#⊰ ` i. study: desires / / i must confess i’m addicted to this. ´ ⊱

[purrplegyuu]

Barely adults | So Junghwan

Warnings: Poor plot, First time (not penetration), masturbation, only clitoris stimulation actually, both of them are virgins, no actually loss of virginity but kind of, gramatical/spelling mistakes (maybe, english is not my first language), let me know if I'm missing something else.

Pairing: Best friend!Junghwan x Best friend!fem reader.

Word count: 1,6k

Masterlist

hiiiiiiiiiii!, it's been already a month since I started staning Treasure, but this is my first work about one of them. I wrote it at one am (i use to sleep at 8 pm) so that's why there might be a lot of mistakes. I would really appreciate for you to tell me if you find any mistake or if you'd like me to change something.

Remember my ask box is still open (even if i haven't answered any ask yet, so sorry to thos 4 people looool), so feel free to request some words. I write for Txt (obviously), Treasure, Zerobaseone, Seventeen and enhypen (maybe, I'm not sure yet).

That's everything, enjoy and have a nice day!

Us. Both barely adults who don’t really know what are we doing. Or what are we going to do.

“Have you thought about your career?” I ask. Is a trending topic in both of our houses since we both decided to take a gap year right after we graduated from high school. 

Yeah, we are planning on attending college, however, we were both too tired after three large years of taking high school a little too seriously. My parents were so mad when I told them about my decision, and even threatened me to throw me out of home. They eventually forgot about it, but before that happened, we were in a neverending fight for three months. 

His situation had been a little bit different.

He never told me about it, but I noticed. Starting from the day he told his parents about his decision, when he showed up to my bedroom window on the second floor (I still don’t really know how he made it) and asked to sleep on the couch of my room. Secondly, the one time I went to his house to hang out a bit and heard his parents telling him horrible things about how disappointed they were. And finally, tonight, when he asked me to meet at his older brother’s apartment, just for me to find him on the big bed with a pair of big, red eyes. 

I’ve got to say I understand our parents. He was first place in class and I was second. Must have been hard for them. And I have to confess it–I feel guilty, I am guilty. I was the one who proposed it and convinced him. Guess I just didn’t thought about the consequences.

However, it’s been nine months since those events now, and it’s already time for us to choose what college career are we going to study now.

“Junghwan?” I called him since he hadn’t answered. 

He’s looking right straight to his brother's desk next to the bed.

The silence grows more awkward and he just doesn’t seem to care I’ve came in his brother’s apartment minutes ago. 

“Junghwan!” I almost scream, finally catching his attention. He looks at me for a while before asking “Hm?”

“You finally decided what to study?” We’ve been both too lost about it. 

He shakes his head no before falling silent once again. 

After a few seconds, his hand lifts up from the edge of the bedroom, and offers it to me. I take it, and soon he pushes me onto his lap.

“Wa!” I yell, impressed by his sudden strength over me.

We’ve never been like this before. We’ve never been this close before. Yet, I’ve always dreamt about it.

“Ju-junghwan, you’re too clumsy” I jokingly said, trying to act like I didn’t get what is he doing. I move on his lap trying to stand up, however, he takes both of my hands and forces me to move closer to him. 

“”I’m not” he looks right into my eyes while breathing on my face. His breath feels addictive like drugs, it is hard for me to breathe, and my lower lip trembles from the massive desire of kissing him.

And it looks like he’s feeling just like me, because it takes him just a few seconds to melt his lips into mine in a way I’ve never seen before, not even in the best porno.

His lips move away from mine. Our foreheads touch, our noses meet, and we both remain silent for a few seconds while we catch our breath. And then, he kisses me again. His hand lets mine go, and I hold myself on his shoulders while one of his hands take the back of my neck and the other one takes my thigh from under the light green dress I decided to wear (for him, but that’s supposed to be a secret).

Everything is so fast, so rude and so forced it scares me. It doesn’t feel romantic but desperate; it doesn’t feel fluffy but feverish.

