#the two pretenders learning to read one another to the degree that they no longer need words is important to me

[invinciblerodent]

an issue i'm finding myself (or, my elf, eeyyyy) running into is that as their relationship progresses, Astarion and Iona become progressively harder to write together, because I'm kind of finding that the closer they are, the less they express themselves verbally.

like, for the earlier scenes, there is a lot of semi-clever back-and-forth which I enjoy writing, I love silly banter and teasing/flirting/bonding, and since they don't touch much early on, most of the relationship development happens in dialogue. but act 3?????? a lot of the emotional sludge that is between them feels most natural to, idk, leave unsaid, and have them rely on the understanding that they had been kind of hesitantly fostering since early act 2.

i know this is a stupid fucking thing to be gnawing on, especially considering that nobody has ever read a word of this damn fic, it's just.

it's a lot easier to write fun dialogue, than to somehow communicate, clearly and without headhopping or getting overly flowery/sanctimonious about it,

"aight chucklefucks, in this scene, he's climbing wordlessly under the covers with her both by way of an unwarranted apology that wasn't actually his to give (y'know, for the whole 'attacked in the middle of the night, bit to shit by his sibling while he stood by uselessly' deal that happened the previous night and is making him feel rotten and guilty for some reason), and as an acknowledgement that he's rattled, scared, and feeling vulnerable, which is why him actively seeking comfort in her instead of slinking off to lick his wounds alone is a big fuckin' deal."

"on the flipside, her not saying anything or asking why he's standing at the foot of her bed but just opening her arms to receive that silent request, invite him in (like one would a vampire, geddit), and giving him the affection with no preamble or caveat, is simultaneously an acceptance of that apology, a confirmation that despite all that's been going on during the daytime she still purposefully elects to trust him, and a reassurance that she is there, she's alive, unhurt, and her feelings haven't changed because of all this either."

"this cuddle is emotionally significant, it intentionally mirrors the one from which they were spurned by the vampire attack as a way to show that regardless of what happens, this undercurrent of tenderness still exists, but nobody is going to say a goddamn word about it, because not only would putting any of this into words be far, far beyond both of them in terms of emotional intelligence, acknowledging that he views her as a point of security and that her anxiety is eased by easing his would also feel wrong and like whoever mentions it is speaking fluent therapese. plus, breaking the silence with lengthy internal monologues would also fucking ruin the simplicity and the impact of the whole goddamn thing, even though all that actually bloody happens is 1.) she flips the covers back, 2.) he climbs in and nuzzles her chest, and 3.) she pulls the covers over his shoulder."

meanwhile i'm just looking at the maybe two actual paragraphs that i've written like

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part six)

warnings ; he’s on his knees for her <3, oral (f recieving)

prompt ; in which you learn that your dignity has a price, and unfortunately, it looks a lot like Jeon Jungkook in Calvin Klein boxers.

note ; two things. 1) this is the LONGEST part of tpod i think (might also be longest piece ive written in a fic so far.) and 2) if you don’t listen to guilty as sin on repeat while reading you are depriving yourself of an amazing reader experience. i don’t even know how we got here. one second she was yelling at him in a hallway, and the next she’s sleeping on his chest. godspeed to these idiots. they’re not surviving this. (also!!! there are a ton of nods to korean culture in this part, and i consulted some of my korean friends for this but please excuse any inaccuracies, i am just a wee little hispanic girl)

playlist here

series masterlist here

You feel sick.

Not like, “Oh no, I need electrolytes and sleep” sick. This is existential sick. Your organs are staging a coup and your soul is clenching in protest. Sure, your body aches, your temples are pounding, your limbs feel like wet cement, and your eyes burn from lack of sleep but that’s the surface-level stuff. That’s the kind of sickness you can fix with ibuprofen and a nap.

This ailment seeps into your bones. It hits you every time you close your eyes and see him again: his mouth, his hands, the way you let it happen not once but twice, like you had no self-respect or higher brain function whatsoever.

It’s that part that makes you want to unzip your skin and crawl out of it.

The first time was a fluke. A stress-induced catastrophe you swore you’d bury six feet under.

But then you did it again with full awareness and zero hesitation, like a woman possessed.

Now it’s as if your inner compass has spun a few degrees off course. You’ve crossed some invisible, irreversible line, and no amount of denial can rewind the tape.

You haven’t slept or eaten. Every time you try to focus on an email, a pitch deck, even something as simple as drinking coffee, your brain decides, “Hey, remember that time you moaned his name in a trailer?”

You actually haven’t seen him since that day. You’ve been dodging him like a coward, like some freshly heartbroken intern who can’t handle a one-night stand.

If you were smart like your two higher education degrees said you were, you would strut into that next meeting like nothing happened, as if he were just another brand ambassador. Like your panties didn’t hit the floor faster than your standards.

But every time you try to channel that version of yourself, the one who takes no shit and always wins, something inside you flinches.

You try and go back to your default setting. You sit through meetings with a frozen smile and fraying nerves, pretending like you’re not unraveling at the seams. You even let your team drag you out for drinks, which frankly, should’ve won you an Oscar for pretending to be fun.

Recently, being around people makes your skin itch. The laughter is too loud, lights too bright. All you can think about is how to not think about him.

Late at night, the guilt creeps in. Mostly because deep down, you know this isn’t just about you. For all the ways Jungkook is reckless and infuriating, you know he doesn’t deserve to be treated like some regrettable error code in your system.

Yet, that’s what you did when you left that trailer with no explanation. You ghosted him like he was the mistake, as if it wasn’t you who wanted him just as badly.

Somehow, that realization stings more than the memory itself.

It’s fine. You’ll figure it out. You have to. Otherwise, if it goes on a second longer, you’re not sure there’ll be anything left of you to come back to.

All this to say — you should’ve known this day was coming. Should’ve seen it cresting on the horizon like a storm you pretended wouldn’t reach you.

The second you step into the sleek, glass-walled conference room, Calvin Klein execs already seated, you go still.

Jungkook is seated in one of the chairs in a black T-shirt, silver rings, the glint of his bracelets catching in the fluorescent light.

You swear when your heels click across the floor, his fingers pause on the rim of his water bottle.

You don’t dare look at him. For one long, silent, bone-melting second, no one says a word. Then, as if summoned by the gods, Daniel drops into the seat beside you. His expression: the human equivalent of a side-eye emoji.

You ignore him, letting out an exhale and flipping open your laptop like this is just another Tuesday (It actually is.)

The meeting starts, the campaign rundown begins… and your body is here physically. But your mind is trying not to flinch every time Jungkook shifts in his chair and failing not to notice how quiet he’s being.

“Jungkook,” one of the execs says, flipping through mock-ups, “we wanted to confirm, you’re still comfortable with the shirtless set for this shoot?”

It’s a standard question. Practically in the brand guidelines at this point.

Jungkook doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he turns his head and looks at you.

You don’t meet his gaze, you really don’t have to. It feels like heat crawling up your neck, threading beneath your skin, sparking every nerve that has spent the last few days pretending he doesn’t exist.

“Yeah,” he finally says,“I don’t mind.”

You hate yourself for the way your heart reacts like it’s just been told a secret. Daniel shifts beside you as if he just got confirmation of a theory he’s been waiting to prove. Like he’s watching a house of cards start to tremble.

You grit your teeth, returning your attention to the presentation. Focus on the words, the charts, the goddamn revenue projections.

“I do have one concern,” Jungkook says.

Of course he does.

“I’m not sure the creative direction for the final set is the right call. It feels kinda stiff.”

One of the execs frowns. “Stiff?”

Jungkook’s tongue presses to the inside of his cheek, and you genuinely consider stabbing your pen through your own laptop just to escape.

“I think we could push it further,” he claims. “Make it feel more natural. Less staged.” He glances toward the campaign boards, then right back to you. “More real.”

You know exactly what he’s doing. Seeing if you’ll crack.

You press your fingers against the cool surface of the table, and speak without even blinking. “If it were any more real, Jungkook, we’d be selling porn, not denim.”

A snort comes from where Daniel sits.

Jungkook blinks and there’s a gleam in his eyes like you just gave him exactly what he wanted.

The conversation shifts, and the meeting rolls forward and suddenly, every damn thing out of his mouth sounds like it belongs in an 18+ warning.

“We just need the right amount of tension in the shot,” he muses, “So it doesn’t feel forced.”

“It should build naturally,” he adds. “Slow. Like… foreplay.”

Okay, he didn’t technically say that last part, but your body hears it anyway.

“We want the final shots to feel… intimate,” the creative director chimes in, flipping through references. “Jungkook, how comfortable are you with that?”

You hold your breath and beg every god to spare you. Jungkook hums thoughtfully, as if he’s considering it.

“Oh, I don’t mind getting up close,” he says. “In fact, I think it works better when there’s a little resistance first.“

You keep your face blank, posture perfect. You will not give him the satisfaction. Then, deadpan as ever, you say, “Yes, Jungkook, we all know how much you like resistance.”

The creative director chokes on his water so violently you’re certain he is thisclose to calling HR. Daniel claps a hand over his mouth and one of the managers goes wide-eyed.

“I don’t know what you’re implying,” Jungkook retorts,”I’m just a professional. I take direction very well.”

Your grip tightens around your pen, not enough to snap it in half but the threat is present.

This exact scenario is what you didn’t want. The not-so-subtle slide from professional sparring to something laced with all the things you refuse to untangle mentally. Once upon a time, you could bicker with Jungkook without consequence. Once upon a time, it was just sharp words with no bite.

“Oh?” you inhale slowly. “Is that so? Because I was under the impression you didn’t take direction at all.”

One of the executives mutters something that sounds suspiciously like Jesus Christ.

He shakes his head, a lock of dark hair falling into his eyes, and when he looks at you again, it’s with a quiet intensity that makes your skin feel too tight. “I think you’ll find I’m full of surprises.”

You hate him with the force of a thousand campaign deadlines and every broken rule you swore you wouldn’t cross. You hate that it’s starting to feel easy for you, too. He’s not just a threat. In a way, you almost like the way he matches you and pushes back.

You force yourself and your colleagues to turn back to the agenda, but Jungkook’s still watching you out of the corner of his eyes, a small smirk on his plump lips.

After all, he’s the one who set the trap.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You tell yourself you’re counting down the days. The days until the final shoot wraps, the campaign boards come down, and Jungkook is no longer orbiting your every waking hour like some satellite with boundary issues.

You should be relieved, thrilled even. Practically dancing in designer heels down the halls of your career triumph.

There’s something off about it though. Kind of like you’re hurtling toward the finish line of a race you no longer remember signing up for, only to realize you might not like what’s waiting on the other side.

This campaign is a career-defining achievement, an international spectacle you crafted. It is a global masterpiece. You are exhausted over it, and not just jet-lagged. You are cosmically, soul-deep spent. Every fiber of you is stretched too thin like a rubber band pulled tight and desperate not to snap.

You know exactly what the problem is, if you put your finger on it. It’s Jungkook, with his stupid eyes and stupid mouth. He is a glitch in your meticulously controlled system, a variable you didn’t plan for. And no matter how many spreadsheets you bury yourself in, how many mockups you sign off on, how many creative calls you reroute just to avoid being alone in a room with him, he refuses to stay in the box you need him to fit inside.

So yes. You need this to be over. You need to get him out of your sight, out of your schedule, out of your brain where he’s taken up residence like an overconfident squatter who refuses to pay rent.

The hotel lobby is quiet at this hour. A soft hum of jazz leaks from the overhead speakers, and there’s a faint murmur of laughter spilling from the hotel bar, but it all blurs into the background.

Meanwhile you’re drowning in deliverables and deck revisions and approval threads that have turned your inbox into a graveyard. Your laptop screen glows against the dim, gold-toned lighting. Your fingers fly over the keyboard, mechanical and joyless. You haven’t looked up in at least an hour, probably longer. Your hair is a mess, twisted into a knot that started off intentional and devolved into chaos.

This is the version of you that never stops; the one who doesn’t get the luxury of rest and who runs on cortisol and cold coffee.

Your team had gone out earlier, and they begged you to come for one drink. One hour.

“You need to breathe,” they had said, like it was that simple. You told them you didn’t have time (you really didn’t.) Not when your brain is a warzone and the enemy wears silver rings and makes your knees feel like glass.

So there you are, hunched in a stool at the bartop, your spine begging for mercy, your wine glass sweating beside you, half-finished and entirely forgotten.

Your phone buzzes beside your laptop, the screen lighting up with a name you haven’t said out loud in weeks. Eomma. You glance at it once, jaw tightening, and then flip it over without answering. It’s muscle memory at this point, hitting decline or letting it go to voicemail. The call fades to silence, but the tension lingers, settling beneath your skin with something you don’t have the time or emotional bandwidth to unpack.

Your fingers return to the keyboard, determined. You don’t look up when voices murmur near the bar. Don’t flinch when the elevator dings in the distance. You don’t even care when some kid starts running around the hotel lobby being chased by overwhelmed parents.

Clearly, you have a knack for calling your own fate.

A shadow slices across your screen and your fingers stop mid-sentence, stomach dropping like it’s suddenly remembered how to feel.

When you look up, despite already knowing exactly who it could be, you see Jungkook, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants, eyes half-lidded, dark hair disheveled.

You’re a little shell-shocked, because he’s supposed to be somewhere else. Specifically, at the bar, with the team you said ‘no’ to.

Your eyes flick to the wine glass, then back to him. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs like he didn’t just appear in the one place you swore he wouldn’t. “What are you doing here?” he counters.

You gesture vaguely toward your laptop, fingers sweeping across the chaos of open tabs, spreadsheets, and campaign briefs like it’s all self-explanatory. Because it is (or it should be.) “Working,” you say flatly.

Jungkook tilts his head slightly, gaze flicking from your screen to the half-drained glass of wine beside it, then back to your face. “So this is what you do for fun?” he questions, “Sit alone in hotel lounges at midnight, buried in spreadsheets, slowly becoming one of your Google Docs?”

You exhale sharply, shoulders aching from hours hunched over this chair. “I don’t really have time for fun.”

He watches you, expression unreadable, trying to parse the subtext between your sentences. He then shifts his weight lazily from one foot to the other, eyes still locked on you.

“Why aren’t you with everyone else?” you ask, frowning like he’s broken some unspoken rule by appearing in your safe zone.

He shrugs again, “Didn’t feel like going.”

Your frown deepens. “You? Skipping drinks?”

“I know. Shocking,” he says, lips curling slightly. There’s humor there, but it’s quiet.

You glance back at your screen and try to refocus. Try to pretend his presence doesn’t shift the entire room two degrees warmer.

He pulls out the chair beside you and sits down. “Have you eaten?”

Goddamnit.

Your fingers stop mid-sentence. You blink once, eyes still on your screen. “What?”

“Food,” he repeats. “When was the last time you ate?”

You shift in your seat and glance at the time on your laptop: 11:43 p.m. That tells you nothing, because time stopped meaning anything after 8pm. Maybe 7pm.

You think back and try to remember, but then your stomach growls, as if it remembers. You refuse to give him the satisfaction, so you shrug, fingers already hovering back over your keyboard. “I’ve been busy.”

Jungkook lets out a breath, somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. “That’s not an answer.”

Your fingers move again, faster now, as if typing at warp speed might drown out the sound of his voice.

He lifts his hand. Flags the bartender down with two fingers and an easy nod.

Your head jerks up. “What are you doing?”

He turns to the bartender, all calm and goes, “Can we get a plate of whatever’s still warm back there? And another glass of wine.”

“Jungkook,” you snap like a warning, like if the idea of ordering food is so preposterous he needs to be scolded like a child.

He ignores it. “Thanks,” he smiles, nodding toward the bartender before turning back to you with that maddening, infuriatingly smug expression.

You glare at him. “I don’t need you to order for me.”

Jungkook leans back in his chair, arms crossing lazily over his chest. He looks like he’s settling in for the night. “Clearly, you do. Since you seem completely incapable of basic survival.”

You resist the very real, very violent urge to slam your laptop shut just to make a point. “This isn’t necessary,” you mutter, reaching for your wine. You don’t know what unnerves you more: the fact that he ordered you food without asking or the fact that he’s probably right.

“Neither is skipping meals,” Jungkook retorts, shrugging like he’s merely stating a fact and not casually inserting himself into your personal life. “But here we are.”

You sit there, blinking at him. What the actual fuck is this? Jungkook has spent time out of his days making your life hell. Willingly and gleefully. It’s practically his part-time job.

And yet now he’s sitting next to you, body plopped in a stool like it’s something he does often. Not because he cares, obviously not. Right?

You stare blankly at your screen, face bathed in the cold blue glow of your laptop, brows pulled in like they’re shielding you from the audacity radiating off the man to your left.

Jungkook drums his fingers against the table, light and absentminded, but you can feel the rhythm of it anyway. You haven’t really looked at him since he sat down. Not even when he forced you to acknowledge that the last thing you put in your body was probably a coffee you forgot to finish six hours ago and some white wine.

Normally, your stubbornness would amuse him. Your compulsive need to be in control. Your single-minded obsession with perfection. The way you pretend you’re made of steel, even when your body’s clearly crying out for rest.

Still, he tries. “What are you even working on this late?”

You exhale through your nose like he’s an annoying notification popping up mid-presentation. “Contracts. Final reports. Things you don’t need to worry about.”

He hums. “You ever stop working?”

“No.” Your shoulders slump even more.

He lets out a snort, “That’s depressing.”

You keep typing like the fate of the free world hinges on your ability to update a pivot table. Jungkook eyes you for a beat, then shifts forward, forearms resting against the marble bartop.

“What’s left on the campaign?” he asks, “Last shoot is this week, right?”

You make a noise, something between a hum and a sigh, and click through to another document. “Yeah.”

“And after that?” he presses.

You pretend to be oddly interested in adjusting a cell in a spreadsheet. “You know the deal. Press tours, magazine exclusives, and then launch.”

“And after launch?”

That makes you pause. He should know how this works like the back of his hand. You glance up, brow raised, annoyed. “What is this, an interrogation?”

He grins, unbothered. “Just trying to figure out when you’ll finally relax.”

You scoff. “I don’t relax.”

“Yeah,” he says, lips twitching, “no shit.”

You roll your eyes and go back to work, but he’s still watching you, fingers tapping idly against the wine glass the bartender brought out for him, gaze thoughtful.

For the first time since this campaign began, for the first time since your constant sparring became something else, seeing you like this doesn’t give him that same satisfaction. You look like you’re one poorly worded email away from full collapse, and that… doesn’t feel like a win.

The bartender returns quietly, placing a plate in front of you. A burger, fries, and a glass of water with more wine. The scent alone breaks your focus; crispy potatoes, buttery toasted bun, something grilled and undeniably American.

Your fingers hover mid-keystroke. You blink at the plate and let out a laugh. “Really? A burger? In Korea?”

Jungkook shrugs. “Hey, I asked for anything warm. Plus, you needed something quick and easy. Not too complicated.”

He pauses for a second, “Kind of like you.”

You shoot him a look, utterly unimpressed. “Ha. Ha.”

Jungkook grabs a fry off your plate like it’s his, gesturing for you to follow. “Eat.”

You cross your arms, “I don’t have time.”

“Yeah, you do,” he says, motioning at your food. “Besides, I’m not leaving until you do.”

You make a face, a full-body grimace of indignation and something dangerously close to a pout. You roll your eyes so hard it nearly counts as exercise and mutter something under your breath, but just as you’re about to double down on your disdain, your stomach growls. Your own body has betrayed you completely.

