#work towards working remotely ideally

[dreamersneverlose]

2am thoughts

[2024skin]

My ideal economy is highly authoritarian which sucks because who the hell is ever going to get on board with that

[anghraine]

It's always been intriguing to me that, even when Elizabeth hates Darcy and thinks he's genuinely a monstrous, predatory human being, she does not ever perceive him as sexually predatory. In fact, literally no one in the novel suggests or believes he is sexually dangerous at any point. There's not the slightest hint of that as a factor in the rumors surrounding him, even though eighteenth-century fiction writers very often linked masculine villainy to a possibility of sexual predation in the subtext or just text*. Austen herself does this over and over when it comes to the true villains of her novels.

Even as a supposed villain, though, Darcy is broadly understood to be predatory and callous towards men who are weaker than him in status, power, and personality—with no real hint of sexual threat about it at all (certainly none towards women). Darcy's "villainy" is overwhelmingly about abusing his socioeconomic power over other men, like Wickham and Bingley. This can have secondhand effects on women's lives, but as collateral damage. Nobody thinks he's targeting women.

In addition, Elizabeth's interpretations of Darcy in the first half of the book tend to involve associating him with relatively prestigious women by contrast to the men in his life (he's seen as extremely dissimilar from his male friends and, as a villain, from his father). So Elizabeth understands Darcy-as-villain not in terms of the popular, often very sexualized images of masculine villainy at the time, but in terms of rich women she personally despises like Caroline Bingley and Lady Catherine de Bourgh (and even Georgiana Darcy; Elizabeth assumes a lot about Georgiana in service of her hatred of Darcy before ever meeting her).

The only people in Elizabeth's own community who side with Darcy at this time are, interestingly, both women, and likely the highest-status unmarried women in her community: Charlotte Lucas and Jane Bennet. Both have some temperamental affinities with Darcy, and while it's not clear if he recognizes this, he quietly approves of them without even knowing they've been sticking up for him behind the scenes.

This concept of Darcy-as-villain is not just Elizabeth's, either. Darcy is never seen by anyone as a sexual threat no matter how "bad" he's supposed to be. No one is concerned about any danger he might pose to their daughters or sisters. Kitty is afraid of him, but because she's easily intimidated rather than any sense of actual peril. Even another man, Mr Bennet, seems genuinely surprised to discover late in the novel that Darcy experiences attraction to anything other than his own ego.

I was thinking about this because of how often the concept of Darcy as an anti-hero before Elizabeth "fixes him" seems caught up in a hypermasculine, sexually dangerous, bad boy image of him that even people who actively hate him in the novel never subscribe to or remotely imply. Wickham doesn't suggest anything of the kind, Elizabeth doesn't, the various gossips of Meryton don't, Mr Bennet and the Gardiners don't, nobody does. If anything, he's perceived as cold and sexless.

Wickham in particular defines Darcy's villainy in opposition to the patriarchal ideal his father represented. Wickham's version of their history works to link Darcy to Lady Anne, Lady Catherine (primarily), and Georgiana rather than any kind of masculine sexuality. This version of Darcy is a villain who colludes with unsympathetic high-status women to harm men of less power than themselves, but villain!Darcy poses no direct threat to women of any kind.

It's always seemed to me that there's a very strong tendency among fans and academics to frame Darcy as this ultra-gendered figure with some kind of sexual menace going on, textually or subtextually. He's so often understood entirely in terms of masculinity and sexual desire, with his flaws closely tied to both (whether those flaws are his real ones, exaggerated, or entirely manufactured). Yet that doesn't seem to be his vibe to other characters in the story. There's a level at which he does not register to other characters as highly masculine in his affiliations, highly sexual, or in general as at all unsafe** to be around, even when they think he's a monster. And I kind of feel like this makes the revelations of his actual decency all along and his full-on heroism later easier to accept in the end.

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

*The incompetently awful villain(?) in Sanditon, for instance, imagines himself another Lovelace (a reference to the famous rapist-villain of Samuel Richardson's Clarissa). Evelina's sheltered education and lack of protectors makes her vulnerable to sexual exploitation in Frances Burney's Evelina, though she ultimately manages to avoid it. There's frequently an element of sexual predation in Gothic novels even of very different kinds (e.g. Ann Radcliffe's The Mysteries of Udolpho and Matthew Lewis's The Monk both lean into this, in their wildly dissimilar styles). William Godwin's novel Caleb Williams, a book mostly about the destructive evils of class hierarchies and landowning classes specifically, depicts the mutual obsession of the genteel villain Falkland and working class hero Caleb in notoriously homoerotic terms (Godwin himself added a preface in 1832 saying, "Falkland was my Bluebeard, who had perpetrated atrocious crimes ... Caleb Williams was the wife"). This list could go on for a very long time.

**Darcy is also not usually perceived by other characters as a particularly sexual, highly masculine person in a safe way, either, even once his true character is known. Elizabeth emphasizes the resilience of Darcy's love for her more than the passionate intensity they both evidently feel; in the later book, she does sometimes makes assumptions about his true feelings or intentions based on his gender, but these assumptions are pretty much invariably shown to be wrong. In general the cast is completely oblivious to the attraction he does feel; even Charlotte, who wonders about something in that quarter, ends up doubting her own suspicions and wonders if he's just very absent-minded.

The novel emphasizes that he is physically attractive, but it goes to pains to distinguish this from Wickham's sex appeal or the charisma of a Bingley or Fitzwilliam. Mr Bennet (as mentioned above) seems to have assumed Darcy is functionally asexual, insofar as he has a concept of that. Most of the fandom-beloved moments in which Darcy is framed as highly sexual, or where he himself is sexualized for the audience, are very significantly changed in adaptation or just invented altogether for the adaptations they appear in. Darcy watching Elizabeth after his bath in the 1995 is invented for that version, him snapping at Elizabeth in their debates out of UST is a persistent change from his smiling banter with her in the book, the fencing to purge his feelings is invented, the pond swim/wet shirt is invented. In the 2005 P&P, the instant reaction to Elizabeth is invented, the hand flex of repressed passion is invented, the Netherfield Ball dance as anything but an exercise in mutual frustration is invented, the near-kiss after the proposal in invented, etc. And in those as well, he's never presented as sexually predatory, not even as a "villain."

[dragcnbreak]

AHHH THE AGE REGRESSION ONES R SO CUTE I NEED MORE!!!!! maybe one where reader is having like a breakdown/ptsd flashback which results in them regressing involuntarily and mike comforts them? could be headcanons or a fic idrc :3

IM SO GLAD PEOPLE GET THE CG MIKE VISION… here is my attempt at writing something along those lines!!! I hope u enjoy nonnie <3

◞♡࿐

The Schmidt household was practically a second home to you. You crashed on the couch more often than not and even had a drawer full of your things in Mike’s room for easy access. Your living situation was less than ideal and you felt more comfortable with Mike and Abby than anyone else so it just worked out.

That’s how you found yourself outside their door one morning, knowing it would be just Mike at the house as Abby had already left for school. You used your key and offered a shaky smile to the sleepy man on the couch. “Hey.” He says at first, taking a few seconds to look up at you. When he finally does, his eyes widen at the tears running down your cheeks and he rushes towards you.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Mike asks, using his thumb to wipe under your eyes. You don’t answer but instead, you start to sob loudly. He’s definitely awake now, all his attention on you. He helps you the best he can to the couch so you can sit down. The second he sits down with you, you fling yourself into his arms and continue your breakdown.

Mike is quick to hold you, rubbing your back softly and whispering soothing things like “it’ll be okay” and “I’ve got you”. It helps more than he knows and the both of you sit there for what seems like hours.

When you begin to quiet down, you detach yourself from him and rub at your eyes. “Are you feeling any better?” Mike asks you and you nod lazily, a sudden tiredness washing over you. “T’ank you, Mikey.” The slurring and the nickname alerts Mike to the fact that sometime during your crying session, you slipped into littlespace.

You didn’t age regress too often, specifically around Abby. But Mike was always more than happy to take care of you when you did, especially when you were sad. “Of course, baby,” he uses his favorite nickname for you when you’re in that headspace, “how about we get you something to eat and drink and then you go take a nap?” He continues.

You nod again, “m’kay.” The idea of eating doesn’t sound too bad and you know you need to stay hydrated, even more so after crying. Mike grabs the television remote and turns on Abby’s favorite channel with all the cartoons. He gives you a kiss on your forehead and then hurries to the kitchen.

He and Abby had just had breakfast so he heats up the remaining pancakes and bacon, periodically checking on you. He slathers the pancakes with butter like he knows you like it and also cuts them up. Mike then delivers them to you on a plate.

You lighten up a bit at the food, starting to dig in as he goes to get you a glass of water. He comes back and sets it on the table in front of you. Before too long, you’ve finished your food and water and are back rubbing your eyes tiredly again.

“How about that nap?” Mike offers with a knowing smile. You nod and make grabby hands, indicating you want to be picked up. The man isn’t the most built but he works out enough to easily pick you up, knowing how much you like it when he does. You wrap your arms around his neck while he holds your thighs not too tight.

In a few seconds, you’re in Mike’s room and he deposits you carefully on his bed. He tucks you in so you’re nice and safe and comfortable. He’s about to turn away when you stop him. “Can we cuddle, please?” You ask and he already knows he’s not going to say no. He hums and slips into the bed, fortunately already in comfortable wear.

In the bed, you turn to face the wall opposite the door and Mike catches on, wrapping you up in his arms. Before he knows it, you and him fall asleep even with the sun peeking through the blinds at you both.

◞♡࿐

this was kinda therapeutic to write because ive been going through a tough time myself :( tysm for the request <3

[bisexualseraphim]

For the love of Goddd it is not 🤙🏻owning the libs😎 to be all ✨both sides✨ about the Democratic and Republican parties, it’s uhhh denying reality lmao.

If you’ve paid the most minute amount of attention to the US election outside of viral soundbytes you categorically cannot claim that both sides are even remotely the same: completely different views on the working person. Completely different views on reproductive rights. Very different views on gun control. I could go on and on and on.

And yes, they do in fact have different views on Israel. One side is eye-rollingly centrist about the issue but acknowledges the suffering of both Palestinians and Israelis alike and is open to providing aid to Gaza and possibly a ceasefire. The other side openly wants Palestine bombed off the map. If you can’t see that those are verrry different views and that one, although not ideal, is significantly preferable to the other, then sorry but you’re living in a fantasy world of pure naïveté where, in the US and the entire world in their current states, you think you’re going to find a frontrunning politician who isn’t some level of apathetic or straight up hungry towards war. And if you can somehow find one, you’re gonna have to show massive support for them for many years OUTSIDE of election season, not just kick your feet up and only remind people of their existence when two candidates you don’t like are frontrunning against each other. That’s just not how third party support works.

It’s fine to criticise the Democratic party. It’s GOOD to criticise them. They could always be doing more for the most vulnerable and that deserves criticism. Kamala Harris proudly stating she is going to ensure the US has the most lethal military in the world is nothing short of horrifying and not something that should be endorsed by literally anyone; her centrist-level takes on Israel are also very much worthy of criticism.

But this singular issue voting, “both sides are just as bad” mindset a lot of (usually around my age) voters seem to have is seriously concerning to me because you CANNOT base your voting and/or political activism around idealism. Real change just simply does not happen that quickly. You have to work for it and sometimes that means holding your nose and voting for someone whom you’d absolutely end up in a heated argument with over a holiday dinner — because they are a baby step towards someone you’d instead happily shake hands with.

Plus the whole, you know, Donald Trump wants the rich to stay rich, anyone whom he doesn’t perceive to be a white American to never remain in “his” country and for LGBTQ people to be erased in both the historical and literal sense, plus many, many more. A vote that isn’t for Harris/Walz is a vote for Trump/Vance. Remember that.

Vote Blue — and then, HOLD THEM TO ACCOUNT.

[leviathan-supersystem]

Are you working towards the ideals that you promote in any way besides posting to your blog?? Or is it just fun to make fun of people for doing what small thing they can do while talking in circles about remote political hopes?

it's so funny that the Sensible Moderate Liberal Reformist Tactic that anon is mad at me for mocking. is "trying and failing to assassinate trump."

[mortalityplays]

I've been reading a lot about the evolution of city infrastructures recently, and imo something we have really really lost in our collective conception of urban efficiency is the use of space throughout time.

patterns of urban activity changed radically with the industrial revolution & the normalisation of centralised work opportunities and the daily commute, office culture carried us even further down that path, and even the moderate shift toward mobile and home working since 2019 is massively class stratified. we've become accustomed to the idea that there are 'work spaces', 'living spaces' and 'leisure spaces', that these are qualitatively completely different things, and that the aspirational ideal is a total lack of overlap.

e.g. say an office complex opens at 6am, closes at 6pm, and is closed on sundays. This enormous facility sits unused for nearly 60% of the working week. Sure, maybe cleaners come in overnight, but is that an efficient use of space? Could the building open to the public on Sundays, for students or remote workers? Could it be used in the evenings for public meetings, social groups, studio space? Could it be used overnight by businesses that operate outside 9-5 work patterns?

This is the cleanest, bougiest, least challenging example I can think of, and there is still so much opportunity to rethink how space is occupied. What time of day is a space in use? What else could it be the rest of the time? Is there a good reason occupants can't share the facility throughout the day? We should be much much more bolder about demanding that urban space is used equitably imo.

[ltbarnes]

Back to December (1/2)

Summary: Your new job as an assistant for the CEO of a big, shiny company was supposed to be a good thing. Instead your ex from uni who completely ghosted you out of nowhere several years ago happens to be one of your superiors. It doesn’t help that he’s only gotten more handsome over the years. But you hate him for leaving without an explanation, and he seems to hate you too. Everything is just fucking great.

Pairing: ex!Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader

Word count: 6.9k

Warnings: OFFICE AU (Ghost is not ceo but he’s up there in the company somewhere), exes to enemies to lovers, harassment, past emotional violence/threats, ghost was a rugby player in uni lol, blood

A/N: I’m finally dipping my toe into another fandom 🫣 I’ve been obsessed with the cod men for months now so I suppose it’s time. this is the first part of two, maybe three. we’ll see where my imagination takes me!!

Part 2

Masterlist

So many years spent wondering what the hell happened that night, and there he is on the opposite side of the meeting room table gathering his papers into a neat pile. Simon always was organized, you remember.

He hasn't seen you yet. Or maybe he doesn't recognize you. You don't think you have changed that much, but you never know. More as a person than your appearance, you guess.

Maybe that's why you haven't fell down to the floor crying yet—you would have just a few years ago. Seeing your ex-boyfriend for the first time since you were 20 might do that to you.

But you just feel anger. Anger over the fact that Simon has the audacity to have grown into his looks that way, and that he's successful and has this great scruff on his face and that he just left and never said a word to you again. How dare he have a good life when he just abandoned you and your relationship that night all those years ago without giving you a reason for it.

Your new boss clears his throat, sitting down at one of the ridiculously expensive chairs right next to you. You didn't notice him come in, and you certainly haven't gotten used to his intimidating presence yet.

"Garcia, you have about...fifteen minutes to go through your presentation. I have another meeting with Hill soon." Mr. Price pauses to look down at his wrist watch for two seconds in the middle of his sentence, before nodding towards the beautiful redhead standing with a small remote in her hand.

For some reason this company seems to be where models who get tired of their careers come to work. You didn't exactly get that memo. It's only your second day here, and you feel intimidated by everyone. Maybe that's the way an assistant should feel.