I take his hand when I feel it reaching my underwear, and cut the kiss while trying to breathe again. He looks at me confused. His red swollen lips wanting nothing but to kiss me again, his hand on my neck taking me strongly, his cheeks flushed from the heat of the moment and his dark pupils waiting for me to say something.

“Junghwan,”I try to speak but I’m just too embarrassed to speak–because I’m red as an apple, because I’ve just kissed him and because… “Junghwan, I haven’t… had sex yet”

He laughs lowly, taking me again into his hands to kiss me one more time. “Don’t worry,” He says between kisses. “me neither”

His lips move to my cheek, leaving some wet kisses before moving to my ear, then to my neck and finally my clavicles. My hands squeeze his shoulders strongly while lifting my dress slowly, making my skin crawl.

He stops kissing me to look right into my eyes to find my agreement, which he happens to find fastly before taking my dress off of my body. My hand runs down his abdomen, looking for the hem of his black hoodie to try to lift it up. He helps me do it, lifting his arms so I can take it off, and once I’m done, he switches our positions, throwing me to the bed. 

He goes back to kiss my lips while his hands caresses my skin slowly, playing with my sanity by taking the hem of my panties and drawing the outline of it. His lips move to my ear, leaving a kiss in there before whispering “You look so pretty… all messy and small under me” and “Isn’t it funny? You’re the one who always leads me, and now I’m on top of you” before laughing.

I’m the extrovert one, I’m the noisy one. Whenever someone approaches both of us, it is because they’re trying to know about me. I’ve heard people telling he’s always been only a shadow always walking behind me. Yeah, I’m socially a dom, but he’s been secretly a sexual dom all this time.

I turn around to look at his eyes, silently begging for him to not tease me any second more, and that’s when I feel his hand move in my panties, touching my skin everytime closer to my cunt. And I thought he wasn't going to give everything I asked for so easily, however, his finger started circling my clitoris right after he reached it. He kept on kissing my right clavicle while his other hand moved to my back, looking for the clasp of my bralette. He undoes it and takes it off completely. 

I feel my stomach tensing up for the first time, making me whine loudly and arch my back. “Have you touched yourself before?” He asks. I nod slowly.

“Ye-yes, but never came” And never felt that good.

My stomach tenses a second time, making me whine even louder and higher. I take his arm as if wanting to slow down. 

“Why?” He asks, making my cheeks even hotter. 

“I-I’ve never-“ A moan escapes from my throat. “I’ve never been able to.” Every time I touched myself, I would just stimulate my clitoris for minutes until the feeling is so overwhelming I can’t deal with it and stop touching it. I even thought I was asexual. However, I’ve always wanted to touch myself again every night after seeing Junghwan’s abs.

His fingers speed up, making me scream his name loudly while pleading for him to slow down, however, we both know that's not what I want. I squeeze his arm harder, my hips move by themselves, my back arches, my lower abdomen is so tense I feel I’m about to explode. And then, an overwhelming feeling floods me up, making me moan while my voice breaks out because of the way he kept touching my clit even after I came. Finally, he slowed down until he stayed still while his hand rested in my panties. 

My eyes still closed, my chest rising and falling as I try to catch my breath. And once I think I’m right, I open my eyes, just to find him looking at me closely with the sweetest smile ever. 

everything around me is spinning, my head hurts a little, I feel the sweat on my forehead and everything not called 'Junghwan' feels so unnecessary.

He hugs me, leaving a kiss on my forehead before turning on the lamp on the nightstand and turning the room’s lights off. He knows me so well, he knows I’m still afraid of the dark.

[rahorak-a]

tag dump 01 : portrayal.

[empressapprentice]

Arcana Headcanons: Infidelity + M6

I’m back with more headcanons, and will be sharing even more soon as I have more free time! My last batch was super sweet and fluffy, these are decidedly not. I’m doing these headcanons as character study exercises, and since the LIs are so devoted to you in-game, I wanted to think about what could possibly motivate them to cheat. Not all of these involve sex because I thought that certain characters would consider emotional interactions cheating on their partner. But warning for non-explicit sexual content for several of the M6--I’d say this is PG-13. These are kind of long, but I felt I needed some good exposition to set things up. I hate how much I enjoy angst :( Feedback and requests are always welcomed: if you hate it or love it, let me know why so I can improve! Plus, check out my Ao3 here, where I’ll be posting these as well.