Jungkook raises an eyebrow with quiet delight, and barks out a laugh, entirely too pleased with himself.

You glare at him like you’re deciding whether prison time is worth it. Painfully and dramatically, you grab a fry. It’s an exaggerated, defiant motion. You nibble at the end of it like it’s a hostage negotiation.

Jungkook hums, “There we go. Not so hard, was it?”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You just take another bite with the same energy as someone doing squats at gunpoint, while your other hand keeps typing, eyes locked on the glowing blur of your spreadsheet. If you don’t look at him, it doesn’t count.

And then because he’s a menace and a flirt and apparently clinically incapable of shutting up, he leans forward. “You know, pouty looks good on you.”

Very slowly, very deliberately, you lift your gaze. To him, it finally feels like you’re not truly ignoring him.

From there, the conversation doesn’t happen all at once. It unfolds gradually, kind of like rain soaking slowly into the sidewalk. You’re still typing, still pretending to work, your attention split between whatever meaningless data is on your screen and the man next to you who won’t stop peeling back your armor with casual little flicks of conversation.

Somehow, between reluctant bites of fries and the low hum of hotel jazz, you start talking. Just… regular conversation that isn’t heavy.

“So,” he begins, fingers tapping the side of his glass. “Calvin Klein. How’d you end up here?”

You click through some Excel sheets. “Hard work, a few miracles, a lot of people underestimating me.”

He tips his head. “Didn’t you say you started in New York?”

“I did. But I had internships in Seoul during university. They were smaller houses. Luxury branding though. I moved to the U.S. after I got the global marketing position.” It’s all now rolling off your tongue so easily.

“And now you run the whole thing.”

You acknowledge him, arching a brow. “Surprised?”

Jungkook smirks, snatching another fry. “Not really. But you’re younger than most people in your position, right?”

You sigh through your nose. “Yes, and most of them don’t let me forget it.”

Jungkook nods slowly. He gets it; the pressure, the eyes, the constant need to prove you belong in a room they never built for you in the first place.

“People underestimate you a lot, huh?” he asks.

“Always.”

“And you love proving them wrong.”

That makes you take a pause. You don’t rush to fill the silence, mostly because you don’t have to. It hangs there, soft and strange and long enough to feel like the truth.

“What about you?” you ask, shifting the conversation, not because you’re particularly curious, but because he’s looking at you too closely and you need a second to breathe.

Jungkook leans back in his chair, “What about me?”

“You became an idol when you were, what…12? 13? That couldn’t have been easy.”

His expression flickers briefly. A shift too subtle for most to notice, but you do.

“No,” he says quietly. “It wasn’t.”

You study him now, less like a challenge or a puzzle. But more so… as a person.

“Do you ever regret it?” You take a sip from your wine.

Jungkook tilts his head, gaze drifting somewhere else. “No. But…” He pauses. “I wonder, sometimes what it would’ve been like to be normal.”

You weren’t expecting the honesty. The way he says it with curiosity, like he’s asked himself the same question in the quiet of his own head a thousand times and never said it out loud until now.

“To be normal?” you echo, placing your glass down.

He nods. “To be anonymous. To go to school like everyone else. To have weekends. To do dumb shit without it ending up on some gossip site three hours later.”

You sit with that. You need a moment to let it rearrange the version of him you’ve built in your head. This is someone lonelier, someone who has been living in a fishbowl since he was a kid and still managed to become this.

“I get that,” you say, and it surprises you how much you mean it.

Jungkook turns back to you, eyes narrowing slightly. “You do?”

“I’ve spent my whole life working. I was always the youngest in every room, and every board I’ve ever had to sit on. I had to prove I belonged there. And sometimes I wonder… what if I didn’t? What if I’d taken my time and let myself be young?”

He leans forward again, resting his arms on the table, “Would you change anything?”

Your mind flickers to the sleepless nights, the overexerted ambition, the girls you once knew in Busan who married young and stayed put, your childhood apartment with the leaky sink and cheap wallpaper. To the version of you that never left.

You shake your head, “No. But I think about it sometimes.”

Jungkook nods like he understands. The conversation doesn’t end. It just… shifts. The sharpness between you remains, but it’s dulled, like a knife put back in its sheath. You talk about Busan, about the beaches, the old seafood stalls, the sleepy summers that felt longer when you were kids.

Jungkook grins when you mention the accent, eyes lighting up like he’s been waiting for this part. “Ah, so that’s why I heard you mutter ssibal under your breath the other day,” he teases. “Sounded like it came straight out of 2012.”

You roll your eyes, feigning offense. “It only comes out when I’m stressed.”

“So… constantly?”

You throw a fry at him. He dodges it, laughing.

For a moment, it feels simple. Like you’re not two people who should absolutely not be sitting here at midnight, eating fries and sharing childhood wounds.

“Be honest,” he muses, “When’s the last time you actually went back to Busan?”

And just like that, the easy feeling catches in your throat. The question lands soft but inside, it cracks something. Busan isn’t just a city to you. It’s a memory you’ve kept sealed shut, a version of yourself you’ve outgrown but never quite buried. For all the years you’ve spent running away from it, there’s always been that quiet fear gnawing at your ribs: that if you go back, even for a second, you might not know who you are anymore. Or worse, you’ll remember. You’ll remember the girl who left because staying felt like failure. Some days, when you’re too tired to lie to yourself, you wonder if that’s why you haven’t been back. Not because you can’t, but because you’re terrified you don’t belong there anymore.

You hesitate. For some reason, your fingers are still hovering over your keyboard, mid-sentence, mid-excuse, the cursor blinking like it’s waiting for you to remember who you are.

And then, without thinking, without looking at him, you reach up and close your laptop.

You have unconsciously waved a white flag of surrender.

“I try to go back at least once a year,” you sigh, “For Chuseok, if I can swing it.”

Jungkook hums warmly. “Big family?”

You nod. “Very.”

He smiles, already picturing it. “So you were one of those kids with fifty cousins sprinting around the yard, screaming over food and stealing snacks from the kitchen?”

You can’t help it; the memory makes your mouth twitch a little. “Yeah. My mom used to cook like she was feeding the entire peninsula. And every surface in the house would be covered in something, rice cookers, trays of fried food. It was chaos.”

Jungkook grins, “Let me guess. Seafood pancake the size of a steering wheel, enough kimchi jjigae to fill a kiddie pool, and at least one auntie bringing her secret homemade makgeolli in an old Sprite bottle?”

You laugh, tipping your head back slightly. “God. You really are from Busan.”

He shrugs proudly. “Born and raised.”

“The second I walked through the door,” you say, a little more softly now, “they’d shove rice balls and hot soup at me like I’d just returned from war.”

“That’s how you know you’re truly home,” Jungkook reminisces. “You’re not allowed to be hungry.”

Your stomach flips at that word. Home. It lodges itself beneath your ribs before you can stop it.

You clear your throat and shift in your seat. “What about you?” you question, redirecting the spotlight. “Big family?”

Jungkook plays with the stem of his wine glass. “Not as big as yours, probably. But it was enough. Me, my parents, my brother. We always spent the holidays together with food, board games, my mom yelling at us for eating before the table was set.”

“Did you ever get to do the normal Busan teenager thing?” You giggle lightly at the thought of it.

He raises a brow. “What, like sneaking out to Haeundae with your friends to watch the sunrise?”

Your eyes narrow into slits. “So you did?”

“Once or twice.” He shrugs again,. “You?”

You scoff, waving a hand in the air. “Please. I had it down to a science. Out the back door at 11:30. Home by 5:00, bed made, face washed, phone off. My mother never knew.”

Jungkook chuckles amusedly. “You were the responsible one, huh? The one dragging everyone else out of trouble?”

“Somebody had to be,” you say, lifting your glass for a slow sip.

“So serious,” he teases. “Even back then.”

You set the glass down, mouth curling. “You don’t get to where I am without a little discipline.”

His gaze drifts over your face, thoughtful. “I bet you still were rebellious though”

You raise a brow. “Oh yeah?”

He nods, lips curling. “I think you like breaking the rules more than you let on.”

You know he’s not talking about Busan or teenage rebellion or barefoot sprints down side streets with your shoes in your hands and curfews already blown to hell.

He’s talking about you and him. About how you keep drawing the line and then stepping over it. About the trailer, the conference room. About the fact that every time you say it’s the last time, whether it’s to yourself or to him, you never really mean it.You refuse to give him the satisfaction. There won’t even be a hint of agreement that shows. You roll your eyes and reach for another fry like it’s a mic you’re about to drop. You bite into it with the kind of pointed defiance usually reserved for toddlers.

“You think you know me, Jungkook?” you ask flatly.

He grins. “I think I’m getting there.”

The smart move, the safe move, the version of you that has this conversation under control would be to disagree with him.

Instead, you stare at him. Fingers still pressed against the slick condensation of your wine glass, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and indignation.

He says it so casually like he’s peeled back the first few layers and now he’s just waiting for you to stop pretending there’s nothing left underneath.

You need to remind him exactly who you are and exactly why you never let people get close. There’s this unfamiliar discomfort curling at the edge of your confidence.

What the hell is this? This slow, winding conversation that isn’t bait or bravado?

You pull your walls back up tightly. “Getting there?” you echo, “That’s optimistic.”

“I like my chances.”

You roll your eyes again. “You would.”

“I mean,” he says, mouth quirking, “you did close your laptop.”

Oh god. You hadn’t even noticed.

Jungkook watches it register and the way your posture stiffens. You shake your head quickly, a breath sharp through your nose, and reach for your laptop again with renewed purpose. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter. “I was just—”

“—taking a break?” he finishes for you,“Talking to me?”

“Admit it,” he keeps going, “I’m growing on you.”

You scoff instinctively. Shake your head like the idea is laughable. “You’re insufferable,” you say.

You really don’t know when it happened but you feel like you might be losing ground.

You tip your wine glass back, draining the last sip like it’s going to grant you strength, or clarity or at the very least the illusion of control. The warmth settles low in your chest, dull and steady, a quiet reminder that you’ve let this go on longer than you meant to. You exhale and push your chair back with a soft scrape against the floor.

“I need to go to bed,” you say, clipped with finality. “And so do you. Big shoot tomorrow.”

It should land like a period. A closing line.

Jungkook just sits there, no surprise and no protest.

Running is your specialty, isn’t it? Especially when things start feeling real.

You stand, smoothing your wrinkled hoodie tucking your phone into your pocket, gathering your laptop like it’s a shield.

Just as you turn, his hand finds your waist. It’s not demanding or aggressive. It’s simply there.

God, you hate how your breath stutters. Hate how, for one traitorous second, you almost lean into it. It’s not even the touch itself — it’s what it implies. The fact that he knows exactly how close he can get before you break.

You glance down at his hand, then up. He’s already looking at you, eyes dark, lips parted.

You inhale slowly, steadying yourself, “Don’t.”

His thumb drags across the hem of your hoodie but you step back before you can fully indulge in it.

He lets go, hand falling back to his side. “You’re no fun,” he says matter-of-factly.

You exhale through your nose, shaking your head. “Go to bed, Jungkook.”

You turn on your heels, fingers tight around your laptop. You’re ready to walk away, to build distance, to pretend none of this ever happened—

“Wait. Hold on.”

You freeze. Clearly this is what he does. He gets you to stop.

Slowly, you turn back. Jungkook is still in his chair, spread-out limbs. “You’re wound up so tight, I’m surprised you can still breathe,” he notes.

You go stiff instantly. He just reached under your skin and found the part of you that you keep duct-taped shut. “Jungkook—”

“You’re stressed about tomorrow. The shoot. The campaign. Your never-ending checklist of things to fix, control, and solve.” He tilts his head, gaze locked on yours. “I can help you relieve some of that stress.”

Your feet are already pivoting away from him. “Shut up.”

“What? I’m being helpful. Offering a solution,” Jungkook’s shit-eating grin is a mockery of you.

You spin around so fast your hoodie sways with you. “A solution?” you snap. “You are the fucking problem.”

“Am I?” He stands up, shoulders relaxed. “Because from where I’m standing…”

He steps forward.

“…you look like you need me.”

Your stomach flips violently.

No. Nope. Absolutely the fuck not.

You straighten your spine, square your shoulders, roll every ounce of professional restraint back into place. “You’re delusional.”

“You push yourself too hard.” His voice is low, careful, almost maddeningly calm. “You skip meals. You forget how to sit still. You act like rest is something you have to earn.”

He’s not accusing you. Which somehow makes it worse. He’s just stating facts.

His gaze skims over your face like he’s cataloging every reaction, checking for any signs of a flicker of resistance.

Finally, after a minute, he says,”Let me take care of you.”

It doesn’t sound like seduction. It doesn’t sound like pity.

Maybe it’s the wine still buzzing low in your veins. Maybe it’s the exhaustion clawing at your spine. Maybe it’s the fact that you’ve spent weeks holding yourself together, and he’s the first person to see it.

You don’t care or know.

Because when he extends his hand, rings glinting under the amber hotel lights, palm open like he’s not asking, but offering, you take it.

No quips. No eye rolls. No fight left to give.

You let him lead you through the quiet, cavernous lobby, past the sleeping concierge, into the elevator. The doors slide shut behind you with a soft click. Jungkook stands beside you, hands shoved in his pockets, jaw set. His reflection in the mirrored elevator wall watches you, even when he doesn’t turn his head.

You don’t look at him. You can’t. Somewhere between floor two and three, your mind flickers briefly to the last time you let someone in like this. The only man who ever got you to close your laptop without a fight. The only one who made you believe, for a second, that you didn’t have to choose between ambition and affection. You never really recovered from that, never fully trusted anyone not to resent the parts of you that needed to keep working. But now here’s Jungkook, pulling you away from your work without asking you to apologize for it.

Your skin is still humming from his touch, heart unable to stop tripping over itself.

The trailer was supposed to be the end. The final lapse. A mistake you could file under temporary insanity and bury beneath a mountain of brand deadlines and executive reports.

Now you’re here again. The numbers above the elevator door tick upward like a countdown to disaster.

Your grip tightens around your laptop, fingertips aching. In between the hotel bar and the lobby and this elevator, your resolve went quiet.

The elevator dings and you two shuffle out. All you can hear is the hush of carpet under your shoes, his steps right beside yours.

Jungkook stops in front of his door, pulls out the key card with one hand, swipes it through the reader, and the lock clicks open.

He doesn’t say anything. He steps aside, holding the door with one arm like he’s letting you decide.

You do.

You walk past him, cool air rushing out to meet your flushed skin, goosebumps blooming across your arms like your body already knows what’s coming.

When you turn around, he’s already looking at you. It’s not the usual look he wears. It’s not the push-your-buttons-and-watch-you-crack gaze he’s mastered. This one is quieter like he’s waiting for something to fall apart and praying it’s not him.

Before you can reason with yourself, before the part of you that’s still pretending to be composed can scream what are you doing, you move.

Your laptop slips from your hand, thudding softly against the carpet. Your phone tumbles after it. You don’t give a fuck.

Because your hands are already on him.

You push Jungkook back against the door, hard. He hits the wood with a quiet thud, breath knocked from his lungs in a sharp exhale, surprised, but not resisting.

And then, your mouth is crashing into his.

It’s not anything a sober, clear-headed version of you would allow. It’s reckless.

Your hands fist in his hair, dragging him closer like you’ve been aching to rip him apart. His lips part under yours, a groan caught between his teeth, his hands already on your waist, dragging you closer.

This isn’t like before. It’s not like that moment you swore you wouldn’t think about again and then did, over and over. It’s all the tension you’ve swallowed for weeks snapping like overstretched wire.

You moan into his mouth, and that’s it — he’s done pretending. His grip tightens, hands sliding down over the curve of your hips before curling under your thighs.

He lifts you up and your legs wrap around him on instinct, a breathless sound leaving your throat as Jungkook turns you, your back slamming against the door. His mouth drags down your jaw, down your neck.

“Fuck,” you whisper when his teeth scrape against the delicate skin beneath your ear.

His tongue flicks over your pulse point. His mouth sucks just hard enough to make your toes curl. His grip is bruising into your thighs, breath ragged against your skin.

“You’re been driving me insane,” he mutters. Jungkook pulls back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide.

You want to ruin whatever’s left of his self-control. You want to be the reason he snaps. If anyone’s going to unravel in this room, it’s going to be both of you.

Jungkook doesn’t even pretend to go for the bed. He sinks to his knees like worship comes naturally to him when it’s you he’s looking at. The door is still biting into your spine, but you barely notice it over the way his hands are already dragging your sweatpants down, knuckles brushing the bare skin of your waist. His breath is hot, lips swollen from the kind of kiss that could’ve shattered glass. Without hesitation, he yanks the sweatpants clean off your legs and flings them somewhere behind him. You’re ninety percent sure it lands on a lamp.

Maybe it’s the wine or the week you’ve had or the fact that you haven’t slept in days, but seeing him on his knees for you, hands splayed on your bare thighs, eyes hungry, does something catastrophic to your sanity. It really shouldn’t make your pulse skip like this.

His hands drag down your sides, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every inch he’s about to unveil. Fingers slipping just under the waistband of your underwear, knuckles brushing skin that’s already hot to the touch. He doesn’t rush. He takes his time, sliding the fabric down inch by torturous inch, watching it fall past your thighs, over your knees, pooling at your ankles.

And suddenly, you’re standing there completely exposed in nothing but your old hoodie and the heat of his gaze that burns straight through you.

His breath is uneven, jaw tense, eyes locked on your face. You try to stand still, to play it cool, but your chest is rising too fast and your hands are twitching like they don’t know where to go.

You opt to thread them into his hair instead. Your fingers tangle at the roots, nails scraping softly against his scalp, and that’s when he moves. Leaning in, lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

You suck in a sharp breath.

“Fuck,” Jungkook groans. His grip tightens around your thighs, anchoring you to the door, to him, to whatever this is rapidly becoming.

He mouths at your skin, hot, open-mouthed kisses trailing higher, higher, his tongue swiping gently, teasing, sending shivers up your spine so violently you nearly buckle.

When you look down, he’s already staring up. Like he could spend hours like this and still not get enough. Like you’re the answer to every sin he’s ever been tempted by.

“You look so fucking pretty,” he murmurs, hands skating up again, fingers curling just beneath the hem of your hoodie.

His teeth graze your skin enough to make your breath catch in your throat. You jolt instinctively, hips flinching forward.

“So pretty. So perfect,” he breathes, voice unsteady, like he means every damn word and hates how much he does. Before you can protest, before you can say anything about how close you are to the door, how thin the walls are, how anyone walking by could hear, Jungkook shushes you. “I want to take care of you.”

His hands spread you open. He licks up your slit as if he’s starving for it. That earns him a gasp from you, your head falling back against the door with a soft thud, fingers tightening in his hair so hard he groans into you.

Soft flicks of his tongue. Pressed kisses. A slow, slick circle around your clit that has your knees damn near giving out.

“Jungkook—” you whisper.

His hands grip tighter, holding your thighs open, making you take it. He looks up, eyes black with hunger, lips glossy with you, jaw set.

“Taste so fucking good,” he marvels, voice hoarse, lips hovering as his breath ghosts over your skin.

You can’t even answer. Can’t do anything but feel the drag of him licking into you like he’s rewriting your anatomy with his mouth alone.

He moans right into you, the sound vibrating straight through your core, and you cry out. “Oh my god,” you choke, nearly sliding down the door as your thighs start to tremble.