"Y/l/n, you keeping notes for me?" Your head tilts up dangerously fast at the mention of your name, taking a few seconds too long to process his request, before nodding obediently.

"Yes, sir."

Your fingers click too loudly against the keys as you frantically try to draw up a document with the correct font and size. It's too quiet in here. You haven't done anything wrong, yet it feels like everyone is waiting for you to misstep. Your anxiety is a bitch.

"Riley. Riley, what the hell?" you hear someone whisper angrily. It's not until you hear a pen clatter to the floor that you dare to look up his way.

Honey brown eyes stare right into your goddamn soul. Your breath hitches, speeding up the pace of your anxiety-ridden heart even further. More than what's acceptable for sitting still in a work meeting. But your momentary weakness over catching his attention soon disappears, to be replaced by your anger again.

You look away with a clenched jaw, focusing on the keyboard right beneath you. Simon is still staring at you. You can feel it. Feels like it always used to do, but this time you don't want it. In your ideal world Simon Riley would not sit opposite you, would not stand up to join the beautiful, model redhead to hold a presentation where he keeps stumbling on his words all the time because of your presence. At least you think it's your presence, but you're not sure if it's in a good or bad way. For you it's bad.

But it does make you feel good that he keeps having these space outs—tripping over his words, forgetting them all together. It is not a good presentation on his part, and Ms. Garcia is getting increasingly more irritated at him for his lack of delivery. You hope she scolds him for it afterward. God knows you would like to throw every curse word you know at the man.

Should you be this angry after all these years? Should you have let it go a long time ago? Should you have stopped acting as if being with another man after him is betrayal? Probably. The last question is probably the answer to why you haven't really moved on from your hurt.

It just makes you so mad—for a year he was your entire world. Simon hugged you from behind each time he encountered you out in public and played with your hair as you fell asleep in his arms and woke you up with his fingers tracing patters on your hip. He fucked you until your bed broke and made love to you so gently you might as well have been made of glass to him. Two weeks from your anniversary he stopped talking to you. Not one thing of his was left in your dorm the next morning, and you didn't see him on campus even once during the term he had left of school. The few friends you had in common didn't talk to you anymore.

It broke your heart, to be abandoned like that. That night was already shit, and Simon just decided to make it ten times worse. You were in shock and all you wanted was his comfort. To find out he had left? You barely made it through that next semester.

For years you have pondered over what part of you was so unlovable that Simon couldn't even bear to say another word to you. Maybe his inability to function properly during this meeting wasn't due to shock, but instead disgust over having to be in the same room as you. Fuck, you are mad, and yet so scared that you have to meet him every single week from now on. You're not strong enough for that.

"That was...something. I expect you to be better prepared next time I see you, Riley," Mr. Price says, clicking his pen while pointing it towards Simon. "Don't know what the fuck that was," he mutters under his breath while rising from his chair.

You follow swiftly. The chair is too loud as it's pushed back. You cringe. Gathering your laptop and your papers is ungraciously done. Price still waits for you though, for some reason, but he sighs and puffs while doing so. Everyone else is quiet, besides the slap to his arm Simon receives from Ms. Garcia. They're probably dating. Two perfect, good looking people having perfect sex in their perfect apartments. You hate them both.

You try not to look at him as you walk out behind Mr. Price. But you still say a 'have a good day' that is too quiet to the room, answered with a few nods and some 'you too' back.

A small squeak of surprise escapes your lips when your boss comes to an abrupt halt in front of you. A millisecond is all it would take for you to have crushed into him, and that squeak leaves heat travelling to your face. He turns around, facing the room once again, with his usual glare.

"Don't bloody stare at my new assistant. I don't want another HR-situation with this one. Especially talking to you, Riley."

Price pins his glare on Simon, who gives him an equally harsh glare back. You are just about ready for the floor to break so you can fall through to the bottom level and run out of here. But you're frozen in your place, clutching your belongings to your chest tightly enough to make a computer-sized dent in your skin.

Without another word, your boss turns around and heads out of the room. You couldn't have moved any faster if you wanted to—already tight on his heels while your heart rate desperately tries to calm down. Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. What the hell are you going to do? Ignore Simon and hope that you manage to avoid him for however long you'll work here? It feels kind of impossible, but the last thing you want is to talk to him. You couldn't.

You've just put down your things on your desk right outside of Price's office when he speaks again. His voice always manages to make you jump in your place, head flying up to meet his gaze.

"If Riley, or anyone else, gives you any trouble—you tell me," he says, unflinching and stoic.

You gulp, frozen in your position. "Oh—I, okay. Thank you." The words come out quieter than you wanted to.

"You seem like a good kid. Don't want these fucking fools to chase away 'nother one of my assistants."

The door to his office is closed the next second. You just stand there, dumbfounded and a little confused, but still flattered in some way. A good kid—you'll take that.

Popcorn crunches underneath your sneakers as you push yourself past the people going up and down the stairs, trickling out of the stadium with happy smiles on their faces and lively conversations exchanged now that the game is over. They won. The players are still out on the field, celebrating their victory with slaps to each other's backs, jumping up and down, impromptu attack hugs. You are giggling too, watching them.

Simon has torn his shirt off, sweaty, blond hair a mess as he shakes his head. Johnny just poured water all over him—the guy always gets so overexcited. And goddamn, your man looks good as he has that rare smile on his face.

The game was a really good one on his part. Everyone in the team calls him 'Ghost' because of how quickly and seamlessly he moves despite his size. And the big tattoo of a man wearing a skull mask on his arm. But once  he's out on the field, the players never expects his speed. At least one player during each game runs right into him, as if he was invisible. A ghost.

He hasn't noticed you yet, where you stand leaning against the railing. It's freezing out. The first really cold September day, and you didn't think to bring a proper jacket. But you don't really care, because seeing Simon and your friends this happy has plastered a permanent grin on your face.

"Riley, your girl!"

Someone shouts and points at you, alerting your boyfriend of your presence. His head whips in your direction, brown eyes pinpointing you in your place before a 6'2'' man starts barreling towards you. Simon throws the water bottle in his hand away carelessly as you giggle furiously over his excitement.

"Fuck, love," he says as he reaches his hands out, lifting you over the railing within a second. You yelp in surprise.

"Wha—Simon! Put me down!"

Simon just holds onto you tighter, pressing you close to him with your feet still in the air. How is he this strong? "Not a chance, Princess. We fucking won. I'm celebrating with my girl."

You chuckle, holding onto his shoulders while looking down at his sweaty face. "I know. I'm so proud of you."

A shy grin grows on his face, slowly setting you down onto the fake grass. "Really?"

"Really. It's the best you've ever played. Wanted to shout to everyone that it was my boyfriend doing all the best throws out there," you tell him, now looking up at him instead. God, he's tall.

Simon's mouth comes crashing down onto yours, giving you a sloppy kiss that makes you laugh.

"I lov—I loved having you here." Simon pauses in the middle of the sentence, as if he was supposed to say something else. "You're my fucking lucky charm, you know that?"

"I'm not so sure about that. You have lost quite a few games with me here as well," you tell him, ruffling his messy hair with your hand.

"Don't matter. I feel lucky anyway." A boyish grin adorns his face as he leans down to press a kiss to your head. "Now, tell me why in the hell my little lady is out here freezing her arse off 'cause she didn't bring a jacket? Like I told her to do?"

You groan, giving him a glare. "Stop. I should have listened to you, you were right, and all that. I know."

"Well, better for me, 'cause I get to rub my sweaty arms all over you now to warm you up."

"Go shower, you idiot." You push at his chest gently, rolling your eyes. He pretends to stumble backwards, holding his hands up.

"I will. Just wait a few seconds here, will you?"

Simon keeps walking backwards, waiting for your nod of confirmation, before breaking out into a jog towards the locker rooms.

You embrace your torso with your arms, rubbing up and down with your hands to warm your skin. There's so many players left on the field, still messing with each other like rugby teams usually do. Some you recognize—like Johnny and Gaz. They're your friends too. Others you have seen in passing at parties, in class. Some you only know because Simon complains about them to you. The fly-half never was his favorite. Graves, something? They're constantly at each other's throats.

Simon comes running out onto the field once more, this time with his jacket in hand. You sigh, scratching the skin above your eyebrow with a small smile.

"Si—you didn't have to. I'm fine," you say as soon as he's within earshot.

"Shut up. I'm being a bloody gentleman, just like my mum taught me."

The jacket is laid gently around your shoulders. You tug it tighter around you, because despite your words it is cold. And you love his jacket.

"Look at you. So fucking adorable."

You smile up at him, scrunching your nose. You love this fool. You love Simon Riley, have done so for many, many months. Haven't told him yet though. But it can wait—you have all the time in the world.

Simon is avoiding you. A week of not seeing him even once, despite the fact that you work on the same floor. You haven't attended any more meetings since your second day, but you still would have expected to run into him in the break room, or in the hallway. Hell, you've even delivered paper copies to his office and still haven't seen him.

You don't know what you feel about that. You are mad at him and you definitely don't want to be forced into an awkward encounter with your ex-boyfriend, but still not knowing why he left has chipped away at every ounce of confidence you had in yourself. Even now at your grown age. It's been several years since. It's pathetic. Maybe Simon realized that on a Friday night in December during his senior year of college—you are pathetic.

God, why are you still that 20-year old girl? Why are you sitting at your desk, 3:30 PM on a Wednesday, obsessing over every flaw you can come up with all because of a stupid man?

The anger you held towards him last Tuesday has morphed into deep self-hate. You begin to understand his perspective. He doesn't want to interact with the silly little girl he broke up with ages ago in her silly little assistant job. Simon is a senior executive in this company, for god's sake. He doesn't even have to send a second glance your way.

"Y/l/n! Coffee!" your boss yells from within his office. But the yelling and cold tone still doesn't offend you like it would any other person—it's just the way he is. Price has actually been pretty nice to you. You like him as your boss, despite his less than chipper attitude.

"Yes, sir," you shout back, rising from your seat.

You smooth down your dress, fiddle with your hair in the reflection of your laptop, before taking a deep breath. It's just a short trip to the break room. No big deal. Nobody actually cares that you are the new girl.

It's practically empty as you arrive, besides a man reading his newspaper in the corner while seemingly on an important call. Seems a little arrogant, but you know he's high up in the company. At least you think he is. Price doesn't like him. He told you so the first day.

A sigh of relief escapes your lungs as you walk to the expensive, Italian coffee machine. You press the double espresso button. No sugar, no milk. Just straight, black coffee for your boss. Kind of reflects his personality. It buzzes loudly as coffee drips into the cup, you standing there waiting patiently. It has started raining outside. You'll probably be soaking wet tonight once you come back to your apartment.

Someone comes standing beside you, taking a mug off the highest shelf. You catch a glimpse of his expensive suit before glancing upwards. Your lips part, almost just as shocked as you were last Tuesday. You can't catch a fucking break, can you?

"Johnny?"

The now bearded man, with a full head of hair as well, which he definitely didn't have when you last saw him, turns around towards you with a stoic expression. It doesn't change once he gets a good look at who said his name.

"You work here too?" you ask before gulping.

"Y/n," he says, a frown growing in between his eyebrows. "I work here, yes." The Scottish accent that you used to like listening to is now impossibly deeper.

"Uh, I—how you doing? It's been...a while." You glance away, cowering under his gaze. Soap always used to be so kind to you, treated you as if you were one of the boys. Insisted you call him Soap, something only his friends were allowed to call him. Now there is a hidden undertone of distaste in the way he looks at you. "See you've gotten rid of the Mohawk."

"I'm alright. Good to see ya', Y/n, but I gotta go back," he tells you. For some reason you feel like he's actually not all that happy to see you.

"Oh. Okay." The disappointment in your voice is clear. "We'll probably see each other again soon, I guess."

Johnny has already started walking away when the words leave your mouth. You hear him mumble a halfhearted 'Take care, lassie" before leaving you there dumbfounded and upright hurt with your boss's coffee cup. What was that?

You always knew Johnny was as loyal of a friend you could be, but...you didn't know he hated you that much. Especially when you didn't actually do anything against him. Not that you did anything against Simon either. That you know of. But, you know.

The short interaction leaves you jarred for the rest of your work day. You still get things done, but the look on Johnny's face is in the back of your mind the entire time. What did you do that was so bad that John goddamn MacTavish hates you for it?

It wasn't enough to work with the man who broke your heart, but your ex-friend as well. His best friend. You will never be welcomed here if half of the company leaders consist of people who have a grudge against you spanning years.

When the clock strikes 6, Price sends you home. He will probably stay for another few hours, you think, because there has been empty takeout containers in his office the morning after every day this week. You tell him to have a good night, he answers with a grunt, and then you and your bag take off through the hallways.

Your heels click against the floor as you walk through the mostly empty office space. Some rooms still have their lights on, casting shadows over the mahogany desks and the important people sitting behind them.

You halt your steps as you hear two voices wrapped into a conversation with each other. Someone must have left their door open. You don't want to eavesdrop, but it gets hard to resist when you recognize Johnny's voice from earlier.

"You can't avoid her forever," he says.

"Well, don't you think I fucking know that?"

You freeze as you instantly recognize the deep, rumbling timber of Simon's voice answering Soap. Fucking hell—they're talking about you. You can't not eavesdrop now.

"It's just—it's fucking hard, you know? She just walks in here all..."

"Met her in the break room earlier. Making coffee for Price."

"Yeah? She said somethin'?" Simon's voice sounds curious, eager almost.

"Asked how I was doing, the usual. Didn't know I worked here, it seemed like." A sigh sounds from the room, and you press yourself even closer to the wall. Please, for the love of god, don't let anyone walk by. "I couldn't just act like normal. I can't be fuckin'...nice to someone like that. When I know your past."

"What—you were fucking rude, or what? Just ignored her?"

"No, for fuck's sake. Left pretty quick, though. I just don't have any respect for things like that. You know that."

"Yeah." Simon lets out a bitter chuckle. If you could see him, he'd probably be shaking his head now. "I'm still fucking angry, you know? Can barely stand to be in the same room."

You bite down on your lip, shaking your head to yourself. You can't listen to the two of them talk about how much they hate you. How they don't have respect for 'things' like you. It's nauseating. Your limbs shake with poorly contained anger, but still the urge to cry is even stronger.

But there's no other way out than past his office. So you brave it—practically sprint by with your hand covering the side of your face in hope that they won't see who it is. You don't think they do. The blinds were down.

A single, pathetic tear slips down your face as soon as you exit the building. Cars fly past you, lights blaring everywhere, noise unending. You just want to go home. But you know the overthinking won't stop there.

As the obnoxiously loud alarm disturbs your sleep that finally came about three hours before, you groan into your pillow and wish for it to be anything else but Thursday. You want the weekend. You want to sleep in and wallow in the fact that you probably won't have this job for very long after what you heard Simon and Johnny say about you yesterday.

You don't even bother putting on heels this morning. An old pair of ballerina shoes and a thick, fuzzy sweater over your dress is what you drag yourself to the office in. It's cold and you're exhausted and sad. You can't stand people not liking you—it takes over every part of your being. And when it's Simon...

There's a meeting going on. Price gave you a list of everyone's coffee orders and made you run over to the shop across the street. You see Simon's name taunting you at the top of the list. A cortado, extra sugar. Fuck, he's still the same.

