#this one really took it out of me- editing was an afterthought there might be more mistakes than usual

[ms0milk]

𝟏𝟔 | 𝐇𝐞𝐦 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"This is so much worse than fury, and you rip your hand away from his to take a step back. You didn’t mean to. Bakugou stares like a dragonslayer, heartbroken."

cw blatantly suggestive, an accidental kiss and the panic that follows. bkg doesn't know why he's been looking for you. you couldn't be angry about it if you tried. laughter, bite marks, magic, a warm hiding spot. 8.1k

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A slap across the face and the spatter of blood that follows in an arc across fine rugs. Bakugou bleeds when he tries not to think of you. You are too easy to be with and too difficult to find.

Your prince and fragments of rehearsal fineries that you would beam at if you appeared in this frigid foyer– which he knows only because you’ve done nothing but smile at him for seven cursed days– storm towards warmer hallways. There’s nothing for it but to track you down. He wakes up and you are not outside his door. He eats and meets and eats again and you do not materialize behind him or emerge from shadowed corners to brandish a weapon when unpleasant lords are unpleasant. Are you still following orders or are you finally sick of him?

Bakugou pretends he is not walking quickly. A maid has pointed him in your direction. The waitstaff here has no particular affinity for either of you, so they’ve tried their hardest to answer his questions this week and be rid of Alderans for the day. After all, once he finds you he doesn’t bother anyone else until dawn.

Find is a strong word, the maid thinks as she chews a dry lip. You don’t seem to be hiding from him.

It's the busiest morning, second only to tomorrow’s actual ball, and Bakugou has spent the whole of it in dress fittings and board meetings and appetizer tastings. He was meant to rehearse the first waltz with Fuyumi but for four days in a row she’s had her hands full with final adjustments to royal rosters and seating arrangements. The king is home afterall. And he does not dote on his daughter.

Bakugou turns up a second staircase once he arrives in the center castle and barks at a guard, stationed and startled, in the doorway where he emerges. Shinsou clutches his chest and stares at the imposing prince, heavy but silent.

“Boo. You seen my captain?” Bakugou only half-waits for a response from the apprentice before following his intuition to the left. You like to hide in odd places.

“Yeah,” Shinsou breathes and finds his position again, “carrying her lunch to the catwalks.”

Bakugou grins and hopes you can feel him wherever you are, rolling his eyes.

She was in common clothes– I think, headed towards the throne room.

Haven’t seen her, sir.

Your Alderan? It’s freezing, she should request a jacket from the supply corps.

Five days ago he found you rehousing spiders in the rafters of the greenhouse much to the chagrin of delicate flowers. Two days ago he finally spotted you among a dozen soldiers all helping the blacksmith resilver the inlay of the soldier quarter’s door. Yes, he’d told you to leave his babysitting to Kirishima but he didn’t expect you to listen.

Yesterday, Bakugou caught you wandering through the ninth-story walkways, the walkways sculpted onto the side of the castle like wasp nests where the archers hide. Your fingers, red with cold, gripped the hem of your padded tunic and your back pressed flat to the white castle marble even as you craned to gaze the city and sea over the edge of the balustrade.

Your prince almost screamed when he glanced out one of ten thousand pale windows in his search when instead of the depressing gray sky, it was your braids whipping in the wind outside, several stories higher in the air than he would have liked you.

“Eyes!” He jerked the window open and stuck out his head. 

“The marble is too smooth Highness, please stay inside.”

White pointelle curtains rattled on their rods with the ferocity of the afternoon wind. “Come now,” he’d barked. He swallowed a roar to keep from startling you off the wall. You turned from the view towards his outstretched hand and half a golden body out the little window, and smiled.

You smiled from the cobwebs when he asked you what the fuck you were doing in blue begonias. You smiled at him among the crowd when he mimed flexing from the gallery to mock the blacksmith. You smiled when he caught you practicing sword forms for bored children and again when he and Kirishima joined in. You smiled without thought and he warmed at the sight of it. He laughed.

He laughed when the florist shrieked over a clutch of spider eggs and he laughed when you hammered Aizawa’s door crooked in your distraction. He laughed when Kaminari tried to teach you to juggle apples in potion storage, and very softly he laughed when he found you asleep beside the proofing ovens.

The castle’s vanity seeps into every orifice, it bleeds from the seamless walls and into seed-sized crannies. Family portraits, royal crests, kingdom’s colors, wards against death written in old Takoban like they think this is the only kingdom on the continent where people might live forever. Superstition and agitation nick the Alderan like thorns through cold blue hallways. He itches for forests. On the third floor of the East Wing there is a great open gallery. It hangs over the grand staircase of the castle’s entrance so that an invaders couldn’t so much as piss over the threshold before the legion of soldiers that fit upstairs fired off their arrows.

It was only a matter of time before you found yourself a roost here, warmaster.

He knows where you are. He can hear the king shouting from an open door downstairs and crosses the entrance gallery, bathed in warm sunlight from its volley of windows. It takes him exactly as long to cross as it takes the heat through stained glass to pink his shoulders, and with a perfect golden hue he dips under a doorway to find you perched at the lip of a ledge. You’re always about to fucking fall off something.

You sit cross-legged behind a black railing, picking at the cup of fruit beside you. Your hair is getting longer, wilder, and your braids tumble with white ribbons as you follow the scene below.

The ballroom is awash in afternoon light. Dozens of floral arrangements circle a group with the king dead in the middle, roaring at the gathered artisans. Prince Natsuo is slightly behind him and his neck is an agitated red. You pop a berry in your mouth. You were always going to love the catwalks– the thin system above important rooms that servants use to gauge crowds and light the tall candles. All of tomorrow it’ll be crawling with footmen but today you sit comfortably alone in its shadows and watch.

Tension melts from his veins when he finds you and nothing replaces it, so Bakugou isn’t quite sure what he’s thinking when he slips inside to be closer. Jeanist taught him too, he can be quiet. You wipe juice from your lip with your thumb and polish it clean with a lick. You run your fingers through your hair to push your braids behind your shoulders and focus again on the agitated king and his crying arachnophobic florists.

“You stare like the best of ‘em,” Bakugou whispers as he drops behind you and cups a hand over your mouth in case you make a startled sound, although, you react before he actually finishes the thought or announces himself and jerk forward to catch his gentle hand with your teeth.

King, prince, artisan, maids, seagulls, and dustbunnies pause their meeting to interrogate the ceiling, before continuing their jury over the fate of the party decorations. A whiff of caramel is the only thing that keeps you from breaking the hand with your bite and just as quickly as you attempt to reveal the intruder through pain, you swing your arm around to cover the prince’s mouth before he gives away your position with a yelp or fireblast. The momentum flattens you both.

Maybe one day Bakugou will remember that you are filled with the same fire that he is before trying to bother you. When did the urge to bother you even occur to him? Both of you, square on your backs to hide properly in shadows, hold a hand like a muzzle over the other's mouth. He smiles first this time. You smell like blackberries.

Your prince wires his jaw shut when he laughs in the shadows to keep from kissing your palm. In the seconds that the king and his entourage fall silent, Bakugou can only just barely contain huffs from his nostrils and the wet at the corners of his eyes. You stare like always and he must have melted fast enough because horror and apologies haven’t tumbled out of you yet. His dragon’s nails have gotten longer. Loose and wild hairs frame the face he only ever knew as perfectly kempt and unreadable. He cannot stop finding new things to notice here on the itchy rug beside you and he’s grateful you have only covered his mouth because his firebrand eyes gleam when you succumb to your own smile. Immediately your lips to stay quiet the pair of you swallow stupid mirth in the dark.

Where did his anger go? “Ow,” the prince rasps when he’s collected himself and pulls your hand into his.

“Excuse me, Highness,” you whisper back. Your smile still rattles him like a blow to the side of the head. Bakugou rolls onto his back. If you were sick of him you probably wouldn’t lay so close.

He tilts his gaze back to you, “What are you doing up here?”

Watching, you mouth, hoping he'll lower his voice. You pull your hand away from his and look over your shoulder towards the ledge where roars and curses roll up from the king like crashing waves.

“Why?”

It’s as close as Bakugou has ever seen you come to rolling your eyes. You blink at him and press forward. Something horribly soft started to grow the night you helped him carry drunk friends to bed. Something like rot. It eats away at the strongest parts of him, the parts of him that are poised and beautiful and ready for war. It’s eating you too. The strongest parts of you that are silent and obedient and deadly.

You drag your body across the floor to be closer to him– so much closer– so close that your thigh practically drapes over his and you cup your hand to his ear so you can whisper an answer that he can’t even focus long enough to hear. Maybe the rot started earlier. Maybe he should never have picked a fight with you.

A sudden scream flies up from the ballroom and Bakugou reacts before you do, less to offer protection and more because he knows you’ll launch right off the walkway if he doesn’t hold you down, but still his hold is protective when the scream is followed by a pillar of white orange fire that flies high and soots crystals in the chandelier. It’s brief and scalding like a geyser and you are not strong enough to protest your prince tucking all of you under his chest in the interim. You smell like home, like forests like moss. The scent of the sea is finally falling out of your hair.

“In what world is this my responsibility?” the king seethes. His drop in volume is menacing and it echoes violently in the empty room, “pick your own fucking flowers, I have work to do.”

The ballroom doors are not meant to be closed or opened with such force and they scream louder than he can when he burns his way through, leaving the prince and his artisans in the cold and terrible hall. A ball in Takoba– an oxymoron. It's a malicious idea. Bakugou leans back on his arm to release you and sits up to watch Natsuo console his workers. The eldest Takoban prince wears patience well. Whose idea was this party? The same person who sent for Enji? Belligerent. Bakugou hasn’t seen the queen in weeks.

He grumbles before he turns to look at you, “Missed what you said.” But when he does finally look, you are so much Alderan that the cold of Takoba falls off his shoulders like frost. Maybe that’s why he’s been searching for you. The fire that only a life in his castle could stoke, ravages the blacks of your eyes. Even though you are silent, he knows what you’re thinking. “Down girl,” he grins and kicks his legs out from under him to settle more comfortably.

Flowers below are picked in whispered consensus and the room empties under your glare. The sun has started to set. The far wall of the ballroom is, in classic Takoban fashion, one long series of windows taller than most houses and the sea shines behind it in a trick of rolling warm shapes like smoke from a fireplace. You both linger at the edge of the shadows up on high. Bakugou watches you shamelessly.

“I will not attack the king.”

“Who’re you trying to convince?”

You think for a few seconds and turn to him with an awkwardly soft air that crumbles into a smile too easily for you to be the same girl who grew up learning how to kill in his castle. Everything you do but fight is bizarre. Like blue fire, he cannot make himself look away from you.

“What’ll you do at the ball?”

“What do you mean?” The ballroom is empty so there’s no need to whisper but neither of you know how to talk to the other.

Bakugou cocks his head and doesn’t need to hope you know when he rolls his eyes anymore because he can finally do it in front of you. He crosses his arms, “Do you dance? I can’t think of anything else to keep you distracted enough to avoid assassination.”

But you are already distracted by something and he can see the moment you stop listening to him talk. All the better, he thinks. He might have just asked you to dance with him.

“Your hand Highness, I– mers–” and you reach forward to take up his bitten fist like touching him is suddenly the easiest thing in the world. Your fingertips are ice-cold. The rot spreads. “You startled me, I’m so sorry.”

Now Bakugou isn’t listening. You rub at the divots your teeth left in the side of his palm and press them like imperfections in pie dough. Your hands are so much more slender than his. So much rougher. Do you feel it too? The death of fury? How the ocean slowly laps at the bonfire until wood can no longer fight back? Do you remember the library like he does? He wants more than anything to sit in a nook and read for a thousand years in recovery from this trip. Is it a safe place for you, or has he ruined it? Do you miss home like he does? Or has he ruined that too?

“No. I’m sorry,” he admits before thinking. He startled you after all, but immediately he is silent with realization. His breath hods fast in his lungs. Fuck, that’s not– you asked him so clearly not to do that. You watch his fingers twitch for a moment like you can feel his heartbeat there and then look up at him and stare. He’s not sorry for sneaking up on you at all. That’s not what he meant.

Eyes was an apt nickname, if not a little mean. Bakugou has never envied telepaths before. How ignorant he was, to think of you as the bloody little girl in a velvet carriage. You hold his hand now with just as much strength as you did all those years ago; obviously it was strength and not desperation. You did not hang laundry to thank him. You did not catch fruit to thank him. You didn’t learn to fight the rain or windows or soldiers or the sea for your prince. It was only him, making magic for you.

“A sheep apologizing to its collie?”

He startles a little, just a slight widening of his eyes, because you hold his hand up to see the ring of teeth clearly and cover your chuckle with the tips of your fingers.

“Callin me a sheep?”

“You are biteable like one.”

Do you know what you’re doing? Bakugou wonders as his own smile escapes the confines of horror. He snatches his hand back and leans against the black iron railing to face you. Quick wit, quicker draw, why do you hide such pleasant things under such a ferocious– the Alderan blinks and his face falls for half a second again in realization.

You blink back because you cannot read his mind, "Are you okay sir?"

The same fire. If he stopped and thought for a single fucking second you wouldn’t have been the enigma protecting his home. You would have been a girl that he wanted, very much, to talk to in his ceaseless boredom. He relaxes into a smile again and this time his teeth glint, “Don’t call me that.”

Autumn truly is crueler at the edge of the world; the sun sets faster with each second and soon the ballroom below is a great orange pool. He was meant to rehearse the opening waltz today and the thought of you watching him, concealed, makes his ears hot. Florals drift up and up from their vases where they’re warmed in dying afternoon light.

You cross your legs and turn too, “Are you looking forward to it?”

“To what?”

“The ball, Highness. Are they fun?”

“You’ve attended balls,” he grunts and scans his memory for the last party thrown in Aldera, although you don’t appear in the pictures his brain conjures up. “They’re fine. Loud.”

You nod. There are ten-thousand things he could think to ask you and a hundred more questions he knows that the answers will spur but sitting beside you in the dark without a threat to either of your lives is new and overwhelming. Your wild hair makes wild shapes.

“Fuyumi wants to dress you up.”

You don’t find that as funny as he does and you’re frowning when you turn from the view of the ballroom to look at him. He thinks you aren’t afraid of him– he hopes– but he knows you still won’t say what you long to for fear of sounding unprofessional. He’ll have to work on that.

“She gave up on Ochako years ago.”

“Is it a gown?”

“Takoban,” he rests his head on the metal too, enjoying all the scandalized expressions your lips make, “frilly lace, the works.”

You consider this for a moment and make the shape of his name before swallowing it. One more time, “I see.” And you turn back away to think some more, about how to phrase something unprofessional.

He’s teasing, he hasn’t seen the damn thing but for a moment your prince can picture you so clearly, sewn tight into a dress made of sealace. You try to speak again, fail, and lean closer. Your breath is sweet from fruit and your bowl is empty behind you.

“I can’t wear blue for another second, Highness. I’ll hurl the tailor into the sea.”

Bakugou spits over the railing in amusement and huffs when he crosses his arms again.

“Highness please,” you chuckle, “I’ll get violent,” and you smile under the frown, which just serves to make you look even more like a dragon– like you’ll make good on your word– and less like an obedient footsoldier. How do you do it? Bakugou can only stare with a rough affection because if he tried to speak right now something might come out.

You run a hand back through your braids to settle them where you like them to lay. It’s draconic, regal, every way you sit perch and glare from the clearest part of any room. His mother calls it King’s Corner, or the Seat of the Queen, that perfect spot where you can see everything important without showing your back to a soul. That’s always where he finds you. That’s your secret. He pinches an ear between his knuckles to try and cool it down.

“Takoba’s lucky you aren’t a mage,” he manages. He has to look away to say it but he does manage, “should thank you for it.”

“I did try,” you don’t need to manage back. Proximity to him isn’t eating you alive. “And I don’t work for thank yous.”

When Bakugou was ten years old he celebrated his birthday in a parlor with boughs of cherry blossoms and sweets for which he never really had an appetite. He was doted on and he worked hard to deserve it so that anything he wanted to do that day, and any birthday thereafter, was his. You were not celebrated with cake. He wouldn’t know until years later that his mother brought you gifts and good food on your birthday because he could find you every day of the year at work somewhere in his castle. You did not fall ill, you did not fail, and on his birthday you, nine years old, practiced forms in the paths between spring orchards just downwind from the parlor. Jeanist was seated inside with him among the family’s guests. No appetite for cake. Bakugou only celebrated ten birthdays and you have never stopped breaking his heart.

“Tried what?”

You ruffle your own hair so you don’t have to look at him either because at least one thing embarrasses you. “Magic.”

“Magic.”

“It’s not funny,” you chirp at his flat tone and round on him with your legs crossed. He leans back when your voice comes out a bit louder than expected and his bitten fist aches when it clenches. “I would copy you.” The rot makes him weak and useless and susceptible to your stare, but the rot makes you fearless. “I used to watch you studying– when we were really little– when we were both supposed to be eating with everyone in the Hall. You used to,” you look briefly to your side like someone important might be watching you acting so casually and it dims that fire he needs.

“Used to what?” he smiles. He knows you watched him, you must know that too. Finish, please finish your story, he wants to hear your voice tell you more about home.

“Used to watch you flail your chubby arms until sparks came out.”

When Bakugou laughs this time he tries not to hold anything back, if only just to douse you in oil and keep the fire alight. Fucking please, just talk.

“I used to try every night too!–” you laugh, slightly louder, “– wind up my arms tight and spin around my room after curfew– disturb the horses– pretend to be a dragon.”

“Your runty prince looked like a dragon?”

You grin, “My runty prince taught himself magic, didn’t he? What’s wrong with wanting to breathe a little fire?”

“I don’t breathe fire, dumbass.”

“You still make miracles. Ever seen a dragon?”

“Of course I have.”

“Have you ever sheltered from a spray of ethereal flames?”

He frowns and smirks, confused, as if to ask, why have you? And the flint tinder in the bright part of your eyes sparks white hot.

“Melting, crushing, it’s completely inescapable without a barrier mage,” you pull your knee up with a bit of theatrics and lean because with everything inside of you except for actual realization, you want him to listen too. “Pink and red, blue, green golden and white hot. Highness, has no one ever told you how beautiful your magic is? You make magic like a dragon, who wouldn’t want a blessing like that?”

No one would want this cursed fucking magic that prickles his palms with sweat in the dark for no other reason than because you are looking at him, when all he wanted was– he just wanted to see you– watch you, he didn’t need you to watch him back and now the fire of Aldera he keeps trying to warm beside will blast him all the way to the wick. This is the flattery he hears so much about from his blushing mother.

“‘s not special. My magic maims people.”

“So do I.”

He frowns deeper, “Not the same.”

“I worked hard to maim people, it’s not the same because what I do isn’t beautiful.”

“That’s not–” he doesn’t think that. Don’t think that he thinks that, “–work isn’t beautiful. War isn’t beautiful.”

“You’ve never seen war. Highness you make–”

“Fuck off."

“I won’t.”

“Eyes–”

“– it’s beautiful.”

“I make bombs.”

“You make starfall.”

Bakugou stares. Rough affection, yeah right, he’s melting.

You fall back on your hips when you realize you’ve broken clear through the confines of professionalism and the embarrassment sets in quickly. Eyes dart sideways, chest and knees turn. Your embarrassment is a subtle grip on fraying rugs. What do you do to your heart to make it pull so strong in every direction? Is it a spell? One that makes him quiet and happy to wait for his silent guard to speak again. This must be how the queen feels. You turn fully back to the rising orange light of the ballroom below and your lips part before any words are actually ready to come out.

The first time you try to speak, he doesn’t hear you. Bakugou traces the path between your shiny scars with his gaze. One below your ear to the one at your eyebrow and down again, past an old cut in your cheek. You couldn’t douse the forest fire behind those lashes if you tried. Not under orders or oath. Not from embarrassment.

“What does it feel like?” You whisper, looking a great distance down past abandoned flowers.

Both of you have fallen closer to each other in the waves of your nothing conversation, so much so that your shoulders would press together if the rot just ate away a little bit more. Bakugou’s heart sinks into the ballroom. It plummets like a drowned man.

“Gimme your hand.”

This is a fucking mistake, but all your prince can see is the last time pure joy ever sailed across your face in an evening spent around your wonderful campfire. He caused and extinguished it with one spark thrown into your cupped palms, the last time you ever tried to make magic.

“I won’t hurt you,” he rumbles even though it kills him to look at you now.

Your side of the catwalk begins to glow at the lips because the sun has set far enough to climb walls towards the ceiling. You glow with it. Pink in a thousand places, ears and throat, lips, because you’re thinking too hard about what it is to be a proper guard and how much it is probably not raising your voice to delight in magic that does not belong to you. The corners of your mouth tremble. Who was it that told you you talk too much?

“Is that an order?”

“No.” Of course not.

You study the details of the itchy rug for too long, in the new light at its edge. Bakugou used to hate hiding up here in the cold but it was the only place the idiot children his mother sent him here to entertain couldn’t find him. He couldn’t be happier now, now that no one but you can see just how hard he flounders without fury.

Your hips swivel back towards him in precise decision then you fold your knees neatly underneath them to get closer. A few white ribbons in your hair seem to catch fire as the sunlight climbs higher and the sun dips lower out an infinite distance. Every mile it is far, is a mile Bakugou can feel in measures of chill. If Aldera is at the center of the world, Takoba is the outer edge and you remind him just how blessed he is when his hand melts at your Alderan touch. You reach and pull both his fists into the space between your bodies from where they lingered in the air.

“Yes sir.”

“Don’t,” he breathes, watching all the shapes your fingers can make together. He’s a prince, this is ridiculous. He sits up tall and stretches his arms out so you don’t need to reach so far, and makes a safe place for your strong fingers, those calluses and scars, to rest atop his open palms. “Don’t call me sir.”

You are looking at him and considering something about his face, or his words, who knows– one of your eyebrows twitches in decision. It’s remarkable how steady your heads are. You are sure of everything you do even when it’s destructive and disruptive and punishable by death.

Laid out plainly like this and stiller than either of you have ever been together, your fingers and wrists, your palms, even your fingernails are so much more delicate than his. Like if he closed his golden fists, you’d disappear. Compared to the princess you have the hands of a farmer, but not a single thought– past how each other part of your body might look beside his– is allowed to rattle through his head when you watch him, straight ahead, and smile.

“Okay.”

He clears his throat. He’s a mage and magic is easy. He’s not going to set off the sweat on the back of his neck. “Don’t be nervous,” Bakugou grumbles to the dark.

You grin and ghost a thumb over damp of his open palm, “Who are you trying to convince?”

“It’s this stupid fucking magic,” he bites. A bead of sweat drips through his knuckles onto the floor and if he’s not careful he might take out half the castle. Prince and apprentice assassinate world’s most fucked up royal family– he can already see the dossier sitting pretty on his mother’s desk.

You’re suddenly in a wonderful mood and you sit up slightly at the beginnings of warmth under your fingertips. He can hear your knees squeak and count your heartbeats in the veins of your wrist that his own fingertips reach. Those eyes again– always your eyes. They’re colored like any normal pair anyone might ever see but he’s one of few people who watch the dragons. You must have watched them too, too long, for your gaze to become so similar.

It feels like any other second of Bakugou’s life. Setting fire to own hands and measuring the strength of his magic in reds and whites. It’s an ordinary moment for many whole seconds until your prince follows the beginnings of light up from his palms, to your starving and unabashed awe. The sparks bubble up as hungry fish would in a pond, and then jump, spit, between your fingers like cooking oil. Your touch is so gentle at first. You train and measure your own skill every day so that Jeanist’s recruits don’t lose varied limbs, but as your excitement wells up you spill a bit from your seams. You rise slightly higher and give him more weight to hold and your prince dissolves into a smile.

Four hands rest inside one another and fire from the dragons illuminates your hiding place.

“Highness,” you whisper and startle a thousand times at every new color Bakugou ignites between your fingers. You’re fully up on your knees now having risen higher and higher to watch his magic as best you can and Bakugou sits on the floor beneath you, rotting.

“Highness what,” he whispers back.

You abandon the thought and jump when a green sparkler squeals through the air between you, and when your prince thinks to pull away your fingers are already wrapped tight around every part of him you can manage. He could have done this for you a thousand times; your joy was always this simple, raw, and unjealous. Purple and gold soar across the highs of your cheeks and hug your jaw. It’s all he can bear, to love this smile and to know that his sweat is plastered across your hands and soaked through the cuff of your sleeves, and so he freezes with the realization and embarrassment and with your last words.

“Highness, thank you.”

He doesn’t have the wherewithal to speak yet. The smile he loves. The magic dies with his concentration and as the sun finally crests your walkway for its fleeting moments of warmth, Bakugou tries to muster something like confidence because you’re looking at him with a softness he didn’t realize you had. Is it overwhelming because he knows you could kill him? Maybe it’s because he’s never wanted to kiss anyone before.

Bakugou’s pomegranate eyes dart up to you, saying goodbye to the last of the light and something like sugar scalds his throat. That new thought is fleeting because your golden prince drains the life from it like a butchered animal– gods, can’t he leave you with anything?

“Told you I don’t bite,” he grins and swallows the last selfish thought to death, “that’s your job right?”

You beam before bursting into deep and hungry laughter in the sun-soaked air above him. Whatever. Bakugou supports you as you cling to his arms and struggle to stay upright in your laughter. You’re overflowing. He smiles and huffs, he can’t help that. He can’t help goosebumps either but you don’t need to know about those and he’ll never utter a word. He still needs to meet the dressmaker for alterations and finalize the appetizers, and make sure the kitchens send dinner to your door.

“Highness,” you breathe like a bird and try to collect yourself enough to stop laughing. You plop back onto your hips, “Highness–”

“Highness Highness,” he taunts. The sound of it will make his ears bleed. Bakugou palms for a handkerchief with one hand and lets you hold his other. You cling to the bite you left there. Your legs overlap. “This is ridiculous,” he chuckles when your joy almost folds you in half, “A real joke might kill you.”

“Let it,” you breathe, canines twinkling, and dip slightly closer, laughing, to press your lips to his.

It’s so easy, you don’t mean to. You are lightheaded in the warmth of the sunset, magic trembles across your sensitive skin and you only want to be closer. Just close enough to bury yourself in that place that is so safe and that fills you with such a horrible comfortable joy–

As Bakugou reaches inside his tunic for something you lean too close. Your chest falls over his lap before either of you remembers that it shouldn’t be like this, that there are a thousand other places your prince belongs and ten thousand rules you have engraved on the meat of your skull to keep comfort at bay. It’s so warm with your eyes closed and his smile tastes like cinnamon. He doesn’t pull away.

You only realize what’s happened after that smile falls dead against your lips. He’s soft against your touch. He’s soft like he’s never fought a day in his life. Your hands hold his beautiful golden head right where you need it and in the quiet, your eyes open to blinding and beautiful sunlight.

A touch is all you wanted, gods know why– they’ll never tell you– and you draw your chin back an inch to breathe. Bakugou is staring violently and his eyes are more like targets now than cherry pits. Eyebrows wider, higher, than the sky, he stares like his heart has stopped. What happened? He doesn’t look like anyone but himself anymore. You freeze.

Prince Bakugou is staring at you until he’s not, on the itchy rug in the sunset of the great black catwalks, until his eyes close and he kisses you back. Soft, closed lips brush so hot they’ll leave a mark, they’ll brand you and everyone will know what you did. The doom spreads quickly.

You have never been so graceless in your life as you are now, falling backwards out of his warmth and stumbling onto your feet. He’s still on the ground and you only know he is holding you because sweat drips from the fingers of yours that he clutches.

“Wait,” he gasps. This is so much worse than fury, and you rip your hand away from his to take a step back. You didn’t mean to. Bakugou stares like a dragonslayer, heartbroken.

You run. Before you can breathe or be reasoned with, before you hear him call your name, you turn and dash through the back doorway alone. If this were Aldera, where would you hide? The frozen air of the seashell castle whispers straight through your flesh as you, sprinting, stumble your way past the castle’s vanity. There is a nook in the wall of the principal staircase where only Jeanist can find you. There is a seat on a high window in the Great Hall that you can reach with a library ladder. There are two tiny battlements in the east corner of your queen’s castle without a real way to get inside and on any day but a lightning storm, you can wedge a hunting knife in loose mortar and climb the masonry over its edge to lay and nap and stargaze at the tallest point of the most beautiful kingdom. An ant couldn’t hide in Takoba. There’s not one dark seam for the bugs.

A guard barely moves in time to avoid being crushed under your boots because fuck this horrible waterlogged place. The ocean drips out of your ears like tears from a seashell, drop by drop because you picked a fight with the goddess and thought yourself lucky to live before you realized she had made a home for herself inside your heart. Now you laugh with your prince and you touch him happily and you spar with him and hold nothing back and you tell him how much his magic helped you to live.

Resisting the urge to kill him, fighting to win Mitsuki’s favor, the threat of blue fire and a mage you doused in the sea, it was all so much easier than this. It could have been that easy forever, what were you thinking?

“Y/n!”

You weren’t, that’s what being too content gets you.

When Bakugou calls your name again his voice cracks because you are so much faster than he is in slipping through corridors. There is nowhere to hide in this awful country. Why are you running? If you were just slightly calmer you might have known where you were but white windows will always look like white windows and Bakugou is not so slow that you can ever really outrun him.

You duck under a low door and its hanging tapestry and emerge on the other side at the edge of a stretch of empty hall. Setting sunlight pours past ten silver vases and someone left the windows open so lace curtains flow around each pedestal and their silvery prizes.

“Y/n, please.”

Agony. This isn’t what you want. When Bakugou calls to you one last time you have no choice but to face him because he has never begged for anything before, and when you do, tears drip off the highest parts of your cheeks.

He lets the tapestry fall over his shoulder and stops at the front of the long, long hallway. Neither of you speak for an eternity besides the sound of breath being caught again, him at the edge and you in the center being swayed by cold air. His shaggy hair has been pushed back in his rush to follow you and his eyes glow unobstructed. Bakugou’s broad shoulders fit too perfectly into his baubled tunic. It’s easier to watch him than to think.

When he leans forward, you step back, and he pauses like you might start sprinting again. He doesn’t realize there’s something rotten stuck in the depths of your throat that keeps you from straying too far.

“I–”

“Don’t be sorry,” he begs, reading your mind. He’s never looked like this once in his whole life. He fell a step closer in his panic and when you do not run, his fists unclench from where they draw blood at his sides. “Don’t cry.”