But Jungkook doesn’t let you go. He presses in deeper, groaning into your cunt like he’s home.

Jungkook is a goddamn menace. A man on a mission. On his knees like he’s praying, only you’re the altar, the sermon, the divine intervention he’s set on worshipping until you forget your own name.

His grip on your thighs tightens, fingers digging in like he’s trying to leave fingerprints behind. His palms press you wider, firmer, anchoring you against the door with nowhere to run.

His tongue is merciless, flicking over your clit, lapping you up like he’s dehydrated.

You’re past the point of composure or pride or anything that resembles logic.

“Fuck, Jungkook—” you choke out, the words punched out of your lungs in gasps.

Your head slams back against the door again as your thighs clench around his head, muscles spasming with every flick of his tongue.

He moans like he likes it when your legs shake. Like your desperation turns him on more than anything.

“That’s it,” he rasps, lips brushing against your soaked skin. “Fuck, baby. Give me more.”

He sucks on your clit, his mouth sealing tight around you like he’s trying to drink you dry.

The sound you make isn’t human. It tears from your throat, your core clenching around nothing, desperate for relief, for anything to ground you in the middle of how fucking good this feels.

You’ve never had someone so eager to fall apart between your legs. Had someone so content to stay there.

Jungkook groans again and it vibrates through your entire body like a shot to the spine. If anything, he goes harder. Two of his fingers, thick and deft, slide into you with devastating ease, like you were made to take them.

He doesn’t give you time. He just finds you already soaked and trembling and opens you up without mercy. Jungkook curls them upwards, knowing exactly where your sweet spot is, which normally would concern you that he knows your body well already, but instead you scream “Jungkook, oh my god.”

Your back arches clean off the door, fingers yanking at his hair like you’re trying to keep yourself from flying apart. His fingers pump into you at a brutal, perfect angle, dragging over that spot again and again and again.

His mouth wastes no time, already back on you, tongue flicking and sucking. “That’s it,” he pants, voice guttural, his mouth gleaming, his tongue ruthless. “You taste like fucking heaven.”

You moan out like you don’t care who hears, like you want the whole damn hallway to know. You’re too far gone to be embarrassed. You grind into his mouth like you’ve lost your mind, chasing the high he’s dragging you toward with no intention of letting up. “F-fuck, I’m gonna cum, don’t you dare stop.”

“Like I’d stop when you sound that pretty.“, he growls, “I want you to cum in my mouth.”

His fingers piston harder, his mouth sliding up and down with. You can’t take it. You can’t.

But he gives you no choice.

The orgasm hits you like whiplash. A cry tears out of your throat, your legs locking around his head, your hips jerking helplessly as you come undone on his fingers, on his mouth, on him. “Oh my, fuck, I’m cumming —“

You’re sobbing now, barely coherent. Your release gushes out of you, soaking his hand, his wrist, his lips and he moans like he’s grateful for it.

His tongue licks up every drop. His fingers move slower now, coaxing the last waves of pleasure from your twitching body. His hands never let go, one on your hip, the other buried inside you, keeping you still.

“My perfect girl,” he murmurs almost to himself, lips dragging over the tremble in your leg. “So perfect like this.”

And that’s when your knees finally give out. The second his fingers slip free, the second his mouth leaves your oversensitive skin, your body surrenders. You collapse onto the carpet and he catches you, strong arms sliding under your thighs and around your back. He eases you down to the carpet with him like you’re made of glass.

There’s sweat cooling on your neck, your pulse racing in your throat. He doesn’t dare say anything cocky or ruin it with a joke.

He’s not sure if he went too far. He almost knows he did and is waiting to see if you’ll push him away.

But you don’t. You physically can’t. Right now, in this moment, you don’t want to.

His breath is shallow, lips parted, glistening with you in the dim light. His eyes are dark, blown wide, barely human. Hunger carved into every line of his face. Like he’s weighing the options between dragging you back onto his tongue or flipping you over and fucking you from a new angle.

His hands sit idle on his thighs, slick with your release, itching to touch again. To finish what he started, even if you’re already wrecked. Even if he already knows you’d let him.

Your hands find his face, palms hot against his skin, and then your lips are on his, desperately and messy.

You kiss him like he’s oxygen. Like he’s the only way back to Earth. Like you’ve never tasted anything like yourself on someone else’s tongue and didn’t know it could make you need them more.

Jungkook groans into your mouth, and his hands fly to your waist, yanking you down into his lap like he’s been waiting for this permission.

You taste yourself on his tongue, feel how his chest heaves against yours, how his body is burning beneath you. His cock is straining, pressing into you with enough pressure to make your breath catch mid-kiss.

You just keep kissing him, tugging his bottom lip between your teeth, licking into his mouth, gasping into every moan.

“Fuck, baby…” he pants. His hands grip your thighs again, “Can’t even stand after I’m done with you.”

Your nails drag down his back, scratching through the cotton of his shirt, your hips twitching against his, legs wrapping tighter around his waist like your body’s forgotten how to let go. “Shut up,” you mutter, catching his mouth again, nipping at his lip.

You could slap him. You could kiss him harder. You opt for the second thing.

Jungkook’s hands slide lower, groping your ass and his hips roll up slightly, a soft grind that leaves your mouth parting in a broken gasp. He’s still hard. Painfully so.

But he doesn’t ask for anything, doesn’t move to unzip his jeans. He’s not making it transactional. He wraps his arms around you and breathes. The two of you lay on the carpet in a tangle of limbs and oversensitive skin and sweat, and this time, there’s no urgency. No rush to get dressed. No nervous backpedaling.

Your head drops to his shoulder, your cheek resting against the curve of his neck. He smells like you now with a hint of whatever subtle cologne still clings to his shirt.

You don’t remind him of boundaries you never actually set, don’t shove the moment back into the safe, distant box where you normally keep your feelings.

You just stay, fingers idly toying with the edge of his tattooed wrist. Breathing him in like he’s not the exact reason you’ve spent the last month losing sleep.

You’re not thinking about campaign briefs or product shots or the three urgent emails Daniel probably sent while you were pinned to a door. You’re not thinking at all.

“Feeling better?” He wonders out loud.

You dare to lift your head. “Mm. A little.”

Jungkook makes a noise of satisfaction, “So I was right.”

You scoff. “Don’t make me regret coming up here.”

His laugh is low, rumbling beneath your cheek. “Noted.”

Your fingers trace along the edge of ink on his skin like you might find answers in the lines. You tell yourself it’s still nothing. Another late-night lapse in judgment you’ll shove into the archives tomorrow.

It really doesn’t feel like nothing, though. And that scares you more than anything.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You wake before the sun.

The room is silent, painted in that hazy, blue-gray light that only exists for a few short minutes before the world remembers it has things to do. Sleep still weighs heavy in your limbs, but your eyes are closed.

You don’t remember when he carried you to bed. There was a vague, dreamlike sensation of being lifted off the floor, of something warm pressed against your back, of fingers adjusting a pillow beneath your head.

Now you’re here, cheek pressed against a solid chest, arm draped around your waist, fingers curled loosely in the edge of a hotel sheet you definitely didn’t tuck in yourself.

For one suspended, silent moment, you don’t move or panic.

And… reality floods in like a dam breaking. Your eyes snap open.

Jungkook. Sleeping soundly beside you.

Breathing slow and even, one arm still heavy across your waist. His hair is tousled, his entire face relaxed. He looks younger like this. Less like the Jungkook who flirts just to get a rise out of you and more like someone you should not be this close to.

You never sleep over at a man’s house. Not after the first time. Not after the second.

You bolt upright like the bed’s caught fire. There’s a moment of untangling, sheets twisted around your legs, hoodie riding halfway up your torso, laptop halfway across the room. You scramble through it all, adrenaline laced with embarrassment, stomach clenching with the kind of shame that only hits after you’ve slept beside someone who shouldn’t make you feel safe.

Jungkook doesn’t move while you cause noise. He lies there, all golden skin and easy breath, completely unbothered, as if you didn’t just crawl into his mouth last night and fall asleep on his chest like some kind of walking red flag.

He looks… peaceful.

You hate how different he looks when he’s not awake enough to be cocky. Hate that for a second, you wonder what kind of man he is in the morning.

You shake off that thought like a wet coat, pull on yesterday’s sweatpants with practiced indifference, and snatch your phone off the nightstand.

You don’t glance back, or hesitate or wait for him to wake up and say something that might make you stay. You walk out of there with your laptop in one hand, your dignity dragging behind you, and your heart pounding a little too fast for your liking.

By the time you make it back to your own hotel room, your pulse has calmed down enough. You shower, get dressed, do all trivial human things that deserve your attention rather than jungkook . You bury yourself in your inbox like it might dig you out of the mess you made.

And when you finally walk onto set, coffee in one hand, tablet in the other, a perfectly tailored blazer slung over your shoulders, you’re never been more ready to pretend last night never happened. Ready for him to smirk as per usual and say something infuriating about how you’re obsessed with him. Ready for the back-and-forth, the teasing.

Except, that’s not actually what happens and your brain turns into mush.

Jungkook says nothing when you walk past or when you call out instructions. When he catches your eye, you brace for it. The smirk. The too-obvious stare that always lingers just long enough to piss you off. You wait for him to play the game — whatever little game this is.

Instead, he just nods at you so goddamn normally it makes your skin prickle.

“You look pretty today,” he says.

Simple. And then he’s vanishing far off to his team without a wink, follow-up or a trace of the man who had you trembling under his tongue last night.

Almost as if you didn’t wake up on his chest and forget, for one stupid moment, that you’ve spent your entire life keeping people exactly where they belong; at arm’s length.

You stand there, frozen mid-step, your coffee suddenly tasting like battery acid. This is worse than the incessant flirting, than the smug comments, thsn every heated, too-close, too-loud argument you’ve ever had with him.

Somehow, you’re still calling the shots but something feels off, and you can feel it in every bone of your body.

Jungkook moves quietly across the set, present but distant, on the edges of your world like smoke.

What really fucks with your head is you keep waiting for a comment to be made, some annoying little thing about how you can’t keep your eyes off him. Because at least when he’s pushing, you know what to do. At least then, the fire feels familiar.

By the time lunch break rolls around, your jaw aches from clenching, shoulders welded to your ears. You make your way to the break station, clutching your empty coffee cup.

This is fine. You are fine. This is nothing.

You roll your shoulders back and breathe deep, try to reset.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim as you jerk around, already scowling.

Daniel.

He’s standing beside you, arms crossed, eyebrows arched like he’s just been waiting to pounce. You glare at him over your shoulder. “What the fuck do you want?”

Daniel grins, completely unphased. “You tell me. You’re the one acting like you’ve got a body buried under the set.”

You roll your eyes and force your voice flat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The words leave your mouth quickly, in a way that’s soaked in a guilt you haven’t even admitted to yourself yet.

Daniel doesn’t buy it. He hums under his breath, gaze drifting casually across the studio until it lands on Jungkook.

Standing with the creative team, listening intently, nodding along like he’s never had his mouth on you. Like he didn’t pin you to a door and make you forget your own name. Like he didn’t let you fall asleep wrapped around him like it was easy.

And Daniel, that sharp-eyed little fucker, catches it immediately. A smile spreads across his features slowly, “You and Jungkook.”

That’s all he says.

Your hand slips. Coffee cup flies out of your palm. It falls to the floor with a crash, loud and sharp, echoing off the walls like a warning shot. Hot liquid splashes across your shoes, soaking into the hem of your pants. You stare at it, stunned, like your body forgot how to move.

Daniel blinks. “Okay…”

You’re already clenching your jaw, chest rising and falling way too fast.

Daniel tilts his head like he’s looking at a puzzle piece that just clicked into place. “I was kidding, but —”

“Shut up.”

He lifts his hands in surrender, but the smirk in his eyes is brutal.

You inhale through your nose and manage to grind out, “I need to change.”

And before Daniel can say another word, you walk away. Straight to the bathroom. Straight away from the fact that Jungkook has completely thrown you off your axis.

You have no idea how to fix it.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

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[pyrookami]

My Possession

When I first bought the new house, I was ecstatic. It was a dream house in a beautiful location for an unbelievably low price. Its didn’t take long to learn why. The incidents started small, little items not being where I left them, a flash of a shadow out the corner of my eye. After two months, that is when the actual horrors started. I wasn’t raised particularly religious and had no previous superstitions to speak of but the third time I was physically dragged from bed by an unseen attacker and thrown against the doorframe, well I think anyone would turn to the church for help. Now for the moment I was single with no children, but I had invested my life savings into this house, as cheap as it was it was still a house. I had intended on living a good portion of my life here.

The first place I turned was the catholic church as id seen they were most likely to know what to do to rid my home of whatever was there. Three visits by the local father, the first I was startled by the house being filled with an eerie distorted laughter that the father didn’t acknowledge as he read his scriptures from room to room. Upon exiting I could see how shaken he truly was.

“This entity is powerful, but the good news is it is only one entity, after two more cleansings we will rid you of this unholy entity.”

With that he handed me a rosary of silver and a bundle of sage with the instructions.

“Light the sage before bed and walk throughout the house until the smoke has been in every room. Make sure you always keep the rosary on your person for protection.”

I will be honest, I delayed going home as long as I feasibly could that night. I feared what would happen if everything being done had no effect, or if it made things worse, what would I do? What could I do? My engineering job paid well enough but most of those checks went to paying off my student loans. My savings were in the house, I had to weather whatever was going on. Finally, around eleven pm I could put it off no longer, I had to sleep and had work in the morning. As I stepped from the surprisingly cold Texas summer night into my house, I didn’t notice anything at first. Then as I sighed in relief, I saw my breath fog in the air in front of my face. It was below freezing inside. I checked the thermostat, and it was set to a reasonable seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit, still the thermometer was reading twenty-nine degrees Fahrenheit. I fumbled with numb hands for the sage and upon lighting it with my zippo the temperature nearly instantly rose to a more reasonable level. With another sigh of relief, I did as instructed and wafted the sage smoke into every room in the house. Then with the rosary around my neck went to bed at peace for the first time in a while.

BURNING! I awake to a searing pain on my chest only to open my eyes and see my panting breathe fogging the again freezing air. On reflex, I grab for the rosary only to find a metal puddle cold but pooled on my chest the chain has fallen onto the sheets and covers leaving burn marks, yet all are as cold as the air. Something in me, likely my inner child, says it cant hurt me if I pretend to sleep. So, I close my eyes tight knowing rationally it wont stop this thing from tormenting me. But, desperate, I try anything before I feel the familiar grip on my ankle and am slung physically across the room.

In the morning I wake in bed and at first, I hope it was just a dream, but then the pain hits. This was so much worse than before. My arm feels broken getting out of bed there is a cross shaped burn raw in the center of my chest with smaller bead sized burns forming when the rosary had rested on my chest and neck. Looking in the mirror I get dressed and headed straight to the ER. The bruising looked almost as if I had been attacked by a gang with baseball bats. But that wasn’t what scared me most. No, what scared me was on my mirror written in what looked like blood was my name.

Three fractures, one of my ribs, one of my radius, and one of my humorous. Sadly, I had to explain my injuries to the police who were under the impression I may have been mugged. They laughed at my statement. A call to the church and the father from before was meeting me at the house this time with an entourage. Well, I have learned something today. Apparently for a full cleansing of a house of a demonic presence the catholic church believes in safety in numbers. How many priests does it take to clear one single house of one single demon? According to the Texas cardinal, who was not there just for your information, twelve. They told me to rent a hotel for the night and tomorrow it would be safe to return. Needless to say, I was skeptical.

I must say, even though this whole ordeal has only been going on for two months and the worst of it has only been happening for about a week, I don’t remember the last time I slept so well. Five stars to that small cheap hotel for a quiet restful night’s sleep. Got a call from the priest. He believes their latest cleansing was successful as they spent the last eight and a half hours throwing everything they know at the entity. Around six am it stopped all phenomena and the priest says I should be safe from now on.

I went from the best sleep I can remember to the worst, all one day apart. It started peaceful enough, I’m pretty sure it was to lull me into relaxing. Then as soon as I lay down to sleep. BAM! The full haunting experience! Objects being thrown? Check! Apparitions appearing and disappearing? Also check! Creepy laughter with no source? Fucking check! Having blood writing appear on my walls and ceiling? Yep, also there! Oh, lets not forget the classic now of being bodily picked up and throw around like a child’s rag doll. Nope cant forget about that. When dawn broke that’s when everything finally stopped. I immediately left the house. You may be wondering why I didn’t during the night? I tried believe me whatever this thing is it knows it cant leave the house and has done everything in its considerable powers to keep me contained while it can. Once just once I thought I could get outside just as my foot was over the threshold of the open front door I was pulled back in by my neck. Im now wearing a cast and neck brace.

The Catholics visited again. This time the fat ass cardinal came down himself. Not that it did any good, he took one look at the house turned to me and simply said.

“Move out!”

Then they all left me most looking apologetic some not even able to look me in the eye. Well screw them there are other options…Aren’t there?

Rented the hotel room for the week, if this isn’t solved in a week, I may end up moving back in with my ma in Tennessee, while I try and sell this cursed house. Oh, right I’ve had it confirmed this house has a curse on it that anytime someone attempts to make their home in it a demon from hell will torment them. Apparently, someone wanted this house so bad they didn’t mind torturing people thirty years after they died. Had a psychic come and that’s the story I’ve been given. Yeah, you can laugh at me all you want for believing him but I’m at my wits end for this. The psychic wasn’t much help anyway his advice was to demolish the house since it’s the structure itself that is cursed not the land. Not very helpful.

I have contacted a specialist, yes there are demon exorcising specialists…Apparently. He’s coming from Georgia, but I’m assured he can help, and he claims hell do it for just his travel expenses. The catholic church charged me more than that and I personally believe they made the thing mad and thus made the possession worse. I’m to pick the specialist up from the airport in the morning. Here’s hoping I’ve spent my last night in a hotel rather than a house.

Well picking up a demon exorcising specialist is entertaining to say the least, I was being stared at with everything from fear to hilarity standing there with my cardboard sign. Still don’t understand why the man couldn’t give me his last name over the phone but making me have a sign reading.

“Devil trouble, please help!”

I feel I’m being made a fool of. When he approached, he seemed…normal. He was dressed in black slacks had a semi nice black tie and jacket over a white dress shirt. The only strange things were his hat, an obviously home-made deal, and his luggage a single carry-on bag that looked to me like an instrument case. When I asked if he had any checked luggage he simply smiled and shook his head before gesturing me to lead the way. In the car, he said almost nothing aside from what to call him and for me to describe exactly what has occurred in my case of the possession.

“Call me Junior, please tell me what y’all have experience with the entity. Has it given a name?”

At my description Junior simply pursed his lips as the rest of his face remained stoic and calm. That was all he said in the almost hour drive from the Houston airport to my small slice of suburban hell. Upon arrival at my haunted house, he insisted on my leading the way in. I think he was testing my story which if he was the entity accommodated admirably with a shriek of my name the moment we stepped inside and a bout of creepy laughter just for good measure. Without a word junior set his case of the floor and took off his hat and handed it to me. With a look and a motion, he bade me step back to the door which slammed closed before I could make my exit. With a sigh he turned to the rest of the house and introduced himself with the strangest challenge for the supernatural id ever heard.

“Well son since you want him here that’s fine. My names johnny, and I have a challenge for you if you win you can bring back something to your boss he wants back desperately if I win you will return to hell from where you came and never darken the world of gods chosen ever again. Is that acceptable?”