It takes twenty minutes of queuing before you manage to get to the counter. Another ten to have everyone's order ready. The bag is ridiculously heavy as you carry it out of the coffee shop. The meeting will probably be over by the time you arrive, and then Price will curse you out and you will cry, because today you cannot handle even the smallest criticism.

You're a little sweaty by the time you reach the fourteenth floor of the building, which is fine, but the panting doesn't exactly add to your charisma that somehow seems to repent your coworkers from your person. For a minute you stand outside the meeting room, gathering yourself enough to be somewhere near presentable. Not entirely, but as close as you will get.

The door is shouldered open with a little force. More than you thought it would take. Nobody really gives a thought to your presence—they continue the meeting as if you weren't there at all, and you like it that way. You try to match each coffee to the right person on the list. But there's thirteen of them, and you have yet to learn everyone's name.

You feel Simon's eyes on you the entire time you spend in that room. He's anything but subtle, staring right at you without shame. He doesn't even answer as someone calls him by name. And it's pure spite leaving him for last. His order is the only one you know by heart, but keeping him waiting for a few extra minutes is deserved, you think. Maybe it just gives him more fuel to hate you, but if he's going to hate you, you might as well give it right back.

His ring-clad fingers clasp around the paper mug, slowly bringing it up to his lips as if taunting you with the existence of them. God, they are so full and pink and—no. Don't even go down that route. It'll all make it so much harder to live like this if you keep thinking about how fucking attractive Simon has become with his still blond hair slightly unkept from running his hand through it during the day and how his shirt strains against his muscles and the fact that he is still so, so tall.

"This is cold."

The room falls silent, at least you think it does, as Simon's harsh voice echoes throughout the confines of the four walls. The coffee belonging to the person sitting beside him is steaming. You know he's lying. He sets down the mug on the table, glaring up at you with such distaste in his eyes. You never thought that look would be reserved for you.

"Can't even get a bloody coffee order right, can you?" Simon's chuckle is deprecating, shaking his head to himself as if his irritation almost amuses him.

But you just flinch. He doesn't see it, but you think the rest of the room does. His tone fucking hurts. And that he would publicly humiliate you like this?

"Oh, uh..." You want so badly to have a good comeback, something that will make him shrink in his chair, but all you can get out is a stupid 'oh'. Standing there all small and speechless makes you feel dumb. "I'll get a new one."

Your response seems to catch his attention. His gaze flickers up, back to you, and the cruelty falters for a few seconds to be replaced by something likened to...regret? Probably not.

"Riley can drink his cold goddamn coffee. He'll survive," Price chimes in, waving with his pen as a signal for whoever was speaking before to continue.

You nod, clenching your jaw to stop the trembling, before escaping out of the room as quickly as possible without it seeming suspicious.

A shaky, deep breath is inhaled and exhaled as soon as you get out. It was already a bad day, yes, but nearly crying because Simon told you his coffee was cold? That's just childish. You need to pull yourself together if you're going to keep this job. Price clearly doesn't like weakness.

The rest of the day is calm. Mostly you're reviewing Price's schedule, emailing people back and forth about changing meetings and setting them up. He even gives you an extra break, which is so well needed and probably out of pity, but you'll take it.

You realize that you are so fucking petty when your final task of the day, once again, is to deliver some kind of contract to Simon's office. You know he's out on a meeting with a client—you heard him walking past earlier, talking to that client on the phone. You gather your belongings, say goodbye to Price, before heading towards Simon's on your way down.

Stepping inside feels like walking right into his arms. His cologne hangs heavy in the air. Fuck him for still using the same scent.

The entirety of his office is neatly organized, everything in its place. So you move things. A sharpener gets to change its designated spot from desk to shelf. Files labeled under 'F' gets shoved in between 'S' and 'T'. You even go as far as taking out some of the files from one folder, placing it in another. The printer gets unplugged.

Doing something to his old copy of The Fellowship of the Ring that stands proudly on display in his bookcase crosses your mind, but you do want to stay alive long enough to see the end of the week, at least. You remember one time when he slept with it as if it was a stuffed animal. You're being petty, not suicidal.

Your final masterpiece in your rampage is the unscrewing of a wheel on his desk chair. Just the thought of Simon pushing his chair back only for it to suddenly tilt makes you giggle. God, you really are a child.

Any sane person wouldn't even notice half the things you've done in here. But Simon is not sane. This can throw off his entire day, week even. You know from firsthand experience.

Yeah, Simon goddamn Riley broke your fucking heart and now has the audacity to punish you for it. You won't take that.

Simon has been in such a bad mood the entire day. You heard him cursing all the way from his office. Some poor intern got yelled at in the hallway (you really are sorry for that), and you overheard a few of your colleagues mention that he didn't speak to anyone during the entire morning meeting. Price apparently cursed him out for it in front of everyone. That's a little funny, at least.

On one hand you feel proud of your ability to still piss him off without him knowing. On the other hand, you're not too happy yourself. Your situation hasn't exactly changed—half the office still hasn't talked to you, and the ones that do keep strictly work related conversations. You're lonely.

Despite it being Friday, you get off when the sun has already set. It's pouring rain outside and you don't have an umbrella. You really don't have the energy to deal with that as you gaze warily out of the window from your desk. You could take the subway instead of walk all the way home, but you would still get soaking wet during the trek to the station.

"Goodbye, Mr. Price. Have a good weekend," you say, popping your head into his office with a sweet smile on your lips.

"Call me John," he answers without even looking up from whatever report he's reviewing. Still that monotone voice as if he's always tired of hearing people talk.

"Oh. Uh—okay, John," you stutter out. What? He never lets anyone call him by first name.

"Get home safe," Price tells you. Has he grown soft? What's happening? "Have a fuck load of reports needing organization on Monday." There it is.

You smile to yourself, shaking your head lightly, before mumbling another 'bye' to your boss. He lifts his head in a subtle nod as answer. Actually, you might have a chance to stay here if he likes you. He is the CEO after all.

The hallways are dark except the few offices still lit up like every night. These people barely have a life outside of work, it seems like. It's kind of sad. Then again, you don't either, if what counts as a life is having friends and significant others and people who care about you. But at least you have time for doughing in your couch and taking a walk around the neighborhood.

But your daydreaming and overthinking of course leads you into trouble. Rounding the corner forces you right into another person, making you stumble backwards a few steps before a clammy hand grabs your arm to stop you from falling.

"I'm so, so sorry," you say, looking up at the man standing in front of you. It's that executive-something Price doesn't like. Shepherd? An American.

"Don't worry that pretty little head of yours, darling," he says, without backing away from you. He keeps that close distance, letting you feel his dank breath properly.

You gulp, before attempting to release your arm from his grip. He doesn't budge. Your heart rate speeds up instantly.

"Haven't talked to you properly before, sweetheart. Just seen you strutting 'round these hallways in your dresses." He looks down at your wide eyes, before they slowly rake over the rest of your body. Your chest starts to heave up and down as if you've just come back from a run. It's clear he wants something more than just a simple conversation with the new assistant.

"I'm—I'm sorry. I have to go. Train," you stutter out, attempting to tear yourself away from his harsh grip around your arm. You can't.

"Don't be like that, darlin'. I just wanna have a talk, that's all," he tells you, his warm breaths hitting your face.

"Please, sir, I really have to go. We can talk on Monday."

Shepherd raised an eyebrow, gaze flickering down to your chest again as if you can't see it clearly, before tapping your cheek condescendingly with the palm of his hand.

"Alright, sweetheart. Come into my office on Monday. Appreciate it if you'd wear one of those pretty dresses. Makes my day much better, having somethin' sweet to look at."

A wet kiss is pressed to the back of your hand—something that he might think is gentlemanly, but sends shivers down your entire spine out of disgust. You're frozen still as he squeezes your hip before he leaves, leaving you to hear his dress shoes clink against the floor.

The further away he gets, the harder it gets for you to breathe. Panic grows in your chest, tears already threatening to fall as you finally get yourself to move, rushing towards the elevator and pressing the button too many times.

He was so close. And the way his grip tightened as you tried to step away, the squeeze of your hip. It's too much like last time. Too much like that fucking December night all those years ago.

Clear pictures of Philip and his friends flashes past the forefront of your mind as you rush from the elevator, already heaving from your tears. It's empty, thank god, since the guards are posted outside of the main entrance. Philip morphs into the man from just a minute ago. Pushing you against the wall at that party, grinning right in your face as you tell them to stop.

The backdoor leading into the alleyway beside the building is where your feet leads you towards without consulting you. It's better, maybe. You don't want anyone to see you like this.

But those goddamn revolving doors acting as the main entrance starts to move, you hear that, and soon enough someone steps inside with haste in their walk.

"Y/l/n!" someone shouts angrily. You know exactly who it is. "Why the fuck did you move all my stuff? I swear to god—"

Your back is facing away from him, but maybe he still sees the way your shoulders shake from behind. Maybe that's why he falters in his steps. Maybe that's why he decides to cut the first real sentences he's said to you directly since you started working here short.

The last crumb of composure turns to dust, and your hand flies up to your mouth to muffle the first real sob from your lips. You escape through the door, out into the cold, rainy alleyway as your cries turn too forceful to stop.

It's wet and dirty and crawling with grovel as your knees hit the ground harshly. You manage to turn yourself around to lean your back against the cold brick wall instead. It'll all bring you grief later, but right now your legs can't carry your weight.

With a bang, the door flies wide open once more. Long legs bend down, big hands on your arms.

"Y/n. Y/n, c'mon. Why are you crying?"

Simon's voice is drowning in urgency, his shakes of your shoulders almost forceful. But you can't stop crying. And you're still so fucking angry with him.

"Don't touch me," you sob, pushing his hands away from you. The rain grows heavier the same second, soaking the entirety of you as you sit there on the dirty ground.

"Alright, alright. I won't," he breathes out, holding his hands up beside him. Those big, veiny fucking hands that you have missed every day since he last put them on you. "But you gotta tell me what's wrong."

"Why?" you almost yell, tilting your head up, away from the palms of your hands previously hiding your face. You get raindrops right in your eyes. "You hate me, don't you? Can't even stand to be in the same room as me!"

"Y/n," he growls, as if he's scolding you with the simple mention of your name. "You know bloody fucking well I don't hate you. Now tell me what the hell's making you sob like this. You're sitting on the ground, for fuck's sake."

You dry away your tears, despite it being so futile in this rain, while letting out a bitter chuckle. "All due respect, you're the last person I wanna talk to."

Simon lets out a shaky breath, one filled with frustration. "So fucking stubborn..."

He shakes his head. "Just—just let me drive you home, at least, okay? The trains from this station are cancelled. Blowing up to a storm."

The words you were about to force out through your tears disappear completely. Instead you just stare at the man now looking down at you with something likened to concern. Still has that frown in between his eyebrows.

"I'm not going to get in a car with you, Riley," you mumble out. If you had your way it would sound angrier, more assertive, but your voice fails you.

"Riley, huh? That's where it's at?" Simon scoffs, as if he didn't call you by your last name a few minutes earlier. "Just get up, c'mon."

"No." You shake your head, looking down in your lap. In reality you're not just apprehensive because of your anger towards him—he's a man at the end of the day, and you are his ex-girlfriend who he dislikes very strongly.

"Are you—for god's sake." He shakes his head again. "I'm not going to hurt you, Y/n. I would never harm you. Not any woman," he tells you. How can he still read you this well?

You don't answer. Just take your wet sleeve to dry away even more tears. How to stop crying in front of your ex seems to be an art you haven't mastered yet.

"Okay, I'll make you a deal. You let me get you a taxi home, after you get out of this fucking rain and step inside. That alright with you?"

You nod with a sniffle, reaching for your bag beside you.

"C'mon."

Simon nods towards the door, reaching his hand out. You take it, because there's no chance you would manage to get up all by yourself. But that's the only reason.

He holds the door open for you, letting you slip inside again. Exactly how much the rain soaked you hits you as you step inside, instantly freezing cold and uncomfortable. And goddamn your right knee hurts. Falling down to the ground did come with consequences, it seems.

"Fucking hell," Simon mutters under his breath as soon as he gets inside, dripping water down onto the shiny floor. His suit is entirely soaked too.

You see a glance of yourself in a mirror as you take off your heels. There's mascara underneath your eyes. You try to remove it furiously with your fingers.

"Don't have to do that. Nothing that I haven't seen before," Simon speaks up from behind you, looking at you as well through the mirror.

You glance up at him, just for half a second, before lowering your arms slowly. And then you rummage through your bag with trembling hands, finding a napkin you kept from a restaurant. You dry away the mascara with that instead.

Simon looks at you, really looks at you, as you stand there dripping water onto the floor and makeup ruined and your clothes dirty. You feel so vulnerable underneath his gaze. What is he trying to find?

"Bloody hell, Y/n. You're bleeding for fuck's sake. That's a fucking gash."

He points at your knee. You look down, seeing the outpouring of blood running down your leg from the open wound right below your knee. It does look very, very bad. Like, you're slowly becoming nauseous by looking at it. How didn't you notice it earlier?

"Oh."

"I'm driving you wether you like it or not." Simon stalks up to you, grabbing a hold of your arm to put it around his shoulder. His arm sneaks its way around your waist. Fuck.

"Do I get a say in this?" you ask. You know what the answer is, but you also don't understand. What is this? Why is he doing this for you? A few days ago he was talking shit about you with Soap and humiliated you purposely in front of your co-workers. Now he's getting worried about you crying and driving you home from work?

"No."

Part 2

[kirkodiletears]

I wanted to answer this question: (it's only a speculation)

"How intense is Luo Binghe love for the original Shen jiu and why is he so damn fixitated him for is it his looks or personality lol ? I'v read so many fics of Shen yuan identity reveal with Luo binghe and the peaklords that always ended positively but do you think it'd be the same in the canonverse? Like if Shen yuan were to reveal he wasn't the original would they react positively or negatively?"

I think 1st thing he feel in love was SJ's looks

"Shang Qinghua: “What was your first impression of the other person?”

 

Luo Binghe continued to reminisce and lightly said: “An aloof and remote, distant and untouchable immortal.”

then he started to do anything to gain SJ's attention/favor... He befriended with SJ's favorite disciple NYY, even if she always got him in trouble, then after he was pushed down to the abyss he realized that SJ would never return his feelings so he decided to destroy him, meanwhile he started to cope with it and started to pretend that SJ was a scum villain who couldn't love anyone but himself (that's probably why he never seen SJ's memories even if he was able to do so) and when YQY died he and SJ's reaction finally shattered his illusions...

Well, in my opinion, you pretty much nailed it. Especially keeping in mind the original intentions of Airplane to write PIDW as a yaoi novel with SJ (SQQ) and LBH as a OTP.

P.S.: Apparently I better quote the text of SVSSS, chapter 81 to be precise, to avoid ignorant comments. There's a huge misunderstanding going on in the English-speaking segment, probably dew to an English translation of SVSSS. Some readers are mislead by two quotes, that they take as a contradictory, which in truth, they are NOT.

The first one is from a Chapter "The story begins". It is the last chapter of the novel, after this the extras start. And this particular chapter is a culmination: this is where the truth is reveled. Like in a detective story, where we finally find out, who the killer is. This meant to become a real "bomb", that makes a reader go WOOOW!!! And this is THE KEY for understanding the whole story: the plot and the characters, especially Luo Bing-mei (and Luo Bing-ge). And speaks about the intentions of the Airplane. (original scrapped outline(c))

The second quote on the other hand speaks of an EXISTING PIDW. (original outline(c))

The first quote, from the final chapter:

Shen Qingqiu looked him up and down. “You don’t look crushed at all after all this foolish messing around ended up completely changing your own novel.”

