his revenge upon an ungrateful daughter was still within reach.

“Minstrel,” he declared. “You’ve won more than a coin. According to tradition, you have my daughter as bride to wed.”

The priest emerged from behind the throne—intended for a far more royal wedding. In the sight of us all, the princess and the beggar were bound as man and wife.

“Now, be gone from my house!” the king declared. “You’re a beggar’s wife, now, and can have no place here.”

Dulcibella was stripped of her finery, but somehow she didn’t seem to mind.

The minstrel took her in his arms and carried her out the beggar’s door—gazing upon each other with as much devotion as if they were any ordinary pair of lovers.

With that, they disappeared. I’ve not seen either of them again.

But I’ve heard stories.

Dulcibella was clever, you see, and her maids tell stories of a minstrel who would sing near her window on moonlit nights.

Some say she told him of the beggar’s door.

Some even say that the minstrel was no minstrel at all, but young King Alaric, cast down from the throne of Eldria, living in exile until he can reclaim his throne.

I don’t know what to believe, but I like to believe she’s happy as a beggar’s wife, and I believe there’s no better woman to someday take a place as queen.

King Baldric had better take care.

[ghibli-collector]

Question time…

Is the bath house Man made and inhabited by spirits or is it a spirit world creation? (See above picture)

I always assumed that the actual bathhouse was an old or ancient structure and created by someone like Yubaba, i assumed that once Chihiro went through the tunnel with her parents and as she crosses the dried up river she was crossing into the spirit world. But the area beyond the river with all the food places and the dried up river itself are clearly part of the abandoned theme park. So i thought that the abandoned restaurants part had been claimed and inhabited by spirits. Also the film shows a transformation as the spirit world comes to life as night falls across the the abandoned restaurants and as Chihiro tries to flee back across the river it’s suddenly massive and over flowing.

Regardless i always thought the bathhouse itself was this ancient structure created by Spirits but watching today in the scene where Chihiro first crosses the bridge that leads to the bath house door the construction under the traditional bridge is actually modern man made iron or steel girders and reinforced concrete which made me question and think wow is the bathhouse also just a man made structure inhabited by the spirits?

I noticed also that the rebars are still sticking out of the concrete giving it an unfinished look, could this also be a hint that maybe this is where the construction was abandoned and the actual spirit world begins? I’m not sure 🤣 because i also thought when Chihiro takes the train ride to swamp bottom that all these land scapes can’t be part of the human world? But actually maybe they are?!? It’s still day time on Chihiro’s train journey and the ghost like silhouette of a child and silhouetted people at the train stops along the way are similar to the black silhouettes we saw at the start of the film when the restaurant area came to life as darkness fell, but as darkness falls and the train passes through neon lights floating by the train by the time Chihiro visits Zeniba it’s also night time and she’s greeted by a spirit lamp. So it makes sense to me that Miyazaki has shown us a world where the spirit and human world are overlapping but just revealed at different times, i guess this is why Chihiro and Kohaku are linked since the time of Kohaku saved her life as a child and the song is “always with me”.

I will keep watching and see if there are any more signs of modern construction inside the boathouse… but what do you think??? The bathhouse built by men as part of a theme park resort bewitched spirit inhabited structure claimed by Yubaba and her patrons? Or a structure created by the spirit world?

Please comment and have your say

[ratcash-wasgud]

this is my first time requesting here and im so nervous since the idea itself is so cheesy. could we have a modern au loser mizu who listens to "pasilyo" (a filipino song about wanting to get married so badly to someone; i highly recommend listening its so addicting!) and immediately thinks of her crush. thank you sm!

hel lovely!!!!! omg this is such a cute idea...it would be a shame if someone...have added some smut....hm...

anyways i kept this short, just to not overdo the vibe hihi

and you were right, it IS addicting. mwah.

Peonies

"I told you, I don't plan on doing that. Stop trying to play matchmaker, Mama." Mizu grumbles into the phone as she agressively spreads butter onto a slice of toast.

Her mother called her up again, which is always...well, a bother. She just nags her about settling down, even if she's still in college, finding a good boyfriend, getting married, having kids and basically giving up on everything she ever wanted. This is the reason she could never come out to her mother.