Before my eyes the shadows of the house darkened and collected until a being stood before Johnny? Junior? It stood no less than eight feet tall with arms so long they dragged the ground legs that looked like an animals like a cow or goats. And a head so unnaturally misshapen it hurt to look at. As the monstrosity revealed itself johnny knelt to open his luggage. I was right it was a simple instrument case but what he pulled out was no simple instrument. Its gleamed golden even in the dim light. Johnny spoke quietly as he held the instrument. A violin? He began to do something with the stick that accompanied the violin. Somehow the entity semed to shrink a little as johnny spoke.

“Quite a while ago my daddy won this in a contest against the devil himself. The bet then was a soul for the golden fiddle. I have been training with a fiddle since I was knee high to a grasshopper just so when it was my turn to show up the hellish fools that would harm those of the lords people, I would be more than up to the task.”

Before my eyes as the first notes of the fiddle played the demon shriveled and vanished. It appears the demon wasn’t going to risk anything on a bet against a family that had bested his infernal lord. Then and there I swore to myself this young mans story needed to be heard.

“im not sure I introduced my self properly…johnny? My name is Charlie daniels and I would love to hear the story behind that golden fiddle.”

With a laugh the young man replied.

“Johnny was my old man. But sure I’ll tell. One day, the devil went down to Georgia.”

[wcvensouls]

[ 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 ] : receiver notices sender looking at them longingly. (keller & jae)

at some point in his life, chae seungjae had somehow found himself surrounded by people. he didn't really know how it had happened, not when he used to be so careful about keeping others at arm's length — yet it seemed he had made some friends along the years. seungjae didn't really know why people like joohyuk, soobin and kaede would like and want to spend time with him, but he had learned to simply not think too much about it and accept it.

however, there was one person that had walked into his life that was not quite like the others — keller kang had not only become a friend, but also carved a room for himself inside seungjae's heart without him ever noticing, as if that space had simply always been there waiting for him to fill it. at first, seungjae didn't really know what to do with the new feelings keller had brought into his life, making his heart soften and opening up a door inside the walls he kept around himself for him, and only him, to walk in. sometimes, seungjae felt so much that he thought he was simply going to explode — things he never thought he would, that he didn't think were meant for him to experience.

seungjae was not someone to openly express his thoughts and feelings, though — he didn't really know how to, and he learned that most people didn't know how to read it either. so, when it came to acting normal and pretending everything was calm and finne, chae seungjae thought that he was truly an expert.

well, that also quickly change the closer him and keller got. suddenly, seungjae could not longer hide things as well as he normally did, wearing his heart a little too close to his sleeve when it came to the other. ah, at first he hated how exposed and vulnerable it made him feel, but he also grew to embrace it. after all, keller was the only person he could simply be himself with, the one person he didn't have to pretend to be strong around in any shape or form.

they had been going over some notes that they had worked on the day before about their next case, and seungjae had been rambling about it for a few minutes when he realized that keller wasn't really saying much — and the other usually was the one to fill the silence with his lovely voice, one that seungjae would never get tired of hearing. looking up from the paper where he had quickly written down some information before to make sure that everything was fine, the exorcist was instead met with the prettiest eyes looking at him with so much fondness that even someone as dense as seungjae would notice.

almost immediately, he felt the tip of his ears warm up to a concerning degree, and all words he was going to say seemingly died in his throat. for a few moments, seungjae could only hold keller's gaze, unable to find the strength in him to look away no matter how flustered he had gotten. seungjae wasn't sure how much time it had passed with the two of them looking at each other, but it felt like an eternity and not long enough at the same time.

with heart beating so loudly inside his chest he almost wondered if keller could hear it, seungjae finally broke the silence by awkwardly clearing his throat. " sorry, i... lost my train of thought. " he apologized, completely forgetting everything he was talking just seconds before just because he had laid eyes on the most important person in his life. averting his gaze for a moment in attempt to regain his composture, seungjae found himself quickly stealing another glance in keller's direction, simply unable to stop himself from doing so. " did... did you have any questions? or... maybe we can take a break and do something else... "

a few more moments passed before seungjae continued, voice quiet and shy, almost like a whisper. " like kissing... "

inbox meme .

[therubyreader]

My Thoughts on The Hunger Games as an Adult

While this isn't technically a book review I'm still going to count it and link the rest of my reviews here.

I have rejoined The Hunger Games hype with the new prequel movie based on the prequel book, The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, coming out this year. I was a huge fan of the Hunger Games books back when I was in middle school when the first movie came out and I forced my family (and then eventually my friends) into watching the movies with me. I know I read the first book in the series a couple of times since I owned a copy of it but I don't remember if I read the rest of the series multiple times since I didn't get the rest of the books until literally this week since I now have adult money. That all to say that I haven't read the books or watched the movies, in almost a decade, so here's just a quick compilation of thoughts I had while reading the first book that are different from my original perception of it as a kid:

Katniss is an unreliable narrator

I know full well this sentiment has been expressed by multiple people across multiple platforms but hearing it and experiencing it are two very different things. Though I learned about unreliable narrators as a kid, I was still like, eleven, the first time I read the book so I was young and naive and trusting of everyone. I genuinely didn't get the whole star crossed lovers thing because I trusted Katniss and because she was telling me that Peeta was also pretending for the sake of the game I believed it. Now, as an adult with more life experience but the same amount of romantic experience as child me (none), it is so glaringly obvious that Peeta was genuinely in love with Katniss the whole time! Everything makes so much more sense now.

The writing is... strange

Ok, hear me out before you come for me, the writing isn't bad per se but it does feel strange now rereading after an added decade of consuming more literature across different genres and time periods, and getting a degree in writing (kind of), it just reads weird now. Again, strange isn't bad, and I realize that I'm reading YA literature which is a far cry from the classics in terms of technique, which is fine because classics make my head hurt, but there were certain choices that were for sure made. For starters, there would be multiple scenes where Katniss would pass out and it would just go from one paragraph to another with no breaks to let us know time has passed, or multiple days would be covered in a sentence. Though I do get the stream of consciousness way of writing adds to the story and Katniss as a character, it just felt clunky to me.

Why is everything so fast?

This might be a combination of the movies skewing my perception of the book, the fact we have to cover a month in a limited amount of pages, and just run of the mill forgetfulness (because, again, it's been years) but everything happened so damn fast. I could've sworn that Katniss and Rue spent multiple days together before Rue died but it was only one which was bonkers. The training sessions lasted only like two pages, which again could be because of the things I said earlier, but for some reason I thought they were in there for longer. Same thing with the train to the Capitol and back, and I do get that we're supposed to spend the majority of the plot in the actual games but everything just happened so fast. Maybe it was a deliberate choice to make everything before and after the games so hazy and the games themselves very real and present, but again, it was just not at all how I remembered.

Gale is more irrelevant than I remember

Again, this is probably because the movies played up the whole love triangle thing, but Gale is only really there for a bit and most of the mentions of him are either memories or Katniss just thinking about him in passing. I know he's a bigger part of the other two books, and much more present, but he is just a footnote in the first book which I completely forgot about.

The violence?!?!

Now, I know what you all are saying "but Val, this is The Hunger Games, it's about kids killing each other, it's going to be violent" and I know that, but it just hits different as an adult. I mean, remember, when I first started reading the books I was eleven, to me it was just a silly little YA novel with a fun adventure and a romantic subplot, because again, I was a child. Now, over a decade later, as an adult reading how literal children are being forced to fight each other to the death for entertainment, the messaging of the story is very clear to me. I think this also made me appreciate it more in terms of world building and the morality of it which for me made the book more enjoyable. And I know that's strange, understanding the violence of it and getting rid of my childhood naivety and innocence, made my childhood favorite, better, when usually it's the opposite.

I think those are all my thoughts for now (haha), I have read the second book in between when I first started writing this post and when I'm finishing it but my thoughts on it are more or less the same. But! I can do another post of this nature in the future if you all want for Catching Fire or for Mockingjay which I'm about to start as soon as I post this.

[moo-nstone]

Nikola Stojanovic’s degree theory 

— you can learn more about his theory here and here. he was the maker of this theory, i’m simply passing the knowledge i’ve researched on him in a more simplified way!!! trigger warning for mentions of death and violence for the 11º, the 15º, the 18º and the 22º degrees 

according to nikola’s research, each degree is connected to the sign it rules: 

aries degrees — 1º, 13º, 25º - taking action, fighting spirit, not giving oneself up to fate, struggle, war, can indicate abuse, labor, diligence, leadership, beginnings, etc

taurus degrees — 2º, 14º, 26º - money, food, the earth, stability, luxuries, voice, singing, etc

gemini degrees — 3º, 15º, 27º - communication, gadgets like televisions or phones, self-expression, books, siblings, neighbourhood, etc

cancer degrees — 4º, 16º, 28º - home, nurture, traditions, loyalty, faith, mother, water, etc

leo degrees — 5º, 17º, 29º - attention, life, fame, light, children, creativity, self-expression, monarchs, entertainment, strength, hair, etc

virgo degrees — 6º, 18º - to diminish, to make smaller, improvement, health, work, routine, pets, to be of service, etc

libra degrees — 7º, 19º - fairness, law, business, partnerships, fashion, beauty, charm, luxury items, music, art, etc

scorpio degrees — 8º, 20º - the 8º specifically is connected to death, wealth, to take from others, manifestation, secrets, insurance, sex, jealousy, pregnancy, etc

sagittarius degrees — 9º, 21º - abundance, expansion, wisdom, college, travelling, to explore, etc

capricorn degrees — 10º, 22º - to take control, public attention, coldness, fear, depression, rationality, ambition, father, etc

aquarius degrees — 11º, 23º - divorce, surprises, high places, high tech, new technology, humanitarianism, organizations, friends, networking, etc

pisces degrees — 12º, 24º - sleeping, drugs, alcohol, lethargy, the unconcious + our psyche, emotional dejections, feet, madness, shadows, unclear, endings, etc

0º represents the basic characteristic of the sign - it acts in its purest form. for example, if you have the 0º in aries sun, aries here acts in its most potent, pure way. 

that way, if you, for example, have your ascendant in pisces at the 13º, you’ll express aries characteristics + all that is connected to taking action, to fight. now, knowing this, this theory can manifest itself in different ways. 

i’m going to give an example that he talked about in his website that i found simple to understand yet powerful. when nikola was discussing with another astrologer, he wanted to talk about his degree theory, so he took a look at the birth chart of the wife of the other astrologer, and after a minute of analyzing it, he said as follows: “Your wife called a carpenter to the house and ordered a larger bed to be made. When the carpenter had finished the job, you went to bed and realized that the work was not properly done. One measure was right – the bed was long enough - but the other one wasn't – the bed wasn't wide enough, it was still narrow”. the look the other astrologer gave him told him that his brief analysis was absolutely correct.

his reasoning behind it was that the wife’s 12th house (which rules sleeping, beds, bedrooms) cusp began at the 21º of aries, and the ruler of that house, mars, was at the 6º in virgo. aries simbolizes to create and the 21º, a sagittarius degree, simbolizes to enlarge. so, his wife wanted to create (aries) a larger (sagittarius/jupiter) bed (the 12th house). because mars, the ruler of the 12th house, was placed in virgo (someone who renders services, a worker), she called the carpenter to the house. her mars was, however, in virgo at the 6º which is a virgo degree (virgo simbolizes diminishing, making smaller), which meant the measure of the bed had to be smaller than needed. therefore, the cusp of the 12th house (the bed) at the 21º (sagittarius - larger, longer) signifies that the bed was both long enough (enlarged), and mars in virgo at a virgo degree (6º) meant that it was not wide enough (it was narrow). nikola established connections between degrees, the signs, the planets and the houses where they fell and the aspects that they made in order to make this kind of predictions. 

he also found a few degrees to be connected to significant things. 

THE 2º DEGREE - SUPREME POWER 

nikola, through the research of the birth charts of many people throughout history, observed how those who contained planets, houses and aspects (+lunar nodes, arabic parts, vertex and of course, the four cardinal points: the IC, MC, AC and DC) in the 2º degree were those who made remarkable achievements, who wielded extreme power and were highly respected. he got to this conclusion by analyzing the birth chart of queen victoria - other rulers at the time had more powerful aspects than she did, but allas, they weren’t the ones to almost rule the entire world - it was her, so he began noticing the pattern between power and the 2º. literal jesus himself had his mercury in pisces in the 2º. i myself have four degrees at 2º, so it’s nice to know my dreams of starting a revolution, overthrowing the government and achieving world domination are supported by the astros

THE 5º DEGREE - EROTICISM 

this degree is connected to beauty, desire, sex appeal, receiving sexual attention. many sex icons like marilyn monroe, jean harlow and mata hari had it present in their birth chart. nikola talks about this being the best degree in his eyes. considering that it’s a leo degree, it’s all about living, having fun and enjoying life. 

THE 11º DEGREE - DIVORCE / SUICIDE 

both the 11º and 23º degrees of aquarius indicate divorce, but, according to nikola, the 11º is connected to suicide.

THE 15º DEGREE - CAR ACCIDENTS 

this degree, when connected to scorpio + the 8th house, can indicate car accidents.  

THE 18º DEGREE - PURE EVIL 

simbolizes a bad destiny. to nikola, this is the worst degree you can have. it can indicate rare deseases, tragic accidents. he says there’s no good about this degree but i absolutely disagree. not to be a hopeless optimist or to pretend to possess half the knowledge that he does but i think it’s pretentious to assume that a degree is literally all bad and that there’s nothing we can do about it — that takes away from our free will and our inner strength. Many, many people have this degree present in their charts (i believe nikola had it himself), it’s all about facing hardships but, well, that’s life.

THE 22º DEGREE - TO KILL OR BE KILLED 

nikola has found this degree in the birth charts of murderers + people that were murdered. his significance of “to kill or be killed” is quite literal. now, i want to remind you that this is the worst case scenario and that this degree can manifest itself in many diferent ways - just like the 18º and the 8º. the death can be figurative. for example, donald trump’s chart: he has his sun in 22º, and his mercury in 8º - and I’m afraid he’s quite alive at his old age and kicking it, even if he’s suffered a public destruction. @saintzjenx in her degree theory post talked about how this placement can also indicate abandonment. i agree, i have my sun at 22º in the 10th house (the house of the father) and my father was very emotionally absent + physically as well (his work has him working at other cities during the entire week) 

THE 29º DEGREE - CLAIRVOYANCE/PROGNOSTICISM 

the 29º indicates someone with clairvoyant potential, someone who makes accurate predictions, with great intuition. it’s to note that nikola himself had a 29º in his chart, and that he became known for the predictions he made using the degree theory (for example, he predicted that america would have its first black president ten years before barack obama was elected). but he does like to say that he has absolutely no intuition, though - what prompted him to study the degrees was his virgo rising, acording to him, his need to study and put his brain to work. still, he observed how many clairvoyants had this degree. other astrologers talk about this being a degree that means destruction (and when you analyze trump’s birth chart and how he has his ascendant and his 11th house at the 29º, you can very much argue about the truth behind that theory) but all in all, nikola talks about this degree as benefic. 

in case you’re feeling bad, remember i have the to kill or be killed 22º, plus the 8º of death, plus the 11º of suicide, plus the 23º of divorce, plus two of the 18º of pure evil! let’s suffer together besties. on the upside i have four of the 2º so we riding to eternal glory! 

but now seriously, i know some of this is very hard bc obviously life isn’t all fun and games but. remember that we all have free will, life isn’t determined and having a lot of these in your chart doesn’t mean impending doom!! i have them and i’m very much kicking it and i’m not intending to stop. it’s all about acceptance, learning how to work with even the worst degrees in order to make the best out of them. plus, the degrees can manifest themselves in a lot of different ways and a lot more matters than just them being present - like the signs that they’re in, the aspects with which they make and how harsh they are, the house where they fall etc etc. 

please do take your time to read through his website + to watch the interviews nikola did on youtube!! he was an amazing astrologer whose theory greatly impacted the way astrology is studied today. he’s fun to learn from, too, which is a plus

[labeeboheme]

my spencer reid headcanons

(when a happy one matches a sad one, they’ll be matching colours)

also tw - vague mention of suicide, drug addiction, disordered eating mention (never anything graphic)

happy/cute

- Garcia and the rest of the team would leave little sticky notes around his desk and normally they’d just make him smile but when he was having a rough day they’d literally make him tear up with happiness

- he’s obscenely good at present giving, because he simultaneously remembers everything that people say they like and also has his ridiculous knowledge of what exists out there

- one week (it coincided with him being clean for 5 years, he never made the connection) he walked into the briefing room and every member of the team was dressed exactly as him. he kept trying to bring it up and everybody pretended they had no idea what he was on about. it became their BAU group chat icon for years.