Shang Qinghua said, “You can’t say it like that ah. Maybe you think it’s just all foolish messing around that isn’t worth a damn, but for Bing-ge, your foolish messing around is probably the meaning of this entire world.”

... holy s***, Great God Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky was able to say something like that?!

Shen Qingqiu was terrified. “F***. You didn’t turn back into the original character, did you?”

Shang Qinghua said seriously, “Don’t be like that. I’m also a young person with literary ideals. Of course, I have my own reflections and emotions.”

Shen Qingqiu laughed coldly. “What literary ideals? How come all I saw in the original work was shameless fanservice?” Not to mention his hand speed that could produce ten thousand words a day, and the courage to even occasionally explode with twenty thousand. If he didn’t have such equipment, there was no way 《Proud Immortal Demon Way》 would have been able to hold out before it was serialized!

Shang Qinghua spread his hands. “You think that I always wrote shameless content that lacked any integrity from the very start? I’ve also written belles-lettres4 before, but they were all unpopular, so I had no choice but to go down a path that catered to the masses. It must be said that writing novels is a very lonely undertaking. Rather than writing a stallion male protagonist who’ll be stereotypical in the end, it’s more in line with my philosophy for writing to create the current Bing-ge━this kind of weirdo male protagonist whose character is a bit more complicated, has contradictions and conflicts, and has a rough destiny.”

Shen Qingqiu concluded, “So, your philosophy for writing is to write about gay guys?”

Shang Qinghua: “Do you look down upon gay male protagonists? Works of art and artists all like to create gay guys. Belles-lettres favors gays, do you know that?”

He waved his arms wildly and passionately. “Cucumber Bro, if the System hadn’t chosen you, this faithful die-hard reader, perhaps the plot wouldn’t have deviated so thoroughly, thoroughly to the point that it deviated all the way back to my original scrapped outline. Even though the me back in reality━who couldn’t endure the loneliness and was under financial pressure━chose to finish writing 《Proud Immortal Demon Way》 according to other people’s preferences and what they found cool... now, all thanks to you, essentially everything that I wanted to write has already unfolded in front of my eyes. Cucumber Bro!”

He patted Shen Qingqiu’s shoulders with deep sentiment and solemnity. “You... are the chosen one; as for my career, I have no more regrets!”

... why did it sound like the System and this world were both products of Shang Qinghua’s resentment over scrapping that outline and going with what was mainstream?

Shen Qingqiu, who shamefully became this kind of “chosen one”: “Who’s your faithful die-hard reader?”

Shang Qinghua waved his hand and one-sidedly declared his victory. “I’m not going to talk to you; you’re an anti-fan.”

Shen Qingqiu was about to say, “I’m only an anti, not a fan!” when he suddenly heard Shang Qinghua starting crooning something like, “Emotions are warm, kindness hard to bear, lips moving together, desires turning the evening to the next morning, never resting from dawn to dusk.” The crucial point was that melody, which sounded extremely familiar to the point that it made Shen Qingqiu’s hands and teeth itch. He pointed at him and said, “Shang Qinghua, what are you singing?”

Shang Qinghua continued to croon. “The warmth of emotions makes gratitude hard to bear. Lips to lips, locked in a kiss. Let this night linger ‘til tomorrow’s dawn. Day after day, night after night; never to end. Will tomorrow be another today? When ‘til Zheng Yang reaches its zenith? As Zheng Yang ascends, the voice of Autumn stirs. A sheathless Xiu Ya, a spurt of cold nectar. Tragic pleas amidst choked sobs, thus in vain; for he rises again5...”

Shen Qingqiu was in disbelief. “F*** you—why don’t you just try and sing another line?”

Shang Qinghua said, “Great Lord Shen, why aren’t you listening to what I’m saying? You must never go around casually f***ing people. Bing-ge will go crazy. I’m telling you, this Resentment of Chunshan is equivalent to Shi Ba Mo6. You two are the legendary national homos, do you understand? I have no problems with you shutting me up, but ultimately it’s useless. You can’t possibly make all the countless people in the world shut up...”

The second quote, from the extras: "

System: 【Basic accomplishment of《Proud Immortal Demon Way》’s original outline, slight deviation of romance plot, objective accomplished. Function to return to original world download complete. Activate return home sequence?】

Basic accomplishment of the original outline, that he agreed with, all the holes which needed to be filled were filled. But, this “slight deviation of romance plot” isn’t quite right. Bing-ge is gay no━how can you say this is a “slight deviation”? Ay okay, okay. In fact, in his original outline, Bing-ge didn’t have a romance plot; he was doomed to fade away, alone and unaging forever. If you insist on adding a plotline, that’s whatever, but he’s wasted this many words… you mean he can return to his original world?!?!"

The second quote is very poorly translated into English. What it actually means, is that Bing-ge does not have ANY SIGNIFICANT RELATIONSHIP, LOVE. Nothing to do with he amount of partners he fucks. And yes - the ending for the tyrant he became in PIDW is not happy in a slightest. This is how his relationship with the harem is described by the PIDW reader's forum in the novel:

"Airplane really doesn’t know how to write romance plotlines, best if he just doesn’t. I feel like Luo Binghe doesn’t have feelings for any of his wives, he just wants to use them. And I can’t see any of those women with real moving emotion for him. "

[twyisontheline]

What if Alastor did try to fall in love with Vox

Thought to share an old radiostatic fluffyangsty headcanon... features internal-angst-about-his-aromanticism!Alastor

CW internalised arophobia

Alastor has never felt romantic attraction or feelings towards someone, in life or death. Now, with how strong amatonormativity is, he did try. He knew (thought) he was supposed to. It never worked. He reached the conclusion that he is fucked up. When he starts killing people, it almost makes sense - he's a psychopath, a monster, it must be related to not being able to love how other people do, how he should. How his mom would want him to love. He feels shame and guilt, even if he tries to push it all back down and tell himself that others are weak because of their feelings and it is something he would never want.

And it is something he doesn't want. But society tells him it makes one's life complete and makes you happy and fulfilled and he wonders. Is he broken in a way that prevents him from experiencing something so important and special?

Then he dies, and overall, life gets kinda easier. In the whole depravity and fucked-upness of Hell, there isn't an ideal happiness to wonder about. There isn't a society wanting you to marry and have kids and be normal and quaint. He can embrace being 'fucked up'.

Then he meets Vox. And slowly, the TV Demon finds a place in his heart. It's not unusual - Alastor does feel affection and platonic love, he knows he is able to feel that. And it has never been an issue that he doesn't feel romantic love, since none of his friends has ever wanted that kind of relationship with him.

Until it becomes an issue. When he realizes that Vox has feelings for him. Feelings that are romantic. That kind of love that he, Alastor, is not able to feel. And this opens the wound again. His fucked-upness could very well make him lose Vox. He doesn't want to lose their friendship - Vox gets him and spending time with him is pleasurable in an unique and special way, and he is not risking it. (He has found something special, regardless of it not being what society says it should.)

So he thinks: "I can make myself love him." He forced himself to be many things in his life and death, he won't let a weakness, a fault, a lack-of-ability, be an obstacle. He is not the weak powerless boy he once was in life. He is the Radio Demon. He takes what he wants. If learning to feel romantic love is what he needs to do to obtain what he wants, he'll do it.

So he tries, and lies to himself a bunch of times in the process, but eventually, he realizes that he is failing. And he sees it as that: a failure. So the mix of shame and guilt is back, like an emotional flashback from his human days that mixes with the shame of not being able to do something. Of being powerless in front of his own faults.

Fluff ensuring after all the angst could be that he finally confesses all this to Vox in a mental breakdown scenario - cause we know Alastor loves to freak out dramatically when he feels powerless - and Vox is like: "Man, calm down, it's not that big of a deal. I am not exactly thrilled at the idea you don't reciprocate my feelings but the idea you have to fake stuff with me and you tried so hard to be something you are not is even more upsetting. ...Plus kinda flattering, honestly, but let's not digress. What i am saying is, you don't have to do it. I am not going to end our friendship over it." And actually, realising that Alastor did all that just not to lose him, it’s more than flattering – it is proof of how deeply Alastor cares for him and loves him, even if his love is platonic. Vox doesn't need more.

And also, while Alastor has no idea that being aromantic is something that exists as a queer identity, Vox, unlike Alastor who doesn't pay attention to most of Sinners cause he lists them as not-entertaining-enough and avoids any place that has a even remotely sexual-relatedness, actually goes out and talks to people and did talk to people while figuring out he was queer. So we can insert here a speech by Vox about sexual/romantic orientation not being an illness etc etc with a bit of backstory about Vox being queer in the fifties and then dealing with his internalised homophobia after his death.

[flower-boi16]

Why The "Their Both Meant to Be in the Wrong!" defense doesn't work

Lately I've commonly seen this defence levidied towards the show's writing of Stolitz everytime someone critizes season 2's handling of it, and in light of the recent episode I feel the need to cover it. So let's go over why this defence simply doesn't work, shall we?

1. Their mistakes are not equal

I already made a post about this before so I'll try to keep it brief; Stolas and Blitz's mistakes here aren't equal and the show can't act like they are. Stolas mistake was sexually abusing Blitz, trapping him in a situation where he has to agree to sleep with him or he'll lose the thing he needs for his job

Blitz' mistakes are...

Being kind of an ass to Stolas in Apology Tour

Not realizing that Stolas has genuine love for him due to being blinded by preconcieved notions he's had about him

Let's break these down, shall we?

This not on the same level as what Stolas was doing

Blitz isn't even in the wrong for this. Again I talked about this before in my post about Viv's tweet but. Blitz is not in the wrong here for not believing that Stolas loves him, after all, what reason does he even have? Stolas has done nothing but sexually abuse and constantly belittle Blitz, and even those "nice things" aren't suddenely enough to balance out those bad actions, they are far too small to actually make up for the shit Stolas did to Blitz.

None of these mistakes are remotely the same level as what Stolas did to Blitz especially when you start putting in context here. Stolas was doing what he was doing to Blitz were all purely for his own selfish pleasure while Blitz' actions were more understandable once you look at things from his perspective.

You can't pretend that Blitz and Stolas' actions are somehow the same level when they simply are not. The actions from both characters should be equally as bad when you put in the context, but here it simply isn't.

2. Stolas' mistakes are never acknowledged

I've seen a lot of people trying to say that one of Stolas' mistakes here is that he "isn't self-aware enough" to realize how he treated Blitz not as a why to excuse him but to try and deny the argument that the show is victimizing him. There are two problems with this;

There isn't any actual indication of this being case within the show, this was just something that Viv made up in a tweet she posted after the full moon aired and everyone suddenely started parrotting it around. This was suppoused to be character trait for Stolas than that should have been made more clear from the narrative.

Let's say for a sec that the narrative does make it clear that Stolas has little self-awarness; well, it still fails because the show never calls this out. The show never calls out Stolas' lack of self-awarness in these scenes, if the show really was trying to hold them both accountable then Stolas' flaws here should be properly addressed by the narrative, but they aren't. It's a similar issue to Charlie from HB's sister show; the narrative is aware of the flaws the character has but it never chooses to call out or confront these flaws because it's too busy idealizing/babying the character to do that. Stolas' flaws SHOULD be addressed by the narrative if Viv really is trying to make them both flawed, but no, only Blitz flaws are acknowledged while Stolas' aren't.

That's bad writting. 90% of the blame is put on Blitz while Stolas is solely painted as someone hurt by Blitz' actions. The only time where Stolas' actions are seen as bad is when he was SA Blitz, which is good but...since it's coming alongside moments that demonize Blitz for not seeing that Stolas loves him, it runs hollow and still comes across and victimizing Stolas here as someone hurt by Blitz in spite of holding him accountable (and also because, once again, Blitz is not in the wrong for thinking this even if he has biases). The show is still directly demonizing Blitz for being hurt by Stolas' actions here, so it runs hollow.

3. Blitz still gets all the blame

People constantly complain about antis "picking sides" when you aren't suppoused to, but I don't think you can blame people for doing that when the show itself is picking sides. The show puts all the blame onto Blitz here, painting him as the one mostly in the wrong here and an asshole for hurting Stolas' feelings.

Despite what fans try to argue, the framming of the show makes Stolitz look completely black and white; Blitz is the asshole who hurt poor Stolas' feelings and Stolas is the one who maybe made some mistakes but is mostly innocent here guys! I'm really sick of people trying to argue about this being a grey reletionship when it's not, if Viv wants it to be a grey reletionship then she's doing a shit tier job at it due to the framming of the show.

Blitz is the one who the show mostly demonizes here, he's the one who the show sees as the worst person here who needs to change, while Stolas is painted as the "bigger" person. That's not mutual toxicity. If that was what the show was aiming for then the show would call them both out on their bullshit, but it doesn't.

Conclusion

Just wanted to write this quick post because I was sick of seeing this defense over and over again when it came to this reletionship. Guys, Stolitz is suppoused to be a mutually toxic reletionship, then the show's framming is fumbling it significantly. The writting for the reletionship here is just plain bad.

[nana-ur]

Corruption: Intro.

Pairings: Yandere!Taehyung x Reader || Jimin x Reader

Genre: Yandere, Romance (?), Psychological, Angst, Smut

Disclaimer: I do not condone, nor support or encourage anything I write in this fanfiction. It is purely fiction, means of entertainment, and should be treated as such. I do not think any of the BTS members would act remotely anything like what is represented here, which is why it’s called fiction. Other than that, please enjoy, and read at your own discretion. 

Trigger warnings and Tags; +18, Yandere elements, Possessive and Obsessive behaviors, Toxic Relationships, Unhealthy idealization, Drug and Substance Abuse, Mommy/Daddy Issues, Slow Burn, Smut (in future chapters), Artist!Tae, Rich!Tae, Lowkey SugarDaddy!Tae, BDSM, Power Dynamics, Manipulation, Slight age difference, Naive!Reader, Easy to Manipulate!Reader, Virgin!Reader, Virginity Kink, Corruption kink.. (There’s gonna be a LOT of kinks in here for further chapters, so I’ll save the wall of text LOL.) 

Intro  Part. 1   Part. 2   Part. 3   Part. 4  Part. 5  

Boring, he thought.

Everything about this stupid fucking event was excruciatingly boring.

First off, he didn't even want to be here. His mother forced him to come, practically dragging him outside by his own ear. 

"If you still want me to sponsor your pathetic little project, it'd be smart of you to come along with me this evening." Ah yes, the typical threats of estranging him financially in hopes of him spending time with her. Typical Mrs. Kim. 

The outing was a simple event where selected students who had won his fathers Academic Scholarship were rewarded a ‘party’ for their hard work and efforts. The scholarship was offered to college students who managed to make the highest ranking grades throughout their entire university. Impressive, to say the least, which is why each student present was granted $45,000 USD straight towards their college funds.

That sort of funding was simply pocket change for a man like his father.

His father was the CEO of Kim’s Legal Law Firm. It happens to be the third largest law firm in the country. Taehyung’s father has a tender soft spot for college students, especially ones who attend the same school he graduated from. Which is why he did events like this yearly, specifically for them.