You shake your head and he cautions another step. How can you ever go home now? How much longer can you survive here? The thought is suddenly and immediately overwhelming and Bakugou freezes again when you drop your head into your hands. It’s too much, you can’t believe how badly you want to hate him again and how much easier it would be than this.

“Y/n,” he whispers. His voice is candled ash. You know exactly how close he is even with your eyes closed because Alderan fire is unmistakable and you know too that he’s giving you a moment to escape.

“I didn’t mean to.”

Prince Bakugou’s magic-worn hands reach up from where he wires them and you snatch them both, and all their kiln-fired warmth, out of the air before he can touch you like you might break the first finger that moves. You don’t mean to bare your teeth either, you hope you aren’t, if you are he doesn’t care. Your prince stands above you, brows knit and eyes stupid with worry.

“Forget,” you plead in whispers.

He pulls your grip higher so that he can rest his palms under your ears. He moves easily because you do not stop him and he brushes his thumbs over stray hairs and their wild shapes. Silence is worse than his rage, but he’s trembling. He does not look away. He’s studying, contemplating something that continues to break his heart.

“Highness, please.”

Bakugou cups your jaw like it might bruise and tilts your head up just enough to kiss you. He could not care less about broken fingers.

His lips quiver and press just once to yours before pulling back, reconsidering, and dipping into you again. Your hold on his hands and his hands at your throat are melting, shaking, sweating. His chest swells above yours. You melt with him because you have lost your mind and push against the body you know can hold you. It can pull you from a current and throw you over its shoulder. Bakugou can lift you in strong arms, he can make you laugh until not even an order could compose you at your station.

You part your lips to be closer. He tangles his fingers in your braids so that you might take whatever you want. Your prince tastes like his favorite pastries, and Alderan peaches, and gold, he tastes like he’s fireproof.

Wet drips from your bottom lip in the mess of it all, before Bakugou tilts your chin in strong hands to catch what he’s missed. The slick of your tongues, a clicking of teeth, you want to eat him whole. He’s going to devour you.

He holds your face now to move you as he’d like– four feet tripping over each other to find a wall– and you grip at the patterns on his tunic between stolen breaths and steps stumbled backwards. Magic crackles where he touches you. His voice comes out with his gasps in growls because there is too much and nothing to say. You have forgotten apologies.

“Your hands” he breathes between nips for the softest warm parts of you, “cold.”

“The window–” but he kisses you again before you can finish. His hands are shaking, he is a starving dog and still he holds you like you’re going to break. You terrify him.

How long have you wanted this? There’s not enough focus left for your brain to turn its wheel and if there was you wouldn’t have pulled him so close. You suckle at his lower lip because his heartbeat tastes like home and he lets you dip inside again when you’ve had your fill. He fills you with himself in return. Wet, soft against you. It’s clumsier than sparring, and so much warmer.

At the end of cold hallways, where servants bustle and where there is still work to be done, the guard who barely survived your warpath ducks out from under the tapestry. He only wanted to check you were okay, but in the almost empty hallway Shinsou’s hand falls slack and his baton slips from it. It rings out against white marble and your heart stops beating at the same time as your prince. Your wheel groans in its new turning. The guard stares and you bristle.

You do not hear what Bakugou says in your panic but he does not let you go so easily this time. You freeze. You’ll find somewhere to hide in this prison because that is your job and no one has ever done it better than you, and there you will figure out what to do. The last breath you take before attempting to run is shared in the sunlight with your prince and just as you tip in a hint of escape, Bakugou cups your cheeks one last time to keep you still.

Your claws jump immediately back around his. He stares. His eyes are a study over every scar and warm flush, the violence of your sudden caught fear, even the parts squished and wrinkled in his hold. His magic vibrates unlit through your skin for one more second just one more second he takes to look and then he whispers,

“Okay.”

You take off the moment he releases you to deal with the apprentice and slip as best you can around a blue-tiled corner. Seedsized carvings raise their axes and little white waves fall. Sparks fight the chill on your jaw.

You forgo the seaside for fear of worrying your prince again. Manure pools around your pretty white boots because in the stables, horses don’t care if you cry. The ocean swallows the last of the sun and you are suddenly a child again rinsing the blood from her face and into the hay and finding a dark place to hide. Every step is labor. Agitated white stallions complain to you in a line about their dinner and restlessness, and about chickens roosting inside uninvited, and about the woman who has sat here for hours and done nothing to help them.

The port city of Takoba shimmers at twilight under the hill that the stable looks out on. Its waters are silver and beg you to join them on all sides from their great distance. They have the advantage as you turn your back to the view.

When you amble towards the last empty stall, a figure drowning in blue is perched on a bed of straw. She is sickly beautiful and she stares like she hates everything her gaze falls upon.

“Majesty,” you startle and forget to take a knee.

Where you tread carefully in borrowed clothes, the Takoban Queen is happy to ruin her gown sitting up to her hips in straw beside a very plain horse. She runs a brush over the sheen of its black mane.

“Yes?” She sighs, defeated, until she turns to you and cocks her head like she might have expected someone else. Hundreds of translucent layers fall over themselves in her skirt like a flower and catch imaginary light for every inch that she moves. There is an ache so deep in your bones, chilled first then charred like dipping cold hands in hot water, you struggle to compose yourself. You cannot muster the question of why a queen might be hiding in the belly of her stables but you could guess.

“You were crying.”

“Please don’t tell Mitsuki.”

When will you be allowed to go home? The queen looks between her horse and the space you haunt above her, and pulls a second curry comb from the depths of her soft straw seat. “They’ll find you if you stand in the open like that.”

The day drags on like a dream you have made from picturebooks of Aldera and the man that you will never be free of, but queens don’t much mind if you cry either. You crumple into the spot she digs out for you in the straw and until it is too cold, the two of you sit quietly in shit together.

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[jezebelblues]

saturn bound | h.s

summary: in which the world ends in your point of view, alongside your husband.

cw: death, angsty-ish i guess? unedited, grammatically correct in upper case if that tickles ur fancy.

word count: approx 1.4k. she’s a shortie

| this is in first person! (perspective of you, as reader) i was iffy about a 1st perspective so i edited in both 2nd and 3rd, but 1st person felt right. sorry if u hate, ladies.

masterlist

No one would remember me as YN, no one would remember my husband as Harry.

As the world crumbled into its final moments, you’d think that chaos would envelope everyone whole. That people would be running, screaming, fighting, as if they could somehow wrestle with the jaws of fate. Mothers clutching their children, fathers desperately barking orders to no one, families collapsing under the weight of hopelessness. Dogs howling into the wind after their selfish owners sped off, children sobbing as the air itself seemed to shudder with terror. A cacophony of fear.

You’d imagine fear cause these people knew their life was going to end.

And it was there undeniably, fear. Not the frantic kind, though. A different one—a quiet terror that settled deep in the bones, cold and ancient, like the Earth itself had finally whispered its last breath into our ears. It didn’t matter what was ending us—whether the dead were clawing from their graves, or if the sky had split apart and let loose the fires of heaven, or some disease had snatched us, unseen, from within. It didn’t matter. Not really. Because the truth was simple, inevitable: today, all life on Earth would be snuffed out, and we would become nothing—a floating spec of a forgotten afterthought.

There would be no future, no one left to carry the stories of humankind forward. No history books filled with our triumphs and tragedies. There would be no mourning of our extinction, the things we took for granted. Earth would be a blank—unknown, just one of countless casualties of time. If there was anyone out there in the universe with us, the children of this planet, would be memories swept away like dust, if even that. There would be no tears shed for us. The universe, so vast, would hardly notice our passing.

Some prayed. Desperation forced them down to their knees, begging for salvation, for some kind of afterlife, something more beautiful than their end. The thought of death so terrifying that they’d hope and pray they’ll end up in heaven—hell, even. Anything other than nothing, than eternal darkness. I understood, in a way, because nothing is scary��we’re alive, we’ve never experienced it—it’s impossible to wrap your mind around nothing.

Others drank. I joined them, a bottle of tequila in hand, the burn numbing me just enough to make peace with the fact that I would die today. And my Harry, the man that gave me his last name, would die beside me.

Harry Styles, the man the world adored, the man I called my husband—sat next to me, his head resting softly against my shoulder. We watched as Saturn, impossibly close now, loomed over us, over our home, like an executioner asking for our final words. Its rings shimmered, casting a glow that drowned out the stars. The air was thick with sobs, with whispered prayers. People clung to each other like lifelines, as if the touch of another human might hold them here, in this world that was no longer theirs. Some screamed, but most just stood and stared, watching death arrive with a strange, defeated calm—a cobra swaying in dance before striking its prey.

Harry’s hand found mine, gripping it tightly as if to stay grounded. He tried to pray, the fingers on his left hand trembling with the grasp of his cross pendant, but his voice cracked, breaking on the words. Tears ran down his face, but I couldn’t cry. There was nothing left in me to give to hope or fear. Once, faith could’ve been my anchor, but now it felt like a lie I might tell myself to feel safe. There was no safety here. There was no escaping this.

And so I watched, as those I had once called neighbors, friends, fought against the inevitable. They ran, though there was nowhere to go. They screamed, though no one could hear. They prayed, though no god would answer. It was almost pathetic, the way they clung to the last shreds of life. But maybe it gave them some comfort. Maybe that was all anyone wanted in the end—their last conjured thought to be at least I tried.

"You know-” he trailed off softly, his voice breaking the stillness between us, "I always thought we'd have more time. That mayb-” He sighed. “Maybe we'd get old together."

His words struck me like a blow. "I thought so too." I whispered, feeling the ache in my chest grow heavier. It felt so cruel, to have found this love, this overwhelming, all-consuming love, only to have it ripped away after two years of marriage. "We deserved more, H.”

My husband’s thumbs ran circles upon the back of my hand, his tears glistening in the glow of Saturn. His lip quivered, voice shaky. “We can be old now.” He sent me a sad smile, pressing a kiss into my temple. “Happy fiftieth anniversary.” He murmured, playing with the ring on my finger.

I couldn’t stifle the whimper that fell from my grin, nodding to his words. I stared at his wedding band that shimmered in the light before passing the bottle of tequila between us—a toast. To fifty years of marriage. That would’ve something to drink to.

One swig turned into three, three turned into five. It had helped stopped the tears eventually.

Harry turned to me, his face inches from mine, and I could see the weight of the world in his eyes—a humorous irony, really, now that we really are practically weightless as we pull into Saturn’s gravity. He raised a hand, cupping my face so gently, as though I were something precious that he didn't want to break.

"If I could choose how it all ends," he whispered, his breath warm against my lips, "I'd choose this—here with you. If this is the last thing I feel, the last thing I see, then maybe it's not so bad."

Alcohol couldn't stop the tears then. They spilled over, warm and unrelenting, because what else could I do? I pressed my forehead against his, our breaths mingling as the world began to fall apart around us. The rumble of the Earth cracking, the low roar of Saturn's tug—it all seemed so distant, so unimportant.

"I don't want to lose you." I choked out, my voice barely a whisper.

"You won't, YN." His voice was unwavering, as if he had the book of answers hidden in his pocket. His thumb brushed over my cheek while his lips parted once more. "You'll always have me. Always."

And then he kissed me. It wasn't desperate or rushed. It wasn't the kiss of two people saying goodbye, just an I’ll see you later. It was slow, soft, full of everything we had been to each other. His lips were warm, delicate, and for a moment I could pretend the world wasn't ending. I could pretend that all we had was time.

Saturn’s light bathed the earth in colors that had never seemed so tragically gorgeous—deep purples, blues, and grays, all spinning around the our dying planet. The rings twisted and churned in the sky, pulling our world apart piece by piece, and the wind howled as if it cried for us. The stars dimmed, one by one, turning away from the spectacle of our destruction, unable to bear witness. Maybe they chose to die along side us, not letting Earth go through it alone.—like they were the only ones who’d mourn our death. I silently thanked them, though inanimate, I swear I could feel their empathy.

Harry gripped my hand tighter, his skin warm against the cold air. I brought his hand to my lips and kissed his knuckles. Our foreheads met again, a united front. His green eyes met mine, full of sorrow, of love, of things unsaid. I wanted every one of the five senses to envelope only him. Our last moment to be together, not watching the world collapse, but here, in this space we had carved out between us.

I kissed him. One last time. The taste of salt from his tears mingled with the liquor on my lips. “I love you.” We whispered together, our voices lost in the roar of the sky falling apart.

And then it was gone.

The cold sank into my bones, but it no longer mattered. My heart slowed, and the world around me faded. No more breath in my lungs, no more blood in my veins. Just the void. And as we drifted into that nothingness, I held onto one final hope—that there is some sort of afterlife, so I could find my Harry again.

Yet, the Earth was gone. It dissolved into the void like dust. The stars, too, blinked out one by one, and the universe spun on, indifferent. We were forgotten, nothing left to even decompose in our boundless grave. Perhaps the dead stars that’ll become something more will be our headstones—an indication we were once here.

But for now, it was as if we never existed in the first place.

btw if you feel like you’ve seen this before, i originally wrote this on wattpad in 2017. it was horrible :D but i liked the concept, so this is it readjusted. hope u enjoyed even just a lil <3

[monikeroboogie]

Once I had a dream I met Allen Ginsberg, he was sitting in front of a yellow wall, I asked him 'do you still hang out with bob Dylan anymore?' and he said 'no, I'm dead' and I woke up and was reading Ginsberg poetry and I read a poem that was like 'last night I dreamt of you Walt Whitman, and the last line was like 'Last night, I dreamt of you, Allen Ginsberg' I had a dream when hunter Thompson died, he was on a football field and barking like a dog in an orange puffy coat. A couple days later his suicide note came out and it was titled 'football season is over'. Once i was walking home from the store and I was thinking about God, does God exist, why do we suffer, is God benevolent and I found ten bucks on the ground, as if God himself was like 'great, here's ten bucks' I had been saying for years I had wanted to see a psychic to see what it's like, looking for one pro-bono and there was a free reading when I was in NYC in Manhattan and I went in and before I walked in the door, I thought to myself 'I am going to go in there and explain I'm homeless and starving and she is going to give me 20$. And that's exactly what happened. I thought it, I did not speak it allowed, I have always wondered how she did that, maybe I am just a smooth talker. Now I believe in mental telepathy and initiatic dreaming and spirit possession, I have done a lot of gross and weird things and really unfortunate times that were as if moved by a will not my own, generally par for the course for a schizophrenic, I believe schizophrenia is demonic possession, not to mention all the coincidence that the world revolves around me that seem to be artificial that are so amazing I think it must be that magic is real. Makes me wonder about Jesus. Once after starving homeless in rags and delirium from mental illness, dangerously underweight I came home from NYC only to be met with the same indifference and neglect from my family I have always believed in politically motived, my colonizer family are xenophobic to radical ideals I cherish, they neglect me in their capitalist sense when I have no job, so i went back to NYC and the first night i was back at the flop house, a young woman overdosed and died, i assume overdose, I was sleeping on the floor wearing my clothes with no pillow or blanket or even backpack full of things at tat point and i woke up to the words 'OMG, she's dead' and it was as if even before I heard those words I woke up elated, happy finally, after a lifetime of childhood depression, bitterly agonizing depression, every little thing a trigger so that every smile of the face of all talking heads was delight for my suffering, every syllable, every slight a heckle from a brutal Satan, and with that death my depression had ended and I am down in the dumps now to be isolated and bullied with no cuddle buddy in poverty, as women are wicked when you are unwanted, but the excruciating nature of that depression no longer plagues me, but then my grandma died, I believe she committed suicide because I had married a junkie whore and said so, and I think my family lurks on my social media, so I went into st pats in Manhattan and took communion and prayed to God to stop killing people, and shortly after that there was a day no one was murdered in NYC, it was in the news. Once I thought to myself 'If you are the one true God, show yourself to me, give me a sign' and as an afterthought I thought 'a solar flare or something' and the next day there was a solar flare, not such a common occurrence. Twitter has for years been able to read my thoughts. So, I believe magic is real, what to do about this, go to church regularly apparently. Wiccans might disagree, I lost my virginity to a wiccan after all, I was an atheist at the time, I did not believe in Jesus, what is the harm in screwing a wiccan. So, I am shopping for a religion. I formally became a Zen Buddhist about 18 years ago now, I still study Buddhism, I'm a lousy Buddhist.

Edit: Calling me a liar is gas lighting and makes me want to sick torture you. I would voluntarily take a lie detector test to prove I am telling the truth.

[jaderimehardt]

Resin First Attempts

Ohhhh, where do I even start~?

In one of my previous posts, I said as soon as I get enough things, I will go out in the garage and start tinkering around even if it's 11pm, midnight, or 1am- didn't I? Yeah, well, that happened, Lol 😅. I was outside in the garage until 2:30am and probably didn't make it to bed until around 3:15am-ish. Details. (I forget when I started, uh, 6pm?)

Second day I went out there earlier but I was probably still out there for about 8-hours? Time can fly by quick this craft! And you don't even notice it. Holy geez.

The first night taking so long, made sense. I was trying to organize things, pull out tools for the first time. Basically get acquainted with my 'Mise en place' (totally a cooking phrase but whatever, I'm using it here).

I've only made 6 bezels so far, and used some of my extra resin in some earring molds (that I haven't added backings to yet) but...! Right now I'm just toying around with techniques and trying to get the hang of things. I think I even already found a new one? I've watched so many resin videos and I've yet to see anyone do this thing 🤔

Anyhow. Here are my very first bezels 😊

Some of these pictures were taken on a cloudy day and some were not... I didn't edit the lighting in photoshop either. And on top of that- I took some pictures next to my backdoor, some in my bedroom, and some in my garage where I've been making these. I did this intentionally to show the lighting variations of the resin, coloring, mica powder, glitters, etc etc.

That potion bottle was my very FIRST one. I'm likely going to keep that one forever as a memento. I had zero intention at the start to add the hearts but had a lightbulb 💡 moment.

Dr. Stone inspiration kicked in and I instantly thought of Senku's love potion at the start of the anime 🤣. In hindsight I should have used the round potion bottle but the love potion idea was literally an afterthought - still came out cute as heck, imo.

If you're wondering about the snowflake ones when it's the beginning of Spring- I was trying really hard to get a Captain Hitsugaya (Bleach) themed bezel but it just wasn't happening for me 🫠

This purple one is a prime example of how different lightings can make a bezel look different. It has me questioning how I want to post this on Etsy in the future 🤔. Many pictures I guess 🤷🏻‍♀️

I wanted something quite literally like a teardrop....? This one has the smallest imperfection in the world that I can see at the weirdest angle if I look at it really hard, LOL. I know it's stupid, but I'm OCD like that. Uhhh... I probably need a better light in the garage so I can avoid this in the future. I think I didn't see a bubble before curing or something. Not 100% sure.

This one has an aurora+pearl mix type mica and aurora glitter so it's constantly shifting colors in the sunlight. It also has intentional ombre, though it's not as dramatic as I wanted. Yeah... definitely a trial and error learning process going on here, lol. I still very much like how it came out. I added the shining star at the bottom to symbolize 'a light in the darkness'.

Couple last shots of some already seen ones- garage shot + bedroom shot. Just to show varying lighting.

Don't worry, I'm not going to do this every time (I think). Maybe 1-2. One near sunlight and one against a white backdrop that I'll setup somewhere. Seems more professional that way, less messy, and maybe my posts won't be a novel long each time 🙃

>>>

Oh let me add a couple somethings!

🔹 I'm still working on getting my Etsy up. I think I just need a banner and an icon? Smol simple things really. There might be more but I think that's it. Aside from me learning how to actually post a listing. I probably won't start selling anything until I get better at this though and feel confident with it. ALSO, I still haven't received the packaging supplies I ordered (bubble mailers). Who knows when I'll get that.

🔹 Yes, those are a bunch of octopus plushies in the background of my pictures. Be prepared to see them a lot, and a lot more other octopuses in my pictures. They are everywhere. Octos are friends in this house 🐙💓

[bellamygateoldblog]

ppl b so obsessed with ~slow burns literally can't relate

here's my special shippy Thing. a pairing which knows from day 1 that the attraction is there, maybe sometimes they even act on it quickly or don't but almost do or don't but want to and they both know they want to and from then on the other person is IT for them, like genuienly it's always going to be them no matter what, they will keep going back to the other either against their own will/judgement because that's their person and they can't help but love them even when they shouldn't or they'll keep choosing that person again and again no matter what happens or how complicated it gets or who else they might get into a relationship with and that Means something. and that tension lasts through the entire show and they're like magnets pulling eachother closer and then repelling eachother away and the electricity makes any scene they're in come alive like they reach out for the other in the dark and *screams*

slowburns actually annoy me most of the time, and I get bored of them easily. what i don't want for any of my ships:

'it took her 6 seasons to ~realise he was the love of her life'

'she had to be beaten down by life enough and proven wrong about anyone else she genuienly was attracted to to finally accept the love interest as The One hashtag romance'

what id prefer:

'he's the love of her life but it aches it aches it aches'

'he isn't the love of her life but he will be and they know it, we know it, god knows it, the Actual love of her life whose supposed to end up with her knows it (🤣🤣)' and theyre like soulmates are made rather than found type thing

'this love isn't good but it's ours'

'he isn't the love of her life but he's the love of her Right Now and that's all that matters'

what can i say i like complicated, i like intensity, i like exciting. i like passionate, i like FIRE. like wtf is "slow burn" what's BURNING? my eyes?

the way of them very slowly catching feelings/kissing the frogs to get to the prince/taking forever to so much as NOTICE any sort of feelings for the other person, i feel like doesn't offer as much freedom for movement like you can't really do whatever u want or go wherever u want with that because you'll always have to account for the other person and the what Feelings are being developed at each stage, just feel as tho the first option gives characters room and space for themselves whereas the other is them being linked back to their feelings for another person idk... like i feel as if slow burns have to be done in a very particular way in order to actually Work otherwise they end up underwhelming or seeming superficial or like an afterthought yk? bc anything that happened before them could easily outshine them.

anyways lmk if this makes sense lol x

EDIT: also, slow burns, the way people talk abt them and write them, just makes me think of the Superior woman/man trope where once the slow burn is canon every connection or person who came before is rendered Less Than, Bad or Irrelevant (e.g. a frog before a prince) and that's really not...like i really don't fuck with that concept AT ALL.

[dm-clockwork-dragon]

A New Evolution: The Mutophage V2

Hey Guys! So I'm Not Quite Dead yet! After nearly 2 years of playtesting, and several additional months of work redeveloping, I present the second full edition of the Mutophage! This one isn't as drastic a rework as some of my other classes have gotten recently, such as the Prizefighter and Hollower. But it does represent a serious update to the mechanics of the class, especially the all-important mutations. In previous version of the mutophage, Each mutation effectively worked like a spell powered by your hit points. you primed mutations in the same way you might prepare spells, and overall, I was just unhappy with how similar the class was starting to feel to a wizard. There was also a major issue with early game survivability, not only because the hit points you are spending for mutations count a lot more when you have so few at first and second level, but because the class lacked early game access to defensive abilities like the barbarian unarmored defense. And the fact that you had to waste mutations on specific natural weapons just to compete with other classes in damage wasn't great either. To solve all of this, I basically went back to the drawing board with the mutations. Admittedly, when I initially designed the class, 90% of mutations were copied direct from my Necroficer class, with only slight alterations. this seemed like a good idea at the time, but the issue came in that those mutations were still balanced for stacking on top of multiple monsters controlled by the Player, rather for expanding the capabilities of a single PC. The First thing I did was separate out all the weapon mutations. The unnatural weapon feature had been developed as sort of an afterthought, but I honestly liked the flexibility it gave, and opted to just define natural weapons with their own weapons table, rather than making claws, teeth, and similar each their own mutation. After that, I took to addressing the way mutations scaled with level. There were a lot of mutations that really needed to be available a lot sooner than they were, but I had gated them behind prerequisites and high cost to prevent abusing things like flight being early game evolutions. A lot of mutations also felt like natural progressions of other mutations. and that gave me an idea. In the new version, each mutation has 2-3 teirs, which can be activated by spending increasing number of hit dice. The tier 1 effects of each mutation are relatively simple, and work well as Evolutions, but the more hit dice you pour into a mutation, the more powerful the effects become. I tried to group effects based on a progression of flavor, rather than just pure mechanics. This helps create a spread of unique abilities, and encourages diversification rather than forcing the player to only take mutations that fit a specific mechanical build. At the end of the day, the number of individual mutations dropped from about 55 to around 35, but the total number of unique effects (no longer counting natural weapons) increased to 89. Because the player can now get more variety out of fewer mutations, the number of mutations the mutophage knows at each level has dropped by about half, and the need to prime a subset of those mutations each day like a wizard does their spells is gone. Once you know a mutation, you just know it. Evolutions changed a bit too. You get your first evolution earlier now, and have more total than you did before. Evolutions also no longer remain permanently active (this just wasn't viable with some mutation tiers) instead, they reduce the number of hit dice you have to spend when activating a specific mutation. Each evolution still leaves a visible deformity related to the mutation it is used for, but the exact nature of this deformity is up to you and your DM Preview images above are low resolution, and do not contain all 29 pages. For the latest high-resolution PDF, as well as a whole host of other work I have done, check out this handy dropbox link. And be sure to tell me what you think!

If you like what I do and want to support me or just generally help out, Check out my Patreon page, or throw some coin at me through Paypal.me. If you wanna just come say hi on my Discord, that’s great too!

[mintwithchoco]

loonathesmut: Dawn

LOOΠΔ Jinsoul x Male Reader

Word Count: 6306 words

Categories: smut, oral, shower sex, stepsister! jinsoul

note; my first smut! i haven't seen anyone do a jinsoul smut so here! i think i focused too much on the plot but i tried my best to incorporate a lot of smut in here! i feel like it's also pretty cringey so bash me all you want lmao

note(05312021); thanks to an ask from an anon, me and @closedafterdark​ have done a few edits and even added a shower sex scene to make the story better.

aff link

12 AM was displayed on the clock.

You were still awake, trying to finish an assignment that has been keeping you up the past three days.

It was raining harshly outside, the droplets pelting your window adding on to your laziness. You wanted to wrap yourself under the covers of your blanket and drink a cup of piping hot chocolate. Instead, you were working on a chemical equation when your attention was moved to the knocking sounds on your front door.

You were a bit confused about who was coming to your apartment this late at night. You suddenly thought about your friend. Maybe he forgot something? Or maybe it’s your mom, making a surprise visit at midnight. Though, that one seemed less likely as she was usually asleep by 8 PM.

You quickly rushed towards the door. To your surprise - it was neither your mom nor your friend. It was your stepsister, Jinsol.

You and Jinsol have been step siblings since you both were kids. She’s only a year older than you, which made it easier for you to bond with her. You still remember the days where you and her were playing hide and seek, beating each other in Super Smash Bros and sharing lunch together at school.

You and her were almost like real siblings, some might even say twins because of the similarities. Both of you had the same interest in food, music, etc. Furthermore, you were always together with Jinsol everywhere you went. If people didn’t know that you are both step siblings, chances are that you would’ve been mistaken as a good-looking couple.

But the truth was, you did have a little crush on her. You knew that it was wrong, but her personality is really similar to your ideal type. Caring, adorable, and a little clumsy at times, you obviously couldn’t say no to her. Adding on the obvious fact that she is really pretty from head to toe, it’s no wonder you were always nervous around her.

Now that you two were grown up, you have taken different paths in life. She has become an idol in a group called Girl of the Month, or more commonly referred to as Loona. The group has been doing well these days and of course, you were happy for her. You, on the other hand, continued your studies at a university in Incheon in the biochemistry field. Even though you and Jinsol were not living together anymore, both of you still kept in contact. It was almost a requirement to message each other almost every day and video calling whenever possible.

“Noona? Why are you-” you asked, blinking your eyes at her. She interrupted you from finishing your sentence by holding up two plastic bags with takeaway food inside. You automatically get them from her hands.

“The company gave me a week of vacation. Haven’t seen you in a while so I decided to pay my lovely brother a visit!” Jinsol said enthusiastically.

“But, why now though? It’s dangerous to be out at night, let alone someone as clumsy as you could get harmed.” You said, teasing her as a way to mask your visible concern.

“There’s less people at midnight. Plus, I had a bodyguard on the way here.” Jinsol answered, kicking off her shoes while entering your apartment.

“Oh really? Where is he?” You asked, peeking outside your door and not seeing anyone else with her.

“I told him to go back home. Which means, you have to take me back tomorrow! Ahh, it’s been a while since I’ve been here!” Jinsol answered while walking around the living room, looking at all of the new trinkets and decorations you have accumulated since her last visit.

You sighed deeply as you watched her pace around. Jinsol then plopped down face first onto your couch and gestured at you to sit beside her. You walked towards the couch, placing the bags of food on the table nearby and sat down beside her while holding in your nervousness.

Why were you nervous, you wondered. Is it because it’s been awhile since you’ve seen her in person? 

She was wearing a black long sleeved crop top with a black sleeveless top underneath, allowing you to see her toned abdomen. Her black shorts made your heart race faster due to how short they were, showing off her extremely long legs. Her creamy thighs looked delicious and the subtle hint of her buttcheeks were making your loins begin to burn with desire. You were thinking of very impure thoughts but did your best to suppress them.

Jinsol reached for the remote and turned on the television. You opened the bags and began taking out the styrofoam boxes of food out.

“By the way, why are you still up at this time? You were always asleep as early as possible.” Jinsol asked.

“As usual, assignments. I’ve worked on them for days now. Seems like they’re impossible to finish.” You said while opening the boxes. Once they were opened, you instantly smiled as the fragrant aroma of the food traveled into your nostrils. 

“Fried chicken? Oh you shouldn’t have!” You quickly ran to the kitchen and grabbed some utensils. Jinsol simply smiled at your actions.

“What do you want to drink?” You asked.

“Do you have any Sprite?” Jinsoul said.

“Yeah, I do.” You opened the refrigerator and took out two green cans of the unmistakable beverage.

With utensils on your right hand and the two cans of Sprite on your left, you went back to the couch and gently put them down. Both of you quickly dig into the food while watching a random movie that Jinsol put on.