These talks always makes her hate the idea of marriage. Why would she ever tie herself down? Plus, it's a stupid old tradition. Plus, it's not even legal where she lives. It's just dumb to even think about it.

"No. I'm just busy." Mizu shrugs as she bites into the toast, still holding the phone up to her ear. Her mom keeps scolding her about ruining the family's name if she refuses to get married.

After about ten agonizing minutes, she hangs up. She lands on her bed with a groan. And just when she thinks she found peace, her phone lights up with a notification. It's a text from a groupchat called Tea Party with Eeyore, which has Ringo, Taigen, Akemi, and you in it.

ringo: omgomg look!

ringo: *a picture of you holding up a full tray of freshly baked pinagong.*

ringo: she helped me with my pastry of the week!!!

taigen: what even is that?

ringo: it's a type of fillipino bread! i learned it in baking class today.

you: we even made a whole playlist of fillipino songs to listen to while we bake :DDD

*you sent the link to the playlist.*

ringo: yup. we got into the mood, if you will

akemi: ringo, sweetie, that could have douple meanings

ringo: oh

The name is a dumb inside joke from that one time Akemi came up with the idea that having blue as a main color and being grumpy is enough for her to be just like Eeyore. She remembers you laughed so hard when she contined this line of thinking and matched Taigen with Tigger, because they're both annoying It's only because of that she doesn't mind this whole thing. She loves your laugh.

Mizu had a crush on you ever since she met you. It wasn't a hard crush to develop, honestly. You were kind for no reason, had eyes with stars in them, always full of energy while wearing the brightest smile she ever seen. You were just generally lovely. She was sure Taigen also had a crush on you at some point, which always irritated her, even if she never planned on making a move.

Mizu was content with the way things were. She was silently loving you from afar while you shined your bright light on her withouth even noticing. You made her happy if you didn't know.

She rolled over to her side, and tapped on the link you sent to the playlist. You had great taste in music, so if you were able to vive to these songs, they can't be that bad.

Then as the playlists starts playing, she hears a couple notes of an electric guitar, and she lightly shivers. Pasilyo was the first song. She never heard about it, but the melody quickly captured her.

She stared up the ceiling and she imagined you and Ringo listening to this song. She imagines you accidentaly spilling flour all over yourself, getting some on your face as you laugh, and she imagines her hand softly wiping it off. She imagines you sitting infront of the oven, staring at the growing pastry dough as it bakes, and having that bright and excited smile on your face when you succesfully decide that yes, it has gotten bigger since the last minute you checked. You'd look at her with big doe eyes when she tells you that it's time to do the dishes afterwards, singlaing how much you don't wanna. And of couse, she'd wash them instead of you, without hesitation. You'd hug her from behind as she does them, and hum the song in her ear, rocking your hips with hers playfully while your soft cheek is squished against her shoulder.

She sudenly wonders if that's how married life would look like with you. Damn, Mama has gotten into her head. But she doesn't mind it if it's like this. Would getting married really be horrible if it was with you? She decies on a firm no. You'd be the loveliest bride.

A bride she'd love to tie herself down to.

You'd stand there, at the altar, wearing all white and holding a big bouquet of daisies, camellias and lakspurs...maybe even peonies.

Yeah...definetly peonies. There would also be peony petals on the floor, scattered across, and one in your hair. Behind your ear...or one holding up your veil.

You'd smile when you see her on the other end of the aisle, like you see your future in her eyes. Your eyes would focus only on her, and your hand would squeeze hers for comfort as she says her vows. She'd kiss you with all her might in that moment. She'd pick you up and carry you away while you both laugh into eachothers faces.

She'd wake up to you every day of the week. To your soft cheeks squiched up against the pillow, your hand around her, and your breathing tickling her skin. She'd never want to get out of bed. She'd wake up hours earlier just to cuddle your sleeping form.

When you'd stir, you'd look into her eyes with your still hazy ones, and plant a good morning kiss on her forehead. In return Mizu would kiss your cheek, then your nose, then your jaw...then your neck, then your chest...