But Taehyung? He could give two shits about a "Scholarly Party". He wasn't in school, nor did he want to be tied down by the ropes of education ever again. High School was more than enough, and that was years ago. He barely graduated. Though, after having his parents ``talk" to the principal of his private school, he suddenly went from having a D grade point average, to being at the top of his class in under an hour. He remembers clearly how Kim Namjoon glared daggers in his skull when he walked up the stairs leading to the stage at their highschool graduation, accepting his honors award that rightfully belonged to him instead. Taehyung couldn't really blame him, either. He'd be pissed off too if someone's rich parents paid off a school to make their irresponsible child graduate, whilst stealing his honors award that would've surely benefited him if he tried to enroll in college. 

Taehyung wasn't stupid by all means, no. He was actually pretty fucking smart. It's just he hates doing work, and he hates being told what to do. So instead of attending classes, doing homework, and going to exam days; he skipped classes to smoke weed, do things he wasn't supposed to do, and fuck around. What was stopping him? Surely not his parents. They barely bat an eye when he stayed away from home for days on end when he was only 15 years old. He remembers walking in after being away for 5 days straight to his dad barely sparing him a glance, and his mother wrapping herself up in a scarf so she could go out for the night. She walked right past him, not saying a word. 

Easy to say that his parents had their priorities straightened out already, and Taehyung wasn't one of them. But he doesn't care. 

Or that's what he tries to tell himself when he has emotional outbursts, or when he gets arrested for DUIs, or when he gets questioned for being under the influence, and more outlandish things his parents had authorities shove under a rug. 

His parents had money and generational wealth. Taehyung could do anything, say anything, and be whatever he wanted. So who cares if his parents were a little emotionally unavailable? He didn't care. Nope. Not at all. Not one bit.

But sometimes, just, sometimes, he finds himself yearning for motherly love. He finds himself wishing he had a father to look up to, instead of the stone cold businessman his own father was.

He desperately wanted to be loved by someone.

And he hated that feeling. It made him feel weak.

The feeling that gnawed at the emptiness inside of his own chest. The empty void that hurts and caves into himself whenever he sees someone receive the unconditional love he could only wish for. 

Oh, how he wanted someone to love.

To hold, to cherish, to smother with affection, to be loyal to and never let go. 

Never let go. 

Taehyung has had his fair share of relationships, of course. He was pretty, tantalizing, rich, and he likes to think of himself as quite the charmer. 

Those relationships weren’t too serious or noteworthy, honestly. Most of the women he dated were trophy girlfriends his friends set him up with. Most just dated him for status, sex, and money. Surprisingly, he had no problem with this. 

It's just how the world works, isn't it?

No matter how pretty or sweet, though, he's never fallen in love with any of those women.

He's never been in love at all.

He’s felt the intense feelings of infatuation and lust, but none of those feelings lasted for more than 2 weeks. He often finds himself getting bored of the same repetitive types of women that came into his life. 

There were two categories of women that Kim Taehyung seems to attract. 

One being the typical spoiled woman with daddy’s black card. This type didn’t need him at all for financial reasons, they were set for life, and possibly even the afterlife. They always had a certain aura to them, that look in their eyes, that pep in the way they walk. All of which seems to remind him of his own mother. Yeah, he knows it’s weird. It’s weird to date women that remind you of your mother, but Taehyung was the farthest thing from normal. 

What did Sigmund Freud say? Taehyung would think about the little bit of psychology knowledge he gained when he used to half pay attention in class often. Something about how mommy issues can lead down an unhealthy path of romantic relationships if not addressed in therapy, and so on. He thought it was quite interesting how he felt called out at that moment, which is why psychology became one of his favorite subjects while he was still in school. He may have skipped a lot, but when he was there, he tried to pay attention to the lectures.

The second category of women who Taehyung attracts were models. Not the runway, nepo baby models everyone sees on social media. No, not those. 

The models who were oh so pretty, but also had that vacant lost look in their eyes. They were signed to agencies who barely let them on the runway. Not because of their looks, but because of their raging reliance on drugs and substances. The walking stereotype of a ‘The Weeknd’ song is how he would describe these women. 

These women were with him for a completely different reason than the others. 

Taehyung was a bit guilty when it came to having a “hero complex”. He isn’t a saint by any means; he’s done his fair share of substances. He was peer pressured to do a lot of things when he was younger. 

Though, whenever he gets with these women, his goal is to “fix” them by giving them endless attention, affection, and care. He was always there when they went through withdrawals, when they were puking into plastic bags because they failed to eat prior to drowning themselves in narcotics and powder. He would rub their backs, help them take a cold shower, fix them soup, and hold them until they fell asleep. 

Taehyung had a soft spot for these women. Because he understands.

He understood the pain. The desperation to feel nothing. 

To fill that empty void with something. Something. 

These women were crying for help, so why not help them?

It filled him with a sense of importance after helping these women get clean. It was like he was healing his inner child in a sick, twisted way. Though, like most things, those relationships came to an end.

Although it was never really his fault these relationships would end. 

He was too “demanding”, “controlling”, “possessive”, he’s been told by most, if not all, of the women he’s been involved with.

They never truly accepted him for who he was. They were the foolish ones, not him. 

If they just understood him, if they would just understand.

Which is why he’s never fallen in love before. 

That was the ‘love’ life of Kim Taehyung. It was sad and depressing, but it’s something he had to get used to. It was all he was ever exposed to growing up. It was all he knew.

Maybe one day, things would be different. Happen differently.

Perhaps, authentically, unlike his past.

Perhaps he could fall in love.

He dreamed about such things. It would keep him up at night with a beating heart.

He was a disgusting hopeless romantic. 

“Are you paying attention?” Taehyung quickly blinked out of his short-lived daze and cocked his head down towards the voice. It was his mother, looking at him with those judgemental eyes he once used to hide from. Now, it doesn’t scare him anymore. 

But it made him feel significantly small nonetheless. 

God, he hated being here. It was so tacky.

Everyone was instructed to wear white. Though Taehyung, obviously, chose to be a little shit to piss off his mom and wore a black turtleneck, with a black blazer and even blacker slacks. His black hair was styled to where his fringe was covering most of his forehead, and slightly his eyes which were a light gray today, due to his contacts. Black on black.

He nodded his head towards his mother, ushering her to continue on with what she was saying even though he dissociated for most of it. 

Something he learned how to do at a very young age with ease.

“As I was saying,” she snapped, “your father wants you to greet some of the students. It would be beneficial for you to ask questions about college life, possibly even make some new friends tonight," Taehyung groaned internally, rolling his eyes in a way that his mother wouldn’t catch on. Here comes the “you need to go to school and study” talk. He would always shut it down. He’s 27 years old, too old to even be considered a senior at this point. 

To please his mother and to make her stop talking, he walked away from the railing he was leaning on and looked down into his wine glass, swirling it around to watch the red liquid create ripples. 

Looking up, he immediately spots his father speaking to what he presumes to be a student. The student was dressed in a plain, silky short back-out white gown with spaghetti straps. 

With her rear side facing his direction, it was hard to make out what the conversation was about. Maybe his father was being the creep he always was when it came to hanging around girls decades younger than him.

He can usually tell by the look in his fathers eyes, which seemed innocent to others, but Taehyung knew better than that. He knew his father well, even if he had no desire to. 

But all he could think about was how enticing she looked, even from behind where her face was hidden. The curve of her torso allowed the silky dress to hug her body perfectly, creating a silhouette that would give any Greek sculpture a run for its money. Dragging his eyes up and down her figure, he finds himself absentmindedly outlining the perimeter of her body with his irises, imprinting it into his own memory. 

Taehyung had an excellent photographic memory. 

It was strange, really. He was never someone to be enticed by “energy”, and he was never one to approach women. Not that he didn’t want to, it’s just that he didn’t have to. Any woman he was interested in came to him first without fail. But something was pulling him forward, beckoning him to approach the mysterious girl.

Which is exactly what he did.

His steps were calculated, precise. Making good first impressions was a piece of cake for Kim Taehyung, something he was often praised for from time to time. Which is probably the reason why his parents forced him to come to this tedious event. They used him as the token golden boy, utilizing his charms and making him talk to perverted, older guests that came to their events, hoping that he’d win their favor in exchange that his father gets to strengthen his connections. They started doing this when he turned 18, making use of his good looks and people skills.

Earning his parents' respect as their son isn’t easy. Especially a son who belonged to the Kim family. He had to attend the same university as his father, and to not make a mockery out of the family name. In which, he failed to do both. Saying he has their respect now is a stretch, but they found him to be useful when it came to winning over disgusting old CEOs and Chaebols. 

His brother, on the other hand, was the complete opposite. He graduated from university with high honors, even went ahead and attended graduate school as well, then he went to law school. He completed all of this by the time he turned 30. 

Taehyung appreciates that his brother took up all the responsibility, and the burden of expectations off of his shoulders.

However,

Deep inside, real deep inside, he could only dream of being the center of his parents' life the way Seokjin was. They loved him. Doted on him. Spoiled him. Gave him all the extra love and affection that should’ve gone to Taehyung instead. 

As a teenager, he was resentful towards his brother for the obvious showcase of favoritism his parents did. They didn’t even try to hide it. They would compare the two any chance they got; rubbing in the accomplishments of his elder brother in his face, reminding him that he will amount to nothing in life. 

Nothing but a burnt out artist, is what his father says. 

But whatever, Taehyung didn’t care. Not one bit.

“Hello, son,” His father greeted him once he noticed Taehyung's formidable figure saunter over, the tone of his voice evidently curt and strict in contrast to the lighthearted conversation he was having with the young lady. 

Ah, great. It was just as he guessed. His father was being a creep, and was actively flirting with this poor girl. Good thing Taehyung was here to save her from his fathers inappropriate stares and invasive questions.

Sparing his father a tight lipped smile, he walks past the young lady to align himself right next to his father, finally.

Finally, he could see her face.

And wow.

Everything around him became blurred, every sound that tried to meet his ears became all jumbled together, like indecipherable radio signals.

All he could focus on was you.

You.

You.

With his unexpected appearance, you instinctively looked up at him, his gray eyes meeting your own. He tilted his head to the side and gave you a cheeky grin, in which you reciprocated with your own, skittish smile.

That smile. 

He’ll never forget a smile like that, that’s for sure. 

The apples of your cheeks were rosy with dew and the afterglow of being in such a warm venue. Taehyung thought the sight of it was absolutely breathtaking. 

His gray eyes stayed on yours, unwavering. He intensely scanned your face, jotting down each little detail into his mind. 

Noticing the fervor of his gaze, you tore your eyes away from the fervent unwarranted stare-off and looked down at your feet, your face flushing with heat.

Aw.

He wanted to look into your eyes for a little bit longer. 

But that’s okay, he’ll get your attention one way or another.

After all, he just couldn’t help himself. 

Your face was just his type.

Would it be a stretch for him to say everything about the way you look was just his type? Perhaps, but Taehyung was known for moving extremely fast.

In more ways than one. 

“I’d like for you to meet Ms.____,” his father uttered out your first name. It sounded like a symphony to Taehyung's ears. A pretty face and a pretty name, huh.

How unfair. 

Your name began to replay like a broken record inside of his head. Sounding out each syllable internally, his tongue dragged across the side of his cheek before testing the name out loud in a hushed whisper.

The way your name began to reiterate persistently in his head – It would drive any sane person crazy.

Good thing Taehyung was the latter. 

“Well, Ms.___,” Taehyung scooped up your hand into his own, hoping the abrupt swift action will bless him with your soft gaze once again.

And it did.

With wide eyes, your neck nearly snapped as you rose your head from its previous position of looking down. You stared at him with big doe eyes, confusion swirling in your irises. 

That expression on your face was dangerous.

Especially for a man like him.

He brought your delicate hand up towards his red tinted lips, all while maintaining eye contact. He could feel you trembling in the palm of his hand.

What were you doing to him?

He felt slightly bewitched by you. He’s met his fair share of gorgeous women. Hell, he’s even met some of the world's most infamous models. 

But none of them compared to you. 

None of them had this effect on him. 

None of them took his breath away like this.

None of them at all.

He placed a soft kiss onto the back of your hand, a mellow smile spreading across his face when his lips met your soft, warm skin. 

“It’s a pleasure, pretty girl,” He whispered loud enough for you to hear, his breath fanning onto the skin of your hand. 

He slowly backed away, not letting your hand go just yet, leading it downwards but still holding it firm in his grip. He had to savor your reaction before he retracts completely.

He could tell you were wary with the sudden public display of affection, especially right in front of his own father. But truly, Taehyung didn’t give a fuck. He was someone who didn’t care if anyone was watching, especially his own father. Social anxiety or upholding social status wasn’t something for him to worry about.

And you’ll come to find that out very soon. 

Sooner than you think. 

Your eyes glossy, blown out, and your mouth was slightly gaped open from shock; it sent a concealed chill down his spine. Was a pretty girl like you not used to such things? The thought alone baffled him. 

Impossible, he thought. 

“U-uh–,” you stammered out incohesive words, your eyes darting between him and his father, worry, confusion, and conflicting attraction clear in your eyes. It was cute, how worried you got over something as small as a hand kiss. 

“Nice… to meet you too? Mister…” you were dodging every attempt at eye contact Taehyung was throwing your way, but he wasn’t having it. Wherever you looked, his head would follow with a tilt and a smirk, teasing you in a playful way you weren’t used to. 

“Taehyung, but for you? My name can be whatever your heart desires.” 

He’s used that cringy pick-up line many times. Most of the time it was just to please the other person, give them something they want to hear. Usually never what he wanted.

But he meant it when he said it to you. 

That same, irresistible nervous smile crept back onto your face at his words. Your neck once again flushing hot. This time, though, your eyes were focused on how his hand was still grasping yours. 

Taehyung took this as an opportunity to grab another reaction out of you, he began rubbing soft circles on the back of your hand with his thumb.

At this, you jumped softly, clearly not used to someone touching you like this.

Or touching you at all.

And for some reason, that thought alone excited him like nothing else. 

Suddenly, Taehyung felt his fathers hand creep onto his shoulder.

Unexpectedly this annoyed him.

More than it usually does. 

“It seems like you are already acquainting yourself with Miss.___,” his father spoke in a way that seemed placate to others, but Taehyung knew better. He was being a passive aggressive shithead. 

“Oh you know, just doing what you wanted me to, Father,” Taehyung quickly retorted back, a tight smile forming on his lips. 

His father had the nerve to get pissy as if he didn’t force him to attend this mundane event in the first place? Yeah, sure, Taehyung was grabbing the attention of the girl his father was openly flirting with, but didn’t he see how uncomfortable you were? 

He could tell how tense the mood was when he got closer to the two of you earlier. The way you were holding your left arm with your right hand, folding into yourself as his father got closer and closer to your personal bubble. 

You clearly weren’t interested.

At Taehyung’s smart aleck comment, his father shot him a look that only he caught, and walked away slowly after retracting his hand from his shoulder. 

It was better to not make a scene where people were watching. His father was extremely anal on how he was perceived; he wanted others to see him in a specific type of light. He was probably on his way to bother some other college student, anyway. Either way, Taehyung was glad he left.

Finally, old fuck. 

It’s about damn time he developed erectile dysfunction or something, how old is he again?

Regrouping himself, he finally let it sink in that you two were finally alone. 

Finally,

“Oh god, did I,” you stammered, “did I just make it really awkward? Oh my god.”

How peculiar. It was obvious that his father was the one who ruined the mood to begin with, but you resorted to blaming yourself instead. 

How peculiar. 

“Sorry I’m just not, you know… used to this,” you gestured your free hand around the venue you two were currently in the middle of. Everything was glistening with marble, glitter, blinding shades of white, and overly priced furniture. To anyone not used to such a lifestyle, it would of course be overwhelming. 