The both of you talked a lot while eating, the movie serving as a background afterthought. From the funny moments during her fansigns to your experience working part-time at a daycare, your heart was constantly beating. The nervousness could be heard in your voice with each of your responses. You were quiet whenever she spoke and stuttered when answering her questions, often repeating certain words a few times. Every time you stutter, Jinsol would smile. Sometimes she would giggle for no reason and it only increased the furious rate your heart was pumping at.

Halfway through the movie, Jinsol suddenly asks a question that you’ve been avoiding to answer.

“Hey, baby brother?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Jinsol asked casually.

“Uhh no..I’m too busy with assignments and studies. I barely have enough time for sleep these days, much less a girlfriend.” You answered calmly.

“Ehh..really? How about a crush?”

“Not really. I don’t really know any girls at the university. Most of my interactions with them are about assignments or if they could borrow my notes from the previous lecture.” You felt slightly bad for lying to her, since you knew a handful of pretty girls in your university.

“How about you noona, are you interested in anyone?” You directed her question right back at her, mentally preparing yourself to be heartbroken.

“Yeah, I do actually.” All the color in your face was gone as you felt your heart metaphorically being glass and shattering into a million pieces. But you still held out hope that it was just one of her jokes...

“Oh really? Then tell me how attractive this guy is.” You teased.

“Hmm, let’s see. He’s handsome, pretty athletic, smart, kind but what’s important is that..” Jinsol stops and stares at you.

“..he’s like a little brother to me.” Jinsol ended her statement when your faces were mere centimeters and turned her focus to the movie.

You were visibly confused. Why would she emphasize her crush to be a ‘little brother’? You tried to wrap your head around it by watching the movie as well, occasionally stealing glances at her. But her words still lingered in your mind.

It was around 2 AM when the movie finally ended. You looked towards Jinsol and saw her fast asleep. Being the good brother and host you are, you delicately lifted her into your arms to bring her into your room so that she could sleep on your bed. The impure thoughts reared their ugly head into your mind as you did so.

After gently laying her down on your bed, you grabbed some pillows and blankets to sleep on the couch. You decided it was too risky to share the bed with Jinsol otherwise.

Just as you were about to close the lights and head to the living room, you felt a hand grab your arm. You looked back to see Jinsol who had a sleepy look plastered on her face pulling you back.

“Where are you going?” Jinsol asked with a quiet and raspy voice. Her exhausted voice sounded so seductive, almost causing you to choke on your own saliva.

“I’m s-sleeping on t-the couch. You know, t-to give you privacy…” You said, failing to not stutter that you had just managed to control.

“You’re not gonna feel comfortable sleeping on the couch. Just sleep here.” Jinsol said again.

“But-” You tried to resist but Jinsol pulled your hand even harder.

“F-Fine…” You said as you gave up and sat beside her on the bed. You were hesitant to do so, your king-sized bed feeling like it was too small for the both of you.

“Just lay down! I won’t eat you.” Jinsol teased.

You laid down slowly, feeling like you were going to melt and sink into the bed. Once you got comfortable, Jinsol pulled the blankets over the both of you.

“Goodnight, baby brother.” Jinsoul said, giving you a kiss on the forehead and then turned on her side, facing herself against you.

“G-Goodnight, n-noona..” You said, trying to stop your rapidly hardening erection below from waking up because of the perverted thoughts you were having.

After around twenty minutes, you still couldn’t sleep because of the close proximity between you and Jinsol. You looked to your side and saw her sleeping soundly. You couldn’t deny how pretty she looked while sleeping. After some time and your erection teasing you, you managed to fall asleep.

//timeskip//

It was now 6 AM.

Jinsol felt a weird sensation all over her body.

She was heating up from head to toe, but it was not due to a fever.

Her bottom was where most of the warm and weird sensations were coming from. She felt that something hard was touching her. She tried to move her hips around and suddenly moaned. She quickly stopped, afraid that her moans would wake you up.

She doesn’t know why, but the thing that was touching her clothed vagina felt good. She felt herself getting wet because of it as well. She wanted to get up and inspect what exactly was touching her. But then she thought about you, so she scrapped the plan and decided to just see what was going on.

She slowly opened her eyes. It was dark but she could still see a little bit. She looked at her back and to her surprise, you were hugging her tightly. Your face was close to her neck and your right hand was at her waist. Moreover, the thing that was poking her was coming from you.

Jinsol smiled.

The truth was, Jinsol also has feelings towards you. The person that she described earlier in the evening was you. She always loved how you were nervous around her. Sometimes, she would touch herself after she secretly caught you staring at her body. It was like this for two years until you and she went your separate ways to pursue your own careers.

And now she was here, visiting you with one goal in mind. To actually confess her feelings towards you. She was going to just confess normally. But now, she had an even better idea due to this newfound situation.

She slowly gets off the bed, removing your hand away from her waist. With her off the bed, your body laid flat just how Jinsol wanted. She gets on top of the bed again and crawls in between your legs towards your crotch. Throughout all of this, you were still sleeping heavily.

Now at your crotch, Jinsol licked her lips. She was finally getting ready to do the thing that she had been longing for. Thankfully for her, you were wearing baggy pants so Jinsol had no problem removing them and your underwear in one swift motion.

Your hard cock sprang out, almost hitting her in the face. Jinsol’s pussy was drenched at this point, seeing all the possibilities that she could do with your cock. She slowly strokes it, hoping that it would wake you up. But being the heavy sleeper you were meant Jinsol would have to try harder.

After stroking your cock for some time, Jinsol licked the tip that was already leaking with precum, making you moan a little in your sleep. Jinsol kept licking the drenched tip until she saw you moved slightly. Eventually, she got her wish as you woke up.

“Ugh….huh? Noona what are you-” Jinsol quickly put her finger on your lips.

“Shh, baby. I know you have been wanting this.” Jinsol said in a seductive tone.

Without any hesitation, Jinsol took your shaft into her mouth. You instantly moaned at the contact, pleasure washing over your body as Jinsol kept sucking your cock gently. You couldn’t believe that your step sister was so good at giving you head. She then stopped sucking and stroked you slowly. 

“You know, I have been eyeing you for quite some time, baby. You might not know this, but I have caught you staring at my body a bunch of times.” Jinsol said while teasing your sensitive tip, flicking her tongue against it. You felt like you were in ecstasy as she stroked your cock and teasing your tip.

 “Sorry, n-noona..I can’t- ughh…h-help it..you’re too hot- oh my god..” You tried to answer but failed as the pleasure overwhelmed your senses.

“Tell me, what do you like about my body?” Jinsol said, stroking your cock faster.

“E-everything….” Your cock was twitching at this point when Jinsol suddenly stopped, causing you to whine.

“Come on, baby. Be more specific or else I won’t let you cum.” Jinsol started to stroke your cock again at a delicately slow pace.

“Your t-thighs. I love how delicious they look.” You said. You were getting used to her strokes, causing you to throb in her hand.

“Mmm, more?” Jinsol began to stroke faster.

“Y-your ass. I just wanna spank it every time I see you w-wear shorts.”

“You gotta have to work for that, baby. More.” Jinsol strokes you at an even faster rhythm.

“Your abs. I really like how sexy your a-abs look when you wear crop tops.”

“Thank you, I worked really hard on them. Last one, baby. Don’t stop now, you’re almost there.” Jinsol was now stroking you at max speed.

“Y-your b-breasts. I could suck o-on them all d-day.”

“Good boy. Now, for your reward.” Jinsol took your shaft into her mouth, starting from the tip.

You immediately moaned. Jinsol starts bobbing her head on your cock, taking it inch by inch. She gripped your thighs while you ran your fingers through her blonde hair. Eventually you hold the back of her head with both hands, the two of you are deeply absorbed by the erotic act. You mentally counted the seconds that passed, wanting to see how long she would be able to hold you for. Jinsol shakes her round ass as you force her head deeper. You felt her throat make contact with the tip of your cock, causing you to let out a wordless scream of pleasure. After about twenty seconds, she releases your cock. Gasping for air and a generous amount of saliva dripping from your cock and her mouth, she giggles in satisfaction. Your brain was beginning to overload from the pleasure. 

Jinsol’s panties were drenched with her juices since she started. While she was sucking your cock, her hand slowly went inside her panties. You saw what was happening and took advantage of it.

“Noona..let me help you out.” Jinsol understood what you were trying to do and eased her mouth off your cock, causing you to whimper. She turned around so that her hips would be up against your face. You got to work by pulling her shorts and her panties off in one motion, mirroring what she did to you.

“Impatient aren’t we?” Jinsol said and returned to slobbering on your throbbing cock. Tossing her shorts and panties on the floor, her beautiful pink pussy was glistening with her juices, making you drool. You dive right in, licking her clit like it was your last meal. Jinsol moaned loudly on your cock, adding on another layer of pleasure. You grabbed her thick thighs to get a better grip while eating her out.

Both of you were a moaning mess. Jinsol was bobbing her head on your shaft while you were eating her pussy out. Jinsol started to fondle your warm balls, raising the volume levels of your moans. You weren’t one to be defeated so easily, starting to finger her drenched pussy with two of your fingers. She responds with an even louder moan than before, aroused by how you were giving her pussy your full attention.

Jinsol bobbed her head harder and faster on your cock, causing you to add another finger inside her vagina while licking her clit. You and Jinsol were sweating profusely, but it doesn’t stop the both of you from continuing to pleasure each other. Suddenly, Jinsol stops sucking you off and strokes your shaft hard.

“Baby, you’re so good at that. Don’t you fucking stop.” Her words made you move your fingers even faster into her. She replies in earnest by sucking your cock even harder.

Eventually, both of you can’t hold it any longer. 

“I-I’m gonna cum, baby! I’m gonna cum!” Jinsol said and continued her assault on your dick. 

“Me…too…” You replied back with a breathy voice. 

Jinsol came first, violently. She arches her back as the floodgates opened and you were rewarded handsomely with her sweet nectar. You tried to take it all in but she came so much that it was starting to leak out of your mouth and dripped onto your neck. Meanwhile, your cock twitches and explodes inside Jinsol’s mouth. She lowered her head and tried to take all your cum in but was unsuccessful because of the large volume of your load.

Both of you were struggling to breathe after your intense orgasms. Jinsol looks back at you and stares deeply into your warm brown eyes. She then removes her body off you and plops back on the bed. She kissed you on the lips. Each connection sent small jolts of electricity jolting through your body. The taste of her strawberry lipstick mixed with your cum was amazing. After making out for a period of time, both of you pulled back, leaving a trail of saliva.

“I taste pretty good.” You said.

“Yeah, I love how I taste too. Now, let’s-” You interrupted Jinsol by pinning her down, kissing her again, quickly grabbing her shirt and throwing it off the bed. Jinsol smirked and did the same, except that she ripped your shirt off you.

“You look good.” Jinsol complimented you, biting her lower lip as her eyes hungrily eyed your exposed body.

“You look even better without this.” You removed her black top to reveal her breasts that were being covered with a blue laced bra. Her breasts weren’t the biggest, but were enough for you to fully grab a handful. Your impatience took over your admiration of them and you pulled her bra off, exposing her plentiful breasts. Jinsol moaned over your actions as the cool nighttime air made contact with her exposed skin.

Now the both of you are finally naked together. You start off by kissing her cheeks, creating a trail as you make your way through her neck and eventually, her breasts. You immediately dive into her pink nipples which were already stiff. Jinsoul softly moans into your ear, enjoying what you were doing to her body. You sucked her left nipple, then moved to the right. The breast that wasn’t in your mouth was being fondled by your hand.

Jinsol was shivering with pleasure. She didn’t get relaxed, however. Instead, she reaches for your cock and starts stroking it. You moaned slightly because of her actions. After having fun with her soft flesh, you pepper her stomach with kisses and trace her abdomen by licking it with your tongue.

“Baby, do you love me?” Jinsol suddenly asked.

“Of course, noona. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” You answered with no hesitation.

“Then, prove your love by fucking me as hard as you can.” Jinsol’s dirty talk has made your cock throb even harder than before.

Fueled by Jinsol’s dirty talk just now, you turned her body around so her back was facing you and lifted her up so she was on her fours. Before lining your cock with her dripping pussy, you spanked her round ass several times.

“F-Fuck! Slap my ass again, baby.” Jinsol moaned.

You spanked her again and again, gaining a series of loud moans.

Your cock was now in between her dripping heat. It felt so warm, inviting. This was the moment that you have always been dreaming about and you don’t wanna lose this chance. You started by teasing the outside of her folds, collecting her nectar that was dripping. 

“Stop teasing me already, baby...” Jinsol moaned at the feeling of your hard cock nudging her entrance.

You grabbed her wide hips, aiming your cock and started to push into her slick folds. Both of you gasped and moaned. You never felt the feeling of a vagina before in your life and never knew how tight they could really be. You pushed into Jinsol even more, feeling her walls wrapping your shaft. Jinsol was lost in pleasure, leaning her head back and enjoying how you felt inside of her. Eventually, all of your cock went in. You savored the feeling of her plump ass against your crotch.

You slowly pull away from her pussy and stop before your tip comes out. You pushed into her again and repeated the process as the both of you were getting accustomed to it. You found a perfect rhythm and started to thrust into Jinsol. Her pussy walls felt warm with your dick embedded in her. Jinsol was a moaning mess, getting louder with each thrust.

“Fuck baby, you’re so big and hard.”

“You’re so fucking tight, noona.”

Slowly but steadily, you increased the pace of your thrusts. Jinsol’s erotic sounds were being an encouragement for you to keep yourself pumping into her. You love how cute she moaned for your cock and how gorgeous she looks being satisfied with your thrusts.

You fucked Jinsol even harder and harder. You wanted to kiss her, so you grabbed her shoulder and pulled her upright so that she’s leaning against your chest. You kissed her lips passionately. 

“Yes, fuck me harder. Turn me into your little slut, baby!” Jinsol’s words went right in your ear and of course, you followed what she said. Her walls were constricting your shaft even more. Your right hand reached towards her breasts, fondling it to give more pleasure to the woman that you love.

Her walls were becoming even tighter as you touched her breasts. Your pace didn’t slow down however, it was increasing like crazy, to the point where her ass is making clapping sounds with your crotch. Jinsoul was in euphoria, being a cute little mess. 

“Baby, h-harder please. I wanna cum all over your fucking cock.”

You put your left hand on her clit and rubbed it while thrusting even faster into her. Her moans have become music to your ears, giving you the strength to keep thrusting into her.

Jinsol then buried her face into the bed. Spreading her legs apart, you began thrusting inside her. You watched as Jinsol squeezed her tits, pinching her nipples as you fucked her hard. You made sure she could feel each thrust.

“Your cock feels so fucking good, I love it so much!” Jinsol moaned loudly, her walls squeezing the life out of your cock as you fucked her. 

Jinsol closed her eyes while she grabbed onto the sheets tightly, desperately hanging on while chasing her impending orgasm. You roughly fucked her as her body moved in time with your thrusts.

“Oh fuck!” She screamed as you held her body tightly in place, your hands making a deep impression on her hips.

“Baby, I’m cumming!”

Ultimately, she shrieks and came hard on your cock. Her walls tighten around you deliciously as you feel her juices flood your cock and begin to seep out, staining both of your thighs. You watched as Jinsol’s body trembled violently, her breathing becoming erratic as your thrusts gradually began to slow down in order to allow her to ride out her euphoric high. 

“Baby… that was amazing.” she said quietly, her mouth still open. You kept a tight hold on her as she struggled to catch her breath.

“I came so fucking hard...” She then looks back towards you.

“You haven’t cum yet, baby. I want your load deep inside of me, so come fuck me again.” Jinsol’s dirty talk reinvigorated you as you pulled out your cock from her and turned her around so that she was facing you. She was covered in sweat but still as beautiful as always. You were lost in her gaze for a couple of seconds.

“Noona, I love you.” You blurted out unexpectedly.

“I love you too, baby.”

You spread her legs to reveal her still dripping pussy. You put both of your hands beside her and lined up your cock with her vagina. Jinsol wrapped her arms around your neck, ready to receive your shaft.

“Ready?”

“Always.”

You pushed yourself into her slowly until your dick fully disappeared into her folds. Both of you moaned together at the euphoric feeling. You pull out from her pussy, leaving the tip and slamming her with a long thrust. She moans in pleasure of your cock being deep inside of her tight hole.

You started to fuck Jinsol in a slow pace. Words couldn’t describe how good the both of you felt fucking while facing each other. Her mouth was open, filling both of your ears with her lustful moans.

“Ahh, baby, I love how deep your dick is inside of me.” Jinsol moaned, her eyes rolling back because of the intense pleasure you were giving her.

“Your pussy feels amazing, noona. It’s so tight and warm.” You replied as you began to thrust faster into her. Jinsol was moaning even louder, following the rhythm of your thrusts. You lifted her feet up and placed them on your shoulders, allowing your cock to enter her even deeper.

Jinsol’s breasts were jiggling up and down and you couldn't help yourself from grabbing onto them while you fuck her. She was obviously aroused by this as you took her right nipple into your mouth. Your pace was getting even faster as the wet sounds of your crotches hitting each other could be heard.

Jinsol suddenly grabbed onto your back and scratched it with her nails. You moaned at her action and the erotic act caused you to pound her even harder. Her juices were splashing against both of your crotches, allowing you to slide in and out with ease. Her pussy was getting tighter and tighter as you pound into her. The only sounds that were being heard in your room were wet flesh and your bodies clapping together.

You thrusted into her as hard as you could. The room felt cold because of the rain outside, but you and Jinsol were drenched in sweat from the heat your bodies were producing. How Jinsol was moaning because of your dick, how warm and tight she was, how her breasts were jiggling up and down while you thrust into her, all of it was too much for you to handle.

“Harder…” she said, sweat dripping off her body and onto the bed sheets. Her eyes slowly began to droop lazily as she struggled to stay conscious.

“You’re so fucking deep, baby. Oh my god...” She cried out, surprising the both of you as she was still able to form coherent sentences. Eventually, that same sensation in her stomach came to her once more.

“Baby, I’m cumming again!” Jinsol screamed.

“Cum…I’m cumming too, noona!” Your words came out in between each breath.

“Yes, cum inside your noona baby!”

Jinsol’s loud screams and your harsh groans reverberated around the apartment as you fucked her until the pressure building inside you released. You suddenly felt a knot in your stomach, marking your inevitable end. You kissed Jinsol before you exploded all your load into her warm cavern, causing her to have another orgasm. You slowed down your pace and thrust deeper into her so your cum can reach deeper into her cunt. Both of your toes curled from the pleasure as your cock throbbed and released several weaker thrusts inside Jinsol. Her body was still shaking from the aftershocks when her body collapsed on top of yours, your cock still inside her.

After a minute of Jinsol milking everything out from your cock, you pulled out from her, watching how the mixture of your cum and her juices was leaking out from Jinsol’s delicious pussy. You laid down beside her, breathing heavily with your cock glistening in the nighttime light.

“Baby, that was amazing. You fucked me so well.”

“Yeah, it felt great…”

“Uhh, noona? Are you okay? I kinda smacked your ass hard just now.” You asked quickly after, a bit concerned after what you did to her.

“Ahh you’re so silly, baby. Of course I’m okay! I love it when you smack my ass.” Jinsol laughed after her statement. The room went quiet for a moment.

“Noona?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Do you really love me? Not just because I’m good at sex?”

“Baby, I have loved you since the beginning. Not because you have a big dick or you were so good at eating my pussy. It’s because I love your personality and how great of a guy you are. The other things are just a plus.” Jinsol said while staring at you. You were staring at the ceiling to avoid meeting her gaze out of embarrassment.

“…Thanks, noona.” You slowly looked at Jinsol and hugged her. Jinsol reciprocates the hug while smiling. After hugging, you looked into each other's eyes. You both then kissed passionately, not caring what the consequences that the both of you were going to face. After a tender makeout that somehow lasted thirty minutes, Jinsol speaks up.

“Now, let’s clean up, shall we?” You both got off the bed and Jinsol dragged you by the hand into the shower of your room. She turns the shower heads on before stepping into the bathtub and holding onto your hand for you to enter as well.

The warm water calms down your aching muscles from the act earlier, giving you a sense of relaxation. It then becomes scalding hot, making you remember how much Jinsol loved hot showers. Once both of you were fully wet, she grabbed the nearby loofah and poured some body wash onto it. A lightbulb was turned on in Jinsol’s head, and so she decided to put on an erotic show for you by lathering up her deceptively curvy body with the soapy loofah. Her hands went up to her breasts, groping them gently and teasing her nipples until she felt your cock becoming hard again in between her thighs due to the close proximity between you two.

“Baby, you just came two times and you’re already this hard again?” She teased, biting her lower lip.

“I can’t help myself when there’s a beautiful naked woman with me in the shower.” You replied, making Jinsol blush.

“Alright, let’s clean you up.” 

Jinsol took her time in washing you, making sure every inch of your skin is covered in the lavender scented body wash. As she traces the loofah, drawing her name on your chest and down to your stomach, she stops on your lower body. Holding your cock in her hands, she runs the loofah across it, creating a tingling sensation in your body. Jinsol smiled as she slowly began to stroke you while softly biting your nipples. You let out a moan because of the stimulation and slowly move backwards until your legs bump into the edge of the tub, making you sit down on the cold and slippery surface. Then, Jinsol straddles your lap and your hard cock pressed against her stomach as she gave you another passionate, lust-filled kiss.

You finally break the kiss when you both feel too lightheaded and need oxygen. Jinsol does her best to catch her breath, her pink lips slightly puffy and her cheeks flushed. She was the most beautiful woman in the world in your eyes and there was nothing that could change that.

“I thought we were gonna get clean-ahh…” You were cut off by Jinsol’s lips finding their way to the place where your lower jaw and neck meet, nibbling on the skin as she leaves hickeys behind, marking you as hers.

“But I want you so bad, baby.” She murmured just loud enough for you to hear, causing goosebumps to form on your body and your cock to throb against her stomach.

Wrapping her arms around your neck, Jinsol lowers her body as she guides your cock back inside her. The two of you moaned as she slowly lowered herself onto you until she had reached your base completely. Jinsol watched you close your eyes as her tight, velvety walls wrap themselves tightly around you once more. She began bouncing her body up and down, her ass jiggling each time. Her body unconsciously tightens her muscles around you, providing a feeling you couldn’t put into words.

“Noona…do that again.” You breathlessly said.

Jinsol clenched her vaginal muscles around your cock again, tightening you in a firm grip and earning herself your cries of pleasure.

Your hands rested on her cheeks once more, watching Jinsol bounce on your lap. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head when you accidentally discovered a certain sensitive spot within her. With each roll of your hips, you make sure to hit that pressure point.

“Fuck, that feels so fucking good.” She moaned when you took her erect nipples inside your mouth, gently biting on them and mirroring what she did to you.

“Yes baby…” She said as her stomach began to feel heavy, the knot inside her twisting. You continue pounding her newfound sensitive spot, feeling Jinsol’s sharp nails raking your back with scratches as her body trembles with an arriving orgasm.

“Baby!” She screamed repeatedly. You continued rocking Jinsol back and forth and side to side as a way to prolong the duration of her impending orgasm.

“Baby, please...” She begged, blowing hot air gently into your ear and encouraging you to keep going. 

Her eyes fully rolled back into her head as your hips crashed against hers. The water was no longer burning hot, but neither of you cared about the temperature change - only focusing on each other. Jinsol felt so comfortable on your lap and in your arms that her eyes began drooping.

“N-Noona, I’m cumming!” You said, the only semblance of a warning as you made a powerful thrust deep inside her pussy. Your cock throbs as her tight, velvety walls clamped onto your dick. You began pouring hot, thick semen inside Jinsol which once again causes her own orgasm to occur. Both of you are moaning loudly in satisfaction.

“Ahh fuck baby...” Jinsol moaned as it seemed like her body’s default reaction to her orgasms was for her eyes to roll to the back of her head. Her body wriggles in pleasure as she continues lacing together incoherent moans and explicit syllables that made no sense.

Slowly lifting up her hips, you watched as thick gobs of your semen and her juices slowly dripped out of her freshly fucked pussy. You were surprised you were still able to release such a large amount of cum due to your two orgasms that you had earlier. When the two of you are finished, you both catch your breath as she leaned down and gave you tender, passionate kisses. Jinsol is fully satisfied, happy to be in your arms again. But this time, it had a different, a more special meaning. 

After spending two hours having sex in the shower that ended up being dirtier rather than getting clean, you and Jinsol quickly get dressed to go to Seoul to drop her off because she had planned to go shopping with your mom. She didn’t bring any clothes with her, so she borrowed some of yours. She wore one of your hoodies and a pair of shorts that complimented her figure nicely. When she came out from your room after dressing up, you instantly chuckled at how cute she looked wearing your clothes.

“You look so cute, noona!”

“Of course, your noona looks good in everything. Let’s go now, I don’t wanna be late.”

“Okay Jingolas-nim!” You said to her and opened the front door for her. She just glared cutely at you and went out the door. Meanwhile, you smiled, thinking how your life is complete with the newfound existence of an intimate relationship with your stepsister, Jung Jinsol.

[paullicino]

Ten Years

Taken from my Patreon.

Ten years is a long time. It’s long enough for many things to change, but also long enough for everything to remain the same.

I remember ten years ago as if it were yesterday, as if it passed by in the blink of an eye, with light and shadow, textures and taste all as familiar as ever.

A morning after. Shocked faces. A phone call. Events barely believable, yet all too real.

Ten years ago, my then partner and I were living in a top floor flat off Tottenham High Road. It was sweltering in the summer and the downstairs neighbours played dance music at four in the morning. But the views out the back bedroom window were of valleys of rooftops, sprouting television aerials and summited in the winter by the briefest dustings of snow.

The sun was for the front of the flat. The moon shone into our bedroom.

I remember that sunlight in the afternoon, sparkling through the shifting foliage of the tall trees outside. And I remember summer most of all. August.

We had a tap. A faucet. A great, overwrought thing that our landlady was obsessed with. It was the best tap ever, she said. It was large, curved and heavy, the pharaonic headdress worn atop a newly-fitted kitchen of which she was so proud. Wasn’t it exciting that we had such a good tap?

We just wanted our bed repaired. Our home wasn’t finished when we moved in and we slept on the sofa for weeks. When the mighty tap was finally installed, it was too heavy for its fitting. It teetered. Along with poorly-mounted cupboard doors with handles that prevented other cupboards from opening, its practicality was an afterthought.

The walk up Tottenham High Road took me to the only two locations I ever really visited, the supermarket and the job centre. The supermarket provided us with affordable food (though I’d watched the price of many staples almost double over five years) and the job centre provided me, an unemployed person, the money with which to buy that food.

The job centre, which was now extra special and had been rebranded Job Centre Plus, did not provide anyone the means with which they could get a job. It spent almost all of its time providing people with unemployment benefits. Most of the thousands of Tottenham residents who poured through its doors would’ve taken a job if they could’ve found one, but the listings at the centre itself were usually out of date, irrelevant or in some other way misfiled. Most employers don’t want to list their vacancies at the Job Centre Plus because they don’t want to employ the kind of people who go there.

Out of the Job Centre Plus and the supermarket, which one do you think burned that August?

I have written before about my strongest memory of the Job Centre Plus, but here it is again. It was of an old foreign woman and her daughter trying to speak to a clerk. The old woman didn’t speak English, so her daughter was attempting to explain that the woman was looking for work and thus registering as unemployed to gain unemployment benefit. The clerk was trying to explain that the woman was too old to work and should also be on disability benefit. The daughter was trying to explain that they had tried to navigate those systems and that they were obtuse and broken. Her mother just needed money. To live.

(Ten years before, in the summer of 2001, I’d first looked at the cost of moving out. I looked at rents around my Hampshire town, at the cost of housing and at the wages I needed to earn. England was expensive, I decided. It sure cost a lot just to live.)

Everyone was trying to explain everything. The job centre mostly wanted to give people their money and get rid of them, because there were many more lined up behind.

My strongest memory of the supermarket was of the man outside with no legs. He sat there panhandling in his wheelchair almost every day of the year. Britain had just launched its latest Astute-class nuclear submarine, each of which costs over one and a half billion pounds, but it was still a country where a man with no legs had to beg outside a shop.

I thought about that man long after I left Tottenham. I think about him here, now, ten years on.

My partner went abroad to see family and I spent some of the summer restarting my career as a freelance writer. I was fortunate with the connections and opportunities that I had, none of which would ever be found at a job centre, and I spent a lot of my time writing either to find work or simply for practice. I was writing on the night my street burned.

It began before dusk and I came home to find enormous police vehicles parked outside, the sort that are mobile command headquarters. Chains of armoured riot vans surged north. I heard there’d been a protest outside the police station and that a car or two had been burned. I checked the news occasionally. It didn’t have much to add.

Police vans kept coming, though all other traffic had stopped. The roads were closed, blocked by the police, and the latest news told me that petrol bombs had been thrown and a bus set alight. The reports were sparse.

The police in England are really good at responding to riots. They turn up in great swathes, on horses, in vans, or on foot and armed with batons and shields. They have all kinds of exciting equipment to help them. A year before, they’d kettled schoolchildren protesting the huge increase in university tuition fees, surrounding and slowly crushing hundreds of them in Trafalgar Square and on Westminster Bridge. Footage emerged of them beating the shit out of kids or dragging people out of wheelchairs. Here they were now in Tottenham, ready for more.

I kept trying to find news. The police had cordoned off most of the High Road, which meant the journalists that were arriving had no ability to find what was happening inside the riot. Distant footage of fires was the best most of them could provide. As I remember it now, the BBC had one van inside of the police cordon and couldn’t broadcast out because its dish had been damaged. I also have memories of a single journalist, almost in the thick of a mob, asking rioters to give them a moment to explain why they were protesting, or wondering why on earth they might want to block a BBC camera crew who were trying to film them.

What an inane question.

I found the news I wanted. I found it via Twitter and social media. And it was terrifying.

Broadcast news had described a riot not unlike any other. But the still relatively new sphere of social media was overflowing with witness statements, photographs and the kind of low-quality video that phones captured back then. People across Tottenham were panicking as they described growing crowds on the High Road burning not only vehicles, but also shops and businesses. They were breaking into commercial properties. They were looting. They were starting more fires. This had begun half a mile away from my home and it was spreading outward. The post office burned. Landmark businesses burned. Local shops burned and, with them, the flats and homes located above.