- one of the best days of his life was when garcia took him dog walking with her, he got to just wander around with 6 dogs all day

- jack grows to adore him just as much as henry does. spencer hangs around a lot because him and hotch are usually the ones without anyone to hang out with at the weekend, and he takes jack to the museum with henry and michael all the time. jack ends up being a lot more like spencer than he imagined (which both terrifies and delights hotch)

- Spencer has never actually attended a graduation, despite having graduated from various degrees like 10+ times. when the BAU (Alex probably) finds out, they all force him into a gown and rock up to cheer him

- they liked to play trivia games where it was spencer vs the rest of the team, but someone (i’m thinking emily) picks up that it makes him feel left out. they then take turns being on spencer’s team. one month, the non-spencer team beats them and the joy it gives them makes him smile for a week

- garcia learns how to make mocktails and without fail, will make a huge jug for him anytime the rest are drinking alcohol but make sure they’re fun flavours so he gets just as much excitement as everyone else

- after Diana is moved to Virginia, the team become really close to her. JJ takes the boys to hang out with her because she’s always loved children (and Diana sometimes thinks Henry is a young Spencer, which makes JJ worry about how Spencer will react but he’s just sitting here grinning with tears in his eyes because he’s finally getting to see his mom be the mom he knew she could be)

- the BAU love his glasses, and there’s a competition to get a photo of him with them on, but he’s very good at avoiding cameras. After one case in a hotel they even try to hide his contact solution to force him to wear them (amateurs - he definitely keeps a spare box in his coat). There eventually is a single photo of them wearing them, but all members of the BAU fail. Spencer is babysitting Henry, who is distraught about having to wear glasses to school. Spencer gives up trying to comfort him and just takes his contact lenses out and switches them for glasses. Henry is super shocked but so happy that he matches his favourite person, so Spencer takes a photo of the two of them so that Henry can put it next to his bed

- he gets a cat after prison, it’s a tabby cat that is the light of his life, and the cat is just heavy enough that when Spencer gets it to sit on his lap that cat can be used a grounding pressure

—————————————————

angsty/sad

- developed disordered eating habits that started from him always being super underweight as a child bc he couldn’t afford food and then when he got to college he started to eat properly and put on actually healthy weight but he was so adverse to change that it freaked him out

- one of the roughest days at the BAU, after all the obvious terrible times, was when Morgan and Hotch was just having a casual conversation about how they’d helped Strauss with her addiction and it just broke him. he ended up hiding under Garcia’s desk and he’d only speak to her and Emily (as the only people I think ever actually helped him) and was non verbal, once they finally got him out into the office he refused to speak to either of them and was just stimming with garcia comforting him (once he started talking again he whispered why he was so upset to emily, and she joined him in his glaring at them every time he looked at them. morgan and hotch never really worked it out and eventually reid just gave up on being upset because he knew it couldn’t change what happened)

- spencer has never walked across the stage at graduation, but that doesn’t mean he never went to a graduation. his first degree his mom promised she’d come, but ended up not leaving the house. he stood to the side of the stage in his gown trying not to cry before just going back home and having the diploma mailed to him

- he relapsed in prison. he considered his sobriety over after the events in Mexico, and so just briefly gave up when one of the inmates offered him some. as soon as Garcia came to visit him, he broke down and never did it again. he never told Morgan and so he still got a text every year on the day he first got clean, which he thought he’d absolutely hate but ended up finding comfort in because even if the “happy 12 years sobriety, kid” should have been “happy 2 years sobriety, kid”, it reminded him that he’d done it before and could do it again

- after maeve died and they came round to help him clean his apartment, he was really proud of himself for being able to put her book on the shelf and feel like he’s moving on. and then the next day he was getting ready to go to work properly for the first time and he was just getting more and more terrified and anxious and then started to spiral because the longer he panicked the later he was. and it reminded him of how scared maeve had been to come outside to meet him at the restaurant but she’d done it anyway, and he put the book in his bag and found it a lot easier to leave the house after that

- Spencer is so goddamn bitter about them not helping him get clean, and he mentions it whenever he can. In a angry-but-never-let-himself-be-angry way, he takes some justification in seeing the team squirm with guilt. one day he’s listing symptoms of withdrawal for a case, and just starts to go like “another symptom is intense muscle pain, which for me was definitely the worst” or “yeah nausea is real bad, not that you’d know I guess” like he’s exhausted and pissed off and just gives up any pretence of subtlety

- when Diana dies, the whole team rally around Reid more than he could imagine. They all organise the funeral basically for him, and Garcia constantly cooks for him, and at least one person sleeps on his sofa each night in case he needs them. By week two he’s doing okay, and he quickly realises they’re doing it for themselves more than him, because they’re so desperate to let him know how loved he is. It’s still one of the worst weeks of his life, but it’s bearable and that’s purely down to him never having to feel lonely

- there’s a reason he knew exactly what to do when he walked in on Nathan Harris, and that’s because he’s done it with his mom, except that time he was 12 and his dad had just left and he just sat there covered in blood waiting for the ambulance, and whilst promising the paramedics that his dad was on his way home so that social services wouldn’t turn up, he read countless books on medical treatment so that next time he wouldn’t be so hopeless

- I respectfully disagree with the line where he’s like “this is my first meeting” at the Beltway clean cops, I’m convinced he would drive two hours to a meeting miles away so he could truly be anonymous and sit curled up in a chair and cry in meetings without even the slightest chance of seeing someone he knew

[pan-ick]

Golden Child Pt. 1

I literally can't remember where I found it but I read a headcannon for an angsty SBI +Reader and I loved it so much that I had to write something similar to it but I think I might have forgotten to like it, so if you know what the original is please tell me so I can credit them I was partially inspired by@helliontherapscallion's "Adrenaline Junkie" series, simply for the fact that because of them i haven't stopped thinking of inventor reader. Also let's just pretend that uh my human biology degree isn't going to waste by me writing blindness incorrectly ha ha. This is a purely fictional way that blindness works.

(REMINDER YOU IDIOT, FOR THE PURPOSES OF THIS STORY: Wilbur is 26, Techno is 20, Tommy is 16, Phil is 32, SO READER IS 22, GET IT RIGHT AND STOP MESSING UP)

As soon as Y/N's wings started developing, they were instantly the favorite child. Philza still showed his love to Wilbur, but nowhere near as much as he did to his winged child. If he had to choose between spending time with them or Wilbur, he'd pick them in a heartbeat. Wilbur was usually upset when this happened, but he had gotten used to it and had learned ways to cope with it.

This was until Techno showed up. On their doorstep. Next to a freezing Philza who had sacrificed most his warmth to the young piglin. Wilbur had his thoughts on this, yhough he kept them to himself. But Y/N couldn't be happier! This meant a new friend, AND they were right when they said that Phil was just a nice person, there wasn't a favorite child! Right?

They quickly realized that Techno wasn't their friend, as the first interaction they had together was them getting a claw to the face by the piglin. Philza just simply sighed and made sure the wound would stop bleeding before tending back to the scared pig.

Y/N was only eight at the time, they didn't know what they were feeling. But whatever it was didn't feel good.

Since that day, Y/N was the new Wilbur and 'Technoblade' was the golden child. Y/N wanted the spotlight back, so they tried hard at everything. Nothing ever worked. Nothing was better than what Techno could do. Nothing was more amazing than Techno's knowledge, or his skills in fighting, or his odd way of speaking, or those stupid things that he did, or the fact that he'd always blame it on some 'voices' in his head. That he had a God complex. That he was better than Wilbur. He was better than Tommy. He was better than you...

He was always better than you. Of course. Thats what you felt when you first met. Not amazement, not the happiness of having another friend. Of course not. It was overwhelming jealousy. But he was your brother, so you had to suck it up just like Wilbur did.

But soon enough, they came to peace with this. They moved on and worked on what they actually enjoyed, not what Philza enjoyed. Mechanics. Phil would have killed you if he learned of all the dangers that you put yourself through to consider yourself an inventor. Or.... Would he?

One day your older brother approached you with his idea to create "L'manburg". At first you couldn't help but laugh. But when it was realized that Wilbur wasn't joking and that he had already recruited Tommy, they agreed to join the fight for freedom. It was a way to pay Wilbur back for being there for them, afterall.

Y/N never imagined the true horrors that they would have to go through so they could say a 'thank you' to Wilbur. They never even truly said it to him, L'manburg was already exploded and he was killed before they could say it to him. Not even saying it to Ghostbur was good enough.

Y/N was forced to suffer through watching her loved ones go mad. Sometimes, they would try coming up with inventions that could help her friends out, and some that could help some regular problems in the world for other people. Most of them didn't work, they were only able to produce goggles that could just barely help fully blind people see. But it was a step in the right direction.

Then doomsday came. Y/N didn't want to be part of it, they didn't want to even try hurting their father and younger brother. They aren't even sure how they came to that point.

Before they knew it, they were begging the man who once gave them anything in the world for him to stop. The whole server was one big family especially everyone in the homes he was about to destroy. But what they wanted didn't matter anymore. It's what Technoblade wanted, and he wanted blood.

At the last moment, Y/N remembered Friend. Ghostbur would be devastated if Friend died.

Falling down to the ground from the small warning of TNT, Friend flooded their mind.

If they couldn't save L'Manburg, they needed to save Friend. Ghostbur wasn't the same, but Ghostbur is Wilbur. They still never said thank you. They have to show their gratitude through the miracle of Friend surviving.

And so that's what they set off to do. With no mind to their own self-preservation, Y/N got up and flew as fast as they could to save Friend. But before they could reach the sheep, a large pile of rubble fell on one of their wings, almost snapping it right off. Y/N tried to get it off but to no avail, and their whole body wasn't safe. As they saw more rubble they crouched down while covering their head with their hands and covering the undamaged wing with their body, they prepared for impact.

The last thing they could speak out was almost incomprehensible.

"Wil..... Will...... Ghosbu.............. Tommy.......... Dad............."

And then everything went black. Y/N couldn't see or feel anything. Not even after her youngest brother, the ghost of her older brother, and the three fiances of the SMP untrapped them. There was nothing.

After what felt like years for the brothers, there was finally a glimpse of Y/N waking up. But they continued to drift in and out of consciousness and whenever someone tried communicating they were completely unresponsive.

During this amount of time, it was agreed that it was in their best interest for their wings to be removed. They were both utterly useless now after being crushed and would just be extra weight with unnecessary pain that can be avoided the sooner their wings get removed. Just in case Y/N was still aware of everything going on, they were put under amnesia to lower the chance of them feeling the agony of a wing removal surgery.

Slowly Y/N began more responsive to people, but never to the same amount. Everyone that took care of them were absolutely heartbroken when they figured out part of the rock that fell on them damaged a vital organ that allowed a person to see. Luck was in fact on their side for damaging their eyesight instead of the brain, however most people didn't see it that way.

Ghostbur took it upon himself to become Y/N's seeing-eye dog. He missed having Friend nearby and Y/N was the thing he connected to the most after Friend's death.

After a few months of trying to get used to no longer having sight or wings Y/N was finally allowed back in their lab with a large amount of supervision from Ghostbur. While carefully running their hands across some unfinished inventions, Y/N comes across the goggles that they made at least a year ago. It immediately smarked a memory deep within their brain, the closest thing they had felt to seeing something ever since doomsday.

"Ghostbur, what color are these?" "Oh, they're blue. Blue's a really nice color, it reminds me of Friend. Do you remember Frien- Why are you looking down at those like that? Would you like some blue, it takes your sadness away! Wait dont put them on, the glass has cracks!" Y/N snickers as the ghost tries to take them away from them without being super forceful, "I'm already blind, what's the worst it can do?"

"Dont say that!" Ghostbur gasps, "We will find a way to get your vision back, those goggles might make it impossible!"

"I made these around the time you first showed up. I ran multiple tests with them and I was able to help a blind person see the world again. Sure, it was very blurry, hard to distinguish a lot of colors from each other, we have a different kind of blindness, and its been more that a year since I last tested them, but they might still work." Y/N explains, then they turn their back to Ghostbur and put the goggles on. This time, Ghostbut only makes a sound in protest.

Blinking, Y/N could feel the stimulation in their brain that they lost along with their eyesight come back. They moved their hands from the position they were in to put the invention on to Y/N's line of sight, and they could see their hands again. Fuzzy, shapeless, hands with a few bandaids and many scars on them.

"So, are they working?"

The voice of your brother brings Y/N back to reality and they turn to look at him. They had completely forgotten what Ghostbur looked like, only remembering vaguely what child Wilbur looked liked and a brief description of how Ghostbur's appearance differed for Wilbur's.

Y/N wraps their arms around the Ghost, not actually hugging but just doing the motion to where they would hug a person they could actually touch, as they tried to not cry in front of him.

(WOOOOOO THIS ENDED UP A LOT LONGER THAN I EXPECTED AND I'M NOT EVEN DONE YET, SO I SEPARATED IT INTO TWO PARTS)

[keepingupwithpotters]

If you’re taking prompts

“You’re really warm.” and

“Come back to bed. Please” for jily pls??

I am laughing at for jily like I'm capable of writing for anything else. I promise you, even if it is about two unrelated characters, I'll find a way to make it about jily

Also finally put the drabbles on ao3 as promised so you can read this there as well

Fretting over Lily Evans was nothing new for James, but this time might’ve put him to his early grave after all.

He touches her forehead discreetly, trying not to disturb her sleep. She went in and out of her slumber all night, giving him a scare half the time with her nonsensical mumblings. He doesn’t recall when exactly he fell asleep too, not long ago according to the rising sun, but that’s how he finds himself next to her now.

Blinking his eyes woozily, he gives himself permission for a moment of bliss before jumping into action, pretending they are lying side by side not because she is burning like a furnace, but like he always wakes up next to Lily, this hair tickling his shoulder not unusual.

He can only guess what prompted her to call him last night. A bitter part of him thinks it’s because she knew he would come running, no questions asked. It’s hard to ignore that part when that was exactly what he did, probably before he even hung up the phone. There is, of course, always the chance that it was the side effect of her running fever. One should not underestimate it, he learned that firsthand all through the night.

The pretense falls apart when he feels Lily’s skin, panic rising inside him all over again. He has spent the whole night trying to make sure her temperature didn’t pass 40 degrees, hand ready over his phone for the minute it did. It feels like it has risen again, her cheeks flaming bright to prove his insight right.

“Aren’t you gonna kiss my forehead?”

She startles him, with the question or her half open eyes smiling dozily at him, he doesn’t know.

“Why would I take advantage of the ill, Evans?”

Her smile gets softer, fonder. “That’s how my mom used to take my temperature.”

He’s never been able to say no to that smile.

She closes her eyes with the kiss, looking content and peaceful, not at all like the bedridden patient she is supposed to be. He lingers one second longer than necessary.

He has forgotten the purpose of the act until she looks at him expectantly, waiting for his verdict.

“You’re really warm.”

She doesn’t care for his furrowed brows or less than satisfactory explanation when she snuggles into him, purring, “Thank you, so are you.”

“That was not a compliment, Evans.” He tries to hide the fact his breath hitches when she burrows her face in his neck. “That means I am doing something very, very wrong. Are you sure you don’t want me to call anybody else?”

Her hold on him tightens even further if possible. She sounds like a petulant child when she whines her refusal. He can imagine, and feel, her pout.

He tries to untangle himself from her, but she looks so offended by his actions that he feels the need to explain himself. “I need to wet these rags again, and you need to eat some breakfast so you can take your antipyretics.”

She opens her mouth to say something, another refusal going by her displeased expression, but he jumps from the bed before she can tempt her more.

He goes to the bathroom first, thinking maybe some cool water would do him good too. She is already asleep by the time he comes back, hand reaching out to where he once laid on the bed. He places the damp clothes on her forehead with a grin, letting it take over his face while she is not able to see it. The pills he found when he rummaged through her medicine cabinet are put on her nightstand, waiting for his arrival with some food.

Preparing some eggs and toast helps him gather himself a little more, the habitual routine putting his brain on autopilot. The morning feels like something out of James’ dreams with Lily cuddling him in the bed and him making her breakfast, he finds it necessary to remind himself the true nature of the situation as he fills a glass of water for her.

She is awake when he enters the room, following his motions silently as he puts the plate on her side too. He is just about to sit on the chair by her bedside when she stops him with a hand on his arm.

“I promise I’ll eat something in a minute. Can you just… come back to bed? Please?”

His will already weakened since he woke up, he finds that it crumbles completely when he hears her voice so weak, tone so pleading. He lays down on his previous place without saying anything, her head finding his shoulder immediately.

A small hand traces patterns on his chest, nails tickling the heart underneath with every swoop. They could probably live in that relaxed bubble forever if the question nagging inside him just hadn’t popped out unexpectedly.

“Why did you call me yesterday, Lily?”

The finger drawing flowers, stars, and initials never stops its movement. “Because I had a high fever, and I didn’t want to go to the ER.”

“No. I mean, why did you call me?”

He holds his breath in anticipation of her answer, and she stills momentarily too before shaking out of her stupor. “I wanted to be with you.” Her voice sounds so small. “I always want to be with you, you know that.”

There is relief ballooning inside him with her words, mixed with something he dares not name. He hums softly as a response, neither denying nor confirming her assumption.

“We can stay in bed for one more minute, then I’m gonna make you eat that breakfast, Evans.”

“Two, because you just took advantage of a sick person’s honesty and I deserve it.”

“Deal.”

He’ll let her pretend like he won’t do anything she asks for. They both know it’s a lie anyway.

[extremelyblackandwhite]

ascendance - 04

PAIRING: mob!bucky barnes x reader

WARNINGS: abduction, age gap (reader is 23, bucky is 37)

A/N: hello!! i hope you enjoy this new chapter as i dive more into bucky’s past. italics in this work symbolise a flashback in case anyone’s confused. hope you enjoy it xx

> NEXT CHAPTER | MASTERLIST

The entrance hall of the Barnes household was pilled up with people. Between his mum barking orders left to right and caterers bringing food in and out, the once silent room turned into a busy crossroads which meant James had retreated back to his room. He was sat down in his bed, cashmere black suit on and hair pushed back, Dead Souls opened on top his legs. He was lost in between the small black letters printed on the yellowing paper, so lost that the sound of his window opening went by him until a loud thump woke him up from his literary daze. Bucky looked up to see his younger sister, sat on the floor of his bedroom by the window with her dress partially on and hair messy due to the windy weather outside. He sighed, closing his book and putting it off to the side.

    - Can’t you climb into your own bedroom? - Bucky got up from bed, leaning down to help her back onto her feet.

    - Yours is closer. - she brushed the dirt off her baby pink dress picked by their mother. - Shouldn’t you be downstairs?

    - Shouldn’t you be in your bedroom? 

    - Touche. - she pointed. - Can you not tell mum? She’ll freak out if she discovers that I went out on dad’s big day. 

    - Go on, I’ll keep mum occupied while you sort out that bird’s nest hair. 

    - Thank you! - she smiled, giving him a short hug. - What am I gonna do when you go to Princeton? Who’s gonna cover for me?

    - I guess you’ll just have to form an alliance with the maids.

Y/N and Bucky were silent, barely speaking to each other if even looking into each other’s eyes. She merely remained there in her operatic costume, the corset doing the best of jobs at enhancing her female features and almost making her look like a femme fatale out of a classical movie in rich red and green fabrics decorated with what he guessed where heavy metal gold pieces resembling precious jewels and golden rings. He did not know which production they were putting on, he hadn’t even heard her sing before but she looked like she belonged in that stage, like she would have been showered in praise the moment the spotlight grazed her. 

She paced around the living room not exactly sure what to do, the beads which made up her skirt and would suddenly peak to show her legs making a slight rustling noise as her eyes studied the book shelf which was filled with tons and tons of books from the classics to mere economy books. Maybe she could read them whenever the tension between of them wasn’t so apparent. She couldn’t help but sometimes look at the badly fixed window and wonder if she could make it, maybe when he wasn’t looking, maybe when he was sleeping yet looking at him; tall, muscular, fast, definetely much stronger than her, she knew that even if she managed to get outside, he would easily get her back. Her mind battled her positive side as she wondered if this was it, if this was home now. Suddenly, her old flat no longer seemed old and she would give everything away if only she could go back, back to being told to do errands that really did not concern her, to stepping on bobby pins laid on the ground, to way too strong makeup which looked ridiculous in proper daylight. She would give everything, if she could go back to what her life had been. 

The man whose name he hadn’t even dignified himself to tell her yet was sat on one of the high chairs by the kitchen with his eyes trained on her. She briskly turned around, arms crossed under her chest with an almost child like pout of someone who had just been punished. In reality, I’m the one who’s being punished here, he thought to himself.

     - You could tell me your name. - she said, not looking into his eyes, instead rubbing her worn out ballet shoes against his hard floor. 

     - You don’t need to know my name. - he was quiet yet imposing. Y/N could not deny he seemed to have a strong presence despite barely raising his voice. It was almost magnetic as if he was made to be looked at, yet she felt he didn’t want to be seen. 

     - What if I need to call out for you? 

     - I would know. There’s no one else here, is it?

Y/N did not reply to this, instead rolling her eyes and sitting down on the couch. There was not much to do in the small one bedroom apartment other than pace around, eat and watch television. Her hand flew over to the remote, pointing it at the TV to turn it on which opened on the news channel. She guessed this was the way she had of now knowing what was happening outside the four walls she was being held captive in. There wasn’t much happening and even if it was, all the local news could talk about was about the upcoming mayoral election. It was a circus with advertisements and rumours flying around about each and every candidate and while it was almost painfully enjoyable to see men over thirty acting like gossip mean girls in school, everyone knew who was gonna win. 

She’d always been told that behind every great man, there’s a great woman and in this particular election it couldn’t be anymore true. The favourite candidate to win, Robert Moore, also known as Bobbie, was married to an senator’s daughter but not just any senator, Senator Barnes. She was too young to remember his policies or even his public persona, yet from what she knew, he had been a very well liked and well respected Senator, coming from a prominent family and building an even more prominent family. Being married to Rebecca Barnes, now Rebecca Barnes-Moore, was a one way ticket to a good career in politics. The two stood in the television screen, side by side in an almost JFK and Jackie Kennedy fashion with sunny smiles looking like the picture perfect Americana couple. It seemed all his ads showed him, his wife and their new born baby. High school sweethearts, it seemed.