But to Taehyung, it just seemed tacky. 

Tacky and distasteful. 

If it were up to him, the whole idea of everything being white would be thrown out the window.

What’s up with rich people and their odd obsession with things white and marbley?

“Not used to try-hard rich people and their shitty interior designing?” Taehyung quipped, a smirk present on his lips as he raised his wine glass for a sip.

“What?! No! No. I, well… no!” the screws in your head were visibly malfunctioning, fighting with each other, trying to decide whether or not you should directly insult the interior of the venue right in front of him. Given the fact that he was the son of the man who invited you to such an event, and granted you a scholarship.

And possibly the son of the man who came up with the interior design of everything you’re looking at.

A chuckle rumbled in Taehyung's chest as he watched your internal and outward struggle. He could tell by the quick glint in your eyes that you agreed with him, but were too afraid to say something that would cause conflict. Tilting his head to the side, he raised his wine glass once again to his lips, taking a swig of it while he looked you up and down over the rim.

To his surprise, you still haven’t retracted your hand from his.

Lowering his drink, his tongue pressed to the side of his cheek once again out of habit. 

You still weren’t looking at him. 

“You know, it’s rude to refuse eye contact, pretty girl,” he said matter-of- factly in a teasing tone, fauxing disappointment.

“Oh,” you breathed out, clearly flustered at the recurring pet name and with the fact that he just called out your inability to maintain eye contact. 

With hesitancy, you looked up at him, your eyes shifting left and right a few times before settling on his intense gray orbs. 

It seemed to have surprised you that he was staring at you intensely this whole time because the moment your eyes connected with his, your body shifted. To his disappointment, you slowly retracted your hand from his, putting it back to your side. 

With his now free hand, Taehyung lifted it towards your face. And like any normal person, you flinched and moved backwards a bit. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

Cute.

But, he couldn’t hold himself back.

He had to do something. 

He tested the waters first, nudging his fingers against your jaw, caressing the outline of the bone before cupping your right cheek. His hand gently melts onto your warm, soft skin. He looks at you intently, deep in thought.

You were so beautiful.

Dangerously so. Taehyung wasn’t the type to be bewitched like this. 

His fingers caressed your warm face, your wide eyes trembling at him with uncertainty, confusion. He dragged his thumb from your cheek down to the supple lumps of your lips. He began gliding the digit left and right on your bottom lip before slowly pulling down on the muscle, revealing just a peak of your bottom teeth and the soft wet flesh on the inside, your gums a pretty pink. 

Even with all of this going on, he still maintained eye contact with you. His gaze never wavering. 

And his mind began to wander. 

It began to wander to menacing thoughts. 

Taehyung was known for having… an acquired taste, when it came to certain things. He’s been told so by many women in his life. It’s not like he wanted to like those things, it just happened by default. Things that excite him, that shouldn’t excite him. Things that he likes to do to others, to the people he’s interested in. Things such as bending and twisting them at his will, pulling a leg here, doing a thing there, just to pull a reaction out of them. He knew such things were red flags, concerning even. But if it was between two consenting adults, what was the problem?

Which is why he began to envision this woman he just met a few minutes ago sucking on his thumb. He imagined the look you would have in your eyes; innocent, glossy, excited, scared, unsure. He imagined the soft, spongy texture of your tongue, slick on his finger, how you’d open up for him like a good girl. And those eyes. They were dangerous, Taehyung decided. Looking at them for too long already had him spiraling with these thoughts.

You knew what you were doing, didn’t you?

Like a twig, he snapped out of his daze. His eyes finally focusing on you quickly taking a step back, wiping away the inkling of spit that dripped out of your mouth as a result of your bottom lip being pried open. With a red face, you looked at him, completely disoriented and confused.

Taehyung didn’t even notice the wetness on his thumb, or the spittle that trickled down the digit onto his knuckle.

Ah, oops.

“W-what was that-,” you stuttered out, your hand clasping against your mouth in shock, eyes frantically looking around, relief sagging on your shoulders when you noticed no one was looking. But there was a cloud hanging over your head, weighing down on you. 

A cloud you didn’t quite understand.

Just yet.

“Become my muse.”

“What-,” You blinked at him, completely caught off guard.

“Let me paint you. Be my muse.” He cut you off before you could question him any further. 

Taehyung had already made up his mind the moment he set eyes on you. Even when your back was facing him; he already knew what he wanted.

And Taehyung was a man known for getting exactly what he wanted. 

[elizais]

puppy love

dazai finding out about / meeting your dog dazai x fem!reader (not in a relationship but there is something) sfw/fluff

osamu dazai was not blind. he noticed the way when you were out you would pet the cats on the street, the way animals came up to you for attention (when atsushi first met you, he assumed your ability was to do with animals). or maybe it was the fact that most people's mugs at work were quotes, plain colours or the initial of their first name but yours had prints of dogs on them. yet for some reason, it wasn't until you left early one day and he asked kunikida why and kunikida simply responded "her dog has an appointment at the vets. get back to work, dazai." and for an unknown reason, for someone so head over heels for you, he hadn't known of your furry companion.

"yeah, she said its a normal booster or something." atsushi chimed in next to dazai, keeping his eyes on the paperwork he was doing. and while dazai wasn't overly vocal about it. he disliked dogs. but since you had one, he could feel his opinion starting to sway. he never was keen on dogs, maybe it was the fact that they were loyal to anyone who shown them love and affection, naive and didn't care about your past. he was far from an animal lover, he wouldn't say he hates them, just that he couldn't be fond of them. maybe he just never had someone (albeit an animal) devote their life to being loyal to you despite what you've done, what you look like, how much money you have etc.

the next day came around and the day was normal for you. everyone came in, greeting one another, the usual. you sat at your desk by the window, kyouka walks up to you, asking "y/n, is (dog's name) alright?" quietly, but loud enough for people to be distracted from their mindless work. "of course he is, it was just an appointment i couldn't reschedule so i had to go earlier." you spoke in return. your kind smile making her smile. "kyouka, i thought you didn't like dogs?" atsushi pondered from next to dazai. "i don't, i like (dog's name) though. y/n took him on a walk with me when i was upset a few weeks ago." kyouka answered atsushi. dazai was uncharacteristically quiet, thinking about this dog he only found out about recently.

in a weeks time, the agency was going to eat out somewhere, the social fund had money in it for a nice dinner. you all agreed that meeting at someone's place to wait before the reservation was ideal. that place just so happened to be your apartment, large enough to accommodate everyone comfortably, and close to the restaurant. when the date came, everyone would arrive at yours, spend some time there and then arrive together as this restaurant doesn't like reserved guests arriving one at a time.

and then, the sunday everyone had off, you cleaned your apartment and waited. you expected yosano and ranpo to arrive first, in all honesty. them being the two you are with the most. but, at quarter to six, osamu dazai walks through the elevator that leads up to the apartment. using the code you sent to the work group chat. "y/n! i didn't know the agency gives out places like this to the detectives?" he asked teasingly, well aware you paid for this all yourself with your hard earned money. "maybe i'm just fukuzawa's favourite!" you retorted back with a wink, walking towards him as he hung up his coat on the stand. "make yourself at home, 'zai" you called him by the nickname strictly for him. the same one that came from you both being stuck at the office on a late night, the day after your entrance exam. it became the nickname only you can call him after you were drinking water, he made you laugh and as you were trying to say "dazai" you started coughing uncontrollably whilst laughing and could only say half of his last name. it just stuck!

the man in your living space reached for the remote, flicking on whatever as you said you just need to finish your hair. he would have said "you already look stunning", but he could only think it. osamu's suit was the nicest he had, navy blue with a white shirt. he leaned back on your couch as he put on whatever was playing on a channel, he would much rather talk to you instead. that was when a four-legged, furry body with a tail came over. the dog sniffed him down thoroughly like he was airport security. dazai looked down at him. "a rather large dog, doesn't look like one for protection though.. very shiny coat." he thought before his mind jogged enough for it to click that this was the pooch everyone else knew about. you walked back in, "(dog's name)! is that any way to greet a guest?" you spoke to the canine. dazai chuckled before mustering up his courage and rubbing the dog's head. "is this the famous guy i have been hearing about all week? he has been awfully popular at work as of late." dazai questioned.

"yes he is! i always thought you didn't like dogs 'zai?" you smiled at him "i'm not really an animal person, never had one so.. you know." he explained, not feeling like he needed to explain any further than that. (dog's name) laid down by osamu's feet. "he likes you, don't worry." you responded whilst looking at the tv.

atsushi and kyouka walked in together as soon as you finished your sentence. you waved hello as atsushi nodded with a smile and kyouka greeted you with a hug. the whole agency knew how much kyouka looked up to you, and how your dynamic was of an older sister and a younger sister. kyouka ran up to your dog as he got up to greet her, familiar with the girl. before atsushi and kyouka could say hi to dazai: kunikida, junichiro, kenji, ranpo, and fukuzawa walked in. every one of you greeted those who just arrived, before junichiro spoke "yosano, naomi and haruno are coming together. they will be here soon." you served them drinks and gave ranpo his specially reserved snacks, complimenting everyone on their attire.

everybody sat in your large living space, amongst your chairs and sofas. you and kyouka sat together as you spoke about the films you sent her to watch. your favourite being an old school romcom, dazai made a mental note to watch it later as he spoke to the guys but half listened to your conversation. yosano and naomi walked in and got a mixture of greetings from everyone as they looked up to the sound of the elevator door opening. yosano saw you and dazai up and walking towards your kitchen space, giving you a wink only you saw. she knew of your feelings that were kept incredibly secret.

"y/n? where did your dog go?" dazai asked as all conversations around the room merged into one and you were both up getting more water. "he probably went to another room, he isn't keen on loud noises so sudden big groups of new people aren't his favourite thing." you answered simply, before adding "why?" to your statement. dazai simply answered "you know what, y/n, i think dogs are growing on me."

as you finished your glass of water, kunikida spoke up "we should start heading over.. is everyone ready?" a mix of hums and agreements floated around the room as everyone stood up and grabbed their coats. "akiko? naomi? kyouka? do you want to come in my car?" you were saying as dazai subtly slipped away into the spare room (dog's name) was in. not noticing his disappearance as you focused on the car arrangements.

on his short walk over, he realised how much you really loved that dog. he kneeled down to where the dog was laying down and whispered as he stroked his head "i suppose i can settle for 2nd place to you, (dog's name)" before walking out to see kunikida waiting for him. "have you said anything to y/n yet, dazai?" kunikida asked, knowing of how dazai felt before seeing dazai shake his head. "can i drive though?" dazai asked with a grin "zero chance." kunikida quickly spoke, certain of the answer to that question being no. sighing, "for someone like you, you should be smart enough to see her glances right back to you." kunikida spoke, before gesturing to the elevator to try and communicate to the man in front of him who was clearly in shock.

but, in your car, as kyouka was finishing saying something quickly to the boys in the other car, waiting for kunikida and dazai, akiko asked with a wink "so, have you planned anything with dazai yet?". to which you pulled a face and said "not yet."

as if fate pulled some strings, at the restaurant a certain someone was sat next to you. as you went up to go to get the sauces, he slipped a note in your purse.

"i think (dog's name) would love a walk down to the pier tomorrow night. - 'zai"

[queen-haq]

Fic: Grudgingly Yours (Part 4)

Fic: Grudgingly Yours (Part 4)

Summary: You are a general surgeon, working in a hospital that’s slowly sucking the life out of you when one day you’re given the offer of a lifetime.

A.K.A  - An arranged marriage fic :)

Pairing: Billy Russo x You

Rating: R

Masterlist (contains links to my other stories and this one)

Chapter 4

You bit down on your bottom lip, looking at the project plan for the next few weeks. Ideally you would have loved to open a hospital but that was beyond your current means. As a compromise, you made the decision to go with an urgent care clinic in your childhood neighbourhood. There was a lot of administrative red tape to get through before you could even begin working on your plans and that’s why you’d engaged two of your closest friends for help. Jacintha was a marketing executive for a healthcare company, and Ritu was a financial analyst, and they were the perfect people to guide you towards your goals. The three of you had accomplished what needed to be done today, and were taking a break now.

 “Any more pizza left?” Ritu asked.

 You peeked through the boxes. “Nah, we finished it all. I can order more?”

 “No, I had too much already,” Ritu said, drinking her glass of wine.

 Jacintha was scrolling through her phone, her feet up on the couch. “There’s no one here that’s even remotely interesting,” she grumbled. “Everyone’s either ugly or a fuckboy.”

 You laughed. While Ritu was happily married, Jacintha was single and on the lookout for fun dates. Except her friend had very high expectations and there weren’t that many men that met her standards. “Maybe you should venture outside Manhattan,” you offered.

 “I’d rather shoot myself than date a guy from Jersey.”

 “My thoughts exactly.”

 Hearing Billy’s voice, you turned around to find him standing at the entrance to the room. Dressed casually in a maroon jumper, black jeans and signature leather jacket, he appeared amused as his eyes languidly took in your friends. When you’d seen him earlier today he was heading out with another woman – so why the fuck was he back and interrupting your night?

 Irritation surged through you. You’d made up an excuse about Billy being busy when Jacintha had inquired about his whereabouts, but now he was here and that meant you had to put on a show for your friends. “Thought you were gonna be gone all night, honey.”

 Both Ritu and Jacintha watched him curiously, with Jacintha taking the lead in approaching him. “Glad you made it home, Billy. Didn’t think we were going to meet you today but I’m glad you’re here.” She reached out to hug him, and you noted how Billy returned the hug with enthusiasm. “I’m Jacintha, Y/N’s would-be maid of honour –“

 Ritu scoffed.

 “- if you hadn’t gone off and eloped with her,” Jacintha continued, sticking out her tongue at Ritu.

 You rolled your eyes, watching as Ritu made her way towards Billy.

 “Only way Jas would’ve been maid of honour is if I turned it down.” Ritu extended her hand out to Billy. “Hi, I’m Ritu. And we need the complete story behind this whirlwind romance. Y/N’s being way too tight-lipped about the details.”

 His response was a gorgeous smile. “I don’t know what lies she told you, but eloping was her idea not mine.”

 What the fuck? Spotting the wicked glint in his eyes, you knew he’d thrown you under the bus on purpose. Asshole!

 “Come on, Billy. Don’t lie to my friends,” you teased, sauntering over to where he stood. “They’re gonna think I didn’t have a wedding on purpose.”

 Jas frowned. “Did you elope just to get out of picking a maid of honour?”

 You put on a fake smile. “Look what you did, sweetheart.”

 His voice was nauseatingly sweet. “Just being honest, love.”

 “So tell us about yourself, Billy,” Ritu prodded.

 “Like you guys didn’t google me?” Billy fired back.

 Jaz confronted him with a raised eyebrow. “We did. What we found wasn’t great. Definitely not the kind of guy who deserves Y/N.”

 “Okay. That’s enough.” You walked over to Billy and grabbed his hand. “Can we talk alone?”

 Dark eyes bore into your soul. “If you insist.”

 You dragged him away, leaving your perplexed friends watching after you.

 Once inside the spare office room, you closed the door behind. “Why are you here?”

 Billy cocked his eyebrow, smirking as he strut toward the couch. Sitting down, he regarded you with amusement. “Last time I checked this is my place.”

 “Wrong. It’s your grandfather’s and he gifted it to both of us. So you can shove that bullshit.” You glared at him with hostility. “We had a deal. You stay out of my way when I have people over.”