The updates kept coming and it’s almost impossible for me now to try to describe to you not only the sheer volume of panic and distress that waterfalled down my feed, but also the sense of utter hopelessness that came with it. People beyond the High Road described not just the violence spilling into their streets, the fights and the hundreds of looters, the fires and the damage, but also how there was no one who could stop this. No emergency services responded. Their phones went unanswered or the lines were jammed.

I read update after update that echoed the same, basic fact, something which I still struggle to comprehend even now, something I’d describe as barely believable: No help was coming.

But the social media updates kept coming. Looters were turning up with empty vans and loading them up with everything they could take. Buildings were being destroyed. A whole estate was being evacuated.

The news provided by the BBC and its peers remained limp and languid, so I spent all night reading these updates, discovering more nearby shops were being gutted, or how the retail park near me was looted to the point of emptiness, and I watched as even my own view out the window became broiling crowds of countless restless and angry people. I remember one man walking off into the darkness with brand new flatscreen televisions under each arm, the police vans now long gone. The night was regularly punctuated by shouts, screams, thumps and sometimes what might have been explosions. The sirens were always distant. The helicopters came and went.

I don’t know where the police cordon had gone. It felt almost as if they had given up and let Tottenham run rampant.

The sun came up and from that back bedroom window I saw smoke rising. I hadn’t slept. The news was full of irrelevant speculation and so, at five-thirty, I put on my shoes and walked the High Road. What I saw was barely believable. Sometimes I met the stunned gazes of other people doing the same, sometimes I avoided any eye contact. I have kept a diary for a long time now and this is what I recorded (slightly edited):

“This morning at about 5:30, as the sun rose, I tried to wander through Tottenham to take some pictures. It became one of the scariest walks I've ever taken.

The atmosphere was tense and unpleasant. Columns of smoke snaked upwards and the High Road and several other streets were blocked off or packed with police vehicles, many more of which were endlessly arriving, some from as far away as Kent.

The nearby retail park was littered with debris and many of its shopfronts were smashed. Groups of people, perhaps gangs, loitered everywhere. While some areas were busy with police officers, others were neglected and patrolled by hostile looking young men.

I didn't end up taking many pictures. I kept moving. Depending upon where you walk, Tottenham looks like a cross between a blitz bomb site and the mess after a chaotic festival.

Something still feels very different. Tottenham has hardly been rosy at the best of times, but today the sunshine can't seem to dispel a strange chill in the air. I myself can't stop thinking of all the homes that burned last night. It might not be immediately obvious to many people, but above a great deal of those shops set ablaze were flats, often family homes for very poor people. Many of those who had little now have less.”

A day after those first riots hit Tottenham, they went nationwide. London wasn’t done and, for a week, many major cities in England played host to their own riots. Tottenham was totally locked down, but it was far too late. The disorder had moved elsewhere.

I remember telling a colleague I worked with that I wouldn’t be finishing something that weekend. He laughed at the news and imagined it would all blow over. He was from a much wealthier background.

Then, everyone started trying to explain everything.

The BBC caught up with events the way a great-grandparent catches up with technology, fumbling and frowning. Goodness me, they said, in their middle class, broadcast-trained voices, and they joined in with the three broad lines of discussion that emerged. One asked how this could happen, one asked why this had happened, and one was about how this would never happen again, because the law would be firmer than ever, the punishments and prosecutions authoritative and absolute. The police were ready for more. They were going to get water cannons. I imagine those work particularly well on kids and wheelchairs.

There was a lot of talk about punishment, including from the Prime Minister, who decided to stop being on holiday in Tuscany only after England’s third night of rioting. I wonder if he had imagined it would all blow over.

Sometimes there was talk involving the people of Tottenham themselves, but it was more likely to be talk about them. A lot of people in Tottenham are Black and have families that trace back to the very first Windrush immigrants of the late 1940s. One Black Labour MP said it was important to talk about their experiences in London, their economic situation and their history of treatment by the police. After all, the spark that had set these riots alight was a protest outside the police headquarters, subsequent to the suspicious shooting of Mark Duggan, a Black man, something that called to mind a similarly suspicious death of a Black woman that also precipitated Tottenham’s 1985 riots.

For some people, the discussion became about how Black people had started the riots and been the chief participants. This wasn’t reflected in anything I saw either on social media or with my own eyes, in person, on the night. But nobody was stopping to ask me what I thought or what I saw.

Not long after that first riot, my partner called me to check I was okay and to ask if those barely believable things she’d seen on the news were really as bad as they seemed. They were. I rode the bus up the High Road on my way to Wood Green, then later to Walthamstow, both of which offered me temporary job centres that took the overspill from ours, thoroughly gutted by fire and then looted of all of its copper piping. The bus crept past burned-out shops and homes. I don’t know where those people have gone.

Later that year, my partner and I discovered that our income was low enough that we were eligible for housing benefit. It took us so long to try to apply for it that we moved home before any progress was made. When I found enough work to support myself, I visited the job centre to sign off, as we called it, to close my file. I asked a woman at reception what I needed to do. “Nothing,” she said, as the line behind me wound down several stories of stairs and out into the grey autumn street. “Just stop coming. Stop coming.”

Winter came and things rustled in the walls. There was a long, tall hedge along the High Road and I would look out the window to see men using it as a urinal. I only had to live in Tottenham for around a year and a half and I have good memories from that flat, but I also remember a stifling and sad place to live, from which I was lucky to move on. Tottenham was never my home and I never had to stay there, but I certainly feel that I came to get a sense of the place.

After moving out, our ex-landlady complained that we hadn’t left the oven as clean as she would’ve liked. She hiked the rent 9% while we were staying there. She never fixed anything that broke and provided excuses instead of solutions.

I found more work. I taught games and narrative for a semester at a small institution in East London. One of the things I asked my students to consider was the stories and the experiences of people who weren’t like them. I asked them to share how often they had been stopped and randomly searched by airport security. “Not just at the airport,” one student reminded me. “On the tube. On the street.”

My life continued to improve in many ways, but I still remembered the man in the wheelchair. The BBC and many other media outlets continued to talk about poverty and race, but not always to poor people or to people who weren’t white. In 2014 I wrote On Poverty and one of the most surprising responses I repeatedly received from people was “I had no idea that it was like this.” A friend of mine tried to apply for support for chronic health problems and documented her many struggles, including being required to explain exactly how many times a week she suffered from migraines (“You said it was two or three times a week. Well, is it two, or is it three?”). The news regularly reported growing homelessness, rising use of food banks and the inevitable deaths of people who weren’t just failed by broken systems, apathy and a lack of understanding, but also simply too poor to be alive.

I feel like some of the people I knew didn’t like how I kept returning to these topics. I feel, even more, that they didn’t at all understand. I remember some of these people waiving off the Brexit referendum as it approached, certain the country wouldn’t vote to amputate itself from the European Union. I don’t think they understood and I don’t think they’d seen the unhappy England that I had, both as a child and as an adult. I think they’d only seen, and been, very comfortable people.

I think these people would call themselves open-minded, progressive and keen to make the world better. I’m sure they could explain those views. At length.

If I think of those people now, I’m quite sure they are all still very comfortable, ten years on. I also think there is still a good chance that man is sat in that wheelchair outside of that supermarket, though he could also be dead by now, again simply too poor to be alive. No longer able to watch the sun sparkle through tall trees, see roofs dusted with snow or catch the moon peeping through his bedroom window.

Such things aren’t for poor people. We still get frustrated when we give them benefits or find out they own mobile phones.

---

Ten years on, Tottenham is almost a dream, a memory where the details have faded and the edges have softened. I have moved countries, had the privilege of travelling through work, enjoyed many different creative opportunities and benefited from free healthcare that has addressed difficult, long-term health issues. I have rationed my life according to a tight budget, but I’ve never had to face the overwhelming, unending hardships of others that I’ve shared neighbourhoods and postcodes with. I cannot ignore these people because they have so often been one street away, visiting the same shop or riding the same train. They are not an abstraction, they are right there, ready to tell us all about their lives.

Ten years on, Tottenham has one of the UK’s fastest-growing rates of unemployment, the latest statistic in the region’s long history of joblessness and poverty. Many of its residents, like poor people across the country, live paycheck to paycheck, at risk of financial ruin should they experience a single upheaval. Ten years on, the most reliable predictor of success and financial stability in the UK (as in many developed countries) is now considered to be the circumstances of your birth. The idea of social mobility is more irrelevant than ever, with much of your destiny decided before you are even born. Ten years on, almost a quarter of the population of the UK lives in poverty.

Ten years on, continued austerity, government apathy and cuts to social services has meant that, yes, ten years really is enough time for everything to stay the same. Without change, the problems people face become generational, systemic. Some people tell me that the 1980s were like this for certain families, regions, populations. I didn’t know. We were doing okay. Perhaps I didn’t get it, didn’t notice it, didn’t want to think about it.

Ten years on, Mark Duggan’s family filed a civil claim against the Metropolitan Police and were awarded an undisclosed sum, after his death was officially ruled a lawful killing in 2014. Lawyers for the Duggan claim commissioned this in-depth report on the shooting, which illustrated many problems with the official police version of events.

Ten years on, the UK government is trying to curtain the right to protest. It commissioned a review that concluded that the country has no systemic racism. It wants to limit the powers of the Electoral Commission and has considered conflating the concepts of whistleblowing and leaking with spying, meaning those who leak information could be treated as criminals. It is increasingly intent on punishing those who might express dissatisfaction.

And ten years on, as we all know, wages have not risen to match the rising costs of rent, food, utilities or transport. It sure costs a lot just to live.

Finally, in 2018, the UN Special Rapporteur on Poverty and Human Rights visited the United Kingdom and did speak with many of its poor. The resulting exhaustive and damning report concluded that “statistics alone cannot capture the full picture of poverty in the United Kingdom” and that “much of the glue that has held British society together since the Second World War has been deliberately removed and replaced with a harsh and uncaring ethos.” It described harsh, ill-conceived and out-of-touch support systems devised and doubled down on by a government that not only failed to understand poverty, but that couldn’t even measure it accurately. It also predicted that these things would only get worse, and without any consideration of the effect of extraordinary events, such as a global pandemic.

The government described the report as “barely believable.”

I don’t think any help is coming.

---

There’s a question that sometimes bounces around social media and it asks people this: “What radicalised you?” As if there was some moment that changed a person’s political beliefs and rearranged their perspective on the world.

Here’s the thing. I feel like my perspective is from the floor, skewed and sore after I fell between two stools, always unable to find an identity amongst wider British culture. I grew up too comfortable, too spoiled and too well-spoken to call myself working class, but I was easily alienated by schoolfriends with multiple bathrooms and university-educated parents. My interests and my sentiments aren’t supposed to be working class, but many of my life experiences and even philosophies are. I know what it’s like to memorise Shakespeare and to explain themes in Romantic-era art, as much as I know what it’s like to fight government systems that are ostensibly supposed to help, to be unable to afford your own home, to walk into a supermarket and look at staple foods you still can’t afford. You think about Descartes and then you think about which dinner provides the cheapest way to keep your body alive.

When I was a kid I remember going to friend’s houses where they were too poor to clean the carpet, or seeing them lose a parent to lung cancer, or the time someone showed me a gun hidden in their brother’s car. As an adult I wrote to my politicians to ask them what they were doing about poverty, about education, about the cost of living. I went to protests and signed petitions and supported charities both practically and financially. I suppose I was trying to articulate some of the skills I’d learned from in some situations to articulate the experiences I’d had in others. Surely you have to do something.

I both resent and appreciate aspects of both classes and I imagine I’ll never work out who I am or what I’m supposed to call myself. But I do know there are vastly different worlds and vastly different experiences within British culture and that many continue to be overlooked even when in plain sight. And it’s what I find most frustrating.

If there was one thing I learned, if not one thing that radicalised me, it wasn’t simply that poverty never goes away, it’s that it always needs to be explained. There are always, always people who don’t get it, who don’t notice it, who don’t want to think about it or who will puzzle over it from a distance as if it were some transient mirage they can never hope to touch. Those in power will continue to make decisions about poverty that they do not experience, in spite of the fact that making financially comfortable people the authority on money is like making able-bodied people the authority on wheelchair access, like making men the authority on women’s bodies, like making white people the authority on racism.

And so, ten years on, here I am again, writing about Tottenham, about class, about poverty and about ignorance, and only from a slightly different angle. I will write about these things more, not least because I’ve already started another work on these themes, but mostly because I will always need to. I don’t imagine that, during my lifetime, the explaining will ever stop. I don’t imagine that our societies will give up on punishing people for being poor in a world where it is so often simply too expensive to be alive. And I don’t imagine I will have any more patience for people who imagine it will all blow over.

I refuse to let you middle-class your way out of this.

I don’t have any solutions to these enormous and complex problems. I don’t have exhaustive lists of who exactly to blame or where precisely everything has gone wrong. But here’s what I believe: If we don’t talk about poverty, and if we don’t listen to those caught inside of it, it will never go away, and there will be infinitely more Tottenhams.

[wiypt-writes]

Stark Spangled Banner

Ch24: Like The Old Man Said…Together Part 1- I Wouldn’t Call It A Comfort

Summary: The Avengers track Ultron and it’s a race against time before the AI can put his plan into action.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x OFC Katie Stark

Warnings: Bad language, Smut (NSFW) violence and crazy assed robots. Oh and “Something dramatic, I hope!”

A/N: This chapter now contains additional content which is why It has been split into two parts.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar Katie Stark and the other OCs. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

A/N: Another massive big up for @angrybirdcr​ for her edits xx

Chapter 23 Part 2

Stark Spangled Banner Masterlist // Main Masterlist

“I’ve put the boys to work.” Laura gestured out of the window as Katie chewed on her grilled cheese. She’d had a good four hours sleep and was feeling much better after a scalding hot shower. She glanced across the lawn area to where Steve and Tony were positioned at the side of the house, both holding an axe, stood by a stack of large logs and two piles of smaller logs.

“You got Tony doing manual labour?” Katie grinned at her. “Well played.”

Laura chuckled and then began to chat to about her plans for dinner. “Clint suggested comfort food. fried chicken and Mac and Cheese to be specific”

“You’ll win Steve over instantly.” Katie leaned against the counter. “I’m happy to help, lot of people to feed, not to mention Stevie eats enough for three.”  

“You wanna take her up on that.” Clint walked into the kitchen and opened a drawer near the door.“She’s a damned good cook is Nova. Obviously, not as good as you, babe.” He added as a quick afterthought. “Smooth Barton…” Katie laughed as Laura threw a tea towel at his head. Easily catching it ant tossing it back, he pulled a tape measure from the drawer and left through the backdoor, still laughing, the kids trailing behind him.

Katie stared at the back door as it shut, the normality of the scene suddenly hitting her. He had a wife, two children, and still managed to hold down the ridiculous lifestyle the Avengers and SHIELD demanded.

“How do you do it?” She blurted out. The woman placed the last plate on the sink to drain and straightened up. “I mean this, it’s so ordinary.” she turned, once more looking out of the window. She watched Steve swing his axe, his light blue Under Armour skin top clinging to every part of his torso.

“It’s possible…” Laura mused, standing behind her as she followed the younger woman’s gaze. You know, to have a domestic life…well, a variation on one, away from the mess.”

“Problem is the pair of us are tangled in the mess.” Katie muttered, not taking her eyes off Steve.

“Well then, you should understand each other more.” Laura pointed out, before she changed the subject. “Here, they could probably use a drink. You wanna take ‘em that jug of ice tea for me?”

“Sure.”

A minute or so later Katie crossed the lawn with a tray sporting a full jug and two glasses towards where both men where stood by the decreasing mound of large logs and the two increasing mounds of smaller ones.  Steve’s pile of cut logs was significantly bigger than Tony’s, which was hardly surprising.

And the pair of them were bickering which was also not surprising.

“Is that a problem?” Steve asked, picking the two halves he had just cut up and throwing them onto his pile, bristling slightly at the fact Tony was digging into why he wasn’t as affected by the Maximoff’s visions as everyone else. Truth be told he had been affected, big time, but since he and Katie had talked it through he felt better. But he wasn’t about to tell anyone that, frankly it was no ones’ business what any of them had seen bar their own.

“I don’t trust a guy without a dark side. Call me old fashioned.” Tony shrugged

“Well let’s just say you haven’t seen it yet.” Steve glowered at him, his temper starting to rise. He couldn’t help but feel pissed at Tony, because if it wasn’t for him they wouldn’t even be in this mess.

“You know this is what he’s trying to do right?” A soft voice spoke and Steve turned to see Katie setting a tray of drinks down behind them. They both turned to look at her “Ultron is trying to tear us apart.”

“Well I guess he’d know.” Steve jerked his head in Tony’s direction “Whether he tells us is a bit of a question”

“Banner and I were doing research-”

“That would affect the team” Steve picked up another log. His voice was gaining momentum, and Katie let out a groan, she knew he was getting angry.

“That would end the team” Tony said simply, “Isn’t that the mission? Isn’t that the “why” we fight, so we can end the fight, so we get to go home?”

Without so much as a huff of noise, Steve ripped the log he was holding apart with his bare hands in a fit of temper that aroused Katie far more than it should have done. Tony raised his eyebrows slightly and Steve’s chest heaved as he regained his composure. He turned to look at Tony and spoke, his voice calm and measured.

“Every time someone tries to win a war before it starts, innocent people die. Every time.” He spoke softly but sternly, trying to make his point. Loki, Hydra, SHIELD with Insight.. now this.

“I’m sorry. Mr. Stark,” Laura headed across the lawn towards them all. “Uh, Clint said you wouldn’t mind, but, our tractor, it doesn’t seem to want to start at all. I thought maybe you might…

“Yeah, I’ll give her a kick.” Tony smiled at Laura then as he turned to leave he looked back at Steve delivering his next line with the air of a petulant child “Don’t take from my pile.”

“You know if he wasn’t your bother…” Steve reached for a glass of tea, draining it in one and leaving his sentence hanging. Katie took a deep breath and stood up.

“Cut him a bit of slack yeah?” Her eyes flashed. “The Maximoff girl. She got to him too.”

Steve looked down at her and frowned, that was news to him. “But I thought…”

“It was the day we found the sceptre.” Katie said. “She got to him in Strucker’s lab only he didn’t know what it was at the time. And you wanna know what he saw?” her voice wasn’t angry but she levelled Steve with a look that left him with no uncertain terms she was defending her brother “He saw us all dead because he hadn’t tried hard enough.” Steve inwardly groaned as she finished. “That’s what Ultron is about, that’s why he started it again.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know.” Steve shook his head, gently

“Well now you do.” Katie shrugged and decided to change the subject, “Oh, and by the way, what you did with that log back then-” she mimed pulling something apart. “-kinda turned me on a hell of a lot more than it should.”

He grinned and stepped towards her, closing the short distance they were apart “Well, if we go back inside I can…”

“Nice try, you have wood.” Katie pointed the logs

“Yes and I’d kinda like to do something about it!”

“Steve!” Katie spluttered out through her laugh, as she hit him in the chest, mentally making a note toe have words with Sam for teaching him innuendoes and street slang

He stepped back, laughing and rubbing at the spot where her hand had connected with him. He cocked his head playfully to the right, and was about to say something else about the fact he was feeling pretty horny on account of it being a few days since they’d last enjoyed one another seeing as his plans for her and that tight blue dress had been interrupted post the party, but Katie’s attention was taken by something else.

“Lucky!” She grinned crouching down to pet the dog who was jumping all over her, giving out little barks. “Man you got big!” Steve looked down at his girl and the sandy coloured dog, frowning as he noticed it only had one eye.

“Is this the pizza eating puppy you talked about?” he asked, bending down to pet the dog. “Sure is.” Katie grinned standing up as the dog ran off back to Barton after he whistled. “Not so much of a puppy now though.”

She smiled and made her way back over to the house. Steve looked at the pile of logs, then her, then back and picked up his axe again.

Inside, Katie started to help Laura with the dinner, the pair of them working together easily. Steve and Clint joined them in the kitchen not long after, both men sitting at the table with a beer as Lila scrambled up onto Steve’s knee, Steve waving away Clint’s instruction for her to leave him alone, he didn’t mind one bit. Katie had noticed the small girl sat there, talking to Steve and she’d smiled and turned back to her cooking. She was just rinsing off the salad when she looked up out of the window, seeing something that she really wasn’t expecting.

“I don’t believe it.” She whispered as she watched Tony and the tall, bald headed man with the trench coat and the eye patch walking up the path towards them. She turned to Clint and Steve “We got company, boys.” Both men stood up as the door opened, Lila jumping of Steve’s knee. The soldier’s hands went to his hips, his mouth forming a thin line as his eyes fell onto the man in front of him.

“At ease Soldier…” Fury said, a smile creeping across his face as Tony walked into the room behind him muttering about traitors, Maria Hill and ‘Goth Pirates’

****

“Ultron took you folks out of play to buy himself time.” Fury said glass of water in his hand as he leaned against the kitchen counter. “My contacts all say he’s building something. The amount of Vibranium he made off with, I don’t think it’s just one thing.”

“What about Ultron himself?” Steve asked, he was stood in the doorway to the kitchen, leaning against the door frame, arms folded.

“Ah. He’s easy to track, he’s everywhere. Guy’s multiplying faster than a Catholic rabbit. Still doesn’t help us get an angle on any of his plans though.”

Tony shoved the last piece of the chicken he had been eating in his mouth and walked to the sink to pick up a towel to wipe his hands. “He still going after launch codes? “

“Yes, he is, but he’s not making any headway.”

Katie frowned from her seat at the table, opposite Natasha. “Well that doesn’t make sense. Tony cracked the Pentagon’s firewall in high school for a dare”.

Tony smiled fondly at the memory. That had earned him an ass whooping and a half from his dad.

“Yeah, well, I contacted our friends at the NEXUS about that”. Fury continued

“NEXUS?” Steve questioned.

“It’s the world internet hub in Oslo” Banner explained, he was stood behind Natasha leaning against the sideboard. “Every byte of data flows through there, fastest access on earth.”

At that point Lila ran into the room, a piece of paper in her hand.

“So what’d they say?” Clint asked, turning 3 darts over in his hand from his stance a few feet away from Fury.

Lila handed the piece of paper to Natasha, who looked at her, then the paper, grinning and gave the little girl a one armed hug. She placed the paper down on the table and Katie noticed that it was a watercolour paint picture of a butterfly.

“He’s fixated on the missiles.” Fury drained his glass of water. “But the codes are constantly being changed.

“By whom?” Tony questioned. At that point Clint threw the darts straight past Tony, about an inch or so away from his ear straight into the bullseye of the dart board. Tony spun round to glare at him, Clint shrugged apologetically, grinning at the same time. Hawkeye by name, Hawkeye by nature.

“Parties unknown.” Fury said, a puzzled tone to his voice

“Do we have an ally?” Katie asked.

“Ultron’s got an enemy, that’s not the same thing.” Fury looked at her “Still, I’d pay folding money to know who it is”

“I might need to visit Oslo, find our unknown.” Tony pondered, to no one in particular.

“Well, this is good times, boss, but I was kind of hoping when I saw you, you’d have more than that.” Natasha sighed, leaning back in her chair.

“I do.” Nick looked round the room. “I have you.”

Everyone shared a look round the room at one another. None of them were feeling particularly useful if truth be told.

“Back in the day, I had eyes everywhere, ears everywhere else.” Fury continued “Yet here we all are, back on Earth, with nothing but our wit, and our will to save the world. So stand. Outwit the platinum bastard.”

“Steve doesn’t like that kind of talk.” Natasha looked at him.

“You know what, Romanoff? “ Steve’s tone was dead pan. She smiled mischievously.

“So what does he want? “ Fury continued.

“To become better. Better than us.” Katie looked around.

“Right, he keeps building bodies.” Steve agreed

“Person bodies. The human form is inefficient, biologically speaking, we’re outmoded.” Tony mused “But he keeps coming back to it” 

“Yeah, when you two programmed him to protect the human race, you amazingly failed” Katie sighed, looking over at Tony then to Bruce, who was looking at Lila’s drawing over Nat’s shoulder, his arms folded, a thoughtful look on his face.

“They don’t need to be protected, they need to evolve.” The Doctor said, not looking up. “Ultron’s going to evolve.”

“How?” Fury asked.

“Has anyone been in contact with Helen Cho?” Bruce glanced around the room.

There was a pause, and then all at once there was a flurry of activity. Tony whipped his phone out and began to dial, Nat and Katie both stood up, Clint hurried out of the kitchen and Fury was also talking to someone as Steve and Bruce began discussing the intricacies of what Ultron was likely to want Helen for, which centred around the regeneration cradle, a larger version of the technology that had healed Clint after he had been shot when retrieving the sceptre.  

“If Ultron is really building a body…” Steve trailed off as they all prepared to leave,  his voice dropping

“He’ll be more powerful than any of us. Maybe all of us.” Katie sighed.

“An android designed by a robot” Tony finished.

“You know I really miss the days when the weirdest thing science ever created was me.” Steve raised his eyebrows. Katie and Tony both smiled gently.

“I’ll drop Banner off at the tower. Do you mind if I borrow Ms. Hill?” Fury said, pulling on his trench coat.

“She’s all yours, apparently.” Tony shrugged “What are you gonna do? “

“I don’t know. Something dramatic, I hope.”

Katie found herself slightly concerned that the threat of Fury doing something dramatic didn’t worry her half as much as facing Ultron.

*****

Clint expertly piloted the Quinn Jet low enough for Steve to drop onto the roof of the U-GU-Gin Genetic Research Lab roof.

“Two minutes. Stay close.” Steve instructed as the jet roe again to hover above the building away from any eyes.

A few moments passed and then the crew on the jet heard Steve shout “Dr Cho…are you hurt?”  There was a bit of a conversation which they didn’t hear, but then Helen’s voice came over the comms loud and clear, if a little strained.

“The gem, its power is uncontainable. You can’t just blow it up. You have to get the Cradle to Stark.”

There was another pause before Steve’s voice spoke clearly ”Did you guys copy that?

“We did.” Clint said.

“I got a private jet taking off, across town, no manifest.” Katie read the details on the computer screen in front of her. “That could be him.”

“There!” Clint said loudly, pointing out of the front window of the jet. Both Natasha and Katie moved so they could follow his gaze. “It’s the truck from the lab. Right above you, Cap. On the loop by the bridge.”

The jet scanned the truck, confirming their suspicions with the imaging that they all saw on the monitor.

“It’s them.” Clint continued. “I got three with the Cradle, one in the cab. I could take out the driver”

“No.” Katie instructed. “If what Helen is saying is right, that truck crashes, the gem could level the city.”

“We need to draw out Ultron” Steve spoke on the coms. They all waited for a further update and, thirty seconds or so later, there was a loud bang and he followed up his commentary. ”Well, he’s definitely unhappy! I’m gonna try and keep him that way.”

Katie looked down to see Steve was clinging onto the back of the truck and her heart skipped a beat. Making a decision she strode to wing space of the jet and pressed her palm to the pad besides the large locker that contained her suit.

“You’re not a match for him Cap…” Clint said

“Thanks Barton!” Steve replied, sarcastically.

“We need to get down there, give him some back up…”  Katie called, turning round to look at Nat as she stepped backwards, allowing her suit to form around her.

“Ok.” Clint said, nodding “I’ll give you the cover up top.”

Nat took off her headset and joined Katie in the equipment store, pushing a small coms piece into her ear. She headed to the back of the ship, straddling the motorbike that was propped up at the side.

“He’s lost his shield. I’m gonna drop you as close to it as I can.” Clint advised as he flipped a few controls.

“Roger.” Katie continued with the final checks to her suit, without JARVIS she was flying this thing herself, just as she had been at Klaus’ base so she needed to make sure everything was right. Clint steered them down towards the road.

“We got a window. Four, three…give ‘em hell.” Clint said, pushing the button for the ramp. Natasha sped the bike off and dropped down with a squeal of tyres before taking the jet higher.

“Us girls are always picking up after you boys.” She said gently and Katie headed to the back of the ramp, her scans watching as Natasha picked up Steve’s shield, following Clint’s commentary.

“They’re heading under the overpass, I’ve got no shot”

“Which way? “ Nat asked.

“Hard right… Now.” Clint instructed. Natasha did as she was told. As Clint hovered over the top of them Katie shot out from the back of the jet and swooped down just as Natasha threw the shield up to Steve. Steve caught it and instantly flung it, sent the AI flying backwards. Ultron wasn’t down for long, jumping up and resuming the fight as Katie landed behind the Robot as he sent a blast of power at Steve, who instantly held his shield up as he was catapulted backwards onto the bonnet of the car behind. She fired a repulsor at the AI, causing him to turn his attention to her as he wheeled round and shot back. She flew out of the way as the shot hit the car behind, the screeches of brakes and grinding of metal hit her ears as cars collided on the road.

“You Starks are like insects.” Ultron hissed out. “Annoying and irritating.”

“Yeah well, some insects pact a bit of a sting.” Katie shot out a static pulse from the shoulder of her suit. It immobilised Ultron for a good few seconds, which was long enough for Steve to climb back onto the top of the truck, hitting him once more with his shield. As Ultron fell forward towards Katie she jumped up, kicking out with her boot, pushing him down into the metal of the truck before landing.  Ultron regained control of his functions and the three of them began to fight, Steve and Katie dodging the rays of power as they flew at them, Ultron easily deflecting the beams the Supernova suit sent his way.

“Clint can you draw out the guards?”  Nat’s voice came over the comms.

“Let’s find out.”  Clint replied simply.

Katie fired another static pulse towards Ultron, but he easily deflected it and shot once more at her as she spiralled away.

“You think I’d let you get me with that again?” he growled.

“No but, made you look.”  She grinned, and at that point Clint shot the jet downwards and it fired off a few shots at Ultron, deliberately missing the delicate package the truck contained. It worked and as Katie watched 4 Ultron Sentries fly out and follow the jet upwards. Ultron turned and flew at Steve who spun, slamming him into a concrete pillar by the side of the road. Katie swooped in, firing again but Ultron was ready and caught her with a beam causing her to spin blindly through the air.  With no JAVIS to help, it took her a while to regain control but eventually she righted herself just in time to see Ultron spear at Steve, the two of them crashing into a nearby moving train. She shot forward, putting all her power into her thrusters, speeding up to catch it.

"Heading back towards you, whatever you’re gonna’ do. Do it now.” Clint informed over the coms as Katie dropped down so I was level with the train, looking into the windows.