She'd put her hands on your breats, softly squeezing them as she teases them through your thin pajama top. She'd want it to be casual, domesticated, but still so, so exciting to make love to you.

She'd slowly get on top of you, and get lost in the way you're looking up at her. She'd slowly lift your top, and press her knee between your legs. Oh, how'd you tremble. You'd look up at her all needy, she'd have no option but to help you.

Her tongue would softly curcple your nipple, dry lips wrapping around it to trap it, all for herself. Her hand would slowly find it's way inside your pajama pants, long fingers sliding through your lips. She'd toy with you slick, because she knows it's there because of her. She'd bathe in the feeling of your clit pulsing for her before sliding her fingers inside, massagnig your inner walls. She'd coo in your ear, because you're just so precious when she's inside you like this. You turn into a ragdoll, and you can't do anything but whimper for her. You'd depend on her, especially in moments like this.

She'd give it to you every morning. She'd never hesitate to obey every command your body gives her.

Then she'd watch you make breakfast with your ears still red from getting taken by her so early in the morning. You'd sit in her lap while you'd eat breakfast. She'd feed you pieces of her bacon, and you'd give her bites from your egg. She'd give small pecks to your soft lips, to kiss away droplets of coffee.

She gets torn out from her daydream though by another text. She looks at it through half lidden eyes.

ringo: we made too many :(

taigen: that's what u get for always going overboard

you: mizu !!!

you: do you want some? i think you'd love pinagong!!!

Mizu smiles to herself as she reads the text. Maybe she isn't fine with how things are right now. Maybe she does need to make a move.

mizu: yeah

mizu: omw.

Maybe...she could stop by the flower shop and get some peonies.

Just maybe.

[afinestoutlove]

things i love about heartstopper 16/?

The fucking music you guys. It is so perfectly designed to evoke whatever emotion you’re supposed to be feeling.

The original score by Adiescar Chase is something I wouldn’t normally like so much, because I prefer more traditional instruments, but the electronic score is fantastic. It fits with the vibe of the show, the age of the characters, and with the rest of the music. It’s consistent in just the right way. There are mini themes for couples or characters or moods - the rugby music, Tara and Darcy’s little vocal melody in S2 (ugh love that one), the “oh no Ben’s about to show up and be an arsehole again” theme, similar to the "goddammit David" theme, all great.

And the rest of the soundtrack is also perfect. In some shows/movies that lean into lyric-heavy/indie/pop music, you get taken right out of the scene, or it basically becomes a music video cos the song takes over. A lot of the time you get the feeling the filmmakers were trying to Be CoolTM (but also trying to deny that’s what they’re doing) and it feels disingenuous. But it fits so well every time in Heartstopper, to the point where just listening to some of the songs will immediately evoke the mood of the scene, even if you weren't thinking about the show. (Also the music is just so fun and good on its own?!)

'Clearest Blue'? Bi awakening, hopeful, joyful, a little scared, perfect.

'Obsessed'? Summer, travelling, excited but it has that little jagged edge to it. Yes.

'Dover Beach'? On repeat so often.

'Best Day Of My Life'. Ooooof it's so lovely and it hurts a little bit too.

'Bruises Off The Peach'. Gentle, sad, loving.

'Lovesong'. Living rent free in my head tbh.

Maybe I’m too old to notice any attempts to look cool (I wouldn’t know cool if I tripped over it), but it feels so much more genuine than so many others (esp shows/movies aimed at young adults), possibly because @aliceoseman has such a major role in it. It feels like they were just trying to have fun and be earnest.

The show in general refuses cringe culture (ironically, given how many times the guys call each other cringe). It doesn’t apologise for being kind of corny. Corny is the whole point. (At risk of really dating myself, “I like corny. I’m looking for corny in my life.”*) And it shows up in the music as a score/soundtrack that's both fun and heartfelt and perfectly suited to the show. It isn’t embarrassed to lean into the emotion. And that’s what makes it so good. It isn’t trying to apologise for itself, it isn’t trying to be anything other than what it is.

*If you recognise this quote without googling, you’re also old and probably a massive nerd, sorry, I don’t make the rules.