 He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

 Exasperated, you crossed your arms. “Do I harass your dates when you bring them home?”

 “My dates don’t take over the entire place.”

 “Upstairs is your area, downstairs is mine. That was your rule!”

 “That Jacintha’s cute.”

 Irritation surged through you at the abrupt change in topic. “Don’t hit on my friends.”

 He cocked his eyebrow. “Figures you’re the jealous type.”

 “I’m not jealous, you moron. I just don’t want you creeping on them.”

 “Tell me something. That whole scene during dinner, standing up for me, bitching out the old man, that was all an act, right?”

 “What are you talking about?”

 He leaned forward. The smile from before was now replaced with a somber look, his dark steely gaze holding you hostage. “You planned it, didn’t you? Plotted with him so you’d look good to me?”

 “What makes you think I care enough to do that?” You held his stare, challenging him back. “Whatever issues you have with your family, it’s none of my business. I only stood up for you because I fucking hate bullies. I already told you that. But if you don’t believe me, I don’t give a shit.”

 His eyes remained on you, unwavering and hostile, staring at you intently. “Let me see your phone.”

 You scowled. “No.”

 “Why not?”

 “Why should I?”

 “Because I want to prove something to myself.”

 “How’s my phone gonna help with that?”

 “Let me worry about it.”

 “Go fuck yourself.”

 He smiled. “Show me your phone and I’ll keep my distance from your friends. That work for you?”

 “Fine.” Taking out your cell from your back pocket, you approached him. You unlocked the screen and handed it to him. “Here. Have your fill.”

 You regarded him cautiously while he scrolled through to look for any incriminating conversations between you and Alistair. There would be none, just a whole bunch of missed calls from the old man since the night of the dinner party. And a vague text message where he threatened you.

 “You’ve been ignoring his calls. Alistair won’t like that.”

 “He’ll get over it.”

 “He’s dangerous when he’s crossed. And you pissed him off by standing up for me.”

 “I can take care of myself,” you huffed, grabbing your phone back from him.

 “You have to be so flippant about everything?” Billy asked.

 The fake concern in his tone was infuriating, like he actually cared about you when it was the farthest thing from the truth. “Don’t pretend like you give a shit about me.”

 He cocked his eyebrow. “Is that what you think? At least with you I know what I have to deal with. If he takes you down, I have to worry about what he has planned next. That’s the only reason I’m warning you.”

 “Whatever.” You slipped your phone back into your pocket. “Now, please get the fuck out.”

 “Who’s Calvin?”

 You froze. Of course the fucker noticed all the text messages from him. “None of your business.”

 A cold smile curved Billy’s lips. “Boyfriend? He seems to be, texts you a lot.”

 “You jealous?”

 “Keep dreaming, sweetheart.” He leaned forward and picked up a random magazine that was on the coffee table. His voice was casual, deliberately calm when he spoke next. “Just curious about how your boyfriend feels you marrying me for money. Calvin okay with the golddigger lifestyle?”

 “He lets me make my own decisions.”

 Billy’s voice reeked of sarcasm. “Sounds like a real man.”

 “He is.”

 Billy scoffed.

 “Why are we even talking about this? I don’t butt into your business, do I?”

 “Oh, you didn’t tell Gwen we were married?”

 You rolled your eyes, remembering the blonde from a few weeks ago. “That was once. You’ve had other women here since then and I haven’t bothered them.”

 His intense, lingering stare remained affixed on you, making you feel unexpectedly self-conscious. You were in jeans, an oversized t-shirt, and wearing no make-up. It was supposed to be a casual night in and you’d dressed accordingly, but you weren’t prepared for Billy to give you the kind of look that speared right through to your soul. His stillness made you nervous, making you feel like he was plotting your death or something. You preferred it when he espoused hateful rhetoric instead. “Anything else?” you prodded. “Or can I go back to my friends?”

 “Do whatever you want.”

 Despite the insolence in his words, his voice was a husky, throaty drawl, smooth like whiskey, like he was trying to seduce.

 Or maybe you were just being an idiot.

 Without saying anything else, you turned around and walked out.

 ***

 Upon returning to your friends, they surrounded you immediately.

 “What’s going on?” Jas asked.

 “Nothing,” you replied, trying to maintain your calm exposure.

 “You’re lying to us,” Ritu piped up.

 You started stacking the empty pizza boxes. “What do you mean?”

 “That’s not how newlyweds act!” Jas accused.

 “Why? Just because I’m not all over him in front of you guys? That doesn’t prove anything!”

 “None of this makes sense. You elope with a guy none of us even knew you were dating, supposedly because the two of you are so madly in love, but that’s not what we saw just now. You guys looked like you hate each other!”

 You ran your fingers through your hair. Shit.

 “Tell us what’s going on. Are you in trouble?” Ritu asked.

 “Whatever it is, just tell us. We’ll help you.”

 Guilt surged through you as you stared back at your best friends. They were genuinely concerned and worried about something happening to you, and there you were lying to them. You sighed, taking a seat.

 Then you started telling the truth.

 ***

 A week later you walked into the penthouse suite, your feet aching in the stilettos you were wearing. Jas and you had gone out to dinner so she could give you notes on the prenup. Even though you’d reassured her multiple times that your lawyer had vetted it thoroughly and negotiated the best terms for you, she wasn’t convinced and insisted one of her contacts, a prominent divorce attorney, review the details. The lawyer did have some feedback but ultimately agreed it was a good deal. Finally Jas was convinced you hadn’t lost your mind with this deal, and the two of you went clubbing after. You were used to staying up all night from working at the hospital, but the whole heels thing was new to you.

 Sighing, you undid the straps and threw the shoes aside, groaning with relief when your feet hit the ground. As you started walking back to your room, you cut through the living room only to find Billy sound asleep. You stopped for a second, simply watching him. Not sure why he was even downstairs, but there he was on the couch, in a black razor tank and jeans, sleeping on his side. There were a couple of empty beer bottles on the coffee table. He was facing you, hair ruffled, eyes closed, one arm tucked under his head and the other splayed on his side. Watching him as he laid there, you had to admit he really was a beautiful man – as long as he kept his mouth shut. You usually liked them stocky and broad-shouldered, gym guys who you knew could lift you without much trouble, but Billy was lean and toned. Not that he wasn’t muscular, he definitely was, but you doubted he could pick you up. Or that he’d want to. You saw the women he slept with, you were definitely not his type. And you had no interest in being one of them.

 You sauntered past him and headed for your room.

 An hour later you were freshly showered and dressed in a silk robe, eating Greek yogurt in the kitchen to satisfy your late-night hunger cravings when you heard a crash coming from the living room. Worried, you quickly marched towards the noise. Upon entering the room, you found broken glass shards from the beer bottles atop the coffee table and Billy on his knees, one hand gripping the edge of the table while the other was clutching his chest.

 His skin was flushed, slick with sweat, eyes stricken with panic. He looked like he couldn’t breathe, as if he was dying.

 Immediately you switched to doctor mode. Rushing, you sat down next to him. “Are you hurt? Bleeding? What’s going on? Talk to me,” you ordered, keeping your voice normal and calm so as not to agitate him further. With an expert touch you examined his hands to make sure he didn’t cut himself - he didn’t - and swiped the beads of moisture from his forehead.

 His breathing was ragged, he didn’t speak, a wild expression on his face matching the far away look in his eyes, like he was somewhere else at the moment.

 You started rubbing his back, hoping the physical contact would tether him to reality. “Billy, you’re fine. You’re okay.” Repeating yourself over and over again, you soothed him, stroking his back, caressing the hair on the nape of his neck, your other hand covering his chest where his heart resided.

 It took a while for his heart to return to normal speed. The entire time he was locked in your embrace, pressing into you, squeezing you tightly like his life depended on it.

 After a short while, Billy finally spoke. “It’s hot. I’m hot.”

 Voice husky, body warm to the touch, you realized he needed some air. “Do you want some water?” You attempted to move away but he grabbed your hand that was on his chest and held it in place.

 “No. Just need to take this off.” In one quick gesture he pulled off his tank and threw it aside. You tried not to stare at the wounds on his chest, burn marks and lashings, like he’d been tortured. They were fully healed, a few years old from what you could tell, but the scars remained, forever haunting him. Your heart ached, realizing he must have gone through sheer hell to survive that.

 Your fingers caressed his chest. “You should get some sleep.”

 Billy finally met your gaze. The emotion in his eyes made your stomach clench with anxiety. There was no anger, no contempt, just raw, stark need for something you didn’t understand. His dark eyes were crystal clear, no cloudiness in them, like he was seeing you for the first time.

 And then suddenly he stood and lifted you up, carrying you over to the couch behind you both. He sat back on the cushion, you straddling him, one arm encircling your waist while the other hand fisted the back of your hair.

 Eyes locked on one another, breaths trembling, you swallowed audibly as you waited for him to say something, do anything. But he didn’t move, didn’t speak, only watching you.

 Minutes passed, every second feeling like an eternity.

 Your heart was pounding in your chest, so loud you worried he could hear it. Could he? Could he see how he was affecting you? That your nipples were hard and your pussy wet from grinding down on his jeans? That his heated skin pulsed through you like a vibrator and you felt every brush, every stroke, every touch of his fingers strumming you like a guitar?

 You didn’t know why you did it, why your fingers curved around his throat, why the other played with his earlobe. You were teasing him, taunting him, daring him to make a move. To take you.

 Electric jolts ran through your body when he unexpectedly moved in closer, the top of his head brushing against your mouth, his lips blowing soft air on your neck as he inhaled you in. “You smell so good.”  

 Wetness pooled between your legs, your body taut with tension. Your arms wrapped around his neck and shoulders, holding on tight. Did he know what he was doing to you? Was it a ploy? How could he sound so desperate and vulnerable and still be playing you?

You didn’t understand, because you couldn’t think. How were you supposed when his erection was nudging your thighs? There was no fucking escape from him, he’d ingrained himself in you completely. Wrapped around every inch of you, next to you, under you, all-consuming solid presence of his body overwhelming all of your senses.

 “Will you stay with me?” he whispered, soft, gentle, making your heart pulse the way your body did. “Help me sleep?”

 There was nothing else you could say. “Yes.”

 You couldn’t turn him down, not the part that was trained to heal patients, nor the woman in you that was utterly exposed to someone who was begging for help.

 And so when Billy cradled you in his arms and maneuvered you both to lay down on the couch, his hand squeezing yours as he pressed a warm kiss on your temple, you simply closed your eyes and let the warmth sweep over you.

A/N - Um, thoughts? 

[honkytonk-hangman]

Just Another Thing – [2]

WALT ‘FINN’ FINNEGAN X READER/OC

Summary: God help anyone who might’ve thought a nice, stable relationship might bring some kind of change to Walt Finnegan’s usual mischief and mild-hedonism. God especially help them if they also thought a girlfriend would provide any sort of calming influence over him.

She definitely influenced him, anyone could tell you that, unfortunately just never in any way that could even remotely be described as 'calm’.

Warnings: cussing, mentions of and talk of sex, sexy body parts, ect. reader/OC is named Kimberly/Kimber, but it is still written in second person and her name shouldn’t come up very often.

Finn wakes with a start, the unfamiliar room around him momentarily sending him down a rabbit hole of confusion and doubt, right up until you walk through the door, which pushes him toward a separate spiralling hole, making him suddenly recall every detail of last night with startling clarity.

When Beverly had said you were the one girl on campus who’d put up with him, he hadn’t expected you to also be the one girl on campus who gave as good as she got behind closed doors, too.

Finn isn’t exactly shy about his sexploits, he’s slept with plenty of women, but generally, even the most enthusiastic ones weren’t exactly the best of lays, if he could be so crass to say. It wasn’t that they were particularly bad or that he didn’t have a good time, it’s more owing to the fact that Finn was somewhat unlike most men his age, in that he had always made a point of educating himself, on many topics, but especially on sex. 

Especially when it involved the many different ways to please a woman.

The girls he’d slept with in the past could say whatever they wanted about him as a person, and they frequently did, but he’d never, not once ever, left a woman unsatisfied. It was important to him, for a reason beyond simple masculine pride that he’d never really bothered to interrogate. 

At the end of the day he could give whatever reason he wanted, he doubts any woman would really care. Ideally, he’d have them too distracted to care. Generally though, his partners were not as well versed, meaning he gave, and he always gave happily, but for the most part he had to take care of his own pleasure, which wasn’t exactly a chore. Hell, that was half the reason he was doing it in the first place.

You on the other hand…

Finn swears he nearly gets rock hard just thinking about you last night, but he has no time to indulge, because in the present moment you’ve appeared as if on cue. He’s not certain you realise he’s awake yet, which mostly works for him. He internally grumbles a little as he catches sight of the time, before quickly shutting his eyes again when you near. He really hadn’t meant to sleep over. He’d planned to be up and out shortly after you’d fallen asleep, as per usual, but in all sincerity, you’d fucked him so damn good, so thoroughly, that he can’t even remember falling asleep in the first place.

Finn can’t help himself as he lies there, hearing you so closely shuffling about, he allows himself to peek at you, simultaneously delighted and regretful when he lays eyes on you.

He shouldn’t be here, stealing glances at you as you dress, he should have stuck to routine and left last night. But you really were amazing, not just in bed, but your flirting, your banter, your honesty, even if it was hard for him to read it as such at first.

Finn trails off then, thinking about how great a time he had with you in only a few hours, and finds himself imagining a whole little scenario where he gets to see you again after this, maybe actually take you on that date he’d promised… it sounded nice, in theory, but Finn writes it off immediately. That wasn’t his bag, and really, who was he to take you out beyond this chance meeting? He wasn’t exactly boyfriend material, and he also wasn’t interested in wasting anyone's time. He didn’t want to do that to you, but more importantly he’s pretty sure he’d get a baseball to the head if he did. Or in the crotch. 

As Finn thinks about how he’d really like to talk to you more, maybe ask about your major, your team, he realises what he’s doing and scrubs all further thoughts out, quickly snapping himself back to reality.

A reality in which maybe the most beautiful, sexy, and clever woman he’d met on campus, or off, is packing up her sports bag for what is likely an 8:00 AM class, something that Finn should also be doing at this very moment, and not childishly pretending to be asleep, resigning himself to being late.

“If the sun is bothering you, I can close the curtains,” your voice rings out then, nearly causing him to jump. That was another thing about you, too, until last night Finn has always had a harsh vendetta against anything that could even remotely be considered ‘honky tonk’ or typically southern, he’d even avoided taking home a girl once or twice solely because her cowboy boots had irritated him so much, only now, all of a sudden he felt nothing but pure, soppy, affection when he hears the extremely thick east Texas twang in your voice.

He firmly believes that only you can make such a heavy drawl sound so delicate and classy. He’s unable to picture you in any kind of small, dinky little town, so instead decides to imagine that you come from one of those hoity-toity neighbourhoods they had up in Dallas, which makes nothing but perfect sense to him.

Finn finds himself hurriedly blinking his eyes open in reaction to your words, before remembering that he’s supposed to be faking sleep to avoid you. You look over at him from your neat little desk, your huge duffle bag now open on your chair, which you appear to be packing several deflated balls into.

He reminds himself that you were on the College’s Volleyball team, something he hadn’t actually known existed until yesterday, but rejoices in the good news by recalling what you looked like at the park in your tight little shorts, your knee and elbow pads somehow really doing it for him. Finn rubs his eyes and groans at the fact he was probably never going to see or speak to you after this, let alone see you in those little shorts again.