“I’m going in, guys can you keep him occupied?” Natasha questioned as Katie finally caught up with the right carriage to see Ultron sending Steve flying again, landing hard against a metal door.

“What do you think we’ve been doing!”  Steve grit out, shaking his head, as once again he stood up, and resumed his fight with the AI as Katie shot a beam through the window, catching the robot unawares and causing him to fly out of the side of the train.

As she flew in through the window, the AI came crashing through one a bit further up and the two of them shot at one another, the beams hitting in mid-air and deflecting off one another, blowing a hole in the roof of the train.

“The package is airborne.” Clint informed us, “I have a clean shot.”

“Negative I am still in the truck.” Natasha said.

“What the hell are you doing?” Katie yelled, as Ultron sent a bench of seats towards her, which she blasted out of the way.

“Just be ready, I’m sending the package to you, Clint!”

“How do you want me to take it?” Clint asked sarcastically as Katie looked up through the hole in the roof to see the truck way above them.

“Uh, you might wish you hadn’t asked that.”

At that point Katie was floored as Steve landed heavily on top of her, having been blasted off his feet by Ultron.

“Ow…” he muttered, rolling over and off the top of her. Katie groaned as her head bounced off the inside of her metal helmet and hadn’t even had chance to right herself when suddenly she was lifted off her feet as Ultron’s hand crushed at the neck of her suit.

“Like I said, insect.”  He growled, his grip tightening as she raised both her palms to fire, blasting them both backwards, in opposite directions as Katie crashed into the carriage behind. She sat up and shifted the debris and shot forward, as Ultron came again but he was sent backwards as a blur knocked him off balance- the male Maximoff twin. Ultron took a menacing step forwards and the metal guards shifted red and bent in front of us in a protective manor. The female, Wanda, stood behind Ultron, hands outstretched and glowing red. Ultron turned towards her.

"Please, don’t do this.” Ultron pleaded with her.

“What choice do we have?” Wanda countered.

Ultron turned back around and fired in Steve’s direction. Katie was quicker though, pulling him out of the way as the front of the train blew out. The AI then blasted out the side door and escaped.

“We lost him!” Katie said into her coms, face plate sliding back as Steve made his way to the front of the train, reaching over the driver. “Clint, Nat He’s headed back towards you.”

“Nat we gotta go!”  Clint said.

Steve turned back to Katie, shaking his head, he could find no pulse. The driver was dead and the train was out of control heading straight for the end of the line.

“Nat… NAT? Cap you guys see Nat?” Clint questioned worriedly.

"If you have the package, get it to Stark! Go!” Steve commanded, looking up instinctively as Katie reached his side.

“Do you have eyes on Nat?" Clint questioned once again.

"Go!” Steve ordered once again and it seemed Clint obeyed because there was silence on the other side of the coms. Katie looked at him, both of them worried about our friend but equally knowing they had to tackle the problem in hand. The train crashed through the stoppers at the end of the line and carried on, heading straight through the narrow streets.

“There are civilians in our path.” Steve turned to Pietro, once more resuming command. He nodded and sped off in a blur.

“Can you stop this thing?” Katie asked Wanda. She looked unsure but nodded and blasted red tendrils down into the underlining of the train.

It began to slow, but nowhere near enough for them to avoid the building they were heading straight at. Katie slid her face plate back and Steve held his shield out in front of them, protecting them from the impact, and they felt the train starting to slow down, before it eventually came to a steady stop a moment or so later in a street lined with small trading stalls and shops.

As the passengers scrambled to get off the train Steve and Katie remained where they were for a second, Katie’s face plate once more retracting.

“You’re bleeding.” Steve said gently, wiping at her brow.

“Least I’m still here.” She shook her head. “What about Nat?”

“We’ll find her.” He took a deep breath, looking her in the eyes. “I promise.”

He slung his shield onto his back and the pair of them exited the train. Katie spotted Wanda stood next to her brother who was resting against a wall breathing heavily, hunched over with his hands on his knees. As they approached he looked up at Wanda, waving her away

“I’m fine, I just need a minute.” He assured her.

“I’m very tempted not to give you one.” Steve snapped, giving the twins a hard look. The two Maximoffs shared an uneasy glance

“The cradle? Did you get it?” Wanda asked.

“Stark will take care of it.” Steve told her, his tone still clipped.

“No he won’t.” Wanda said incredulously.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Katie glared at the girl

“He will do anything to make things right.” Wanda implored.

Steve turned and gave Katie a questioning look before he spoke into the coms.

“Stark come in. Stark? Anyone on coms?” The only response Steve got was silence. He looked at Katie who tried as well, getting nothing but static. She then tried to route through her phone, but there was nothing there either.

“Ultron can’t tell the difference between saving the world and destroying it.” Wanda pressed “Where do you think he got that from?”

Katie took a moment to look around, squinting against the sunlight. People were gathering, chattering in Korean and pointing at the train stretched down the middle of the road.

“I saw into his head.” Wanda implored. “I saw what he has planned. It’s not what he said, not what he told us he wanted.”

“Oh and what did he say he wanted?” Katie asked, turning back to her, her arms folding across her chest.

“He said he wanted peace” the boy, Pietro spoke.

“Oh, well…” Katie snapped, looking round nodding and clapping her gauntlet clad hands together sarcastically “Good job”

“Look…” Steve stepped forward a little before his girl lost her temper, his hands grasping the buckle on his utility belt. “This isn’t about sides, or what’s happened before. It’s about how we shut Ultron down.”

“So, what happens now?” Pietro asked.

“That depends on you.” Steve answered, putting his shield on his back, keeping his stance non-confrontational. “You’ve worked with Ultron; you know how he thinks. We could use the help stopping him.”

Wanda snarled, lips curling back over her teeth. “We won’t work with Stark.”

“Well, you kinda have two options.” Steve retorted immediately, before Katie had chance to. The authority emanating from him was immense, his eyes steady. “You work with us, or work with Ultron. Your choice.”

Katie looked up at Steve as the twins both exchanged glances. Eventually she got fed up and sighed.

“I’m going back to check on Dr Cho.” she looked at Steve “And then I’m going home to figure out how we find Nat…”

“Katie… wait…” He started towards her as she turned, making to walk off up the narrow street

“I’m done waiting Steve.” She snapped, turning to look at him. “And seeing as you don’t seem to want to give things a second’s thought, why should I?” “What’s that supposed to mean?” He frowned, running to catch up with her.

“You work with us?” She imitated his voice. “How do you know that she isn’t in our minds, right now, and this isn’t some elaborate scam to get us right where Ultron wants?”

A breeze whipped her hair slightly, and Pietro stood at Steve’s side, Wanda in his arms.

“You move too slow.” the young man taunted looking at them. “We’ll meet you at Cho’s office.”

Katie let out a loud groan of annoyance and walked and out onto the main road, looking around. Steve took a deep breath, she was angry, he knew that. His girl held a grudge, far better than he ever could and he had a feeling that Wanda Maximoff wasn’t going to get round her with a simple apology. But they didn’t have time for that, they needed to get home, find Nat and figure out Ultron’s next steps. And the Maximoffs would be helpful.

Sirens were now flooding his ears and the Emergency services were all over the place, freeing people from the cars, crashed buses, you name it.

“Could use a ride.” Steve turned to her, raising an eyebrow. She glared at him for a moment, before sliding her face plate back down. Without saying a word she gripped his harness at the top above where it held his shield and propelled them both into the air.

Dr Cho was going to be ok. Thankfully. The Scientist kindly offered them the use of her QuinJet, which technically belonged to Tony anyway, but they were grateful nonetheless. As Katie thanked the man who had led them to it, Steve turned to the Maximoff twins.

“Go on.”

Katie felt her mouth drop open as Wanda hesitated and looked to her brother who simply nodded and the two of them boarded.  Katie watched them incredulously before she rounded on Steve and he winced, awaiting the barrage which hit him full pelt.

“I can’t believe you seriously want to take them back to base.” She hissed at him.

“I told you before, they can help.” He replied calmly.

“You’re out of your mind!” Katie shook her head, the petulant child in her well and truly rearing its head “You know what actually, if they’re going, then I’m staying here.”

“For God’s sake Katie…” Steve groaned exasperatedly, running his hand through his hair, his helmet hanging in his left hand “You’re being unreasonable…”  

“I’m being unreasonable?” She rounded on him, her cheeks flushing with anger. “You’re the one who wants to take them right into the middle of our base, give them access to all our technology, when we don’t know if they’re still working for Ultron or not!”

“Katie, just get on the fucking jet now.” Steve’s voice was low, but he was angry.  He didn’t have time for this shit, he was tired, worried, and just wanted to get them all together so they could find Nat and end this and she was behaving like a total brat.

Katie looked at him, his eyes were flashing and he had a look on his face she couldn’t ever recall him using on her before. It was enough to shock her into compliance, but only after she shot him the dirtiest glare she could, before she stormed onto the jet.

Two hours later and Katie still hadn’t spoken a word to Steve or anyone else for that matter, she was fuming. Pietro and Wanda had been mostly silent up until that point, exchanging the odd bit of chatter between themselves in Sokovian, but neither approaching either of the other two until Pietro came to the cockpit.

“Miss Stark, I’m sorry, but please, do you have a spare jacket? My sister is cold.”

Katie glared at him, then looked to the back of the jet where Wanda was sat on one of the chairs, her knees pulled up to her chin. Damned it, despite everything Katie felt a small pang of pity for her.

“Sure, just give me a second.” She answered, a little gruffly but less angrily as she stood up out of her seat.

Steve had to smile, despite everything she wasn’t callous, and she knew what it was like to be cold and frightened. Katie glanced down and caught the look he was giving her and she glared at him.

“I will slap that smirk right off your face.” She threatened. Immediately he held his hands up, palms facing her in an “I’m sorry” motion and she walked over to the back of the jet and started looking in a few of the cupboards. Eventually she found a black fleece jacket, emblazoned with U-Gen logo, along with a blanket. In one of the other cupboards she found bottles of water supplies along with some snack bars and bags of chips.

“Here.” She walked over to Wanda and handed her the jacket and fleece.

“Thank you.” The teenager pulled the fleece around her.

“You hungry or need a drink?” Katie offered.

They looked at one another.

“I’m not going to poison you.” She rolled her eyes.

Wanda nodded and Katie handed her a bottle of water and Pietro took a granola bar from her and a bag of chips. Katie glanced at the twins and then suddenly had to ask the question that was on the tip of her tongue.

“Why do you hate us so much, the Avengers?” She blurted out. Steve turned his head slightly so he could listen in.

“I don’t hate the avengers. I hate you and your brother. Well I did. I don’t know maybe I still do.”

“But why?” Katie said, puzzled “You don’t know us?”

“Our home was bombed.” Wanda said, looking at her hands “It hit 2 floors below and blew a hole in our floor. Our parents fell but Pietro grabbed me and we rolled under the bed.” “The second one hits.” Pietro continued gently “But it doesn’t explode. It just sits there, three feet from our faces. And on the side of the shell is painted two words…” “Stark Industries” Katie swallowed, suddenly understanding. “You know we shut the arms side of the business down once we both realised the damage it was doing. I know that doesn’t absolve us of any guilt but…my brother is a good man, maybe he doesn’t always get it right but he tries.”

“But that is my point.” Wanda pressed “Ultron…he wants world peace, but he thinks the way to do that is to kill people, innocent people.”

“That’s not what Tony wants” Katie pressed

“But he created Ultron.” Pietro joined the conversation

“Yes, because of you!” Katie implored.

“Sorry, because of us?” “You made him see something, in Strucker’s lab. A vision, a vision that showed all of the Avengers dead, the world ending and Tony was left alone because he didn’t try hard enough to stop it.” At that point Wanda and Pietro exchanged glances as she continued “You made him believe he needed to do something, something more and Ultron was the result. He was supposed to be the thing that Tony thinks we need, something to bring peace…”

“You know, maybe we aren’t that different to Stark after all.” Pietro broke the moment or so silence that had descended. “I mean, we volunteered for HYDRA.”

“They said that they would make us super-human, like your Captain America over there.” Wanda sipped her water and Steve’s eyes flickered over the back of the jet for a moment before he turned back to the front. “Then we could fight…”

“They didn’t say what it would cost.” Pietro spat. “The experiments. The constant pain.”

“Guess we all made bad decisions for what we thought were the right reasons.” Katie shrugged “What matters now is how we fix this mess.”

With that she left them to it, taking her drink and one for Steve to the front of the jet.

“Thanks.” he said gently

“I assume you heard all that.”

“Super sensitive hearing, Doll, what can I say?” He smiled. She rolled her eyes. “You still pissed at me?” She raised her eyebrow at him, and with a teasing note chastised him. “Language.”

Steve smiled, reached over for her hand and drew it up to his face, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles before he let go and took a drink of water, before he glanced back out of the front window of the jet.

An hour or so later they managed to get through to Clint on the coms.

“Any news on Nat?” Katie asked him.

“I’m trying the old fashioned way. That should avoid Ultron. I’ll find her”

“I don’t doubt it Hawkeye.” She smiled.

“What about Stark and the cradle?” Steve asked.

“In the lab with Banner, why you ask?”

Katie glanced at Steve, his jaw set tightly but that was the sum total of the reaction from him. He didn’t want to voice what was on his mind and risk pissing her off even more. Instead he chose his words carefully.

“Just… well, the twins told us what’s in that Cradle and Ultron’s plans for it. I’m worried Tony could start something he doesn’t understand.”  “Twins? The Maximoffs?” Clint asked and then he let out a groan “You’re bringing them here aren’t you?”

“You gotta trust me on this one, Clint.” Steve sighed “They’ve seen Ultron’s end game. They want to help us fight him.” “Yeah well I’ll make my own mind up on that one, I’ll see you when you get back.” “Great…” Katie sighed “Now he’s pissed as well.”

**** “I’m gonna say this once!” Steve’s voice was loud

“How about "nonce”?” Tony shot back.

“Shut it down!” Steve pointed at the cradle.

“Nope, not gonna happen.”  Tony shook his head.

There had been a bit of a fight in the lab, shields being flung, repulsors fired, and then Thor had turned up, supercharged the cradle, and it had gotten even stranger when a red man, an android had emerged.

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely, in JARVIS’ voice “That was, odd. Thank you.” He added nodding respectfully to Thor, before his unnervingly human-looking eyes trailed over Thor thoughtfully. Then he rolled his shoulders and a cape of his own appeared and flowed down his back.

“Thor, you helped create this?” Steve asked

“I’ve had a vision, the world, where it starts, all hope and life and at its centre, is that.” Thor responded pointing to the gold stone in the middle of the man’s forehead.

“What the gem?” Banner asked in confusion. Thor nodded.

“It’s the mindstone,” He explained. “One of the six infinity stones, the greatest power in the universe and it is unparalleled in its destructive capabilities.”

“Then why would you bring it to life?” Katie asked, taking a deep breath, folding her arms.

“Because Stark is right.” Thor said.

“Oh, it’s definitely the end of times.” Bruce sarcastically to Tony’s shocked but proud expression.

“The Avengers cannot defeat Ultron.” Thor continued and the red man politely cut in.

“Not alone.”

“Why does your vision sound like JARVIS?” Katie questioned still cautious of this new being.

“We reconfigured Jarvis’ matrix, to create something new.” Tony walked up towards his masterpiece and examined him.

“I think I’ve had my fill of new.” Steve replied sarcastically.

“You think I am a child of Ultron.” The red man stated rather than asked.

“You’re not?” Steve replied suspiciously still glaring.

“I am not Ultron.” He answered simply. “I am not JARVIS. I am…” He looked down at his hands as if they would hold the answer.

“I looked in your head,” Wanda stated stepping towards him. “I saw annihilation.”

“Look again.” Vision responded in the same simple tone.

“Ha, her seal of approval means jack to me.” Clint snorted, Katie found herself inclined to agree.

“Their powers, the horrors in our heads, Ultron himself, they all came from the mindstone.” Thor said, looking round “And that is nothing compared to what it could unleash, but with it on our side-”

“Is it?” Steve cut Thor off then turned aiming his next question at him towards the red man, needing to hear confirmation “Are you, on our side?”

“I don’t think it’s that simple.” Vision answered truthfully.

“Well it better get real simple real soon.” Clint said seriously.

“I am on the side of life,” Vision continued, “Ultron isn’t, he will end it all.”

“What’s he waiting for?” Tony asked.

“You.” He stated easily, looking around at us all.

“Where?” Katie pressed.

“Sokovia.” Clint supplied helpfully. “Yeah, he’s got Nat there too.”

Katie looked at Clint who raised his eyebrow slightly and he shrugged. He’d found her, just like he said.

“If we’re wrong about you,” Bruce said approaching the man. “If you’re the monster Ultron created you to be…”

“What will you do?” The red man asked and Bruce stayed silent.

“I don’t want to kill Ultron, he is unique, and he’s in pain,” Vision paced slowly around the room, “but that pain will roll over the earth, so he must be destroyed. Every form he’s built, every trace and presence of him. We have to act now. And not one of us can do it without the other.”

He turned back to look at everyone in the room individually, then he did something completely unexpected as he picked up Thor’s hammer from the table. Steve felt his eyebrows raise in shock whereas Katie was looking at Thor, her mouth open, the god was wearing a look of utter confusion.

“There may be no way to make you trust me, but we need to go.” Vision finished holding out the hammer for Thor to take. Thor took his weapon back and the man walked away.

There was a moment of silence before Thor coughed.

“Right, well done.” he said awkwardly patting Tony on the shoulder and followed the red man out of the room.

“Three minutes, get what you need.” Steve announced.

**** Chapter 24 Part 2

[qwanderer]

Loki in the Hall of Mirrors

This story is complicated. Not, like, as a plot, not particularly, but philosophically and thematically. It's got that great play of hero against villain that I love about the Loki story in general and that makes it all so divisive and messy. And I love it even more than I did on first watch.

The first time I watched the desert landing scene, I was like, "Wait? What happened to Allspeak?" because the people who live there don't seem to understand him. But on the second watch, I realized it could be a lack of context, rather than a break in translation. These people probably have an even chance of knowing nothing about Norse myth. Like, what if an alien came up to you and said "I am Boogle of Bofgar, I carry a burden"? You would still have questions like "What the hell is a boogle and why are you carrying your shit here?" So the basic dynamic of Allspeak is probably still functioning, and Loki probably understood their questions, but he was still trying to figure out how to answer when he got distracted by the TVA people.

It could even be an innate psychic ability rather than a magical one, as he seems to understand everyone in the TVA, including the man who can't be fluent in all languages like the field agents because he has never heard of a fish and the seemingly nonverbal robot. (Which of course makes me want Loki talking with Dum-E and the other shop bots! But I digress.)

Okay. I want to start talking about the next-level manipulation shit the TVA are pulling on Loki here. Time, as they say, moves differently in the TVA, and one might even assume that they can avoid having to deal with more variants at once than they can handle. And yet we see them dealing with exactly two other troublemakers during Loki's onboarding.

The first, I'm going to call little echo man.

Little echo man is incredibly annoying to Loki, because he does and says everything Loki might find himself inclined to do and say if he wanted to be difficult. Little echo man does these things in little annoying undignified ways, making them look silly and petulant. Little echo man protests and questions and pushes back, in his business suit and his long dark hair and pale skin, and clearly thinks everyone should treat him as important even though every indication is that he is an annoyance and an afterthought.

Perhaps he's a plant, and perhaps he's just a variant of an annoying but predictable regular they see who they lined up at the same time on purpose. But he is on purpose. Everything he does screams directly at Loki, "Don't do this."

We'll get to the second convenient intersection later.

The most obvious layer of manipulation is simply the beraucracy. They put him up against a series of obstacles which he needs to deal with to get anywhere else, and nothing he does can get him past those obstacles except compliance. All of these obstacles have personality, but they are not personable. They treat Loki like a bag of trash they have been tasked with taking to the curb. Annoying, distasteful, but ultimately routine. His silver tongue isn't going to get him anywhere because these people simply don't care.

I think a lot of these he just goes along with to see where it gets him, since at this point he still believes he has his magic in reserve. But the fact that he steps through the robot fryer even though he thinks he might be a robot without knowing (as others have pointed out, he spent thousands of years as a frost giant without knowing it, and he's recently spent time in the control of the being who shaped Nebula) is a testament to how deep they've already got their hooks in him.

They treat the robot fryer like it's routine, but come the next obstacle, they kill little echo man like it's routine, too. Because he didn't comply.

Loki is slowly being ironed flat to thread into their compliance mill.

And then - I love this, because it reminds me of one of my favorites among the multiplicity of Lokis, GoS!Loki - they put this line in as punctuation between the impersonal, compliance, don't phase of their manipulation and everything that comes after it.

When he's set before the judge, someone actually paying some attention to him, this is his chance to use his silver tongue on someone who will listen. But, although the judge listens, she treats him the same as all the other obstacles have - like listening is a distasteful chore she would like to be done with.

So it seems like the perfect moment for a dramatic escape. Except his magic is gone.

"It's not your story," the judge says. "It never was."

That hammers in all the worst things Loki has ever believed about himself - that he stands in the shadows of others, that he will never have the central place he was raised to desire, that he is, and always will be, a villain to be vanquished rather than a person with choices and agency.

Enter Mobius.

Mobius is a big echo.

He draws all the attention in a room. He is everything that Loki wishes to be - he is powerful, informed, prepared, in control. Capable of charming the judge. And most importantly, he is actively interested in Loki.

At this point in Loki's journey - both in the show and in his life - that has to be irresistible.

So Mobius is in a perfect position to wrap Loki right around his pinky finger.

He listens to Loki without shutting him down, the way all the obstacles have. When Loki tells Mobius he's going to burn down the TVA, Mobius suggests a couple of places he might want to start. One concrete, small, mischievous. One an indication that he's open to Loki doing larger, more significant things here in the future.

He shows Loki his own past and future - but carefully edited, to paint a particular picture.

So many echoes, so many reflections - Loki is in a house of mirrors. Lost, disoriented. Distorted one way, then the other. Magnified and examined.

Loki snarks, and Mobius comments, "Makes you sound smart." Affirms Loki for that little mischievous bit of personality.

Mobius shows Loki some of the most terrible things he's done, and questions them. Pushes Loki away from them. Then changes direction before he can get too heavy-handed, to basically fangirl over the DB Cooper adventure. That's mischief. That's good. I like that.

Punishes him for a small infraction, just to remind him who is in control and that even looking threatening could be seen as a problem.

I think it was at about this point that I got hard reminded of the dynamics of the show White Collar. It's a buddy cop show on a basic level and sometimes the relationship can be very sweet, but sometimes Peter spends one too many times reminding Neal that he can send him back to prison any time he wants and the power dynamic shows its messed up edges.

Mobius is part of the machine, and the machine is doing terrible things to Loki, but I have at least a sliver of hope that the relationship could gain more balance - more genuine balance, not based on the faux freedom that Loki has gained by the end of the episode. There's something to be said for making changes to a system from within that system, but for that to be meaningful change, Mobius would have to change as a person.

Anyway, this current nastily powerful Mobius pushes Loki as hard as he can, and then is conveniently interrupted by the actions of another variant, leaving Loki alone with his remote.

It could easily have been on purpose. The only thing Loki learns by escaping that room is that the TVA is more powerful than any force in the universe, in his experience.

Let's talk about the other Loki variant for a minute. It took me until the second viewing to realize the symbolism of leaving a small child the only survivor in a place of worship, then giving her something to turn her blue.

Odin said he found Loki in a temple, in the aftermath of a battle.

It's actually frighteningly easy to imagine how a distraught Loki could get to a place where he feels the need to genuinely burn down the TVA, and kill every agent in it. Because the TVA put certain clips in his little future show, focusing on the death of his mother, the way his own actions affected it, and the futility and brutality of his own death at the hands of Thanos.

They don't show him the destruction of Asgard, his own role in helping save the evacuees, and the way Thanos decimated the population of that transport before it could even reach Earth. They don't show him the devastation of his home or his capacity to do good.

A Loki who knows that the power of the TVA exists and that he has the capacity to be Asgard's heroic savior would do anything to get that power and save his people.

But we haven't met that Loki yet. I'm sure we will, and it's going to be exhilarating.

This Loki is being taught the importance of control over little things, and so when he gets his collar off and onto that guard, he toys with her, just to see that he can. They have been toying with him and it's oh so satisfying to turn the tables. But it's still compliance in its own way, the petty little mischief that Mobius has been steering him towards.

Loki has been given just enough freedom, just enough choices, that it seems like his own choice to watch the rest of the slide show and come to the obvious conclusion - there's no "out" to go to. His life has gone on without him, and ended. And there's really no point in his trying to fix it. No putting things back the way they were.

So he admits to Mobius - the person who has listened hardest, probably, besides his mother - he admits that he is small and scared and lashing out. That he doesn't know what to do.

Of course, this is when Mobius introduces the task the TVA has for Loki - to take down his other self.

Oh, I can't wait for the next episode! I want to know where this is going.

(I've popped in some panels from Loki: Agent of Asgard because it's my favorite and the show is giving me feelings about it.)

[mel-at-dusk]

SEX, LIES AND CHEAP COLOGNE: AN ORAL HISTORY OF ABERCROMBIE & FITCH’S SOFTCORE PORN MAG

The story of how an oversexed, strangely intellectual magazine by a polo shirt brand completed the improbable task of changing the course of sexuality in America’s malls, homes and moose-print boxers

Abercrombie & Fitch CEO Mike Jeffries was a shrewd businessman, but he didn’t always make the best decisions. Between the blatantly racist T-shirts he signed off on, the child thongs he called “cute” and the series of public statements he made admitting that his brand intentionally excluded anyone who wasn’t “cool” and “good-looking” with “great attitudes and a lot of friends,” it’s no wonder that he spent the majority of his reign at Abercrombie in hot water. (For the uninitiated, Abercrombie made what fashion writer Natasha Stagg calls “sexy versions of the clothes kids already wore to school: T-shirts and jeans, stuff you could toss a football in or throw on the grass if everyone decided to go skinny-dipping.” More importantly, as she writes in her book Sleeveless, it was “for those who were casually peaking in high school.” It, meanwhile, peaked in the 1990s.)

An exception to Jeffries’ questionable CEO-ing would be A&F Quarterly, the glorious, controversial and questionably pornographic “magalog” he created at the height of the brand’s popularity in 1997 in order to connect “youth and sex” to its image. Woven in amongst surprisingly thoughtful interviews with A-list humans like Spike Lee, Bret Easton Ellis, Rudy Guiliani and Lil’ Kim was a cascade of naked photos from photographer Bruce Weber which showed nubile youngs in various states of undress. They were frolicking, they were caressing and they were deep in the throes of experimenting with types of sex that — at the time — had never been portrayed by mainstream brands.

With issue titles such as “XXX,” “The Pleasure Principle” and “Naughty and Nice,” the Quarterly dove headfirst into the risque. During its 25-issue run between 1997 and 2003, it printed interviews with porn star Jenna Jameson, offered sex advice on how to “go down” in public and suggested — on multiple occasions — that its readers dabble in group sex. One issue published an article on how to be a “Web exhibitionist,” another featured a Slovenian philosopher barking orders to “learn sex” at school and big-dick Ron Jeremy even stopped by to talk about performing oral sex on himself and using a cast made from his own penis.

The actual Abercrombie clothing being modeled in the magalog was an afterthought, appearing in Weber’s photos as more of an impediment to nudity than an actual, purchasable item. The whole thing was, as journalist Harris Sockel put it in an Human Parts essay, “20 percent merch, 20 percent talk and 100 percent soft-core aspirational porn.”

None of this would have been vexing had a more adult-oriented brand been the ones hawking it, but Abercrombie & Fitch was — and still is — marketed toward suspiciously toned teenage field hockey players named Brett. Though he might have looked like a man in his big salmon-pink polo, Brett was but a child. Abercrombie was fond of saying its clothing was for college-aged clientele, but we all knew where its real haute runway took place — inside the crowded halls of every middle school in Ohio.

The Quarterly, too, was intended for college kids, and to prove it, Abercrombie shrink-wrapped it in plastic and sold only to those over 18 for $6 a pop. You could buy it as a subscription, of course, but it was more commonly found in-store, nestled alongside A&F’s cargo shorts and “thongs for 10-year-olds,” a questionable placement that prompted concerned parents, conservatives and Christians to accuse Abercrombie of sullying their children’s minds with impure thoughts.

As such, the Quarterly became the subject of a mounting number of boycotts, protests and controversies that some believe were responsible for its eventual demise. By the time circulation peaked at 1.2 million in 2003, it had been denounced by organizations like the National Coalition for the Protection of Children and Families, Mothers Against Drunk Driving, the American Decency Association, Focus on the Family, the National Organization for Women and, of course, the Catholic League.

Yet the outrage against the Quarterly was matched — if not exceeded — by its cult following, who found its frank portrayal of sexuality to be transcendent. Journalists, artists and the teens whose hands it fell into adored the magazine, and its rarity — plus its utter absurdity — makes it a sought-after collector’s item to this day.

At the same time, few people know about the Quarterly and even fewer realize what it meant to the generations of young people discovering themselves and their sexualities through the unlikely lens of branded content. As journalist Emily Lever puts it, “There’s no weirder way to learn about sex than to pick up a magazine by Abercrombie & Fitch — a brand for hot, mean mostly white kids who shoved you into lockers — but, I guess I’ll take it?”

This is the story of how an oversexed and strangely intellectual magazine by a polo shirt brand completed the improbable task of changing the course of sexuality in America’s malls, homes and moose-print boxers.

AND IN THE BEGINNING, THERE WAS ASS

The first issue A&F Quarterly debuted in June 1997. With 70-ish pages of full-color hard bodies, it was relatively tame compared to later editions, but it quickly became popular when Abercrombie’s nubile clientele realized it was a paper-backed portal into an adult world of sex, nudity and the kind of unbridled sensory hedonism their parents warned them about. As rumors of its legend began to spread, people began to wonder: What the hell is A&F Quarterly, and why is it printing ass for teens?

Emily Lever, journalist and chronicler of the Quarterly’s absurdist philosophical leanings: A&F Quarterly was an in-house magazine put together by Abercrombie & Fitch that published a who’s who of literati to accompany their images of young adult and teen bodies in order to hawk expensive distressed jeans and polo shirts to kids who would shove you inside a locker.