[notbecauseofvictories]

I'm still thinking about it, so---if you're a local, I highly encourage Rough House Theater's "House of the Exquisite Corpse". It's lovely, arresting, from the performances down to the smallest touches. I still can't get over the ripped umbrellas hanging upside down in dreamlike suspension from the ceiling; the way each "station" is wrapped in plywood and decorated in its own meaningful pattern and design.

But first, let me step back. "House of the Exquisite Corpse" takes its name from the old Surrealist parlor game, at the heart of which is the idea that you can collect a disparate group, then smash their ideas together and create something from the smithereens. This is something like what Rough House has done, which is pick a theme ("Superstition") and then let the artistic groups loose to create short scenes built around that theme.

(I want to call them tableaux, because watching the performances I was struck by how it felt like something out of time---as though we were 17th century courtiers in Paris ushered into a candlelit ballroom, or early 20th century farmers in Minnesota, paying our penny to see what the circus brought to town.)

The set-up itself does a wonderful job ushering you into a time-outside-of-time---you step into a space divided from the rest of the space by black sheets, chunky headsets dangling from wooden ladders suspended just over your head. The emcee is carrying a clipboard and speaks into an old-school broadcasting mic---which you can only hear if you're wearing the headsets.

It is, you'll discover, the central conceit of the performance. From there, you're directed from station to station by silent ushers, carrying flashlights so they can point you forward. Unless you are wearing the headphones at each station, you can only listen to the absent, ambient music echoing around the room.

Not only are the stations set up to wrap you in a specific soundscape, but they play with your vision too---most stations have you peer through holes or cracks in the wall, though one station had us line up in front of mirrors and watch the reflection of the performance, while another station placed shards of glass at every peephole, so you watched the scene and the character's experience of the scene in a strange double-vision. A couple of the stations used tricks of the light---strobe effects that made the puppets' movements seem even more uncanny or imply violence; a haze of smoke or fabric to disguise the human "prowling" in the puppet-shape of a tiger.

(I always like when I can tell an artist is reacting to something I've seen before, and the Rousseau "The Dream" vibes in that scene were exquisite.)

I will say that “A White Bird in the House is an Omen of Death” was my favorite, not in the least because it featured a whole choreographed song (feat. a lovely articulated owl puppet, plus some very effective shadowplay work). However, “Through the Looking Glass” was beautifully up my alley, from the unique staging---this was the station where you watched the performance in a mirror---to the creative puppetry, and a meditation on loveliness that had some bite to it. “Broken Mirror” was more traditional in its puppet work, but it also had the most elaborate staging, a fully-realized world in miniature.

I keep going back to how enormously creative so many of these artists were, in ways I simply can't ignore. “Step on a Crack” didn't necessarily work for me, but I can't stop thinking about it---its trippy setup, the inhuman knit masks the creator used; the spines dangling, neon-colored, from the nearest tree as the protagonist recited lines about loving his mother with increasing, feverish and horrible energy. The glimpses I got during “An ill fate befalls those who pluck from fruit in their dreams” of the puppeteer's face---how she shut her eyes and turned away, as though she too was affected by the puppet's horror.

[cxrrodedcoffin]

Hair Lockets - Spencer Reid

Likes are always appreciated but reblogs and feedback keep artists going!

——

“Cut with dull scissors and tied with a ribbon, curated under the glass of my pendant”

Summary: BAU!Reader asks Spencer for a lock of his hair after a near miss and a visit to the museum.

Word Count: 1.1K, not proofread oops ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

A/N: i’m overly sentimental and a sucker for ephemera of all kinds, including the old school tradition of keeping a lock of your lover’s hair so that’s exactly what this is. also kind of an explanation for jesus reid cutting his hair? titled after and inspired by the song hair lockets by nicole dollanganger <3

if you want to learn more about the history of the art mentioned in this fic, this article is super informative!

TW: kissing, gunshot mention, mild anxiety, i think that’s it?

Rating: PG, this is all fluff baybee :)

——

When Spencer proposed the two of you visit the local art history museum on your last day in the midwestern town the latest case had brought the team to, you hesitantly agreed, though the idea of relaxing in your hotel room until your flight the next morning seemed much more appealing after the traumatic nature of the events surrounding this particular case.