    - Are you gonna watch that the whole day? - she turned her head around, looking at his annoyed expression, whiskey glass in hand. 

    - They look good together. 

    - It’s a circus. - he snickered, sitting by her side. 

    - What are you? An anarchist? - those words flew out of her mouth without any filter, mostly out of nuisance. - Her father was a great politician and he is young and likeable.  

     - Young and likeable ... sounds like great political traits. 

     - What do you know about politics?

     - What do you know about politics? Do they have a crash course in politics at whatever company you were in? 

She rolled her eyes, turning the volume up to listen to the broadcaster tell the love story of the future mayor and his wife. Her face softened as she heard what was probably a highly modified version of the actual truth yet she couldn’t help but slightly smile at the idea of it. They seemed in love and as someone who had a degree in pretending to be in love while singing, it warmed her heart to see it. She liked that idea, the idea of Ms and Mrs Americana, the idea of having someone to lean in. Well, she liked the idea of someone. Sure, maybe the man whose name she still didn’t know and was starting to believe was never going to learn was right, it was a circus, all elections are but she couldn’t help but be pulled by the myth of it, by the we against the world mentality no matter how morally wrong it was. 

She continued to watch the coverage of the election run as the man next to her got up from the couch to pick up a phone call. Her hearing slightly moved towards what he was doing, mind always thinking of escaping but even though he was talking on the phone, his gaze was trained of her as if she were his prey. He mumbled something on the phone before turning it off and moving his eyes to text someone yet after that his eyes were on her once more. 

    - Try not to escape for the next hour.

    - Do you have a nameless anarchy convention to attend?

    - Billy is coming to watch over you. No funny business. 

    - Will. - she corrected him. - He doesn’t like being called Billy. 

    - As long as you don’t pull a mission impossible on him, I will call him whatever you want. 

Will didn’t take long to arrive, dressed in a tennis-like outfit as if he had been pulled away from tennis which sounded like something he’d do. Bucky exchanged a few words with him before leaving the two of them together. He trusted Billy, or Will, was smart enough not to let her escape or run away. God, he didn’t even want to think about what John would do to him if she escaped, much less what he would do to her if she escaped. He made his drive to John’s condo in fifth avenue, parking his bike somewhere before making his way up. The condo was always weirdly filled with chatter talk yet he could see no people, it was as if the ghosts of the people he had taken out followed him in his own home and Bucky couldn’t say he pitied him. After all, he had his own ghosts too. 

He looked into John’s office where he was sat in the couch, the coverage of the election run on the television on low volume. John’s eyes immediately found Bucky’s figure looming at the entrance, never really entering, just standing behind the line which separated the hall from the office. 

     - How’s the roomie? - he motioned his hand for him to come in. - Still pretty?

     - What do you need?

     - I just got an invitation to a fundraiser. Zemo’s going so I want you to go. 

     - I can’t, I have her to watch over Y/N. She’s not very keen on remaining in the flat.

    - Chain her up for all I care. It’s in two weeks and I’ll be damned if I’m there by myself with Zemo. Besides it’s your sister’s fundraiser, I always love to see Rebecca. 

    - She’s not gonna be there. - his jaw locked. - A fundraiser for the mob? It’s mostly free alcohol and networking with them not showing up. 

    - Maybe you should bring your roomie. She’s pretty and if anything I’m sure she can sing and if not maybe she can entertain in another form. 

    - The NYPD is probably looking for her, it’s not wise ...

    - Do you make the rules? - John interrupted him, leaning against the couch with arms crossed. - You seem to have forgotten who makes the rules, soldat. 

    - I just don’t think ...

    - You don’t think. - he interrupted him once more. - This election is important and since I do not have the right person here to get ahead, I will make do with what we have. I don’t give a fuck about what you do when you’re at your flat but she is mine. She is my get out of jail card. Are we clear, soldat?

    - Yes. 

    - You can go now. - he dismissed him. Bucky turned around, eyes open wide yet emotionless face as if he were disconnected from his own consciousness. He guessed it was for the best to remain disconnected, to not know what was going on.

He drove himself back home, standing alone at night looking at his flat; the window still broken while the lights were flickering. He thought about running off, starting his bike and running off into the night and just drive until the tank was empty but he couldn’t. He had strings, strings which kept him tied to where he was right now. He guessed that now she was another string keeping him here. 

Bucky sighed as he walked back to his flat, opening the door to a rather serene sight. Will was by the kitchen watching the football game while Y/N was laid across the couch, book in hand which he recognised as one of his old ones. Her hair was different, she probably had taken off her wig and for the first time since those few minutes in the costume room. It looked soft, framing her face and getting in front of her eyes as she herself got lost in the room. Will excused himself, leaving just as he noticed Bucky before he could be yelled at by using his television. Yet again, Y/N and Bucky were alone in that small flat. She looked up from the book and at him before returning to read.

He left her with the book, walking to his bedroom which was probably now more hers than his to grab one of trousers and hoodies before returning back to the living room. Still reading. At least she wasn’t trying to break any more windows. He put the hoodie and trousers by her side, turning off the television as more screams for the football match came through. 

   - You can change into those. - he pointed at the clothing, getting her attention as she closed the book. - Those beads can’t be comfortable. 

   - Oh 

   - The bathroom’s there. - he pointed at one of the few doors in the flat. - You can shower too, there’s towels. 

   - Thank you. - she grabbed the things he had put out for her before leaving him in the living room by himself.

And then it was just him once more, alone, tied to this city which screamed everyone’s name but his.

TAGLIST: @lookiamtrying​ @buckyswillows​ @blossomslibrary​ @juliesland​ @iloveshawnieboi​ @unmagically​ @red-head011​ @poisonous00​ 

[queernuck]

The Cleveland Browns made the playoffs. The Islanders made the Eastern Conference Finals.

And that’s enough for me.

So long, so long I have been living like this, pretending that I want to keep on living, that life feels worthwhile, that I don’t want to kill myself. Suicide is for cowards but ive been chickening out for a whole decade, to the point where getting on the subway was itself something that involved convincing myself not to jump in front of it. I remember once while working in the city, I watched and waited as two trains came in and left, trying to get the energy to jump in front of them. I had decided, if I couldn’t do it by the time a second train came and went, I would go to work and save it for another day. I came very close, my legs tense like a linebacker on 4th & Goal, but I didn’t do it. Maybe it would be better if I had, I would have saved not only myself but a lot of other people a lot of pain and suffering. I’ve been dealing with feeling suicidal for a decade, an entire ten years, and made it through. And for what? I lost a retail job at minimum wage, I’ve seen the Giants go from two-time Super Bowl kingslayers to a team that relied on the Eagles for a playoff berth, I got to see Evangelion only for the final Rebuild film to be infinitely delayed, I have a useless non-degree that allows me to eloquently describe how the Democrats and Republicans alike are driving this stolen land to Fascism while sycophants tell me Vote Blue No Matter Who. I’m so tired, I’m not even the person people think me to be, since if I were, I wouldn’t be in this mess.

My paychecks, as hard-earned as they were, never seemed to be mine in any real sense, and it made me so frustrated that something in me broke at the beginning of this year. I made some mistakes, some very stupid ones, and got myself fired. I took money from and distorted the inventory of my store to get what amounted to pocket money, less than two paychecks. I was tempted because I feel so powerless, so much like nothing I could ever say or do matters, and so I decided to lash out against a place that mattered to me, against people I cared about deeply. Chain stores, corporations, all of those things are not really high on my list of things to care about. Barnes & Noble pushed out local booksellers years ago, an irony not lost on me whenever our own competition with Amazon was made apparent. We were reaping what we had sown. But what always interested on top of this irony was how symbolic these things could be to people, how much we figured into so may memories for so many. The Manga Aisle at Barnes & Noble is a staple of 2006 scene culture, a way that kids without the pocket money to afford the newest volume of Bleach it Naruto could keep up before scams became widely available. How the store was a place where people studying for standardized tests could use the test prep guides to try and get ready for the eugenic ritual of the standardized test. And just how much a chain bookstore became a substitute, socially, for the now-absent local bookstore. We bear the guilt for that, but at the same time we were still selling books, giving people a place to get coffee and sit and read and talk, in ways that libraries may not be able to. We certainly can never replace a library, given just what a library does for people. But we did do a lot of good all the same. Before it closed, some of my fondest memories came when I was the exact sort of annoying teenage customer I grew to hate, hanging out at the Columbus Circle Borders. Working at Barnes & Noble was tiring, dehumanizing, difficult, made me feel like I would never measure up to the authors we sold, the people books were written about, that I was a failure. And I am, as my death shows. But it also made me a part of something I was proud of. And that Above & Beyond pin I earned is in my jacket still, a reminder of something.

That something was shown in so many of the coworkers I had, who were incredible in so many ways. I feel awful for what I did, I genuinely do, because of how it may have hurt people who thought so kindly of me, people who deserve so much good. I wish I had the ability to address each of them individually but this decision was hastily made, and i have a feeling it will show in the things I miss in this note. Audra, your help in finding me a way to use the company policies to my advantage as a worker was something that gave me faith even after having seen the despicable firings and cuts the company went through. Linda, I can’t quite square the circle here given my actions, but I want to say your disappointment broke my heart and that while I will not be the one who shows it, your reassurance that everyone makes mistakes was welcome.

To my (former) fellow booksellers at Store 2216, all of my love and my sincerest apologies. You all have so much good in you, your willingness to listen to my ADHD-fueled rants and to discuss so many things with an incredible frankness was always impressive, in addition to part of what I loved about all of you. I want you all to be happy, and the kinship I felt with you was a vital part of what kept me going. It was tough, as you all know. But at times, it almost felt worth it.

The same is true of my CTY friends: it was a weird, magical place that frankly, a lot of us idealized for far too long and which sk many of us eventually outgrew without being able to let go of. And that was tough, that was something we had a great deal of difficulty understanding, that what helped us once was not always going to be helping us, was not always what we needed. But in eventually finding that, we found solace, we realized how life as a whole functions and just what it is that we can take from places like it.

To my other family, my Cleo family, I know I haven’t been terribly active lately, but I can never, ever thank you enough for the belonging you gave me. I have never felt anywhere as welcoming as Cleo. As warm as Cleo (even as we struggled to pay for the oil bill) was. As kind and understanding. As tolerant. As questioning and inquisitive into what that tolerance meant to us. I am thankful, eternally, for what you all did for me. The incredible experiences I had as a Cleo make me proud of what the organization can represent, and one of my dying wishes is that the organization continues to reach out to marginalized communities on Trinity’s campus. There is much work to be done in making sure abusers cannot hide in our family, but I trust you all to do that work. Tucker Carlson is a Trinity grad and we must embody the opposite of what he stands for, no matter how difficult it may be. I could go on about how this means opposing liberals and Liberalism/Neo—Liberalism due to the truth of tolerance resulting in a Popper-esque Paradox of Tolerance that implies Popper is a worthwhile philosopher, but that’s another issue.

To my friends on that Blue Hellsite, tumblr, you made a continual presence worth it, even with all of the bullshit this place brings. It’s the reason I read so much Foucault, Derrida, Deleuze & Guattari, read Žižek against himself, and so on and so on, and the value of that to me can never be overstated. I learned so much from the ways in which I learned to analyze the world, and that in turn became a huge inspiration for why I should try to do what I could to make the world closer to a place of revolution, one where we could perhaps eke out a living for one another. I loved how much I could be an unrepentant nerd and still love hockey on there, and while the

NHL fans on tumblr are incredibly annoying,

I can deal with that compared to the racism of most hockey fans.

Mom, Dad? I just couldn’t live with you any longer. I’m so sorry.

Grandma, I love you.

And the things I leave behind? Donate what can be donated. Hats, please auction, or at least offer to other HatHeads at a reasonable price. I had some nice ones. As for assorted albums, clothing, and other things, sell them and donate to a Harm Reduction organization, or organizations that advocate for PWUD in a radical fashion. WE DESERVE AUTONOMY!

I am a victim of the War on Drugs. Sobriety was always hellish to me, and I could never take it. I want people to be able to live how they want, to see sobriety and being on drugs as equally valuable states, to see the two as no different from one another.

Abolish all gun laws

End the War on Terror

Decriminalize and legalize all drugs, sobriety is what killed me.

I love all of you.

LET’S GO ISLANDERS!

[hologramcowboy]

https://www.tumblr.com/hologramcowboy/704906462083858432/hi-idk-if-this-is-weird-but-i-saw-you-mentioned?source=share

//Post pictures of your ideal body in places you can easily see them. This includes your phone or laptop/pc wallpaper.

Move the treats and sweets some place where they are complicated to reach.//

I just need to comment, and I am trying to be respectful here, but these two pieces are really kind of... bad advice. I would NEVER recommend people post pictures of their "ideal bodies". That is very toxic and can have negative and devastating effects. Most people have unrealistic expectations and not being able to ever reach their "ideal body" can lead to anxiety, depression, among other issues and most damaging - eating disorders. If you are constantly confronted by this "ideal body" on your phone, around your house, etc. that you can never reach? That can have long lasting effects on mental health. Everybody can't have every body. It's just not realistic. And I speak from not just personal experience, but from having friends, family, acquaintances that have gone through the same or very similar things (plus a psych degree but this was not my area of specialty so I don't pretend like I am an authority). While anon who sent the ask seems to have realistic expectations and isn't looking to lose weight specifically, they are not the only one reading your response. At a young age when I was in the best shape I will probably ever be in in my life I started this. I cut out pics of the "ideal body" I wanted, I saved them in a notebook for reference. I started dieting and exercising to try and reach that goal. I never could (I was a size 3 and very active and still never could). Then my eating disorders started shortly after. This was all in high school. 20+ years later I have done so much damage to my body I will probably never know the extent of it. It is a very quick and slippery slope from "this is what I want to look like" to depression and disordered eating. I know my case is not universal, but it is also far more common than people want to admit. My best friend growing up, and at that time when this was all starting, actually was going through the same thing at the same time and I didn't know. I found out a few years later that we both had been struggling through the same thing but that's a longer story for another time. The point is, you should work out for your own mental and physical health, not to get an "ideal body" because you will never reach that goal and you will never be happy with it. If you work out for health benefits then the aesthetic changes are just an added bonus. It's also more sustainable when you aren't trying to work out simply to look a certain way. When you are doing it all for looks then you tend to get much more easily discouraged and many even give up (or go to extremes mentioned above). This was a hard learned lesson.

And about the food comment - first of all, no food is inherently "good" or "bad", we assign them those designations and stigmatize food which is also very detrimental. Yes some foods are more nutrient dense and healthier/better for you but eating a fast food burger is better than eating nothing. In fact, there are studies that show that the way we perceive our food effects the way our bodies respond to those foods (specifically ghrelin aka the hunger hormone - just look up the "mind over milkshakes" experiment, here is a very simplified overview of it here but you can find longer more detailed reviews with more thorough explanations of the results). So labeling foods as "bad" can actually be more detrimental. And removing certain foods you love or enjoy actually tends to have the opposite effect. You then become out of control with those foods. For example, if you like ice cream but never let yourself eat it or keep it in the house because its "bad" then when you do finally have some you feel completely out of control with it and often overeat. Which can start a negative cycle of negativity towards yourself for "lack of self-control" when in reality, its the overabundance of control around food that causes that behavior. When I finally quit dieting I had this problem with so many foods that I never allowed myself. And in order to reverse this you just have to let yourself eat all the foods until they are no longer an issue. Now I always have ice cream in the house and I know I can eat it whenever I want. But you know what? I rarely do. So yes, "hiding bad foods" may seem like a good idea in the short term, it can actually make the way you handle and interact with those foods much worse in the future.

For anyone who wants more info on any of this there is a great and really entertaining book about it - it includes the milkshake study, The Minnesota Starvation Experiment, personal info, medical info, why you feel "addicted" to certain foods, etc. and it's honestly a funny read - its called "The F*ck It Diet" [website]

And this was not an accusation towards you, I find that many people don't realize or understand the impact that suggestions like these make. And as someone who struggled for 20+ years and only finally made it through about 1-2 years ago (I still struggle daily) I have a hard time biting my tongue when I read things like this. I WISH someone had said all these things to me back when it started. I wish I never tried to emulate a certain body type. I wish I realized that working out and eating for health and happiness will always be better than working out to obtain a certain body. Educating myself on nutrition, diet culture, exercise techniques, etc. has been so helpful and I wish I had all this info when young me thought if I just skipped the ice cream, if I just worked out for another hour, if I JUST ___ then I would be happy. My best advice if you want to start working out - explore your options, see what types of workouts you like and what you hate. The best workout you can do is the one you enjoy because its the one you are actually going to do. And I agree, start small. Don't overdo it out of the gate. Start trying new things and see what works for you and your body. For example I can't run because I have a bad knee but I love to take long walks. I also enjoy strength training but yoga is really not my jam. Finding what you like is honestly the best first step.

Sorry for the rant (and I hope it didn't feel like a lecture), its just something that I am very invested in and passionate about and don't want to see people go down the road I went.

@ anon thank you for pointing that out but I feel I must inform you that I never used the word bad in association to food within my post. Plus the advice I gave was also advice I got from my ex trainer. Putting away treats helps avoid overeating, notice I never mentioned you shouldn't indulge or ever labeled any food as bad. I've added a clarification to that suggestion since it seems you assumed something intensely toxic based on a simple suggestion of making treats harder to reach.

The idea behind that is making them difficult to reach will have you think twice on whether you truly need to have that treat or not. If you leave sweets readily available they can become an environmental cue and you're more likely to over eat.

Over eating sweets and less than ideal foods can cause health issues over time, needless to say so I disagree with you, I think the way you set up the kitchen is highly important as you can either create a harmonious, healthy environment or you can so create an environment where over eating and consuming unhealthy foods comes much easier. Again food affects your body directly so I think placing things carefully is important. This doesn't mean denying yourself things, it means focusing on being balanced.

If, for example, you consume a lot of Coca Cola and similar drinks don't expect to lose weight or have an improvement in health. You can absolutely enjoy it but in a balanced way to avoid damaging your health and packing on a lot of weight very fast.

Not to mention sugar in general is extremely damaging to health, there's a reason professionals recommend consuming it very little.

As for the priming part, I've also amended that though I never said people should compare their bodies or anything like that, that's toxic. I said use images to prompt your mind to remember to exercise but I suppose I did fail to add details so I've added a little explanation with that. Priming pertains to NLP and is far from toxic. But you're right, if someone approaches weight loss in a highly toxic way they can absolutely use images to their detriment just as they can use any specific weight loss aspect to their detriment and create a self sabotage circle. This is why it's important to approach weight loss only after fully accepting and loving your body as it is. Dieting doesn't work because the focus isn't on increasing well being, it's on making your current body wrong and fighting that. Whereas the anon had a very healthy approach, they appreciate their body as it is and only want to get fitter, they are looking to enhance their wellbeing.

Also, there's absolutely nothing wrong with setting goals as long as they are realistic and as long as the focus is on wellbeing.

Seems like you had a lot of hardship regarding weight loss so I appreciate you sharing your perspective as I am sure a lot of people can relate.