Alissa Quart, author of Branded: The Buying and Selling of Teenagers and director of the Economic Hardship Reporting Project: From what I recall, it had a Bruce Weber-y vibe — gorgeous young men and teens unapologetically objectified, a leering retro pin-up element, also sort of like the highly stylized, sexed-up, nostalgic 1980s and 1990s black-and-white Guess ads. Men — boys, really — were photographed without their shirts, elaborately muscled abs, sometimes naked.

Harris Sockel, in his Human Parts essay: [It was] Playboy crossed with Fratmen.com and a bit of Field & Stream. The Quarterly made my hormones do a kick line across my frontal lobe. I wanted to nibble the soy ink for snack until sunrise. To absorb it so deeply I sweat grey drops onto my pillow. To rip a page from that issue and fold it into a paper flower and stick it all the way up my ass until it came out my mouth.

Lever: Yeah, it was hot. But it was also extraordinarily literary. It featured big-time thinkers, writers and philosophers — stuff that was supposedly intended to expand your mind. It was way too high-brow for the average Abercrombie teen, and its existence made almost no sense given what the brand represented.

Savas Abadsidis, editor-in-chief, 1997-2003: There was nothing else like it. We were the first mainstream brand to combine playful, irreverent, intellectual content with sex and youth in this beautiful, high-art magazine format. Was it controversial? Sure. But it made the entire country take notice.

What they didn’t necessarily see, however, was what was going on behind the scenes. Not only were we the first brand to do this kind of advertising, we were also the first big brand to normalize gay culture for a mainstream audience, expose America’s youth to some of the era’s most progressive thinkers and use our platform to address sexuality in a useful, hands-on way. And you wouldn’t necessarily expect that from Abercrombie. That’s what made it so cool.

It all began in 1996. I was 22 and working at a temp job for a prominent New York architect who happened to be friends with Sam Shahid, a big-time creative director for Calvin Klein, Banana Republic and later, Abercrombie & Fitch. He was looking for an assistant. I had taken a deferment to go to law school and was looking for a job for that interim year, so I applied. I got in.

It was a horrible gig at first. Just awful, Devil Wears Prada-type stuff. I left crying many nights. But I had two things going for me. The first was that Abercrombie had a really small office in the West Village. Mike Jeffries, the president and CEO of Abercrombie, used to come in. He wore flip flops, had a desk made out of a surfboard and began each sentence with the word “Dude.”

Mike Jeffries, ex-CEO of Abercrombie & Fitch, speaking to Salon in 2006: Dude, I’m not an old fart who wears his jeans up at his shoulders.

Abadsidis: I didn’t know it at the time, but Mike was gay (I wouldn’t find out until much later). I think that was part of the reason why he and Sam — who was also gay — took me under their wing. They actually didn’t realize that I was, too — it’s not like we all sat around a bonfire at Fire Island and talked about how us gay guys were infiltrating Abercrombie — but that dynamic dovetailed nicely with Bruce’s photography for both the brand and the Quarterly, and it certainly set the tone for what was to come. I was grateful to get what amounted to an unofficial apprenticeship from both Mike and Sam, and eventually, they had me doing much more involved tasks than I was hired to do.

One of them was sitting in on important meetings. At the time, Mike was inviting all these different editors from magazines like Interview, Men’s Journal and Rolling Stone to come in and brainstorm ideas for what the Quarterly could be, but their ideas were flat. They felt like ideas coming from 45-year-olds writing for college kids, and I could tell Mike was getting frustrated by how little they seemed to grasp what he wanted.

One day in a meeting, one of the magazine editors threw out an idea. Without even acknowledging him, Mike turned to me. “Savas,” he asked. “What do you think about that?”

My mind raced — I could tell he was testing me. If I flubbed the answer, I’d be done. I briefly considered censoring myself, but then I thought better. What did I have to lose? I was young. Surely, I’d find another summer job. “I don’t think it’s a great idea,” I told him.

Apparently, that was the right answer. Mike practically threw the guy out of the room.

After that, I started to think more about what I’d want to see out of a magazine. I was just out of college as a French comparative literature major at Vassar, and I was super into that sort of 1950s-style Esquire journalism with the dapper closing essay. I was deep into The New Yorker, Interview Magazine, 1990s-era Details, MAD Magazine and 1980s pop star mags like Tiger Beat, too — those were all an influence. I also loved philosophy, social theory and comics. And graphic novels. You know — college stuff. Then it hit me: If the magazine was for people like me, why not get actual college kids — not 50-year-olds — to create our content?

I suspected my ideas were what they were looking for and knew they’d look fresh compared to what other editors were throwing out, so I decided to take a risk. I got up at 2 a.m. and typed out a 20-page proposal for what I thought the Quarterly should be. The next morning, I faxed a copy to Mike. I left another on Sam’s desk.

About a (very anxious) week later, Sam called me into his office and told me to pick up his phone. Mike was on the other line. As I reached for the receiver, he leaned over to me and said, “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

I didn’t even have time to comprehend what that meant before Mike’s voice was in my ear. “Congratulations, kid,” he told me. “You get one shot.”

Shortly thereafter, I was promoted from Sam’s assistant to the completely green, 23-year-old editor-in-chief of the Quarterly. It was a Jerry Maguire moment. I was thrilled and terrified at the same time.

They gave me a month to put together a staff and get the first issue out. Bruce Weber was named as its exclusive photographer — he’d already been shooting ads and campaigns for Abercrombie — and Sam was the creative director. As for me, I knew I’d need an editorial staff, and stat.

HOLY SHIT, THERE ARE NO LIMITS

Abadsidis quickly throws together a team composed of two college buddies, Patrick Carone and Gary Kon, who he describes as “pretty funny and stuff.” Carone became the only straight guy on the editorial side. Kon is Jewish and gay. The three of them vow to stay as true to the idealized college experience as possible with their content — even if it means chasing white whales.

Abadsidis: I can’t remember the exact starting budget, but it was upwards of a few million, probably much larger than most magazines get for their first issue! But our budget was also Bruce’s budget. He was getting advertising money, so we were well taken care of in that regard.

We weren’t really expected to turn a profit, though. That was never the point. Come to think of it, I don’t even think we tracked how much the magazine impacted clothing sales, although from what I can remember, clothing sales bumped up double digits every quarter after we launched (for a while, at least). [This statement is unverified.] But that didn’t matter: Our mission was just to set the brand image and make people aware of us. That was our version of success. We were also our only advertiser for a while, so we could get away with a lot of stuff that other publications couldn’t.

Gary Kon, managing editor, 1997-2003: When Savas offered me the job, I jumped at the opportunity. I’d already interned for Sam, and I’d have to scan hundreds of Bruce Weber images that he shot for Abercrombie as part of the job. And I fell in love with his work. It was the visual connection that seduced me. Weber’s photos were like a new Greek mythology; the men and women depicted in the photos were both idealized and sexualized. As a gay kid, who was pretty comfortable by that time in my own skin, I had no problem recognizing the eroticism in his work.

Abadsidis: Me, Gary and Patrick was definitely something special. I don’t think I’ll ever have an opportunity to create anything like that again. I was a huge comic book fan. If I had to describe it, it’s the closest thing I’ll ever come to Stan Lee’s Marvel comics bullpen. Pretty much everyone I hired was super unique. We weren’t all gay (maybe half of us were) but few of us really adhered to the Abercrombie image.

I think Sean came on in 2001.

Sean T. Collins, managing editor, 2001-2003: I was a little skittish about it at first because Abercrombie & Fitch represented everything I was not. They marketed, almost exclusively, to the lacrosse players that called me names I cannot repeat. It was very preppy, and that was not me at all.

I was alternative, maaan. I was a big fan of Nine Inch Nails. I wore a lot of black. A&F was everything I wasn’t, and in a way, everything that had tormented me as a kid. The irony of me working for them was palpable, but what I learned very quickly was that at the Quarterly, you could do anything that you wanted.

One of my first articles was an interview with Clive Barker, the writer and director of Hellraiser (he also wrote Candyman). Now, if you’ve seen Hellraiser, you can imagine just how far of a departure a sadomasochistic horror film was from Abercrombie & Fitch, but getting him to sign on was easy. He’s gay, and at the time, he was super ripped. I think he appreciated the extravagant gayness of the Weber stuff in particular. He was also a photographer, and his husband was, too. I think he recognized what was going on with the photography.

We had an unlimited expense budget, so I took him out for drinks at the Four Seasons. I talked to him for hours, and then he invited me to go back to his house and hang out and see his art studio. He had three mansions in a row on Sunset in Los Angeles, up in the hills. One for his office, one for his actual domicile and one that was a painting studio. I got to see that. I was just a 23-year-old kid. This was my first job out of college, and I felt like Cameron Crowe from Almost Famous. After that, I was like, “Holy shit, there are no limits.”

Kon: I have to credit Savas with pushing us to work without limitations. We were very lucky. At some point during my tenure, I realized that as long as we worked within our (sizable) budget, we had almost full autonomy. We could plan trips to Hollywood to shoot our favorite actors. We could travel to Thailand to reenact our version of The Beach. We could tag along to London or Rome or wherever Bruce was shooting the catalog. We could stroll into the office at 11 a.m. and work until 11 p.m.

Collins: If I wanted to talk to Bettie Page, the pinup model from the 1950s, they’d be like, “Okay, sure.” If I wanted to feature Underworld, my favorite electronic music band, it was, “Sure, go ahead.” It was total editorial freedom, which was so strange knowing how specific of a person the “Abercrombie type was.” I’ve been writing for two decades now, and I’ve never experienced anything like it since.

Abadsidis: Everyone wanted to be in it, too. At first, it was just indie musicians. But then, in the second issue, we snagged Lil’ Kim. That’s when I knew we’d made it big. She was into it — she loved everything about the Quarterly. A lot of people did. The whole high-brow/low-brow thing was really appealing, and the idea of going to college, reading good books, getting drunk and having sex felt uniquely nostalgic and fresh in the context of America back then. Clinton was getting impeached for getting a blow job. It was just a weird, puritanical time, and the Quarterly gave people a national platform to let their freak flag fly.

We had Rudy Guiliani, early Britney Spears, Paula Abdul. There was the New York issue where we talked about the Harlem Renaissance. Spike Lee — one of my idols — asked me if he could be in it. He’d done advertising, you know? I remember him being like, “Yo, this is the deal. I’ve got to give you mad props. This is the dopest thing out right now, advertising-wise.”

We had big-time philosophers and literary figures, too. They were great. We wanted to mimic the experience of being in college and having your mind expanded, so we got writers like Bret Easton Ellis and Michael Cunningham on board. There was a whole Sex Ed issue plastered with musings from Slovenian philosopher Slavoj Žižek, a friend of a professor’s from college. I believe Jonathan Franzen was in there, too.

Jonathan Franzen, award-winning novelist and essayist: I gave hundreds of interviews between 1997 and 2003, almost all of them at the request of various publishers. One of them must have thought it was a good idea to talk to A&F. The fact that I apparently did (I don’t remember it) signifies nothing except that I felt grateful to my publishers.

Collins: We got a lot of weirdos, too. John Edward, the guy who talked to dead people. Chuck Palahniuk, who wrote Fight Club. At the time, it didn’t have the meathead reputation that it does now. It was legitimately looked at as this piece of anti-corporate, anti-capitalist art, the irony of which was just delightful given that we were a capitalist brand trying to sell polo shirts and $90 ripped jeans.

Abadsidis: The only guy who refused an interview was Donald Trump! I have a feeling his 90-year-old secretary had something to do with it. Though we were technically a magalog and did belong to the brand, our stuff was just really visionary. David Keeps, who was the editor of Details at the time, always defended the Quarterly as a real magazine and publicly said that we were doing more innovative stories than most “real” magazines at a time.

ASPIRATIONAL HOMOEROTICS

It’s no secret that the photography and creative direction of Weber and Shahid contained homoerotic undertones. Irreverent, minimal and moody, it was suggestive without being literal, spinning entire storylines into a single frame. At the same time, it was too idealized to be “real.” The queerness that their photos showed was, as Collins puts it, “aspirational,” meaning that like the mostly white, ab-riddled models instructed to sell cargo shorts by taking them off, they didn’t necessarily represent the full reality of what queerness actually was.

Still, the photos that the Quarterly published during its seven-year run did more to normalize and represent queerness and non-monogamy than any other mainstream brand at the time — weird, considering that Abercrombie’s target market was hegemonic suburbanites whose parents bred genetically pure golden retrievers and had cabins in Vail. Without these photos, the Quarterly might have read more as a minor-league Esquire or Ivy League MAD Magazine, but with them, it became one of the least-discussed, most under-appreciated items queer history.

Collins: Our editorial content — which almost functioned as a parody of so-called “Abercrombie people” — was always accompanied by this extremely beautiful photography that was also extremely queer. But it was never explicitly so. It was all this nudge, nudge, wink, wink stuff. I don’t know how you could miss it, though. The homoeroticism was so overt.

Abadsidis: You’d have had to have been blind not to consider the imagery homoerotic (though, it was really in the eye of the beholder). We had the Carlson twins posing on the cover and riding a motorcycle. We had a drag queen named Candis Cayne. There was a lesbian couple kissing at a wedding.

Kon: David Sedaris, Gus Van Sant, Gregg Araki, Avenue Q, Stan Lee, Peaches, Fischerspooner… you could teach a queer theory class with everyone we featured.

Abadsidis: At the same time, we never labeled anything as “gay” or “lesbian” or “queer.” We never came out and said, “Welcome to our gay magazine!” and we never had a meeting where we were like, “Okay, guys, let’s figure out how to make this thing gay.” It was more nonchalant. The imagery implied it without saying it.

Hampton Carney, A&F Quarterly spokesperson, 1999-2003: The message we were sending was clear: “You do you, whatever that is. Have fun!”

Abadsidis: That was a very 1990s thing.

Collins: There was a specific brand of Abercrombie gayness that got shown, though. The word that they always used to describe Abercrombie as a brand was “aspirational.” They didn’t want to make it like an everyday, normal-people brand. They wanted it to be associated with money, glamour and that WASP-y aesthetic. So all the gay raunch of it was presented within the context of what appeared to be a very square, nuclear family: white, wealthy and secure.

At the same time, that was really when same-sex marriage was kicking off as a political issue. I think you can see a commonality in how Abercrombie was essentially making an argument that you could be a normie and also be gay. That was a newish thing at the time (though I’m barely an expert as I’m not gay myself). Still, I can’t help but see a resonance between coming up with this clandestine content that normalized being gay at the same time this big political fight that was brewing.

Maybe being more forward about it would have come across as “too political.”

Abadsidis: Part of me wishes we’d gone a little further with being more outwardly queer, but I don’t think the time was right. Maybe with a braver CEO — no one at the time was brave enough to take on queerness or gay rights as a mainstream brand, including us — and that’s why few people remember the Quarterly as the sort of transcendent queer thing that it was.

Kon: It’s never been credited as such, but the Quarterly is really an item of gay history. I don’t think we were pushing a “gay” or “metrosexual” lifestyle on people as much as we were showing that it already existed, even out in Middle America. Perhaps that’s what made people uncomfortable. We took that thread of counterculture and taboo that ran through the imagery and continued it into the editorial content. We dealt with topics like drinking, drugs, religion, politics and sex. Again, these are issues young people dealt with daily, but were rarely editorialized.

At Vassar, there was a yearly party called The Homo Hop. It was one of the biggest parties of the year and leaned on Vassar’s history as a women’s college. I bring this up because, on the night of my freshman Homo Hop, I was instructed that each student had to do something sexually that they had never done, and one drug that they had never done. It wasn’t that you had to be gay, but you had to experience something that was new and different. I think that translated well into the Quarterly. Yes, there were a bunch of gay guys writing and shooting and drawing images. But we were simply trying to expose Cargo Short Brett to ideas, images, artists, books, writers and directors that he may have never heard of before. Our shared experiences would become his.

Collins: It was culture jamming, really.

Abadsidis: It was also very “college” to be fluid or experimental without labeling it. I think it’s safe to say that college is one of the gayest places there is in life, maybe not sexually, but definitely in terms of having your mind expanded about different types of people.

Carney: I was in a frat. I’d see fraternity brothers streaking across campus together. It was never a big deal. There are a lot more people in the middle of either extreme of sexuality than people talk about. We’re not one and 10 — we’re one through 10, if you will. That kind of stuff has always happened on college campuses, and that’s the kind of mentality we had around sex. We just happened to editorialize it really beautifully.

Collins: There’s a Barbara Kruger print that reminds me of the mood we were trying to capture: It reads: “You construct intricate rituals which allow you to touch the skin of other men.” That’s basically what Abercrombie & Fitch was. It was an intricate ritual that allowed sunkissed lacrosse players to metaphorically touch the skin of other men.

Carney: You know what’s funny, though? It was never the gay stuff people had a problem with. It was everything else.

LET THE CONTROVERSIES BEGIN

For almost every moment of its seven-year life, The Quarterly was a controversial publication. Parents, politicians and conservative-types didn’t appreciate its no-holds-barred approach to rampant fucking, and they could not, for the life of them, understand how such an adult magazine was making its way into the hands of their precious teens (who were probably jacking off to dad’s Playboys long before the Quarterly came along, but I digress). There was approximately one year — 1997 — where the amount of people it pissed off stayed below a critical mass, but after a certain somebody published a story that vaguely suggested underage kids drink, it was off to the races.

Abadsidis: We got in our fair share of trouble with Christian groups and concerned parents right off the bat. Let’s take one of the earlier issues — I believe it was Summer of 1998. It was my story. Basically, I suggested that people could do better than beer and that they should “indulge in some creative drinking.” There was one drink I made up called the “Brain Hemorrhage” and a few others you could play a drinking game with. We also included a spinner insert people could cut out.

None of it had anything to do with driving, of course, but the issue was called “On the Road.” It was a sort of beat-focused, Jack Kerouac thing, so some people interpreted that as us promoting drunk driving (though we did nothing of the sort). Also, the kid on the cover was underage. He was 16, if I remember correctly. Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD) didn’t like that.

Karolyn Nunnallee, vice president of public policy for MADD: We had been really focused on underage drinking and had been instrumental in getting the country’s legal drinking age raised to 21. Then Abercrombie & Fitch comes out with this weird magazine that basically said, “Don’t go back to college drinking the usual beer. We’re going to show you a new way to drink.”

Not only did they have this drinking game, but they had recipes for these mixed drinks for young people to partake in. I was like, “Abercrombie & Fitch? Aren’t they in the clothing business?” What in the world were they doing? I mean, they were a high-end brand, not Walmart. Why would they take their focus off of clothing and put it toward alcohol? Were their clothes not good enough that year or something?

Needless to say, we weren’t happy with them. Curse words were handed out. We sent a letter to them and started a whole media campaign about it. We went on as many news media outlets as we possibly could with the story of how incensed we were.

Abadsidis: I was sure I was going to get fired over that. We had to remove the page with the spinner out of every single issue across the country. We apologized, of course, but it ended up backfiring against the protesters — that incident gave us so much publicity. It put us on the map. It also made us a target for conservative types. They hated us. After MADD, boycotts of Abercrombie started flaring up all over the place. That’s around the time we hired Hampton to do PR.

Carney: It was my job, at the time, to defend the brand. I’d go on talk shows like Entertainment Tonight or Today Show and explain away our latest controversy (there were a lot). It wasn’t hard, actually; each time, I’d give them what was more or less my go-to response: “It’s a beautiful publication intended for college-aged kids.” And that was the truth! It was way ahead of its time and was absolutely meant for people 18 and up.

Though not everyone saw it that way. The sex and nudity really got to people. A lot of them definitely thought we were making porn. That was the constant complaint: We were deliberately putting porn in the hands of young kids.

Lever: The Quarterly featured about the same level of nudity as a European yogurt commercial. Which is to say, a lot. It was a “clothing catalog” with almost no clothing. Of course [American] people thought it was pornographic!

Carney: Okay, sure — there were photos of like, six girls in bed with one guy and more than a few spreads that enthusiastically suggested naked non-monogamy — but it wasn’t porn. It was tasteful. And let me tell you — nothing we had in there was surprising to kids.

Abadsidis: The models ranged from 16 to 20. It was erotic. It was art. I don’t think there’s anything pornographic about the Quarterly unless you think that nudity, in and of itself, is pornographic.

Illinois Lieutenant Governor Corinne Wood did, apparently. In 1999, she called for a boycott of Abercrombie & Fitch because its “Naughty or Nice” holiday issue “contained nudity” and “even an interview with a porn star.” That porn star was none other than Jenna Jameson, who at the time was well on her way to becoming a household name. A so-called “child prodigy” occupied the neighboring page, sparking accusations that the Quarterly somehow intended to connect children to porn.

A cartoon of Mr. and Mrs. Claus experimenting with S&M across from the statement “Sometimes it’s good to be bad” didn’t help, nor did the “sexpert” who offered advice on “sex for three” and told readers that going down on each other in a movie theater was acceptable “just so long as you do not disturb those around you.”

The Illinois Coalition of Sexual Assault joined Wood’s boycott. Later that year, Michigan attorney general (and eventual governor) Jennifer Granholm sent a letter to Abercrombie complaining that the “Naughty or Nice” issue contained sexual material that couldn’t be distributed to minors under state law.

Carney: There were four states that tried to ban us after that. I remember Granholm. She was my arch-nemesis at the time — we really got into it. I respected where she was coming from, of course, but our whole thing was that we weren’t showing anything that wasn’t actually happening on college campuses. And I’d already made it pretty clear to the press that the magazine wasn’t for minors.

Also, it’s not like we were the only magazine talking about or showing sex. You could find all the exact same stuff in Cosmo or Playboy — it’s just that we were a clothing brand, and one whose major customer base just so happened to be teens and young adults. No one expected that from us. Brands weren’t “supposed” to be talking about sex period, let alone to teens and young adults. But we took it upon ourselves to pioneer a more open, honest view of it. That’s the wrinkle that made it so interesting.

We did come to an agreement with Granholm. We decided to wrap the magazine in plastic and make it available for purchase only to those over 18, that way, it’d be even more clear that we weren’t “selling porn to the underage.”

Kon: I believe it was one of the few times the company acquiesced.

Collins: Other than that, don’t remember getting any instruction from Savas, Mike or Sam to tone it down. It was kind of mutually assumed that we weren’t going to apologize for the sexual nature of our content. We knew we had to keep things sexy, as it were ��� that was our whole thing.

We weren’t deliberately trying to piss off people, but we were trying to push the envelope, and there was definitely an element of deliberate trolling of conservatives and Christian groups. It was a good thing if we pissed them off. It created the controversy that made the brand seem edgy and dangerous, which is what you want if you’re trying to appeal to young people.

Carney: We were also just showing real things that happened at college. And as anyone who’s been to college knows, it’s not just about reading and writing papers. It’s also about sex. Not only that, of course, but we’re sexual beings. We respond to images that are sexual. We were trying to take the stigma away from that and acknowledge that it’s not a bad thing to do.

But no matter how clear we made it, our stance on sex polarized people more and more. I could tell, because almost as soon as I started speaking on behalf of the magazine, strange things started to happen to me. I got stalkers. People left me messages saying I was going to hell and I’d have no afterlife. I got hate mail to my house. One person left a package containing their dirty, stained underwear at the front door of my apartment with a note saying they’d be “coming by later” to “talk to me about it.” I had to call the police on that one.

I was the face of the publication, so I got the vast majority of the harassment. But I didn’t mind. It was my job to take the fall, and I heard and respected every single person’s complaint and talked to them about it. Plus, for every message I got banishing me to hell, I got another from a journalist or a fan begging me to save a copy for them. People collected them. They really loved it, precisely because it was so sexual.

Abadsidis: Mike didn’t flinch about any of this stuff. He wanted to defend it because he could see it was working. We weren’t about to tone anything down (at the time).

Flash-forward to June 2001. The Twin Towers are still standing tall, tips are being frosted and Apple has just unleashed iTunes onto an unsuspecting populace. A&F Quarterly, now in its fourth year, is in hot water once again. Having survived a number of boycotts, lawsuits and controversies since its inception, it’s now in the midst of weathering another minor national conniption over its use of nudity.

Jeannine Stein, describing the Summer 2001 issue in an excerpt from a Los Angeles Times article called “Nudity? A&F Quarterly Has It Covered”: [It’s] explicit in ways that most catalogs and fashion magazines are not, and its use of male nudity is uncommon among general-interest publications. It features 280 pages of young, attractive men and women alone and together, in serious, romantic, sexual and party modes, wearing lots of A&F clothes, some A&F clothes and sometimes no clothes at all. Among the coffee-table book-ish photos by Bruce Weber is a man, covered only by a towel, surrounded by five women; a woman at the beach reclining body-to-body with three men; a back view of a naked man getting into a helicopter (we haven’t quite figured that one out yet); and a few topless females.

There are many naked butts and breasts.

Abadsidis: We also had photos of nude women in a fountain — which were inspired by Katharine Hepburn skinny-dipping at Bryn Mawr College — and a whole set dedicated to the Berkeley student that spent a day naked in class. It was par for the course for us, but even though we’d done the whole shrink-wrap and over-18 thing, people still felt it was too sexual for branded content.

In response, an unexpected alliance formed between cultural conservatives and anti-porn feminists to boycott Abercrombie & Fitch over the Summer 2001 issue of A&F Quarterly. According to Wikipedia, the offending issue included “photographs of naked or near-naked young people frolicking on the beach,” “top-naked young women and rear-naked young men on top of each other” and an “interview with porn star Ron Jeremy, who discussed performing oral sex on himself and using a dildo cast from his own penis.” Once again, Wood was at the helm.

David Crary, journalist, excerpt from a 2001 Associated Press article: Illinois Lt. Gov. Corinne Wood — a Republican who has been sparring with A&F since 1999 — announced the boycott campaign last week in Chicago. She has recruited a diverse mix of supporters more familiar with facing off against each other than with working together.

Wood, writing on her website in 2001: A&F is glamorizing indiscriminate sexual behavior that unsophisticated teenagers are not possibly equipped to weigh against the dangers of date rape, unplanned pregnancies and sexually transmitted disease.

Michelle Dewlen, president of the Chicago chapter of the National Organization for Women, speaking at one of Woods’ press conferences in 2001: It’s not a catalog. It’s a soft porn magazine.

Rev. Bob Vanden Bosch, head of Concerned Christian Americans, as quoted by the AP: It’s very important for people to get involved. The exploitation of sex and young people in A&F’s catalog isn’t only atrocious but also a psychological molestation of their teenage customers.

Quart: It was predatory in a few ways, really. One was that it confused the corporate identity of Abercrombie and the advertising with the editorial. It preyed on young consumers not understanding the difference between editorial content and sales content. Back then it led, I saw, to a way that girls were objectifying themselves and commodifying themselves. It ultimately led to boys also objectifying themselves and commodifying themselves — not to the same extent, but far more than they were when I started reporting Branded a little more than two decades ago.

I have the stats on the male body image dysmorphia at the time in Branded (which has only worsened). Then, male body shaming and “manorexia” was on the rise, for the first time on a mass scale. It couldn’t help for the most popular brand at the time to have a dedicated giant glossy magazine filled with pictures of male teenagers with zero body fat half undressed.

Abadsidis: I mean, sure, as much as any advertising does. It wasn’t like we were leading that charge. Any effect on self-image was certainly unintentional, but I do think it did make people want to be athletic. You definitely saw a lot of guys trying to look like that during that period, especially as time went on. If you look at the first few issues, the guys aren’t that built. Ashton Kutcher was actually in the second one — that was his first big break — and they get increasingly more cut from there. That whole era is when men’s body issues started to come out.

Lever: I’d also submit that all this was controversial because it was pre-internet. The internet mainstreamed sexual content in a way that makes A&F or other “scandalous” ad campaigns (like the 2003 Gucci ad with the model’s pubes shaved into the shape of a G) seem quaint, even obsolete. Like, do you remember that Eckhaus Latta ad a few years ago that scandalized people for five minutes because it showed people having real (albeit pixelated) sex? Neither does anyone else.

SLAVOJ ŽIŽEK TEACHES SEX ED

Always filled with philosophy, social theory and intellectually minded topics that likely soared over the heads of most Abercrombie consumers, the Quarterly outdid itself in the Fall of 2003 with its penultimate issue. A gorgeous romp of summer-spirited abandon accompanied by some delightfully incoherent, Dada-like musings from Slovenian philosopher Slavoj Žižek, it connected a “back-to-school” theme with a pretty clear directive to fuck. Yet, the information it presented was actually rather safe and tame, a reality which confused and irritated Quarterly staff. Their content was legit, so why was everyone up in arms?

Abadsidis: The “Sex Ed” issue was the second to last one that we did. It got some of the most criticism, and was supposedly the reason everything was finished. I literally had stuff in there cited straight from the University of Michigan’s freshman student handbook on sexual conduct, and it still pissed people off! Then, of course, there was Žižek.

Lever: Žižek identifies as a radical leftist. He’s very famous for his work on cultural theory and critical theory. He analyzes all kinds of topics in his signature, impenetrable — but also approachable — style. And when I think of him, I think of his very distinctive manner of speaking, that some people have described as being on cocaine constantly. But he’s definitely kind of a cult figure, a favorite of people who consider themselves highbrow, but also fun.

He’s really touted as the greatest anti-capitalist of our time, and yet, here he was, “sexually educating” the mean girls and boys of your high school, in a brand catalog whose entire goal was to ensnare young people for the purpose of selling them distressed jeans.

According to the magazine’s foreword, the editor wrote to Žižek and said this: “Dear Slavoj, enclosed please find the images for our back to school issue. We’ve never had a philosopher write the text for our images before, so write what you like. We’re looking for that Karl Marx meets Groucho Marx thing you do so well. Thanks, Savas.”

Abadsidis: I love Slavoj. He was friends with one of my professors from school. He only had 24 hours to write this, so we actually sent someone to London where he was to drop off the images we wanted him to write text for. They hung out for a day and then flew back with what he’d written.

Lever: It was basically a series of insane, absurdist ramblings pasted over really hot naked people.

Žižek, excerpt from A&F Quarterly’s 2003 Sex Ed issue: Back to school thus means forget the stupid spontaneous pleasures of summer sports, of reading books, watching movies and listening to music. Pull yourself together and learn sex.

Lever: I mean, that’s like the first episode of every teen TV show, where these three nerdy boys start high school and they’re like, “Okay, we’re going to be cool this year guys. We’re going to lose our virginities.” It’s very formulaic. But there’s more.