Spencer had another near miss with an unsub and from the moment the bullet hit his vest your heart felt like it would tear itself apart. This man that only a year ago had been just your nerdy, know it all coworker now felt like a part of you, and the idea of losing him was almost too much to bear. He walked away with only a deep bruise, but you couldn’t help but cry yourself to sleep that night at the thought of what the alternative could have been.

Now, almost a week later, as you anxiously wait for him to get back from the class he had today, you think back to that museum trip.

The thought had embedded itself in your brain from the moment you laid eyes on the most unique piece of art you’d seen - a victorian era hair sculpture. The concept of having a piece of your loved one, something their very body had curated, with you forever touched you deeply. That is what you wanted, a piece of your lover to hold over your heart whenever you are apart.

You heard the key turn in the door, your heart thumping in your chest as you watch Spencer walk through the doorway.

“Hello my love.” He coos, giving you a tired smile.

“Hey Spence.” You reply, walking toward him, hoping he wouldn’t see the way your hands tremble.

There was no hiding your nerves though, Spencer could read you like a book. He takes your hand in his as he slips off his shoes, guiding you to the couch.

“Is something wrong?” He questions, concern lacing his gaze as he looks over your features.

“No no, I’m okay Spence, I promise. I just have something I want to ask you.” You stumble over your words, unsure if it’s worth asking at this point.

“What is it? You know you can ask me anything.” He reassures.

“You can say no, I don’t want you to feel pressured.” You waver, unable to hold eye contact any longer.

He nods, his thumb gently rubbing the back of your hand.

“I was wondering if you would be willing to let me cut a small lock of your hair, t-to keep in my locket so you’re always with me. I know it’s weird but that sculpture we saw at the museum just stuck with me.” You ramble, your gaze fixed on your lap.

Spencer slips his fingers under your chin, gently raising your head to look you in the eyes.

“You know, keeping locks of hair is actually a practice that dates back centuries, even before the victorian era. It was common for families to use locks of hair from one or many family members to weave intricate sculptures as a mourning ritual in some cultures and to create family heirlooms in others. In recent time, during wartime it was common practice for soldiers to present a lock of their hair to their lovers as a forget-me-not. The sentiment is a sign of love, I’m honored you want to keep a piece of me with you.” His voice is calm, unwavering, somehow knowing exactly what to say to calm your nerves.

He squeezes your hand one last time, standing and telling you to stay where you are before disappearing into the next room.

A moment later he comes back, scissors and spool of ribbon in hand. He hands you the items before sitting cross-legged on the couch, turning to face you.

“Take whatever your heart desires.” He smiles, shaking his hair out.

“You know I could just chop off a giant chunk of hair, you’re putting a lot of faith in me right now.” You giggle, jokingly holding the scissors higher than you intend to cut.

“Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, Morgan called be Jesus the other day.” He sighs.

“How about I take you to a barber after this, I don’t want you to end up bald if I make the wrong move.” You joke.

“It’s a deal.” He nods, smiling at you once more.

You choose a piece behind his ear, tying it off with the ribbon before snipping off an inch. You hold it for a second, feeling the soft locks against your palm.

It’s quiet as Spencer observes you. He’s never seen you so sentimental before, but he’s surprisingly comfortable with it. You’re unlike anyone he’s ever known, so strong willed yet full of boundless love for those who are important to you.

You place the lock inside the locket around your neck, rubbing the cold metal between your fingertips for a moment.

You look up at Spencer before leaning in to gently kiss him on the cheek.

“Thank you.” You sigh.

“Of course angel.” He responds, turning your face to give you a proper kiss.

After a moment you smile against his lips, pulling away to pull him off the couch.

“Time for a haircut, Jesus. Oops, I mean genius.” You laugh, headed towards the door.

“Not too short though, I like when you run your fingers through it.” He smirks, making you blush.

You can’t help but hope you’ll get to grow old and grey with him and have the privilege to look back on this day in the future and know you’ll always hold a piece of Spencer Reid with you forever.

——

“Pretty strands that grew in your youth, pieces that I’ll always hold on to.”

——

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