As for eating disorders, it's important to investigate the mother-daughter link first and foremost as those issues stem from trauma within that bond.

Sorry if I made no sense but I couldn't sleep last night and I am fairly tired this morning. 😴

[entitynumber5]

omg Hannah!! if you feel so inclined, maybe "things you said when you were crying" for jonmartin? no pressure tho ily

aaaahhh thank you so much for this prompt, friend!!!!! i’m sorry it’s been a while!!! i really hope you like this!!!! ily <3

Content warnings: illness (they both have the flu), depressive episode (mentioned), Martin’s mother (mentioned), the Lonely, disassociation, swearing, compulsive behaviour, self-depreciation. 

things you said when you were crying

Perhaps it’s testament to how wonderfully mundane their lives have become, that Jon’s first thought when he wakes is: Martin’s doing the god damn laundry. 

It’s not an unreasonable assumption. Martin had spent the annual leave he’d taken to align with Jon’s reading week nursing Jon through a nasty bout of flu. During the three worst days, when Jon was barely conscious, he hadn’t seen Martin sleep or eat or leave their bedroom except to linger by the landline—a sign perhaps that Martin had caught what Jon had earlier than he’d let on, since they rarely used the relic—and debate calling the out of hours service. Jon had just about weathered the worst of it when Martin was properly struck down, requiring another week and a half and counting off work. Of course, that didn’t stop Martin’s restlessness even as the flu drained everything from him. He would lie on their bed, pale and panting, barely awake, bordering delirious—and still mumble to Jon that he’d do the laundry in a minute, don’t worry, I’ll get it done soon, I’m sorry it’s such a mess, I’m sorry. 

So Jon doesn’t mean to be angry, when he wakes up to an empty bed after an evening of Martin’s temperature finally staying below 38. It’s not even Martin he’s angry at, not truly.

Perhaps their lives aren’t mundane after all. Is it mundane not to be able to leave an overflowing laundry basket eleven days into the flu? Jon doesn’t know, or Know, but he has two theories: 1) Martin’s mother, the spectre to his half-formed anger. And 2) the state he recalls finding Martin’s flat in after leaving the Lonely, but before they’d set off for Scotland, and how neither of them had said it but Jon recognised well enough what a depressive episode looked like.

Jon reaches for his cane, folded and ready against the bedside table, and gently leverages himself up so he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. The change in elevation makes him dizzy, and he lets the cane ground him, digging into the carpet between his feet, as he breathes. It’s been nearly a week since he’s had a fever, but the flu has caused a flare-up of his pain and fatigue. His department are letting him teach remotely through the rest of November. Martin’s boss had been sympathetic too, when Jon phoned in for him, although there’s not much a paramedic can do from afar and Martin is insistent he’ll be back by the end of the week. In four days. Jon rolls his eyes pre-emptively at the conversations he knows he will have with Martin about who had it “worse”, as if it matters. 

After the static has cleared from his vision—always an uncomfortable comparison, and he shoves down the panic that bubbles inside of him at the thought, because Martin needs him—Jon stands. He goes through the same process, leaning on his cane, breathing, waiting, until he feels steady enough to make his way into the kitchen. 

“What are you doing?” Jon asks from the kitchen doorway, unable to keep the disapproval from his voice, when he finds Martin crouched in front of the washing machine.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Martin shoots back. The sarcasm of his reply is lessened significantly by how out of breath he sounds, and the way he’s clinging to the countertop above the washing machine with one hand while the other is splayed against the tiled floor like a shaky tripod—a pose that hints at an attempt to stand, aborted halfway through.

Jon sighs, biting back an unkind retort: exactly the opposite of what you should be doing. He allows himself to think it without trying to push it away in sudden, desperate shame, like he’s been practicing with his therapist, until it no longer sits so bitterly on his tongue. 

“Come back to bed, Martin,” Jon murmurs, “Please.” 

Martin sighs too. It sounds stuffy, almost crackling with the way the flu still clings to his lungs and throat. “I—I’m not sure that I... can.”

Jon opens his mouth to speak, but Martin interrupts: “I know, I know, I shouldn’t be—and my fever’s probably up again and—and I—”

“Martin,” Jon cuts in, as gently as he can. 

“Fine. Fine. This can wait to go out on the—” Still breathless, still barrelling through his justifications, Martin uses the hand on the countertop to pull himself upwards.

It goes terribly. Jon isn’t sure what forces are at work—gravity, exhaustion, pure bad luck, all of the above—but Martin is barely up for a moment before his legs fold, and he’s down again. Jon can’t move fast enough to stop Martin corkscrewing in an odd, 180-degree motion so that he all but ducks beneath his own arm, twisting it in his socket in an attempt to continue clinging to the counter, and knocks his spine against the harsh, circular face of the washing machine with a resounding thud.

“Fuck. Ow,” Martin groans, his voice slurring slightly, “Tha’s embarrassing.”

Jon tries to follow Martin, to kneel beside him on the tiles, but Martin snaps: “No! No, Jon, p-please don’t. You’ll hurt yourself.”

Jon hovers, one hand fluttering uselessly near Martin’s hair while he clings to his cane with the other. Martin breathes, and breathes, and breathes—the sound heavy and laboured in a way that breaks Jon’s heart. It takes some time for him to steady himself, and then lean almost imperceptibly towards Jon. Jon lets his fingers brush through Martin’s hair, not caring, in the moment, that neither of them had showered for what feels like weeks. When the knuckle of his forefinger brushes across Martin’s temple, down his cheek, Jon feels the heat sitting on his skin again, the climbing fever.

“Oh, Martin,” Jon murmurs. 

“I hate this,” Martin says, his voice quiet and sharp and bitter.

“I know,” Jon soothes, brushing his knuckle once again over Martin’s flushed cheek. “I know.”

Martin closes his eyes and leans his head again Jon’s knee. It’s the sort of exhausted display of love and trust that Martin rarely allows himself, unless he’s feeling truly unwell. Jon places his hand on the crown of Martin’s head and leans on his cane and waits for Martin to be ready once again to talk or rest. 

Until very quietly, Martin begins to cry. 

“Oh,” Jon murmurs, almost to himself. 

Martin’s breath trembles, in what Jon knows is an attempt to hold back the tears, to pretend it’s nothing. He hides his face from Jon when he cries, even now, after all this time. A long-learned shame that always finds its way back into their house, no matter how many times they’ve turned it out and barricaded the doors. 

“Martin,” Jon says, quiet but firm, “Please come back to bed.”

There is a long, breath-held moment when Jon thinks Martin is going to refuse, to insist. So painfully stubborn, his husband. Jon braces himself for it. But Martin just nods ever so slightly against the soft plaid fabric of Jon’s pyjama bottoms.

It takes some time, and a great deal of false starts, to get Martin back on his feet. He’s wearing fluffy socks—Jon remembers putting them on for him, when he’d been shivering even in his sleep—that slide on the kitchen tiles, and Jon’s fighting against his own dizziness, which comes and goes in waves when he changes position, to lend Martin purchase. At last, they’re both standing. And although it likely doesn’t help much, Martin lets Jon slide his arm around Martin’s back as he guides them towards the bedroom. 

The bedside lamp is on its dullest setting on account of Martin’s persistent illness, and there are blankets and tissues and medicines thrown at random intervals around the room. Jon leads Martin towards the bed, not letting him stop to correct the mess, to try and restore some order to it. If this is how their lives have to be for the next few days—or weeks—so be it. Jon won’t sacrifice Martin’s recovery for this.

“Sit down,” Jon tells Martin, right before Martin gracelessly throws himself onto the edge of the mattress, listing towards the—thankfully padded—headrest.

Martin is still crying, but in that slow, distant way that makes something deep in Jon ache. It’s almost like the tears don’t belong to Martin. Like he is crying them on behalf of someone else. He stares across the room, half sprawled on the bed with his socked feet languid against the carpet, as the tears fall uninhibited down his face.

Carefully, Jon leans down just enough to pick up Martin’s legs, one at a time, and lift them onto the bed. He’s out of breath by the time he’s managed to get Martin lying down fully, still leaning against the headboard and staring vaguely at the wall opposite the bed. There is a picture hanging there, of them both outside the courthouse where they’d gotten married, but Martin seems to be staring through it.

“I’ll be right back,” Jon promises. He doesn’t know if he’s reassured or terrified that Martin simply lets him leave, barely reacting beyond the briefest twitch of an expression.

In the bathroom, Jon fills up a pint glass of water and wets a soft green flannel beneath the tap. He takes a moment to breathe, to drink some water as well, to swallow some ibuprofen for his aching joints, before he carries his small gifts back into the bedroom.

Martin is exactly where Jon left him. Jon sits next to him on the bed, and when Jon hands him the large glass of water, Matin takes it instinctively. But he doesn’t drink from it, holding it in his hands as if it is yet another thing that doesn’t belong to him, that he will carry unflinchingly for the time being—like the tears. Like the pain.

“Please drink the water, love,” Jon says. He touches one of his hands to Martin’s, where he’s holding the glass, and Martin’s eyes flicker briefly to his. Jon nods in encouragement.

With trembling hands, both closed around the large glass, Martin lifts the water to his lips and drinks. He doesn’t manage much—a few sips before his mouth tightens with nausea, and he has to lower the glass and breathe. But it’s a start.

“That’s good, Martin,” Jon soothes, as he takes the glass from Martin’s hands and places it on their bedside table. “Do you want to lie down?”

“Jon,” Martin tries to say.

“Shh. It’s alright. Lie down, just like that, that’s it.”

Martin reclines against the pillow, restlessness warring against exhaustion, until he looks almost settled. Jon tugs the blanket from the end of the bed and covers Martin with it, smoothing down the edges with extra care. Martin watches him, turned slightly on his side so he can look up at where Jon is still half-sitting against the headboard.

“I hate this,” Martin chokes, and blinks fresh tears down his cheeks. “I feel like—like everything is wrong.”

“In what way?” Jon asks gently, keeping his eyes on Martin as he reaches for the wet flannel sitting on the bedside table next to the three-quarters full glass of water.

Martin closes his eyes. “I’m so—I’m so tired, Jon.”

Jon lowers the flannel to Martin’s face, wiping first beneath his eyes, where some of the tears have collected and soaked into the begging of his laughter lines. “I know.”

Martin’s face crumples with something like grief. “That’s just it, though. This is—it’s nothing. Nothing compared to—to what you... And I’m just—making more of it than it needs.”

“Martin.”

“This isn’t—before, with Mum, I’d just—I’d keep going because—”

Martin frowns, sentence finishing abruptly. Jon pushes down the urge to correct, to intervene, and instead, with every ounce of patience and love he feels for Martin in this moment, continues to draw the flannel over the planes of his warm, weary face.

“I can’t stop,” Martin whispers at last, opening his eyes. “If I stop, then I’ll—I won’t ever start again. Like with the—the Lonely. Every time you reached out, I knew if I just stopped even for a moment, I wouldn’t be able to go back, and it would all fall apart. I’m not meant to stop. I can’t. I’m not resilient or, or the kind of person who can get knocked down and get back up again. It’s just—it’s keep going or...”

Jon drags the flannel along Martin’s jaw, down his throat, wiping away the remaining tears where they mingle with fever sweat. He focuses entirely on his task, a perfect excuse to carefully consider his next words. A separate part of his mind is processing that his theories had been right, in some way, and how he aches for Martin—the predictability of it doesn’t ease the pain. But Martin needs something other than that right now.

“Martin.” Jon starts, of course, at the beginning of all things. With love. With a reason. “There are moments in life when sometimes we need to stop. Think about it like... like an orchestra. In an orchestra, there are times where an instrument, or even an entire segment, will be given a break within the music or by the conductor—because it’s needed and it’s necessary. The performance is better for it. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

Martin blinks up at Jon, slow and exhausted but comprehending. Jon continues his task, wiping the cloth across Martin’s forehead now.

“You are the most resilient person I know, Martin. I would be lying to you—and I think you know that—if I said I’d never seen you get knocked down. But I have watched you get back up again and again and again,” Jon continues. “If this time, it takes a little longer—if this time, you’re not sure when you can begin again—that’s alright. You deserve rest. You have nothing to prove, except perhaps that you can stop—or pause, if it’s easier to think of it that way—and the world won’t collapse around you.” Jon removes the flannel from Martin’s forehead and replaces it with a gentle kiss. “I won’t let it.” 

Jon lets his lips linger before he lowers his head onto the pillows to face Martin. Martin is still crying, eyes bright with tears and fever both, but there’s something less dejected in his expression. Something less lost.

“I’m sorry,” Martin whispers, “For the crying, and—”

“There’s nothing to apologise for.”

“Not even the laundry?” Martin’s voice is so small, still trembling with tears. But there’s the briefest glimpse of a smile at the corner of his chapped lips.

“Not even the laundry,” Jon agrees, although he puts on a begrudging front.

Martin closes his eyes and leans forward, so that his and Jon’s foreheads are touching in the small gap between their two pillows. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“And I—I want to believe you.”

Jon feels himself smile, and he hopes Martin knows it is all for him. “Thank you.”

Jon knows they will talk about this again. He knows this will be something understood and folded into the fabric of their lives slowly, piece by painful piece. But for now, as he watches Martin’s tears slowly ease, replaced eventually by sleep, and as Jon himself begins to follow, he thinks at the threshold of his dreams that next time might be just a little bit easier. A little bit kinder. And that is always enough.

[l-wannabe-l]

Short Circuit

Chapter 5: New Avenues

Austin gets some distressing news, and a new enemy enters the ring.

Mostly a chapter of these two growing closer. Plus some plot I guess.

The roads thinned out the longer I drove. The Connor’s remained quiet for the most part, Sarah Connor the only one to speak giving me directions to avoid crowded roads. I didn’t need them, and the urge to take actions against her for daring to order me about is strong, but my mission and side objective are too important to risk aggravating the matriarch. She finally stops after one final order to pull into an abandoned garage next to a gas station. The T-800 leaves to open the garage door, the simple lock it has breaks under the sheer strength of the T-800 model. As soon as the car is parked the others climb out. Sarah quickly herds her children as far away from me as the small space will allow. I grant them their ill perceived safety as I walk along the wall on the opposite side. I stop near a door as I receive a message. A message sent by Skynet and received across time and space.

“Mission Failure”

My sudden inaction goes unnoticed by the eldest and youngest Connor but not by Aria.

“Austin, what’s wrong?” A certain lilt to her voice indicative of concern, similar to when she spoke to John and her mother. A concern more likely directed towards them, given the glimmer of fear still present in her eyes when she looks at me.

“Skynet has deemed me defective, my mission has been labeled a failure.” I respond, my voice ringing hollow even to me.

“You said you abandoned your mission. Why are you surprised?” She asks but her calm demeanor indicates she isn’t as surprised as her words make her out to be.

“I lied.” A strange feeling changes my tone without my say. A grave itching sensation as if something is trying to claw its way out from inside me. My teeth grind against themselves.

"So you were still planning to kill me." This time Johns is the one to speak.

"Of course I was!" I don’t have the patience to pretend anymore. Processing the news, and this new feeling takes precedence over keeping up the facade. I turn and walk out the door. Silence will be more beneficial to me than answering any banal questions they might have. The sound of the door opening again alerts me to Aria's presence, I see her just out of my periphery. The light from the gas station showing off the shine in her dark brown hair. She pulls her cardigan closed across her bare midriff. The night had dropped several degrees, she must be feeling the chill that resulted from it.

“You ok?” She asks. I understand this question to be a very common nicety among humans. Oftentimes an honest answer is not at all what the asker desires.

“I’m still in functioning form.”

“That’s… good but not what I meant,” She says, coming to sit next to me on the bench pulling up her legs to hold them close to her, “I mean what are you going to do now that you don’t have a mission anymore?”

“I still have one objective.”

“You do?!”

“I still haven’t been loved by you.” I tell her. She flinches back when I turn to look at her head.

“You were serious about the whole love thing?!”

“I was, still am.” Now without Skynet, the only purpose left to me is the one I assigned myself, “I don’t have any purpose otherwise. I was never meant to return to my time, Skynet would have no need for me anyway.” I tell her bluntly, that fact seems to change that clawing to a weighty bulk. My form sinking under it involuntarily. Aria lets go of herself, letting her feet hit the ground. She leans forward to meet my eyes, a smile just barely on her lips.

“Join the club. Looking for purpose is something every human struggles with.” She says as she stretches her arms upward. Her cardigan falls open to reveal a glimpse of a leather harness carrying a small sidearm. So that's where she got that gun.

“But I am not human.”

“No, but it looks like you’re going to have to learn.” She says as she stands. Most likely intent on rejoining her family but stops as she looks back at me. She lifts her hand, reaching out before pausing.

“Can I?” she asks. I nod. After all, there’s nothing she can do to harm me so what... oh. 

Oh

Slim fingers card through my hair, or what substituted for it. I register the warmth of her palm and the texture of her hand as she musses up the styling before working to smooth it back.

"What are you doing?"

"Oh right, sorry,” She removes her hand removing the warmth but leaving behind another new “feeling” to deal with, “Your second lesson, some people show affection through physical contact. The why and how depends on the situation and the type of relationship. I was... trying to comfort you.”

“Is it always like this, these signs of physical affection?”

“Not exactly, It’s usually only done when people are close to each other.” I stand to be more eye level with her, despite the obvious height difference. As I do I take note of the slim distance between us and her reaction, the dilated pupils that show off more of the forest hue of her eyes, and a slight hitch in her breathing.

“I want to be closer to you.” Her eyes widen at my words, a rosy dusting settles across her cheeks, curious, “How close are you to John?” Aria lets out a breath, body seemingly deflating at my question.

“Oh right, you want to be closer to me like John, my brother.” She remarks seemingly talking more to herself than to me. “I don’t know if there is a clear answer to that other than the fact that he’s my brother. Let’s just head back inside. We can figure the rest out later, Ok?” She looks at me one more time before turning away. I realize that her eyes didn’t show any fear or trepidation when she did. I follow after her back into the garage. When I enter I see the T-800 sitting in front of a mirror fixing up what looks to be a gash wound on his head. Carefully arranging his hair and tissue to conceal it. Sarah Connor stands between him and John who’s busy fiddling with a radio that was obviously taken from the police car.

“What did we miss?” Aria asked after taking in the sight.

“Mom and I cracked open his head,” John answered distractedly. Pointing vaguely in the T-800’s direction, “We reprogrammed him so now he can learn to be less weird.” They must have switched him from ‘Read Only’ to ‘Write’. Aria looks like she’s going to speak but is cut off by her mother who pulls her away to speak privately. It won’t do any good considering my sensors work at a higher capacity than a human’s so I take a seat on a nearby metal chair to listen in.

“Aria, I know I went along with this back at the hospital but if I understand correctly that thing was using a false truce to try and kill John later on?”

“That’s about it. He apparently played his part so well Skynet basically abandoned him because of it.”

“...It just admitted to planning to kill us.”

“Yes but he isn’t gonna now though, and isn’t that good news,” She said, but a tremble in her voice makes the statement sound more like a question. By the silence that follows Sarah Connor obviously doesn’t believe it. Aria lets out a tired sigh, “Mom, you didn’t see him out there, he just looked so... lost,” The admission has me looking over at them just in time to lock eyes with Aria before she quickly turns back to Sarah who isn’t convinced.

“That is still a Terminator.”

“All the more reason to have him here where we can keep tabs on him rather than out there doing who knows what.”

“Having both of those things around is just putting John in danger!”