Žižek: The only successful sexual relationship occurs when the fantasies of the two partners overlap. If the man fantasizes that making love is like riding a bike and the woman wants to be penetrated by a stud, then what truly goes on while they make love is that a horse is riding a bike… with a fantasy like that, who needs a personality?

Lever: The “go learn sex at school” part really struck a nerve with conservatives. But I don’t think it was that transgressive. Fourteen-year-olds are receiving messages to have sex all the time — what did it matter if some Eastern European anti-capitalist was hitting them over the head with it through the pages of a polo shirt advert?

Abadsidis: Fox News got involved, if I remember correctly. That was one of the few times I actually got pissed off about how an issue was being covered. I mean, the information in there was handed out to students by an actual university. Half the issue was quotes from this really influential philosopher. But for some reason, people really took offense to the language of it. That whole year [2003] was just a bad one for us.

THE LAST HORNY CHRISTMAS

For its final trick, the Quarterly released a holiday issue featuring 280 pages of “moose, ice hockey, chivalry, group sex and more.” It had oral sex, group sex, sex in a river, Christmas sex and pretty much every other type of sex you could think of, all which followed an earnest letter from Abadsidis which read: “We don’t want much this year, but in keeping with the spirit, we’d like to ask forgiveness from some of the people we’ve offended over the years. If you’d be so kind, please offer our apologies to the following: the Catholic League, former Lt. Governor Corrine Wood of Illinois, the Mexican American Legal Defense and Education Fund, the Stanford University Asian American Association, N.O.W.”

But the issue didn’t really hit. By fall 2003, Abercrombie was involved in a number of lawsuits and protests related to exclusion and discrimination, which left people cold despite the inviting warmth of a crackling, fireside circle jerk (a Weber offering which, I’m told, can be found on page 88 of the final issue).

Cole Kazdin, journalist, writing in a 2003 Slate article called “Have Yourself a Horny Little Christmas”: The challenge for me, when masturbating with my friends to the nubile nudies in the Abercrombie & Fitch catalog, is trying not to think about serious things like racial diversity; it tends to kill the mood. But because most of the models in the catalog are white and because a lawsuit has been filed against the clothing retailer for allegedly discriminating against a Black woman who applied for a job at the store, it’s hard for the issue not to rear its nonsexy head. [In 2004, Abercrombie also agreed to pay $40 million to settle a lawsuit that accused the company of promoting whites over Latino, Black, Asian-American and female applicants.]

Collins: As a brand, Abercrombie did a lot of things that were quite gross. I’m sure you remember when they came out with these T-shirts with these racist stereotype characters on them. You would just see it in the catalog and just be like, “Jesus Christ.” It was awful and stupid and self-defeating, just tone deaf. And we just couldn’t figure out how no one at the company saw the problem with it.

Stagg, excerpt from Sleeveless: Kids in my high school wore shirts that read, “Wok-n-Bowl” and “Wong Brothers Laundry Service: Two Wongs Can Make It White,” accompanied by cross-eyed propaganda-style cartoons. If you weren’t part of the in-crowd (and white), A&F was oppressive. Non-jocks made their own anti-A&F T-shirts, using the brand as a catchall for exclusionary, competitive behavior and old-fashioned bullying.

Carney: That stuff was indefensible, really. Those were the darkest days of my job — listening to calls and reading letters about how offensive those shirts were. Even though the Quarterly was quite separate from the brand and we had no influence over what they did or what clothes they designed, we did still have to print their stuff at the back of the magazine. It was pretty uncomfortable.

Stagg: By 2006, Mike Jeffries’ most controversial public statement on sex appeal was really just saying what we were all thinking: “Are we exclusionary? Absolutely.” Those remarks were followed by lawsuit after lawsuit, mostly involving staffing discrimination. An announcement about the store refusing to carry anything over a size 10 reportedly marked a noticeable decrease in sales.

Abadsidis: There were a lot of underlying problems at the company. The amount of negative press Abercrombie was getting was getting silly. No matter what we did, we’d end up in the news, especially if it was related to the Quarterly. After so many bad news incidents, it just felt done, like its moment had passed. It was bound to crash at some point.

Gina Piccalo, excerpt from the Los Angeles Times: Clothing retailer Abercrombie & Fitch has pulled its controversial in-store catalogs after outraged parents, conservative Christian groups and child advocates threatened a boycott over material they said was pornographic. However, a company spokesman said the move had nothing to do with the public outcry. The catalogs were pulled to make room near cash registers for a new Abercrombie & Fitch fragrance.

Abadsidis: People like to think that the boycotts and Christian protests had something to do with it, but that wasn’t the case at all. By 2003, Abercrombie’s stock was low — something to do with ordering too much denim. The store was having negative sales for the first time. There was the line in the New York Times, who covered our demise, that Mike was “bored” with it.

Collins: We had no warning. We were all there one day, and the next, we were gone.

Lever: The Quarterly was a relic of a different time. I feel like it could never have been made after 2008 for so many reasons — economic, and cultural and political. It would just never fly. It was made before feminism pervaded everything, at a time where you could be completely flagrant about gross patriarchal shit and still get away with it.

It was kind of like this last gasp of a certain conception of what’s desirable — a very hegemonic coolness exemplified by white Ivy League frat kids who got fucked up the night before their philosophy class. That doesn’t have much currency anymore. Abercrombie kept that image on life support until its last gasp.

Now, 20 years later, what’s cool is not that. What’s cool is to have depression and ADD. The ideal is out. The real is in. And the Quarterly, having always existed in the liminal space between, is neither here nor there.

EPILOGUE

In 2008, Abercrombie resurrected the Quarterly in the U.K. for a limited-run special edition to celebrate the success of its European stores. The original team was reunited — Abadsidis, Shahid and Weber — with the hopes that Britain’s more “open-minded approach to culture and creativity” would provide a welcoming substrate on which to re-grow their original ideas of sexual liberation. The issue, “Return to Paradise,” was “more mature” than its American cousin. It was well-received — aside from the usual protests about sex and nudity — but it wasn’t continued.

Two years later, in 2010, the Quarterly was revived again, this time as a promotional element for Abercrombie’s Back-to-School 2010 marketing campaign, which bore the unfortunate title of “Screen Test.” The lead story Abercrombie put out on its website sounded like a cross between American Idol and a gay porn shot: “The staff of A&F Studios opens up to editorial to explain the steps the division takes to find new, young, hot boys. The cattle-call approach to herd young talent ends with the best of the beefcake earning a screen test that ‘could be the flint to spark the trip to the star.’”

Bruce Weber would be shooting, of course. This would become especially ominous after he was accused of a series of casting-couch style sexual assaults by 15 male models beginning in 2017. According to the accusations, he subjected them to sexually manipulative “breathing exercises” and inappropriate touching, insinuating that he could help their careers if they complied.

Arick Fudali, a lawyer at the Bloom Firm, which represents five of Weber’s alleged victims, declined to confirm or deny whether any of the alleged assaults happened on a Quarterly shoot. If they did, they’re not prosecutable as sexual assaults in New York. Because the states’s statute of limitations on reporting rape is only three years, anything that happened during the Quarterly’s run wouldn’t count toward a sexual assault charge (unless a minor was involved, which Fudali also declined to confirm).

No one I spoke with for this story remembers seeing, hearing or experiencing anything like what the allegations against Weber describe, but some expressed concern over how they might affect the legacy the Quarterly leaves behind. “The accusations are pretty grim,” Collins told me. “You feel for the people who are put in that position. People had power over them. It just makes you think, ‘Was any of this worth it?’ Not really, if people were getting hurt.”

As such, it’s difficult to conclude with definitive sign-off about the Quarterly’s legacy. Either it was a bastion of progressive and transversive sexuality that simultaneously trolled and nourished the very audience it sought to mine, or it was the product of darkness and pain. Either way, Sockel sums it up just right: “The Quarterly was discontinued in 2003, after the American Decency Association boycotted photos of doe-eyed bare-assed jocks in prairies and glens,” he wrote in his recollection. “It was nice while it lasted.”

[bigskydreaming]

Current mood: thinking about the damage done to society by the myth of perpetual cycles of abuse and the flip side of that coin, the incessant woobification of abusers and victimizers.

Like.......one of my biggest.....I don’t want to call it pet peeves cuz its bigger than that, but I don’t want to call it triggers cuz its smaller than that, but somewhere in between, but like....whatever you want to call that, one of the biggest for me in regards to both my two big faves, Scott McCall and Dick Grayson is like......the simultaneous dismissal or erasure of their own traumas and abuse, alongside the erasure/invalidation of how their choices are THEIR choices.

What I mean by that is....let’s look at Scott first. There’s a huge issue of empathy gap when it comes to his character, and people looking past, around or through instances of outright harm, exploitation, trauma and abuse.......in large part because fandom has come to consider these things a kind of shield from criticism. So not only is there the problem of ignoring the harm and damage done to his character by these traumas and abuse.......there’s the compounding issue of how the whole reason this shell game of ‘hide the trauma’ is played in the first place, has literally nothing to do with his character or the effects of these things on him.....but rather the completely superfluous element of like.....people not wanting these things to be usable to defend the character from criticism....even though that’s not what trauma is or why it exists/happens in the first place. It just DOES, and what happens after that is entirely what we make of it......but nothing ever CAN be made of it at all, if its not acknowledged as existing, purely for the sake of ‘winning’ arguments that should have nothing to do with it in the first place.

Like.....this is a character whose father once knocked him down a flight of stairs while drunk, knocking him unconscious and giving him a lasting scar.....and people have had to fight over the years to have this actually acknowledged or considered an instance of abuse. Not because of anything to do with the actual incident itself or what the effects of it were and weren’t on Scott, or how they inform his dynamic with his father.....but purely because fandom is so married to the idea of “abuse makes a character sympathetic regardless of all other context” that they don’t just apply it to villainous characters (and usually just white ones, it must be acknowledged), but they equally apply it in reverse to heroic characters (and usually just ones of color) in order to REMOVE sympathy.....ie, can’t be sympathized with for being abused, if they weren’t actually abused.

Now at the exact same time, this goes hand in hand with the erasure/invalidation of Scott’s good qualities or choices being a credit to him as a person and a character, compounding everything. What I mean HERE is how often do we see Scott’s character and personality being attributed to the influence of his mother, his friends, the Sheriff and Deaton as role models, the idea that he had a better or more stable home life than he otherwise could’ve (with it all being relative, as in, the focus is never even on “was his home life completely happy, healthy and stable at all times: y/n” but rather on the much more malleable “at least it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been/as others’ were.”)

And to be clear: its not that these positive elements DIDN’T exist or that he was completely miserable or anything of the sort, its just something I’m emphasizing in the specific context of how often this is all held up in deliberate contrast to the home lives or pasts of characters like Derek, Jackson, Theo, etc, with the specific aim of pointing to “well of course they don’t make the kinds of choices Scott makes, but that’s because they didn’t have the kind of atmosphere/home/influences Scott had.”

And again, its not that environmental factors, the influences of different parents/nurturers on an individual’s formative years....its not that any of that is irrelevant or meaningless, that it doesn’t play a role, its the EXTREMES I’m talking about here. The fact that its all or nothing, that Scott’s choices and personality being a credit to HIMSELF rather than to his upbringing or surrounding factors just gets washed away as an afterthought, as less than a thought......in order to present as a given.....a premise that is NOT innately true: that anyone could be him or make the choices he makes, if they had the life he had. 

(Something that is frequently born out in the literal hundreds if not thousands of fics that run with the premise of Stiles is bit instead of Scott, or an OC that’s Scott’s sibling is bit instead, and everything else about the show plays out exactly the same, as if Scott himself is irrelevant, that his character, his personality, his choices had absolutely nothing to do with the shape the show took, and that he’s completely interchangeable with anyone else if you just transplant them into his shoes.....all of which leads to the inevitable conclusion that there’s nothing especially worthy of consideration about him, and he’s unnecessary).

Now let’s shift focus to Dick Grayson, and how the exact same thing plays out there. The way so many of his greatest hits: Trauma Edition, are just like....completely glossed over or left out in the cold any time his characterization is happy, upbeat, positive.....as if its completely inconceivable that someone can be those things and yes, also traumatized.

But also, the way that specific instances of trauma and abuse are erased or invalidated the second his choices are being upheld as especially ‘good’ in contrast to another character like Jason. There are other elements in play when it comes to the overall picture of fandom not wanting to engage with Bruce’s instances of abuse with Dick, to be clear......plenty of that hails from fans of Bruce’s character not wanting to interact with canon or fanon that upholds him as capable of treating ANY of his children that way. But what I’m talking about here is like, the specific times and ways when fans who are perfectly willing and even EAGER to interact and engage with canon/fanon where Bruce behaves abusively towards Jason, like....are equally dismissive of the idea that Bruce has an extremely poor track record with Dick as well.

And same as what I was outlining above with Scott’s character.......we run into the same issue of where its not even ABOUT Dick’s character or his choices......but nevertheless, any way in which his choices might be upheld or examined as a good thing or aspirational, just...vanishes, because the spotlight of focus is basically restricted to shaping the idea that well, the problem is never Jason’s choices but rather that he never got the opportunities that Dick did, that Bruce has never done anything wrong in his raising of Dick or given Dick cause to resent him or make poor choices in general or specifically in terms of his dynamic with Bruce, the way Bruce has with Jason.....all leading to the framing narrative that not just are negative choices or decisions not inherently someone’s fault if there are elements of abuse in the mix....but equally that if elements of abuse can be erased from the mix - whether because they literally just weren’t present or they’re willfully being suppressed as part of making the following case - then any positive choices or decisions are not inherently to another character’s credit either. 

Resulting in the same issue, both coming and going:

Over and over, we’re forcefed the narrative that most people prefer to just reaffirm and uphold as true, even if they nominally criticize it here and there......that cycles of abuse are inviolate, and that once abused, that character’s future as an abuser is set in stone......and thus its not really their fault.

While at the exact same time, its equally reaffirmed and upheld as true.......that positive choices are the inevitable end result of positive upbringings, environments and influences.....and thus anyone who doesn’t have these things not making these positive choices....that isn’t really their fault either, nor is it to the credit of anyone who does have these things, if and when they make such choices.

And here’s the kicker: Its not that either of these above statements are inherently UNTRUE.

Its just that they’re not....inherently true.

Its not that abuse victims NEVER become abusers themselves, and its not that their pasts don’t directly have a hand in shaping them following that direction in life.

And its not that people with positive, supportive upbringings never turn out as positive, nurturing individuals, just as its not that their pasts don’t directly play into shaping THEM following THAT direction.

Its that.....its never all or nothing, and this willful insistence that it is....usually for reasons that have absolutely NOTHING whatsoever to do with ACTUALLY examining abuse and trauma and the impacts of this on fictional characters and real life people, choices and decision-making...but rather with abuse and trauma just being completely hijacked and co-opted in the name of ‘winning’ arguments......

Like....it results in the complete erasure of not one, but two entire swaths of people:

1) The people who grew up abused, had no real positive environments, role models or influences, BUT WHO STILL MANAGED TO BECOME POSITIVE, EMPATHETIC, AND CARING PEOPLE REGARDLESS.....

2) And the people who grew up supported, affirmed, sheltered and with plenty of positive role models to potentially choose from, BUT WHO STILL MAKE THE DECISION TO DO HARM, HAVE A TOXIC OR DESTRUCTIVE IMPACT ON OTHERS, AND PRIORITIZE NOTHING BUT THEMSELVES REGARDLESS.

And like yes, both these kinds of people absolutely do exist, and the fact that their existence, their choices, their reasons for making those choices and potential examinations of who they are and why they’re that way and how they’re impacted by things both positive and negative even if the choices they then make don’t match up with what choices are typically expected to go hand in hand with various life experiences or walks of life.......

The fact that all of these things are entirely erased and glossed over and invalidated simply because they’re INCONVENIENT to the more simple, binary perception of ‘good people vs bad people’ and why people are like that.....

Its fucking infuriating, lmfao.

Anyway. So that’s what’s on my mind at the moment.

[kxrn7knxck]

top 5 mlm series (/ movies) and 5 honorable mentions

Tagged by my bestest buddy on this whole entire hellsite @doctorbeam​

I took it upon myself to try and pick my favourites of the lesser known series that i’ve watched, which is how some of them ended up being movies by accident. Whoops. Anyways, in no particular order, my list is as follows-

1. Advance bravely

It’s been a hot minute since I watched this series so tbh I may have forgotten some of it but I do remember really enjoying this as I was watching it. Theres a lot of pining and sweet moments and it felt like there was a very genuine connection between Xia Yao and Yuan Zong. Because of chinese censorship, there isn’t any kisses or anything in this series, but it’s still very worth the watch imo

2. Gray Rainbow

I have made it no secret that I love this series to bits and it would have been on my list regardless of whether or not I was aiming to focus on lesser known shows. This series covers a lot of very series subject matter in very respectful and realistic ways and it’s 100% worth the watch, regardless of the reputation the ending gets. Yes, it is sad, but it’s also beautiful

3. Long Time No See

Of the series on this list, I would argue this is the most well loved among them. A good mlm korean drama with a sweet couple and a happy ending is very hard to come by and LTNS ticks all those boxes. I enjoy the plot, I enjoy the side characters, I enjoy the main couple, of course I have to include this on my list.

4. Seven Days

A very very sweet pair of movies that have almost 0 angst. As I said in my review, I absolutely love that the issue/ conflict in these movies isn’t based around homophobia (internal or external) but rather around the unique circumstances of the one week time restraint on their relationship. Some of the most peaceful and easy to watch movies I’ve seen for a while, and I can claim they’re allowed on this list because theres two of them. That makes them a series and I didn’t break the rules, ok? 

5. Takumi Kun

Another very cute set of movies with minimal drama and just some good boyos. I think the way they handled Takumi’s “people-phobia” (see: trauma) was good, as well as the overall dynamic between Gii and Takumi being generally pretty healthy. I also need to do a rewatch of these too, damn. Anywho they count because there’s 5 movies. Come on, thats a series

Honorable Mentions-

2gether- this is pretty popular and still airing which means it didn’t fit my qualifications to be on the main list but I’ve been really enjoying it so far and am patiently awaiting the next episode. I enjoy the dynamic between Sarawat and Tine a lot and I really hope they’re not gonna get fucked up before the series ends

Until We Meet Again- very sweet story about a love strong enough it can survive anything, even death. I think In and Korn were a lovely couple to watch and I wish the world had been kinder to both of them. Pharm and Dean were also very sweet and I’m glad they got to live happily even after what In and Korn went through. As I said in my review, I liked how much of a soap opera it felt at times. This series had a story to tell and I really appreciate that

He’s Coming To Me- Might as well put this right after UWMA because I love it for a similar reason. This series set out trying to tell a story. That might sound kinda stupid but a lot of series are driven primarily by cute moments and the plot feels like kind of an afterthought (which is fine) but this (and uwma) was clearly written with the plot at the forefront of everything and I appreciate that. Also has a really nice coming out scene and sweet couple

History3 Trapped- A lot of people really love this series and it’s not hard to see why. The main couple is very interesting to watch, and despite all odds they ended up having a very healthy relationship where they are both head over heels for one another. Pair that with an engaging plot and cute side characters and bam! You got yourself a damn good series

Why R U- Another currently airing series that is pretty popular. If it weren’t for the absolutely angelic @doctorbeam​, I almost certainly wouldn’t have watched this just because the side characters.. get a little uhh on my nerves. However, both the main couples are very sweet and I am very glad I was supplied with an edited version to help prevent me from going insane while watching. The plot is uhh a bit odd at times but yeah, the couples are really carrying it for me

I don’t really have many friends on this site so I won’t tag anyone but if you wanna do this, feel free to say I tagged you!

[moving-blogs-dm-for-new-one]

SO....fanfic. This is just the one I just wrote which is basically 100 headcanons wrapped in a trenchcoat, so....yeah

Reblogs >> Likes!!!

Edit: Forgot to mention this is loosely based on someone elses hc of Benrey loving metal music, but I cant remember who it was so if someone finds me the post I can pop credit in!!! ❤️

Benrey never understood feelings all too well. It loved the sweetvoice immensely; it was like a little code only it and its friends knew, and no one else could tell. It didn't like feeling vulnerable like that. It prefered it that way.

When they finally got out of Black Mesa following the Renosance Cascade, it took a massive special interest to human music. It started out slow; it would listen to music in it's spare time, flicking through artists and albums and more before it finally settled on a genre it felt it loved. Metal.

There was a special kind of power about metal, it thought. There were so many emotions in it, but it wasn't sappy. It wasn't vulnerable. It wasn't anything more or less than it needed to be. It just was. It was powerful without softness; it was feeling in all the right ways. Benrey listened to it almost constantly; nodding along to it's favourite bands whether at work or home or any place else. It didn't need to sleep much, if at all, so it would plug in its headphones over long nights and shut its eyes, and that was close enough, it thought.

Slowly, over time, it got more and more into it, "purchasing" (Tommy tells Gordon not to ask) instruments and getting super passionate about it. It starts making and recording its own music, but for the first while, it's only the instruments.

Gordon and Tommy come home one day and hear this heavy, thrumming guitar, and the most powerful soul music bursting out of Benrey's room. They crack open the door and Benrey is fucking BUSTING out its heart into this song, headphones on and head-banging and biting its lip as it plays the guitar with every bit of energy it has. It sounds amazing. Neither of them have ever seen Benrey look so....alive. Tommy cries.

Sometimes Tommy and Gordon like to tell it they're going out, just so they can hear it sing again.

Benrey writes more songs based on it's feelings. It names songs after colours; none of its fans know what they mean, and many theories swirl, but the science team understands. That's what's important to Benrey.

When it's upset, instead of pestering and causing problems now, it goes to its room and writes. It pounds on the drums, rocks the guitar, sometimes screams its feelings out into the mic until it feels better. It begins pushing its negative feelings into its music. It's like a special kind of therapy made just for Benrey.

At this point, it doesn't know any of its friends can hear it singing at home. One day it's rocking out to a song it wrote; it's not the first love song Gordon's heard it write, but it is the most emotional. Gordon finds parts of it rather familiar, in a way he can't place. This time, for reasons he doesn't know, he steps into the room.

Benrey finishes the song, somehow without noticing he's there, and manages to switch the mic off before sweetvoice bubbles out. Big, thick bubbles of pink and blue float into the air, and it's turned away from Gordon, hands clenched in it's shirt, shoulders hunched.

"What does that one mean...?" It's a soft question from him, but it makes it whip around, clearly mortified. Gordon swears he sees it blush, but it could be a trick of the light; Benrey's room had terrible lighting. More pink and blue bubbles out, seemingly without it's control, and it coughs, looking away. It doesn't say. It's not ready yet. Gordon watches it for a minute, quiet.

"Can I hear you sing more?" Benrey does it's absolute best to hold the explosion of pink bubbles and nods. Gordon doesn't pester on his other question. Not now. He understands. He finds he understands Benrey a lot better, lately. He smiles.

It starts becoming pretty popular, and eventually gets a decent following. The science team is delighted and proud, showing up to its small shows and helping pay for things when needed. They all cheer it on at shows so hard it has to fight back sweetvoice, and eventually it starts to laugh more at dinners, genuinely smile more when they're together. It seems happier. Music really is its therapy.

Gordon is talking to Tommy one day, absentmindedly. The two will sometimes just ramble to each other about whatever's on their minds; neither one minds, they both like to talk as much as listen. He mentions the pink and blue, an afterthought, but the way Tommy's head whips around tells him it's more important than he'd assumed. Tommy questions him further, and eventually smiles, obviously delighted.

"What?" Gordon questions, confused. "What is it, T? What's it mean?" They laugh, giving him a toothy grin and staring for a moment, seemingly deciding whether or not to tell. The pitiful look Gordon is giving them makes them laugh again, but they crack.

"I told you, Gordon, they're all rhymes!" Gordon sits for a moment, and Tommy tries their best not to laugh at him as he visibly tries to puzzle it out. Sunkist nudges them and they sigh, deciding to take pity on their friend.

"Pink to blue means I love you, Gordon." Gordon snaps up right, the gears visibly turning in his head. His face explodes in red, and he stutters, clearly disbelieving. Tommy shakes their head, sighing.

"You're both so oblivious. You know it writes those songs for you, right?" Gordon sits back on his haunches and thinks about that. And he thinks. And thinks.

He doesn't stop thinking about it for the next week, actually.

He lays up at night listening to Benrey quietly put lyrics together through his wall. He listens during the day to it play as he does his work; he hums along to tunes he knows in the shower, and he finds his fingers drumming in time with Benrey even when he's away. And he realizes it's not the music, so much, that hasn't stopped pervading his mind.

Gordon makes his decision.

Benrey has a show that coming weekend, the biggest one it's played so far. It's clearly nervous, hands constantly wringing in its shirt and semi trimmed claws picking at its fingers in a way that is both nauseating and adorable to Gordon. He finds his way backstage before the show, clears his throat to announce his arrival.

Benrey looks over, a small bubble of grey popping out of its mouth, and Gordon makes the split second decision to wrap it up in his arms. It stiffens, but relaxes much faster than either of them probably anticipated. They both idley note that this is their first hug whilst sober as Benrey tucks its face into his shoulder, breathing deeply. Gordon rubs its back gently with his prosthetic arm, taking a deep breath.

"You can do this, Ben." Benrey swallows thick and hard at the nickname, and Gordon continues.

"We believe in you." Gordon pulls back, and if he saw a shimmer over its eyes, he doesn't mention it. It nods, and gives Gordon the most stupidly dazzling grin, and Gordon has no idea how he didn't notice sooner. He leaves to join the crowd in a daze, whereas Benrey walks onto the stage with an heir of confidence it's friends have never seen. They've never been so proud.

The show is an absolute hit; the crowd is screaming, the pit is bursting, Benrey looks amazing in the spotlights, Gordon notes. It's head is thrown back, a grin on its face as it belts out its songs, and Gordon finds himself doing more staring than cheering this time. Tommy playfully nudges him in the ribs; he laughs and nudges them back. They give him a knowing smile, and he prays the shitty lighting in the crowd hides his blush.

The science team nearly pounce it after the show. Coomer is wearing at least three t-shirts from the small shop outside and chattering excitedly; Bubby feigns indifference, as usual, but they're smiling softly and they're wearing a shirt too. Tommy is stimming uncontrollably, hands flapping as they hop from foot to foot, and Darnold is delightedly laughing along with Coomer's chattering, complimenting Benrey on it's show. Even Forzen is there, a massive toothy grin on his face as he playfully digs his cousin in the ribs, obviously proud.

Despite the attention, Benrey's eyes drift up to Gordon's through their friends. Gordon smiles at him in a soft way, and Benrey feels like it might melt on the spot. It steps forwards past their gathered friends, who step aside, and Darnold, Tommy and Coomer waste no time very un-subtlely whispering to each other about it.

"Hey Ben," Gordon greets as it approaches, and they grin at each other.

"Sup, Gordos." Gordon laughs, rolling his eyes, but it's in more of a playful way than an annoyed way, now. He holds out his arms and Benrey wastes no time stepping into them, and they choose to ignore the noises coming from their friends. They look at each other for a moment before cracking into giddy laughter, foreheads bumping together. Gordon opens his eyes and finds Benrey already looking at him. They stare for a moment as Gordon builds his confidence, hands slightly shaking, and his still-flesh hand feels clammy and gross. He hopes Benrey doesn't notice.

"So…" Gordon starts, and Benrey snorts, but doesn't interupt. Gordon takes another deep breath.

"I know what pink to blue means now." Benrey's eyes widen, and it has the thought to turn and yell at it's friends, but the way Gordon laughs dazzles it out of the thought for a moment.

"And, y'know what Ben?" Benrey feels like it's swimming through the air, trying to keep focus on Gordon.

"What?" It asks, almost breathlessly. Gordon gives this nervous, shy kind of smile, and Benrey thinks it might explode.

"I love you too."

And that was the first time they kissed. The science team has never been more proud.

Benrey is glad it got into music.

[1000-directions]

rbb because it gave me a heart attack #trauma and also ughhHhhHhhhh bc mood

lolllllll people in marvel fandom do NOT understand how some of us suffer when they abbreviate their reverse big bang as rbb!!!

this was the original draft of my winterhawk reverse big bang where clint is a musician and bucky is a trust fund kid who ends up joining the army or something and they’re boyfriends and then they break up and eventually get back together and it’s told partly in flashbacks and it was just getting TOO complicated to write and felt joyless and was making me completely miserable, so i threw it out after 2500 words and wrote winterhawk punks in love instead, which was the correct choice.

i will never finish it, but here is what i’ve got in case anyone is interested:

There are a lot of different things Clint could have done with his life.

Well, no. That’s a bit of an exaggeration.

But there are several things Clint could have done with his life. Multiple things. More than one thing.

But he doesn’t think any of those other things would have ever made him as happy and crazy and pissed-off and satisfied as singing does.

Whenever anyone asks, he’s very careful to call himself a writer. A composer. A creator. A musician. Like the making of the thing is the part that motivates him. Like performing is just an afterthought. Like singing is just something he has to do so the music makes sense. Because he knows he’s not a great singer. He’s passable. He can keep a beat and hit all the notes in his limited range, and he gets just enough inflection and passion into the words to make people feel a thing, sometimes.

He’s good at the writing. He’s good at the deceptively simple arrangements. His voice is the least he has to offer, and he knows it, and it feels kind of foolish and indulgent to especially savor the part that he’s objectively the worst at. But Christ, he loves doing it, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

*

The two of them had ditched work early, saving up all their smoke breaks until it was suddenly 2:40, and the manager had no choice but to cut them loose. And even though they had permission, it felt like getting away with something, and Clint twisted his fingers into Bucky’s grasp as they ran down the sidewalk together. Clint darted recklessly into the intersection, and Bucky jerked him back at the last second as a truck came barrelling past, honking furiously at the two of them. And it was so close to being bad, but it was fine, fine, fine, and Clint laughed as Bucky shook his head, and Clint linked his arms around Bucky’s neck and kissed him right there in the middle of the street.

They were twenty, and they were in love. And nothing was serious but that.

It was a hot summer at the shore, and they were living in a shitty beach house with three other friends. They spent their mornings and afternoons scooping ice cream at a popular local shop that was more famous than good. And then at night, they’d go drinking at the scummier bars that were a little more lax on carding, or they’d build a bonfire on the beach and drink Yuenglings purchased with Clint’s really good fake ID. And inevitably, someone would have an acoustic guitar, and someone would start shouting out requests, and they’d get drunker and noisier as the night went on.