“Huh?” he replies dumbly to your question, looking over at the window when you nod to it. He realises that your room might be the worst in the house, with the way the blazing Texas sun is already assaulting every inch of the space.

“I always leave the curtains open on school days, I like waking up with the sun, but I can close them if you want to sleep more?” you explain. Finn shakes himself more awake, the rouse well and truly over now, and awkwardly pulls himself from your admittedly very warm and very comfortable bed.

“Oh, no, don’t worry about it, I’ve gotta get up now anyway,” he tells you, clearing his throat and scratching the back of his neck, already practising avoiding you by refusing to look your way, telling himself it’s for his own good.

You chortle, but shrug and shake your head, before going back to packing your duffle.

Finn lingers uncomfortably next to your bed, now wondering if he had maybe upset you by staying. Not knowing what else to do, he focuses on your duvet, beginning to fiddle with it so your bed at least looked neat, and in the back of his mind, hoping it might help you forget he was ever here in the first place. No such luck, his movement causing you to look up at him properly, dropping a deflated volleyball and waving out a hand to stop him.

“Oh! don’t you worry about that! Those definitely need to go in the wash later,” you inform him, a note of wryness in your voice as you reference last night’s activities. Finn drops his hands away from the blankets at your bequest, also dropping his gaze once more now that you’ve stepped even closer and are focused solely on him.

Your attention makes him aware of his state of undress, only a pair of underwear covering him, and he happily starts to busy himself with collecting his clothes from the floor where he'd tossed them hastily many hours ago, only to find them folded neatly on the window bench. He realises you really must rise with the sun, and wonders how many hours you’d been up already.

“Last night was a lot of fun, by the way. There are definitely far worse ways to soil some good sheets,” you speak up again, a laugh accompanying your heavy accent this time. 

Finn finds he can’t refuse you his attention now that you’re asking for it, forgetting all about evading you as much as he can get away with, instead looking over at you as he dresses. Oddly, he finds his smile is nowhere near as tight or rueful as he feels.

“I’m glad,” he says without much thought, before instantly panicking when your face falls despondently.

“You didn’t enjoy it?” You ask worriedly, the prospect his reply presents clearly upsetting you, but despite telling himself that continuing to engage will only make disengaging even harder, it’s all completely in vain as he hurries to comfort you.

“What? No, no, I definitely enjoyed it,” he assures you quickly, glad when you seem to relax at his affirmation. Still, you seem a little more reserved than before, than you had been last night, which makes his skin itch uncomfortably. “Think I enjoyed it so much my brain is still scrambled,” he goes on, in an effort to stop the prickling sensation.

It works, your face breaking into an endearingly proud grin, shortly before the itching disappears. You chortle a little and give a small shrug, going back to your bag packing.

“Well, I’ve put in a lot of work to have exclusively great sex,” you tell him. “I mean, you can’t expect to spike a volleyball perfectly without practice, so why should sex be any different?” you continue, with another laugh and a shake of your head.

Finn doesn’t know why he feels so surprised at your statement. Maybe it’s just that he’s never heard a woman so casually admit to sleeping around. Then again, if men got to, then why shouldn’t you too?

Beverley could say what she wanted about the way he used discussions around the feminist movement, as well as women’s rights as a whole, just to get laid, but Finn had read all those books she’d sarcastically kept lending him, and he genuinely thought the matter to be worthwhile.

Okay, so sue him if he happens to also on occasion use the very legitimate talking points of women’s sexual liberation in his attempts to pick up women, but it's not like that meant he didn’t really believe in what he was saying!

Finn is about to open his mouth to formulate some kind of a reply when you glance at the time and let out a soft gasp.

“Oh shit, I’m going to be late!” you baulk, quickly pulling the zip of your duffle bag closed and hauling it over your shoulder. “I’ve got to go, feel free to use the shower, just close my door when you leave!” you hurriedly ramble, shoving your feet into a pair of sneakers. Finn is still blinking with his mouth halfway open when you call out a last goodbye and disappear out the door.

He showers, dresses, and is about to leave when he realises he hadn’t closed your door. He considers for a moment, at the bottom of the stairs, just leaving anyway, but he can’t bring himself to do it, so he rushes back up, closes your door with a quiet click, and then at last all but flees from the shared house.

“Noticed you never came home last night,” Dale slides into the seat next to Finn at the lunch table, and wiggles his eyebrows teasingly. Finn simply eyes his friend, and takes another bite of whatever it is the school liked to call food.

“Hooked up with the girl I was talking to all night.” He tells him simply. “Fell asleep after, only got out this morning when she left,” he goes on after another bite. Dale stares at him, a frown pulling over his features.

“So…” he prompts, causing Finn to look up at him again and shrug.

“So what?”

“So why do you sound so troubled? Was it not good? She was hot as hell man, no way it was that bad,” Dale insists, making Finn at last drop his fork to discuss properly.

“No she was good, it’s just…” he trails off and tries to figure out his own soured mood. Normally he’d have no issue talking up such a good night, especially considering you were good, but he can’t help but linger on one tiny little fact. “I don’t know, it’s like, this morning there was no ‘when will I see you again’, no care in the world it was just a one night thing, she’s not like other girls, you know?”

Dale blinks at him like he’s a moron.

“Okay? I’m not seeing your problem here?” he says, frown even deeper now. “Isn’t that perfect?”

Finn balks.

“No! She’s perfect! You don’t get it, I think I want to see her again, this girl is unbelievable!” He protests, sounding mildly desperate but he doesn’t care. He looks away from his friend, and out at the grass. The cafe he’d chosen for lunch sits right opposite the library, and normally he’d have spent his break scoping out the cute girls who’d sit studying under a tree or whatever it is he normally did, but today he’d barely even taken note.

“Man, not you too!” Dale groans in exasperation beside him, quickly digging into his own lunch as if this topic isn’t worth continuing. “First Jake, now you… actually you know what that’s fine, you hook up with that Kimberley chick, leave me with all the other cute girls…”

Finn had stopped listening about halfway through Dale’s tirade, how could he possibly pay attention to it when right there, through the window of the library, he’s spotted you, sitting at a table for four, a stack of books in front of you, your pen writing diligently on some page in front of you.

“You want the rest of my soda?” Finn asks blindly, already getting up. Dale protests, but Finn doesn’t even hear him, simply grabs his lunch tray, places it in the returns bay, and legs it across the grass as fast as he can.

He slows down upon entering the library of course, smooths down his hair, his moustache, grabs the first book he sees, and walks right up to where you sit, pulling out the chair opposite you and flips his book open. Out of the corne rof his eye, when he sees you look up, he looks up too, putting on his best display of ‘surprise’ when he ‘notices’ it’s you.

“Well now, what a coincidence this is!” he says before you can get a word in. You blink at him, but don’t seem annoyed, simply cocking your head in an intrigued manner.

“What a coincidence indeed,” you drawl slowly, placing your pen down. “Thanks for remembering to shut my door,” you go on after a beat where Finn is briefly too awestruck to say anything more. He quickly snaps back though, remembering the clear message you’d sent him last night, how you hadn’t seemed to enjoy his antics more than you enjoyed simply talking to him.

“It’s the least I could do, you know,” he leans across the desk a little to faux whisper. “After such a great night,” he says, rewarded for his efforts when you smile at him. His own smile drops however, when a moment later, you pick up your pen again and look back at the books around you.

“Listen, Finn, I appreciate you coming over to see me and all during your lunch,” busted. “But I really need to study for this paper…”

Finn jolts, wanting to flirt and charm you into paying attention to him, but he reminds himself that you aren’t like most of the girls he’s seen before, and so instead relents, beginning to get up.

“I’m sorry, I should go–”

“–You don’t have to go!” you interrupt him, looking back up. Finn slides back down into his chair like you’ve commanded him. “Just give me another half hour, okay?”

Finn does. He nods, and turns his eyes back down to his book, and for the next thirty minutes he reads about the life cycle of bees. He’s only occasionally distracted by little hums you make, which cause him to look up at you for a minute or two and simply stare. He gets a good look at the pile of books you often swap out and flip through, taking notes, and finds himself again stunned by you in all your sexy, sexy, smart glory. You were studying something to do with physics and space and Finn can’t help but think to himself about all the time he’s wasted seeing anyone but you and despite some of the books you have open having titles containing astronomy, he decides to keep his knowledge of astrology off the table.

Almost exactly thirty minutes have passed when you at last close all your books, including your notepad, place down your pen and look up at him again.

“You know, I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again,” you tell him thoughtfully, looking him in the eyes. Finn opens his mouth but at first no words come out, so he quickly closes it again. He stares at you, you smile back and roll your eyes. “Come on, I know a place we can go, since you didn’t even eat half your lunch…”

Finn dutifully helps you return your stack of books, along with his own, before following you to your car where you promptly drive him off campus to a sweet little diner a block away. Even he’s surprised with how quiet he stays until after you’ve both ordered, he doesn’t even check out the cute waitress as she walks away, too absorbed in staring back at you as you make a hand gesture like you’re ready now.

“What’re you studying?” he asks quickly.

“Astronautical engineering,” you reply. “What are you studying? I didn’t think we had a beekeeping school.”

Finn smiles and shrugs, almost about to launch into a speech about beekeeping and the non-existent classes he took on it, before he stops himself.

“English literature and teaching.” he reveals, feeling a little naked in doing so, but the way your face lights up after he tells you erases any such doubt in his mind.

“You’d be good at that! I bet you’d have no trouble holding a class's attention!” you gush. Finn distinctly feels his face go red.

Over lunch, you ask him about the baseball team, and in return he asks you about your volleyball team. You’re halfway through explaining a recent rule change when you stop and blink up at him.

“Oh you don’t care about volleyball rules,” you say, seemingly bashful at having gone off for the past five minutes about the subject. “I bet you’ve never even watched a women’s sports game and cared about the rules,” you joke. Finn laughs, your statement not untrue, but he won’t go away with you thinking that was still going to be the case from now on.

“Not in the past, but I would if you were playing,” he tells you earnestly, hoping to god you don’t think he’s simply using a line.

You stare at him for a beat before smiling softly again, turning your eyes down at your plate as you do. You place your knife and fork together at an angle and Finn definitely concludes you come from some kind of high society out East.

“I can’t go home with you tonight, it's a school night,” you say, sounding sorry about that fact at least. Finn frowns.

“But it’s a Friday?” he doesn’t mean to push, he doesn’t even care if you go home with him, he’d be okay with genuinely, actually studying with you if that's what it took. You shake your head like you’re reading his thoughts.

“I have a shift at the observatory,” you begin apologetically, before your face once again lights up.

“How about the next time we see each other, we go out then?” you repeat his words from your very first meeting. Finn straightens up, a grin pulling across his features. He liked this game, and unlike the last time, he didn’t have to go away with the feeling that he’s made a mistake, because he can tell by the tone of your voice, one way or another, you intended to see him again.

“Alright Kimberley, it’s a deal.”

[once-in-a-blue-moon-rising]

Okay okay okay, this might sound just a tiny bit unhinged but I am convinced that the LCDP writers have seen and been influenced by Hannibal, owing to the parallels between the Hannibal/Will and Sergio/Raquel relationships (focusing especially on a scene in the show that really mirrors one in Hannibal).

So, let's look at the text. First up, Hannibal, 3x11

Hannibal: The building of a new body and the othering of himself, the splitting of his personality, all seem active and deliberate. He craves change. Will: He didn't murder those families. He changed them. Hannibal: Don't you crave change, Will?

Second, LCDP, 2x8

El Profesor: Yo estoy haciendo una inyección de liquidez. Pero no a la banca. La estoy haciendo aquí, en la economía real, de este grupo de desgraciados, que es lo que somos, Raquel. Para escapar de todo esto. Tu no quieres escapar? ('I'm injecting liquidity. But not to the banks. I'm doing it here, in the real economy, for this group of wretches, Raquel, which is what we are. To escape from all of this. Don't you want to escape?')

And, ok, they're not the only two stories in existence where one character begs the other to see things from their point of view, you might say. You're clutching at straws here, Nay, because Hannibal is your current obsession, and LCDP was the one that came before.

But it's not just the dialogue. And it's not just this one scene.

If we're looking very literally at these two scenes, you'll notice that one half of our pair is imprisoned, but even that's not just surface level. Both imprisoned parties should not, by rights, be there, if they'd behaved in a remotely rational way leading up to that point. Hannibal allowed himself to be imprisoned for Will, even though he should have killed him long ago to protect himself. Raquel, likewise, could and should have handed Sergio over to the police many, many episodes ago, but she didn't, because like Hannibal, she couldn't bring herself to hurt him.

However, the real parallel isn't between Hannibal and Raquel - Sergio/Hannibal and Raquel/Will are the parallel characters leading up to these scenes, and besides looking at who is currently imprisoned, the clearest parallels within the scenes too.

Both of these relationships are deeply manipulative and physically violent, but the person who is initially causing harm gets tripped up by their own feelings, opening a window for their intended victim to exercise power over them instead. And, although in each relationship there is a clear manipulator at first, even in their beginnings, they are equals, and natural enemies (even though they might not realise it at first).

That's not to say the characters are the same - Hannibal's manipulation is driven by curiosity, and Sergio's is driven by ideals. But the outcomes are surprisingly similar nonetheless - they realise their goals, and then they regret them. They both lose the trust of the person they have unwittingly fallen in love with, and as Will and Raquel see Hannibal and Sergio, respectively, for the people they really are, they want (or think they want) to exact revenge on them. Raquel ties Sergio up and interrogates him, threatens him, hurts him, and Will tries to have Hannibal killed, and works to prove that it's Hannibal who's the serial killer, not him. But both Will and Raquel, of course, are not quite able to bring their righteous violence to its logical conclusion. Raquel fails to turn Sergio into the police, despite the fact that she's in charge of catching him, and Will gets tangled in his own line as he tries to reel Hannibal in, finding Hannibal himself far more magnetic than the justice of catching him. Both of them want to hurt their manipulative counterpart, but they've fallen for them too (and for both of them, I think this adds to their fury at Hannibal/Sergio).

And then we reach these two scenes I referenced at the top of the post. In both shows, they appear towards the end (at least, the assumed end at the time - LCDP, of course, got three more seasons later on, and Hannibal was [is?!] supposed to have more too). In both shows, Will and Raquel have experienced a loss of some kind, a really significant loss, tied to their identity, that is the fault of Hannibal/Sergio - Raquel has lost her job and integrity as an inspector; Will's family has nearly been killed and are emotionally lost to him - and yet they are both running towards the cause of that loss. Raquel, of course, is ostensibly trying to catch Sergio by herself, and Will has come to yell at Hannibal. But there's a calm in both scenes that wouldn't be there if all the wronged party felt was anger - after a fight Raquel lets Sergio talk to her without interruption, just as Will allows Hannibal to talk back to him, to ask him questions. And then our two manipulators - both of whom, I might add, have almost thrown everything away for the people who were supposed to be collateral damage - make this final plea in the dialogue above.

They're very different people, Sergio and Hannibal, but the plea is, at it's core, the same. The world, they say, The world doesn't look the way you were taught to see it, and you don't fit into it the way you thought either.

It's a plea for acceptance, because if Will and Raquel can accept the world and themselves the way Hannibal and Sergio see them, then they are, by extension, accepting them. It's a please, god, just say you want to run away with me.

And, in both instances, it works.