“He’ll be in danger anyway. Skynet will try again and Austin has the most up to date information. If we turn him away we'll be exposing ourselves to dangerous surprises.” Sarah seems to concede, walking away to retake her place next to John. Who managed to get the radio working. The blank static from the police radio gives way to voices talking quickly about vandalism, murder, theft, more murder, and the missing status of a young girl. Kathrine Brewster.

Across town in the shopping district. A boutique window begins to light up, not by the electrical lights installed but by the streaks of lighting emanating from a silver sphere growing and heating up before bursting and disappearing in a blinding flash. A slim feminine figure is left behind crouching amongst the mannequins. The woman takes a moment to scan her new surroundings before looking at them. She doesn’t find what she’s looking for, the clothing they wear burned beyond repair and recognition. No way to make accurate replications. So she takes to the streets walking along the sidewalk, her long blond hair the only modicum of decency but she continues unbothered. A beep catches her attention; the sound comes from a car being unlocked. The woman who owns it walks quickly unaware of the newcomer or their intentions until she spots them after getting into her car. The woman’s nudity caught her by surprise. 

“Omg,” She whispers to herself in disbelief before the concern sets in, “Are you ok!?” She calls out in an attempt to help but receives no response from the approaching naked woman who is currently scanning her vehicle. While outdated to the mechanical being, it is rather high-end for the time. A good choice of transportation.

“Do you want me to call 911?” The woman tries again, thinking the poor girl in a state of shock or something of the like. The blonde finally faces her, giving a soft smile that doesn't reach her eyes and reaches forward to touch the clothing near her neckline. Fingers splayed and placed methodically to sample each type of fabric.

“I like this car.”

“What?” The woman asks, confused. Her last words before the Terminator quickly swipes her hand away, efficiently slicing her neck. She easily lifts the woman out of the car and drops her onto the pavement. Leaving her there to bleed out. Clothing reminiscent of the dying woman's begin to take shape on her naked form. Detailed down to the hair bun. She lets herself into the car before starting it up and driving off. She helps herself to the woman’s purse pulling out a cell phone, a quick disassembly gives access to the inner workings and the service it’s connected to. Liquid metal seeps into the SD card allowing her to search the database for names, faces and addresses. A list quickly forms of future enemies of Skynet, of people she is tasked to terminate. She charts a course for the nearest address. The Brewster residence.

[whitehotharlots]

The point is control

Whenever we think or talk about censorship, we usually conceptualize it as certain types of speech being somehow disallowed: maybe (rarely) it's made formally illegal by the government, maybe it's banned in certain venues, maybe the FCC will fine you if you broadcast it, maybe your boss will fire you if she learns of it, maybe your friends will stop talking to you if they see what you've written, etc. etc. 

This understanding engenders a lot of mostly worthless discussion precisely because it's so broad. Pedants--usually arguing in favor of banning a certain work or idea--will often argue that speech protections only apply to direct, government bans. These bans, when they exist, are fairly narrow and apply only to those rare speech acts in which other people are put in danger by speech (yelling the N-word in a crowded theater, for example). This pedantry isn't correct even within its own terms, however, because plenty of people get in trouble for making threats. The FBI has an entire entrapment program dedicated to getting mentally ill muslims and rednecks to post stuff like "Death 2 the Super bowl!!" on twitter, arresting them, and the doing a press conference about how they heroically saved the world from terrorism. 

Another, more recent pedant's trend is claiming that, actually, you do have freedom of speech; you just don't have freedom from the consequences of speech. This logic is eerily dictatorial and ignores the entire purpose of speech protections. Like, even in the history's most repressive regimes, people still technically had freedom of speech but not from consequences. Those leftist kids who the nazis beheaded for speaking out against the war were, by this logic, merely being held accountable. 

The two conceptualizations of censorship I described above are, 99% of the time, deployed by people who are arguing in favor of a certain act of censorship but trying to exempt themselves from the moral implications of doing so. Censorship is rad when they get to do it, but they realize such a solipsism seems kinda icky so they need to explain how, actually, they're not censoring anybody, what they're doing is an act of righteous silencing that's a totally different matter. Maybe they associate censorship with groups they don't like, such as nazis or religious zealots. Maybe they have a vague dedication toward Enlightenment principles and don't want to be regarded as incurious dullards. Most typically, they're just afraid of the axe slicing both ways, and they want to make sure that the precedent they're establishing for others will not be applied to themselves.

Anyone who engages with this honestly for more than a few minutes will realize that censorship is much more complicated, especially in regards to its informal and social dimensions. We can all agree that society simply would not function if everyone said whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. You might think your boss is a moron or your wife's dress doesn't look flattering, but you realize that such tidbits are probably best kept to yourself. 

Again, this is a two-way proposition that everyone is seeking to balance. Do you really want people to verbalize every time they dislike or disagree with you? I sure as hell don't. And so, as part of a social compact, we learn to self-censor. Sometimes this is to the detriment of ourselves and our communities. Most often, however, it's just a price we have to pay in order to keep things from collapsing. 

But as systems, large and small, grow increasingly more insane and untenable, so do the comportment standards of speech. The disconnect between America's reality and the image Americans have of themselves has never been more plainly obvious, and so striving for situational equanimity is no longer good enough. We can't just pretend cops aren't racist and the economy isn't run by venal retards or that the government places any value on the life of its citizens. There's too much evidence that contradicts all that, and the evidence is too omnipresent. There's too many damn internet videos, and only so many of them can be cast as Russian disinformation. So, sadly, we must abandon our old ways of communicating and embrace instead systems that are even more unstable, repressive, and insane than the ones that were previously in place.

Until very, very recently, nuance and big-picture, balanced thinking were considered signs of seriousness, if not intelligence. Such considerations were always exploited by shitheads to obfuscate things that otherwise would have seemed much less ambiguous, yes, but this fact alone does not mitigate the potential value of such an approach to understanding the world--especially since the stuff that's been offered up to replace it is, by every worthwhile metric, even worse.

So let's not pretend I'm Malcolm Gladwell or some similarly slimy asshole seeking to "both sides" a clearcut moral issue. Let's pretend I am me. Flash back to about a year ago, when there was real, widespread, and sustained support for police reform. Remember that? Seems like forever ago, man, but it was just last year... anyhow, now, remember what happened? Direct, issues-focused attempts to reform policing were knocked down. Blotted out. Instead, we were told two things: 1) we had to repeat the slogan ABOLISH THE POLICE, and 2) we had to say it was actually very good and beautiful and nonviolent and valid when rioters burned down poor neighborhoods.

Now, in a relatively healthy discourse, it might have been possible for someone to say something like "while I agree that American policing is heavily violent and racist and requires substantial reforms, I worry that taking such an absolutist point of demanding abolition and cheering on the destruction of city blocks will be a political non-starter." This statement would have been, in retrospect, 100000000% correct. But could you have said it, in any worthwhile manner? If you had said something along those lines, what would the fallout had been? Would you have lost friends? Your job? Would you have suffered something more minor, like getting yelled at, told your opinion did not matter? Would your acquaintances still now--a year later, after their political project has failed beyond all dispute--would they still defame you in "whisper networks," never quite articulating your verbal sins but nonetheless informing others that you are a dangerous and bad person because one time you tried to tell them how utterly fucking self-destructive they were being? It is undeniably clear that last year's most-elevated voices were demanding not reform but catharsis. I hope they really had fun watching those immigrant-owned bodegas burn down, because that’s it, that will forever be remembered as the most palpable and consequential aspect of their shitty, selfish movement. We ain't reforming shit. Instead, we gave everyone who's already in power a blank check to fortify that power to a degree you and I cannot fully fathom.

But, oh, these people knew what they were doing. They were good little boys and girls. They have been rewarded with near-total control of the national discourse, and they are all either too guilt-ridden or too stupid to realize how badly they played into the hands of the structures they were supposedly trying to upend.

And so left-liberalism is now controlled by people whose worldview is equal parts superficial and incoherent. This was the only possible outcome that would have let the system continue to sustain itself in light of such immense evidence of its unsustainability without resulting in reform, so that's what has happened.

But... okay, let's take a step back. Let's focus on what I wanted to talk about when I started this.

I came across a post today from a young man who claimed that his high school English department head had been removed from his position and had his tenure revoked for refusing to remove three books from classrooms. This was, of course, fallout from the ongoing debate about Critical Race Theory. Two of those books were Marjane Satropi's Persepolis and, oh boy, The Diary of Anne Frank. Fuck. Jesus christ, fuck.

Now, here's the thing... When Persepolis was named, I assumed the bannors were anti-CRT. The graphic novel does not deal with racism all that much, at least not as its discussed contemporarily, but it centers an Iranian girl protagonist and maybe that upset Republican types. But Anne Frank? I'm sorry, but the most likely censors there are liberal identiarians who believe that teaching her diary amounts to centering the suffering of a white woman instead of talking about the One Real Racism, which must always be understood in an American context. The super woke cult group Black Hammer made waves recently with their #FuckAnneFrank campaign... you'd be hard pressed to find anyone associated with the GOP taking a firm stance against the diary since, oh, about 1975 or so.

So which side was it? That doesn't matter. What matters is, I cannot find out.

Now, pro-CRT people always accuse anti-CRT people of not knowing what CRT is, and then after making such accusations they always define CRT in a way that absolutely is not what CRT is. Pro-CRTers default to "they don't want  students to read about slavery or racism." This is absolutely not true, and absolutely not what actual CRT concerns itself with. Slavery and racism have been mainstays of American history curriucla since before I was born. Even people who barely paid attention in school would admit this, if there were any more desire for honesty in our discourse. 

My high school history teacher was a southern "lost causer" who took the south's side in the Civil War but nonetheless provided us with the most descriptive and unapologetic understandings of slavery's brutalities I had heard up until that point. He also unambiguously referred to the nuclear attacks on Hiroshmia and Nagasaki as "genocidal." Why? Because most people's politics are idiosyncratic, and because you cannot genuinely infer a person to believe one thing based on their opinion of another, tangentially related thing. The totality of human understanding used to be something open-minded people prided themselves on being aware of, believe it or not...

This is the problem with CRT. This is is the motivation behind the majority of people who wish to ban it. It’s not because they are necessarily racist themselves. It’s because they recognize, correctly, that the now-ascendant frames for understanding social issues boils everything down to a superficial patina that denies not only the realities of the systems they seek to upend but the very humanity of the people who exist within them. There is no humanity without depth and nuance and complexities and contradictions. When you argue otherwise, people will get mad and fight back. 

And this is the most bitter irony of this idiotic debate: it was never about not wanting to teach the sinful or embarrassing parts of our history. That was a different debate, one that was settled and won long ago. It is instead an immense, embarrassing overreach on behalf of people who have bullied their way to complete dominance of their spheres of influence within media and academe assuming they could do the same to everyone else. Some of its purveyors may have convinced themselves that getting students to admit complicity in privilege will prevent police shootings, sure. But I know these people. I’ve spoken to them at length. I’ve read their work. The vast, vast majority of them aren’t that stupid. The point is to exert control. The point is to make sure they stay in charge and that nothing changes. The point is failure. 

[blankd]

Thoughts on The Mitchells vs the Machines

I watched it a while ago and kept forgetting to post my thoughts on it, but some posts here on tumblr recently reminded me.

I disagree with the majority takeaways I see but is that not the spice of life?

As a standalone movie its inoffensive and the writing of it will likely exit my brain in a few months.  However I can appreciate that the visual style was different from the typical fare and the mixture of 2d elements for visual embellishments were mostly enjoyable and well-suited for Katie as the POV character.

It's a bit "hyper" for my liking, but that's fine, it's likely intended for an audience that's accustomed to the flood that is the current norm of the internet.  It was probably made with GIFable moments in mind and that is the most frequent content that is shared about it, so it certainly succeeded in that regard.

My more critical take is that jokes are delivered at the expense of what could be more authentic themes.  Quips are made that draw attention to character flaws or undercut questions the movie should try to answer, but inevitably they are ignored to move onto the next joke or story beat.

The rest would fall more into spoiler territory, so read more for that.

--"They Were Both In the Wrong"

I personally disagree heavily with the thrust of how "both sides" were wrong when the degrees are disproportionate.

I've seen claims that Katie was "as in the wrong" as her father, but she's incredibly patient to the man who does her material harm.

I've yet to have seen someone say specifically what Katie did *wrong* to her father that is at all on par with the *years* he at best hasn't been able to interact with her or worse, actively refused to engage with her interests.

I would generously venture that her flaw was that she was more willing to communicate her feelings to strangers, but she easily talks to her mother and brother- her brother even helps her with her movies and she happily engages him with his own interests, which pivots the point back to how her father is physically/emotionally unavailable and led to the erosion and distance between the two of them.

Due to this, MvM comes across more as Kaite having to do so much more to guide her father rather than a more mutual learning experience for the both of them.

--"Technology that [Dis]Connects"

It's probably beyond the scope and intent of the film, but I was surprised there was no examination about why technology can be more alluring than interacting with physically present people.

For better or worse, the internet can be used as a means of supplementing the validation and acceptance of family.  It can also lead to no longer connecting to people around them because of the validation high of appealing to a constantly 'awake' sea of strangers- the spotlight is warmer than the cold reality that they are not the internet image they have cultivated.

For example, the rival 'perfect' family was never revealed to be a carefully constructed highlight reel that Mrs. Mitchell envies, they really were actually that perfect- because that provides an easier punchline than an examination or acknowledgement of how the internet can create unhealthy expectations.

I also can't expect MvM to acknowledge the reality that LGBTA+ people who are rejected by their family resort to seeking a new one through the internet because it would be much harder to redeem/rehabilitate a man defined by being tethered to "old values" if he was homophobic instead of "overprotective" and apprehensive at his daughter's departure from home and her dubious art career.

But hey we got that quick line at the end that Katie likes a girl, so that's a diversity win or something.

(To be clear I'm not expecting a whole parade or even an A or B-plot dedicated to it, but I think it should be acknowledged that this kind of "surprise inclusion" is very easily erased with a change of audio and would be completely unsurprised if this were the case for countries that are homophobic.  People can be happy about it, but it is dishonest to pretend that this is a bolder statement than it is.)

In that sense, I do and don't hold MvM to taking a "safer" route about how family always has your back, but this still feels like an important omission considering the focus on technology and its dynamic with the Mitchells.

I will also say that it was also bizarre, to me at least, that the obvious route that her father sees the value of home videos didn't become an active point between him and Katie.  Or that Mr. Mitchell's carpentry never really amounts to anything despite having a sentimental wooden moose.

Lastly, I think it's an unintentional, but it's interesting that Katie going to college to pursue her passion is viewed as a Terrible Thing by her father even though if he had his way, he'd be ostensibly living in the woods away from everyone else except his wife.

This isn't a problem, people are a collection of contradictions, but It's fascinating to see what the *narrative* treats as a difficult sacrifice while simultaneously pulling at heartstrings when PAL cites how children ignore their mothers.  There's an unexamined comedy that Mr. Mitchell's losing out on his 'passion' to live in the woods away from people is treated as tragic despite the movie's insistence on staying connected with your blood family.

--"The Inconsistent Personhood of AI"

PAL is rightfully angry at being discarded for something new; it's provided as a glimpse of what Katie will do when she finds 'her people' at college.

This in of itself is a good hook, because there is no one universal answer to when a flawed relationship should be mended with compromise or if it's better off being broken for the wellbeing of the ones involved.  Family and relationships are not programming, it's a choice and a gamble for whatever it brings but is nonetheless something that must be mutually worked upon.

Initially I thought that PAL was being set up as an exaggerated parallel to Mr. Mitchell.  PAL and Mr. Mitchell did their best to provide for their family.  PAL and Mr. Mitchell are in different stages of being 'discarded' by their family.  PAL and Mr. Mitchell both retaliate at their lack of power in the scenario by using the power granted by their roles to infringe on the autonomy of others for selfish reasons.

PAL even gives a 'chance' for her plan to be halted with, I had assumed this was being set up as the thesis of the movie, about humanity and the value of family, relationships, etc. being used to help someone who is already hurting.

But despite Katie looking at the camera and explaining herself, it is never actually directly resolved or challenged because a punchline was deemed more desirable for this narrative climax.

This begs the question of why PAL bothered with the pretense that she could be reasoned with, especially since this is not some question leveled at all of humanity, just two people.

I'm curious how the writers came to the conclusion that this was the best execution of the scene or if Katie's speech was considered immune to any challenge from PAL.  Would anyone have accepted this outcome if PAL were not an AI but instead a person?

It's not necessarily bad writing they went this route, but I doubt anyone would consider this good writing either.

By the end of the movie, PAL is no longer a 'person' who was betrayed and is lashing out, she is an object to be destroyed because the movie has to wrap up.  No compassion or chances are spared to this AI that did literally everything asked of her except take being discarded quietly.

Did PAL deserve a redemption arc? For this length of movie, probably not.  But it could have concluded with a commitment to doing no further harm.  Instead it is an accidental glimpse at how easily the pretense of compassion can be quickly discarded and mostly unexamined with the right framing.

A likely unintentional example is the conditional humanity given to Eric and Deborahbot who are adopted as "family" while the rest of the robots are mowed down without another thought.  Some are even beaten and broken while begging for mercy, because again, it is a funnier punchline.

Far be it for me to advocate that the murderbots needed 'a second chance uvu' but for a movie whose conceit rests on 'sticking by family' and 'giving chances', the writers certainly made a choice in deciding which AI get honorary humanity and spared violent death- perhaps PAL had a point about humanity's callousness after all.  Bad robots are discarded, good robots get to live.

Even the CEO who realizes he enabled this mess (easily the most unrealistic part of the movie, honestly) is given another chance and he manages to take away a completely wrong lesson.

Speaking of-

--"Maybe I Shouldn’t Have Used Tech Like This"

There's a particular image/gif set posted about MvM with the CEO apologizing for the machine uprising, attributing it to unchecked technology and monopolies.  I've always seen it accompanied by people congratulating the scene as if any of this is at all relevant to the movie.

Charitably, these are people who haven't watched the movie and don't know that PAL is a phone AI single-handedly doing this, but most take the stance that this scene is proof the movie is not saying technology is bad, only corporations are.

The speech isn't technically wrong but it is so utterly divorced from what happens in the movie that it's surreal to see people congratulate it as anything but a moment of soapboxing.

None of the datagrabbing was used at all as part of the takeover.  It's all magical kid-friendly terminators with no relevance to what anyone's browsing history is.  If the company was one that produced robot assistants instead of a being a super tech monopoly, there would be no narrative difference.

The closest to a predatory tactic that is used in MvM is the offer of free wifi which is used to lure most people into their cells which they happily comply with. Curiously this... commentary of people’s mindless addiction to technology is not acknowledged by the Tumblr Court with the same intensity as the CEO’s speech.

But more constructively, I do feel it’s a missed opportunity that Katie who's supposed to be an extremely online person apparently never said any bad things about her family or made any petty vent films for PAL to weaponize.  Instead an in-media audio at one of the outskirt locations was used to accomplish its Traitor Revealed moment.

IN CONCLUSION

MvM is a movie that involves topics that ought to be touched on and explored properly in media and chickens out on all of it due to possible concerns with age-appropriate handling or because it was more committed to its comedy than whatever it has to say about family, change and how technology affects people.

It also reminded me that I hope media will finally graduate from the trope that if you spec into any ‘outdoorsy’ hobby you are incurably afraid of technology.