And then Clint would grab Bucky’s hand with a mischievous glint in his eyes, and they’d strip down to nothing and run into the ocean in the dark, screaming down the moon. And then they’d huddle together in one towel, letting the fire dry their hair until it was curly and crispy. And then they’d all stomp out the fire and gather up the red Solo cups, and Bucky and Clint would push their two futons together into one rickety big bed, and they would fall asleep in each others’ arms, salty and sandy and worn out.

Bucky woke up early most days to go for a run. He was in the Army Reserves, and he had to stay in shape, and Clint certainly wasn’t complaining about what the workouts did for his boyfriend’s physique. Clint was starting at technical school in the fall, studying to be an audio mixer. Things would be changing soon, but not just then.

That summer, time was lazy and endless. Bucky would come back from his run and lay his sweaty body down on top of Clint’s, kissing him awake, and they’d rub off against each other until they both came. Or they’d dart away from their friends in the middle of dinner, running up to their room and barely getting the door locked before Clint was shoving down Bucky’s pants to get his mouth on his cock.

And some nights, they were painstakingly tender, just kissing for what felt like hours before they even took their clothes off. Bucky liked things a little rough, and Clint liked things a little sweet, and they’d found something in the middle that was perfect for both of them.

“Just fucking hold me down and make me feel it, Clint,” Bucky would say sometimes, and Clint would kiss his jaw and tug his hair a little and fuck into him harder until Bucky was crying out beneath him.

It was their first summer, and everything was perfect.

*

At thirty, Clint is starting to fall into the sorts of routines that a younger version of himself would have detested.

Even worse...he kinda likes it.

But there’s just something soothing and comforting about knowing what’s ahead. Sure, it’s romantic to think about being a starving artist, but the reality of it wasn’t so sexy. Turns out that if you don’t work, you don’t get paid. And sometimes in the music industry, you don’t get paid even when you do work. So Clint works his ass off. All the time. He’s still riding a bubble, and he’s gonna ride the hell out of it until it breaks.

He wakes up, and he makes coffee. He fills his travel mug, and he and Lucky take a lazy walk through the park. Clint listens to the birds chirp, and he slurps his coffee, and he hides behind his sunglasses and doesn’t make eye contact with any of his well-meaning neighbors. Too early for that shit.

He goes back home, and Lucky inevitably fucks off somewhere to nap while Clint stretches. He’d tried meditation, but he can’t bear being quite that alone with his own thoughts. He can be alone with his body, though. He runs through his muscle groups, mindfully and thoughtfully working out the best way to stretch his sternocleidomastoid or his serratus anterior. He likes how he feels afterwards, all loose and wiggly, and it puts him in a good frame of mind for a morning listening session.

He has a second cup of coffee in his sunroom while he listens to the playback from the previous day. He combs through voicenotes and reads old journals, idly recalling stories about himself. He doesn’t create anything just yet. He listens with an open mind. And then he listens a second time, and he absorbs, and he makes notes about what he likes or how something could be different.

And then he sets a timer for forty minutes while he has lunch in front of the TV, and he fucks around on his email for a bit, and sometimes if he eats real fast he jerks off. And sometimes if he’s been seeing someone, he texts them, catches up, makes plans for later. Sometimes he plays video games. Sometimes he remembers to water his plants.

(Mostly, he jerks off.)

And then it’s back to work in the afternoon. More coffee. More listening, but this time with editing, rerecording, rewriting. He creates new voicenotes. He jots down new lyrics. He thinks about things he wants to talk about someday that he’s not ready to talk about now.

And then in the late afternoon, he ventures out of the house again. He goes to a cafe, or he grabs some more coffee, or he goes to the bank or the grocery store or the mall. And he exists among people, the way his therapist told him to. And he smiles at three strangers, and he overhears people’s conversations, and he reminds himself that there is an entire universe outside his head, just like there’s an entire universe inside of it.

And then he goes home, makes dinner, jerks off, swaps his coffee for whiskey, waits until he gets really, really tired, and then…

Then he fucking sings.

*

They got the band name from one of the weird, macabre love poems that Clint was always painstakingly copying down into his notebooks, trying to record the bits of weird beauty he saw in the world that mirrored the strangeness he sensed inside of himself. He felt less alone to see strangeness in others.

My darling, I will love you until the winter hawk cleans my bones And in her desperation, she will discover that my flesh only tastes of you

“It’s so gross,” Bucky had said with a curious sort of awe, and Clint felt so vulnerable in the silence that followed, because it was gross, but it was important to him.

Clint wanted to be so fucking in love that it chewed him up. He wanted love to shred him with her talons. And he could imagine himself getting there with Bucky. He thought they could be epic. He was still holding back some secret parts of himself, but if he let those go, he thought he could love Bucky so hard that it consumed him and he finally, finally lost himself.

And Bucky kept staring at the words scrawled in Clint’s notebook, traced his fingertip over the blue ink, following the same pattern Clint’s pen had taken as he’d lovingly copied down the words. And there was a furrow in his brow as he read and reread, and just as Clint thought he might explode from the anticipation, Bucky looked up at him with a small smile.

“I get it, I think,” he said slowly. “The desperation, I mean.”

“Yeah?” Clint wasn’t sure he was even breathing anymore, he was so close to losing it.

“The way a predator becomes a scavenger,” Bucky said thoughtfully, and there it was, that nerdy side of Bucky that Clint loved so fiercely. “Taking the scraps if that’s the only choice you have. Being just...so hungry.” He ran his thumb over Clint’s wrist, and Clint shivered.

“Hungry how?” he managed to croak out.

“Feel like I could just eat you up sometimes,” Bucky murmured. “When I first met you, I didn’t think you even liked me at all.”

“I did, though,” Clint protested weakly. “I was crazy about you from that first time I saw you.”

“I didn’t know it,” Bucky said. “Didn’t even know if I really liked boys or not, but I wanted you, and it felt like….” He frowned and looked at his thumb slowing arcing over Clint’s skin. “Felt like it didn’t even matter if you liked me back. Just me liking you was so much. And I would have eaten any scrap of anything you gave me, baby.”

“And now?” Clint asked, and his heart was an out-of-control metronome.

“Same thing now,” Bucky said, chewing on his lip. “Any bit of you I could have. I’d eat up all you gave me and I’d starve for more before I wanted a single damn bite of anyone else.”

“I love you,” Clint had whispered then, the first time he’d said those words out loud to anyone.

“I love you, too,” Bucky had replied, a hopeful smile breaking across his face and scrunching up his eyes, and Clint was so terrified and relieved and happy that he could barely stand it.

They pushed their mouths together and tried to kiss, but neither of them could stop grinning long enough to make it work.

*

Clint goes to therapy once a month. He takes his Lexapro every night. He has a notebook full of therapy homework, and he makes lists of his accomplishments and his failures, and when he goes to therapy, he shows up with an agenda. He is working to fix multiple parts of his life. He makes progress in different areas, a step on one path, a leap on another, a little stumble here. He’s an amoeba, and his pseudopods creep towards his goals, engulfing and consuming one after the other, slow and steady.

Get a dog? Check.

Learn how to cook healthy(ish) meals? Check.

Spend more time outside? Check.

Stop being so hateful towards myself? Check(ish).

Learn how to have sex with someone without falling in love with him? Check.

Learn how to have sex with someone without immediately thinking of Bucky afterwards?

Well.

It’s a work in progress.

*

Something flashbacky about being deaf

*

Clint’s newest album is called Mono Songs for a Stereo World, and all he’s finished so far is the title and the concept.

He connected with Tony Stark at SxSW last year and drunkenly talked his ear off about his idea to create songs for people with hearing conditions, mixed specifically to accommodate their abilities. He’d woken up the next morning with a raging hangover and a three minute voicemail from Tony describing the prototype software he’d slapped together. And now they’re...not exactly partners, but Clint comes up with ideas, and Tony turns them into reality.

And now Clint has all the technology he needs to create a fully customizable digital album. Fans will be directed to a website that tests their hearing, determines what wavelengths they can detect at which volumes, and then Tony’s tech will generate a downloadable version of Clint’s album that sits perfectly within their range of hearing. It works flawlessly. They’re probably not going to make much money off of it, but Clint’s been working his whole life towards something like this, and he can’t believe how close he finally is.

So all he needs to do is, like. Find some inspiration somewhere and write ten to twelve songs and then record all of them and mix them once and then feed them into Tony’s algorithm and re-mix the songs and then do maybe 40 test mixes on each one.

Simple, really.

*

It was easy for the two of them to form a band. Clint was always writing his weird poetry, and Bucky loved it. Loved the sound of his voice wrapping around the shapes of his words. And Bucky was good enough with a guitar, and it was just one more way for them to be together. It just made sense.

They called the band Winterhawk, and sure, Clint probably always took it a little more seriously than Bucky did, but that was Clint. He threw himself into everything like that back then, reckless and headstrong and passionate and unafraid. He loved Bucky so much, and he loved the band so much, and Bucky loved him and the band, too. Maybe just a little less, but still plenty enough for Clint.

Summer ended, and they found a reasonably priced studio apartment in the city. Bucky paid most of the rent, but he had a trust fund he was still working his way through before his parents disinherited him, plus he made great tips bartending.

wip title game

[incorrectprodigalsonquotes]

A Festival of Brightness

Finally getting to one of the fic requests I was sent. Thank you to @jimhalpertcanbuymelove for sending this request in and letting me turn it into a Brightwell fic.

And an extra special thank you to @s4karuna for co-writing this with me, it was so much fun and we hope you enjoy what we wrote!

Chapter 1

Friday night dinners. 

Ever since Malcolm returned to New York, every Friday night was dedicated to dinner with Ainsley and his mother. Jessica had insisted on it. 

I gave birth to you both, she had said airily, though it was easy for Malcolm to hear the steel of a Milton matriarch in her voice. His FBI training was still no match for someone who could engage in psychological warfare with high society, metaphorically ripping off pearl necklaces with elegant words while on her third glass of gin. 

Twenty hours of labour for Malcolm’s big head alone. Don’t I at least deserve a little of your time?

Malcolm and Ainsley weren’t exactly fans of their mandatory dinners, but neither of them could deny their mother this one thing. Besides, it wasn’t like either of them had anything better to do on a Friday night. Ainsley would either binge watch The Great British Bakeoff and bemoan her nonexistent culinary skills or stay up all night editing news footage with unfashionable raccoon eyes. And Malcolm? Frankly, it was best left unanswered. 

But what started out as little more than an obligation to their mother gradually became tolerable, even enjoyable on occasion. Malcolm suspected that shared trauma might have played a hand in it, but he wasn’t going to go there. Possibly ever. 

At the moment, Jessica was still chatting about the menu she had planned for their annual family Christmas dinner, waving around a forkful of seared scallops as the siblings covertly exchanged amused looks. Neither of them were paying much attention, used to their mother’s little complaints and anecdotes.

“And I would love to set up more than our usual three place setting for our little family dinners.” Jessica suddenly added, her manner nonchalant. “Maybe even set up a high chair or two by this time next year.”

Malcolm choked on his vichyssoise when he noticed his mother’s pointed look. That glint in her eyes was something he was far too familiar with. Jessica Whitly was out to get something by hook or by crook.

“W-what?” He sputtered, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. “Please tell me you don’t mean--”

“I’m just saying, I would like to hear the pitter-patter of little feet running around again.”

“Mother!” Malcolm shot a glare at Ainsley, who wasn’t even trying to hold back her laughter. “At least wait until I’m not at risk of choking on cold soup.”

“Well, I’m not getting any younger, Malcolm.” Jessica made a half wistful face. “I was honestly expecting to have grandchildren by now.”

“Mother,” Malcolm grimaced painfully, his voice still strained and sounding a little too much like a whiny five year old, “Aren’t I a little young to be thinking about that? I have all the time in the world to start a family if I wanted to.”

Jessica raised an elegant eyebrow, and Malcolm instantly knew it was futile. Once Jessica Whitly got going, there was hardly anything that could stop her from steamrolling everything in her path. It was better to wait her out. 

“Well, it’s either you or Ainsley and your sister is much too wrapped up in her career for that.” 

Ainsley preened smugly, sticking her tongue out at Malcolm the second Jessica looked away. Malcolm just raised an eyebrow at both of them with an exasperated huff, looking a little worn out. Jessica visibly softened, placing a loving hand on her son’s. 

“Listen, I know your prospects at love have been…" She twisted her mouth as she searched for the right word, "Unlucky in the past. But as your mother, I just want to see you happy. I know many potential ladies who I’m sure would love to be acquainted with you.”

Malcolm gave a wry grin, shaking his head as he took his hand back. “No offense, but after the last time you tried to set me up, I’m better off trying to find a date on my own.”

He missed the flash of satisfaction on Jessica’s face. 

“So do that.”

Malcolm did a double take, glass blue eyes wide. 

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Find a date.” Jessica repeated as she took a quick bite of scallop, her lipstick still pristine. “You already know I’m planning a gala for New Year’s Eve and not only would I like you to attend this year, but I want you to bring a plus one.”

“But Mother--”

“No buts, young man.” 

Her voice brokered no room for discussion. Neither Malcolm or Ainsley could win against her when she took that tone. 

“If you want to prove to me that you can find a date on your own, then go find one. Just so long as she’s a respectable woman,” she added in afterthought. 

Malcolm sighed heavily. He could already feel a migraine building up. 

“Ains, can you--”

“Sorry, Malcolm.” 

Ainsley was enjoying this a little too much as she looked back and forth between her mother and brother as if she was watching a tennis match, grinning like a Chesire cat. All that was missing from this image was an extra large bowl of her favourite truffle popcorn. 

“But it’s Mom’s party,” she said in mock disappointment. “If she says you should find a date for New Year’s, find a date for New Year’s.”

“Real helpful.”

Malcolm narrowed his eyes at his sister, unamused at how entertained she was. She’d probably be filming the whole thing if she could, but at least he didn’t see her phone anywhere near her. 

He really didn’t need a repeat of Ainsley showing the video of him trying to serenade Sunshine while high on painkillers to Dani. Or anyone else on the team for that matter.

(~**~)                  (~**~)                  (~**~)                  (~**~)

Malcolm grew listless as he sat on the edge of the table, untouched Earl Grey tea in hand as he kept dunking the teabag in over and over again. He should’ve been in front of the board completing his profile of the killer, but good old executive dysfunction was hitting him hard this time. He kept trying to focus on the case at hand, but he couldn’t stop thinking about how he was going to find a date for New Year’s Eve. 

“Bright?” 

Malcolm snapped his head up, suddenly dropping the tea bag string he had been playing with. Dani was cradling her own mug of Earl Grey, looking at him with bemusement as she sat down next to him. 

“You okay? You’ve been pretty quiet. It’s a bit concerning considering it’s you.”

Not for the first time, Malcolm thought that Dani had great potential to be a profiler herself. It was remarkable how observant she was.

“It’s just…" he trailed off with a wry grin, "Sad little rich boy problems, mostly. It’s nothing.”

Dani wrinkled her nose in thought. 

“So you’re having mommy issues?”

Malcolm nearly dropped his mug at her blunt words, but when he saw a beaming grin spread across her face with a rare spark of mischief in her eyes, he couldn’t help but let out a huff of laughter in response.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that. My mother is just…” He ran a hand down his face with a groan, “meddling in my life yet again. It can be a little grating, quite frankly.”

Dani bit her lip as her thoughts turned to her parents. “I can understand that.”

Malcolm looked at her in surprise. “You can?”

For Dani to talk about herself was rare enough as it is. He unconsciously inched to the edge of his seat in anticipation as she nodded after a sip of tea.

“Yeah, parents can be overbearing at times. And this is coming from someone who grew up with two sets of Jewish parents from different continents." 

Malcolm couldn't help but chuckle as he tried to imagine what kind of people raised someone as perceptive and tenacious as Dani.

"At least in my case, I know that it’s because they have my best interests at heart.” Her face softened with nostalgia as she shot Malcolm a smile. “I’ve only met your mother a few times, but from what I've seen, she meddles because it's her way of making sure you're okay.” 

Malcolm raised an eyebrow at her as he finally drank his lukewarm tea. She held up a hand in defense, a corner of her mouth curled up into an almost smile. 

“Well, I never said the caring cancels out the meddling. I've never seen a WASP outrival a Jewish mother like her.”

Malcolm couldn't hold back a guffaw. 

“I'm sure Mother would be flattered,” he chuckled with a shake of his head, “But I still have to figure out how I’m gonna get through Christmas dinner this time.”

Dani glanced at him as she bit her lip in thought. 

“Well, this probably won’t prevent you from having to go to your dinner...” 

Malcolm leaned forward in curiosity as he waited for Dani to continue. 

"My mom’s having a party for the first night of Hanukkah tomorrow. Do you wanna come with me?”

(~**~)                  (~**~)                  (~**~)                  (~**~)

The first word that came to mind when Malcolm thought of Dani was unflappable. She was like a pancake stuck to the griddle, nothing could shake her. And yet he could easily spot the signs. The distracting way she kept biting her lip. How she constantly fiddled with the little blue Star of David necklace nestled in the hollow of her throat. She was… anxious? 

What could be making her act like that? Malcolm’s mind practically raced at the numerous possibilities.

“Hey Bright?" Dani turned to him as they hiked up to her mother's snow covered driveway, her cold hands shoved deep in the pockets of her indigo winter coat. "Listen, there’s something you should probably know before we go inside.”

He gazed at her thoughtfully after noticing the apprehensive look on her face, his curiosity rearing its head as he saw her bite her lip again.

“What is it?”

Dani hummed briefly, not sure how to explain. She hadn't exactly been forthcoming about her life outside of work for two very big reasons. 

“I have kind of a big family so there's going to be a lot of people and a lot more noise. I love them, but...” 

She trailed off with a chuckle as he watched her breath rise in the cold in gentle puffs, snow dotting her hair like stars. 

"They’re a lot. My mom and my sisters, they're nosy and have no sense of personal space and they're going to ask a lot of uncomfortable questions. So it's okay if you need to tap out for a minute or--"

"Dani," Malcolm interjected in amusement, "you're starting to sound like me with all that rambling."  

He couldn't hold back a smile. It was rare for her to get even remotely flustered. It was adorable, the way her cheeks grew dark with embarrassment and how her doe like eyes kept glancing at him to see if he was alright. 

"Don't worry so much. If they're anything like you, I'm sure they're amazing."

Dani sighed with relief, her face relaxing back into a smile again. She knew he was right. He was finally going to meet her obnoxiously affectionate and offbeat family, only… 

He was still missing one crucial piece of information. 

"Bright…" she started, apprehension mounting higher as they approached the front porch bedecked with blue and white lights. "There's also one more thing that I haven't actually told you. And it's kind of a big thing."

She had been braced for him to turn that profiler gaze on her, for those pale, glassy eyes to stare deeper into her for what she kept locked away. But Malcolm didn’t go off in another speculative ramble or even start pointing out her odd behaviour. He simply tilted his head to the side and with those wide eyes, Dani was oddly reminded of a confused puppy.  

"What is it?"

"You're not gonna try to profile me?" Dani raised an eyebrow in disbelief, not noticing the tension leaving her shoulders. 

He shrugged a shoulder, his eyes slightly mournful at how guarded she had seemed just now. The details might have been a little fuzzy, but he could still remember Dani, tired and vulnerable as she opened up about her trust issues the night she babysat his high-as-a-kite self. 

She didn’t need him prying into what made Dani Powell tick. Not when she wasn’t ready. 

"I get the feeling that this is something really personal."

So, he was capable of turning it off. She let out a grateful smile in return. 

"Well--"

"Danys Eliana Powell!" A voice called in amusement from the front porch, startling them from their peaceful little bubble. "Are you ever going to come inside?"

“Danys?” Malcolm nearly bubbled over giggling, looking at Dani with glee. 

"Yes, Dani is short for Danys. Grow up, Bright."

Malcolm shook his head, his nose scrunched up and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes became more prominent. 

"It's just not what I thought Dani would be short for. I was kind of expecting Danika or Danielle.”

“Thank my grandmother for that. She and my dad came here from Port au Prince back in the 70s. Dad changed the family name from Poirot and I can hear you smirking, Bright, cut it out!” 

Malcolm danced out of the way, nearly doubled over with laughter before Dani could smack him so she settled for shooting him an unimpressed look. 

“I’m sorry! At least now I know that detective work is in your blood. Do you have family from Liège Province or a fastidious great-great-uncle, perhaps?” 

“Real mature, Bright.” 

She rolled her eyes, but the way Malcolm beamed at her like sunshine during a snowstorm made him look a little younger, a little lighter hearted and Dani for all her bluster couldn’t stay mad at him. 

“At least Granmè insisted on giving us traditional names--oof! Imma, I need to breathe here.” 

Dani was immediately enveloped in a rib aching bear hug the second they walked up to the front door by a statuesque woman with a regal nose and wide-set blue-green eyes and Malcolm could easily spot echoes of Dani’s dark, springy curls and delicate jawline. The older woman's eyes lit up as she spotted Malcolm after finally releasing Dani from the loving embrace. 

"You must be Dani's friend! I'm Zipporah."

"Bright." Dani smiled as she gestured for him to come closer. "This is my mother."

"Malcolm Bright. It's lovely to meet you,” he offered a polite smile as he held out his hand. His tremor wasn’t acting up for once and he’d never been so glad that his mother signed him up for etiquette classes as a child. “Thanks for inviting me to your home."

"Oh, none of that,” Zipporah waved him off, still beaming with excitement. 

Malcolm’s eyes went wide as she swiftly pulled him into a warm, spine-crackingingly firm hug. He looked over Zipporah’s shoulder at Dani in bewilderment, getting the inkling feeling that he now had an idea about where Dani got her strength from. 

“Imma, you promised you wouldn’t scare him,” Dani’s tone was scolding, but he could see her biting back her laughter. “Bright looks like he’s about to faint.”

The ridiculous situation startled a laugh out of him as he finally returned Zipporah’s hug. He couldn’t remember the last time someone other than Gil or his mother hugged him and it made him feel warm. 

"Come in, come in. We're just getting started." 

Zipporah released him from the mini bear hug and she pulled them inside the house, fussing over his wind bitten cheeks and Dani’s snow covered curls. 

"Did I hear my little bijou come home?" 

A much older woman with a beaming face walked over to them with a baby in her arms. She was short and full figured with glowing dark skin and iron grey hair woven into tiny twisting braids and her eyes were just like Dani’s, deep brown and steady, framed with thick lashes. The baby she was holding wore white footie pajamas patterned with blue Star of Davids with a blue-green headband over her coily little pixie cut that matched her bright eyes. She gave a toothless smile upon seeing them, revealing the same deep dimples as Dani.

"Baby bird is definitely happy you're here."

"Hi Granmè," Dani smiled as she kissed the older woman’s cheek. "Bright, this is my grandmother, Eliana."

Malcolm held out his hand again, surprised at how much the cheerful atmosphere was like a soothing balm to his fraying nerves. It was obvious that Dani grew up in a very loving home. 

"It's an honour to meet you. I’m Malcolm Bright."

The little girl stretched her arms out to Dani with a slight squeal. Dani's smile only grew as she took the child from her grandmother and the baby was quick to snuggle in, babbling happily with her chubby cheek squished against Dani’s.

“So you’re the Malcolm Bright we’ve been hearing about.” The older woman gave Malcolm an approving once over as she shook his hand, “You’re a little different than what Dani told us about you.”

Malcolm gave Dani a look full of mischief, ignoring the odd little flutter in his stomach. He wasn’t quite ready to touch on that yet.

“You’ve told them about me?”

“Well, of course.” Dani shot back her own teasing grin. “It’s not every day a box of drugs explodes in someone’s face.”

Her grandmother practically cackled as Malcolm’s ears turned bright pink and he ducked his head sheepishly. A sweet hiccupy giggle snapped him out of his embarrassment and he turned his attention to the baby in Dani’s arms. 

“So who’s this?”

“Oh, Dani didn’t tell you--?”

“Uh, Granmè,” Dani cleared her throat pointedly, “how about you get back to helping Mona and Naomie in the kitchen? I’ll show Bright to the living room before I see them.”

Eliana raised an eyebrow, but gave a knowing smirk. It was a little unnerving to see the exact same grin that Dani often shot Bright on her grandmother’s face. No wonder Gil had muttered like grandmother, like granddaughter the day he met Eliana. 

“Well, alright then. Call me if you need anything.”

(~**~)                  (~**~)                  (~**~)                  (~**~)

“I have so many questions,” Malcolm couldn’t help but blurt out as Dani led him into the living room.

“And I’m guessing they’re all for me?”

“Most of them.” 

It had been a little over six months since they started working together, but for all his years of profiling, he still had so much to learn about her. But here in her childhood home was a veritable treasure trove of precious memories in the living room alone. Pictures of her flanked by two older girls who shared Dani’s spiraling curls and golden skin, as a little girl stretching at the ballet barre in a blue star print leotard and white tights, a young dark skinned man who Malcolm assumed to be Dani’s father holding her as a baby and oh, that was unfair.

Jessica always teasingly claimed that Malcolm had been an ugly baby, saying that he looked like a bald cabbage with eyes and not in a good way. Dani had been the complete opposite with a headful of fluffy dark curls, wide doe eyes with soft cheeks and the cutest little nose. That had to be the calmest, most thoughtful expression he’d ever seen on someone that tiny and it made her look more like a doll than a baby.

“My first question,” He inhaled deeply and smiled, his skin becoming less deathly pale as the scent of simmering and frying food washed over him. “What’s that amazing smell?”

Eating had become little more than a chore for Malcolm after The Surgeon's arrest. His mother had tried to tempt him with their chef's home cooking and meals from high end restaurants, but most of it was little more than ash in his mouth. But the warm aroma of fragrant soybean oil and heady spices was starting to make his stomach grumble in anticipation. 

"Judging from the sound, pomegranate braised brisket, sweet noodle kugel, kalalou djondjon, poul fri, and I think...” Dani tipped her head to the side to catch a whiff as she adjusted the little girl in her arms. “Granmè's latkes de plátano and her secret salsa de ajo. 

And that's not even half of it.” She chuckled as Malcolm’s eyes went as wide as granmè’s dinner plates. “Be prepared to have a seventy-five year old Haitian lady shove multiple helpings at you.”

“Sounds delicious.” His face was as open and sincere as when he said he could trust her in the middle of a drug induced haze. “I honestly can’t remember the last time I was looking forward to a meal.” 

He then noticed the baby in Dani’s arms peeking out at him, eyes wide with curiosity. She was still tiny, but he could see the beginnings of Dani’s long nose and rounded chin on her face. He inwardly marveled at the power of genetics, wondering which of Dani’s sisters the little girl belonged to. 

“I never did get her name.” 

He laughed as the baby let out a squeak before burying her face in Dani’s shoulder. He was oddly reminded of a baby chipmunk at her actions and it only made her even more endearing.

“It’s okay, he’s a friend,” she cooed, coaxing the little girl into lifting her head off her shoulder to get a proper look at the profiler. “This is Angeline. We named her after my great-grandmother, but we call her Annie.”

“Hello Annie.” He leaned down so he could look the baby in the eyes, the expression on his face so meltingly soft that Dani could’ve sworn he was made of marshmallow and spun sugar. “I’m Malcolm.” 

Annie giggled, revealing her dimples once again. He hadn’t really been around babies other than when Ainsley was little. Ainsley had been round and cute when she wasn’t demanding attention, but Annie was all round apple cheeks, chubby arms and wide smiling eyes. She looked at everything with intent curiosity and while he hadn’t heard her talk yet, it was obvious she was a very cheerful little girl. 

Annie was the cutest baby he had ever seen, he thought as he looked back up at Dani with a smile. His mother would definitely squish her cheeks if she got the chance to meet her. 

“She’s adorable.” 

“She is, isn’t she? She’s not a Powell for nothing.” 

Dani’s smile was warm and content as she dropped a kiss on top of Annie’s curly hair, but it quickly faded when she looked back at Malcolm. 

“So Bright,” she bit her lip in hesitation, “there’s something I still need to tell you.”

The second Malcolm heard this, he became laser focused. If Dani wasn’t backing down then he definitely wanted to know what she couldn’t say earlier. His spine straightened and that one little change was enough for him to look like a whole different person. 

“I’m all ears.”

“Well...” 

Dani trailed off as she held Annie closer, not noticing the baby trying to grab at her necklace. 

“There’s a big part of my life I don’t usually tell anyone, especially with my job and all. Other than Gil and the rest of the team, Tally’s the only other person who even knows about this. I figured now would be a good time to tell you, so to speak.”

“You can trust me,” Malcolm couldn’t help but murmur, pale moon-like eyes as bright as his name intently focused on her, as earnest and sincere as he sounded that night in the dim lighting of his kitchen. 

He wasn’t sure if he really deserved to know whatever it was Dani was about to tell him, but it didn’t stop the way his heart clenched at her unwavering gaze. 

“You see, Annie is--” she paused, not sure how she should continue. “I’m--”

“You’re here, you’re here!” 

A little head popped up from behind the sofa, revealing a tiny girl with wavy dark hair in a high ponytail. She was wearing a blue menorah sweater, yellow skirt and white tights and Malcolm thought that she wouldn’t look out of place frolicking around in a tutu. He nearly had a heart attack when the toddler leaped onto the sofa, bolting across it towards Dani. 

It wasn’t until he had his arms full of lightning fast, beaming kid that he realized that he had already lunged forward, barely managing to catch the little girl before she fell flat on her face. 

She giggled in Malcolm’s ear and he caught the comforting smell of coconut oil and powdered sugar as she clumsily wrapped her tiny arms around his neck, seemingly unphased by her almost accident. He finally managed to get a better look at the little girl after balancing her on his hip and he froze in shock.

“Katerina Dawn Powell, we do not go up on high places.” Dani’s tone was stern, but loving. “And don’t flash those baby browns at me, Kit...”

Because he had seen them before, the little girl’s big brown eyes, the ones that lit up her entire face and turned into charming little crescent moons as she crinkled her nose and smiled. Malcolm’s mind raced as he was bombarded with other details. The golden skin and delicate little face? The long nose, the bow-shaped mouth? 

Except for the hair, she was practically a carbon copy of Dani. 

“Hi Mommy!” 

How could he have missed this?