Asra

Asra will never, ever regret giving up half his heart for you. But one night, he can’t sleep, feeling regret for the friendships and relationships he missed out on because it’s so difficult to form connections with others. He wishes that while he waited for you to recover from the resurrection, he’d been able to let others into his life.

He’s slept with people other than you (Julian, for one), but not since you woke up after the ritual. He realizes that he can’t remember any of his previous encounters. He completely forgot what anyone other than you feels like to hold and to touch.

The next day, he tells you that he wants to take a quick overnight trip to Nopal. With such late notice, you can’t tag along. He just wants to spend some time alone and actually get to know the villagers for once, intending to practice his social skills and break the cycle of isolation he unintentionally maintained with the people there.

When he sits around the fire, eating and sharing stories with the villagers, a handsome young man approaches him. He says that he’s always had a crush on the mysterious magician, but could tell that Asra was never open to getting to know anyone. Asra, remembering that he doesn’t know what it’s like to be close to someone else, starts flirting back. Before he knows it, his lips are brushing against the stranger’s.

The moment their lips meet, Asra pulls back sharply, overcome with guilt for betraying your trust. He shakily apologizes to the young man, saying he didn’t know what came over him. He runs back to his hut, gets on the Beast and travels back to Vesuvia as fast as possible. Faust comforts him as he sobs silently, thinking about never wanting to leave your arms again.

Nadia

Nadia is visiting a neighboring territory and sitting through a very, very boring dinner with dignitaries. She’s been away from Vesuvia for a week and anticipates having to stay for at least one more as negotiations drag on. She’s loath to admit it, but she’s lonely. The letters you’ve exchanged via Chandra only make the separation more painful.

So when a diplomat approaches her with questions about Vesuvia, she’s happy to have some company. She clearly admires Nadia quite a bit and compliments the work she’s done to turn Vesuvia around.

While basking in her companion’s kind words, she unconsciously moves closer to the other woman. It doesn’t take long for the conversation to become personal, moving away from professional networking. And even more quickly, the conversation becomes flirty. When Nadia moves her hand to touch the other woman, her intentions are clear. The diplomat is flattered, but hesitant, asking, “Aren’t you married?”

Nadia is momentarily stunned by the question, but refuses to lose her composure. The lie comes easily, from years of schmoozing fellow politicians. She replies that her marriage is open. The diplomat smiles, unaware of the shame pooling in Nadia’s core. She sheepishly invites the Countess back to her room.

Though the dinner is long over and the party moved into the sitting room for a digestif, many having already left, Nadia finds herself worried how it would look for the two of them to leave together. She hates herself for worrying more about appearances than you, but she’s been particularly hungry for the feel of a body next to her in bed and she’s frustrated at not being able to get what she wants for once. So, she agrees.

She excuses herself, saying that she must retire for the night, and waits a few moments for the diplomat to leave as well.

Nadia excuses herself after the shameful act, saying she must be in her own bed when servants come to wake her in the morning. She spends the rest of the night staring at her ceiling, vowing to never tell you about her indiscretion. You find out, of course, knowing your wife too well for her to hide that something’s wrong.

Julian

One night, he goes to the Rowdy Raven and is mid-tankard of Salty Bitters while animatedly telling the story of how he helped defeat the Devil. When he finishes weaving the tale, he heads back to the bar to another drink. Before he can get his coin purse to pay, an extremely attractive stranger tells Barth to put it on their tab--payment for the entertaining story.

Julian gratefully accepts, sliding into a seat to chat with the stranger. Whether consciously or unconsciously, Julian turns his charm up even more, wanting to make sure he keeps them entertained. They swap introductions, Julian’s natural tendency to call people affectionate names and his rakish attitude being interpreted as flirtation.

As the stranger returns the affection, Julian realizes what’s happening but doesn’t want to stop it. He’s practically glowing from the kind words flowing from the mouth of his new friend and is addicted to the feeling. A nagging voice tells him he should get back home to you, but it is quieted when the stranger moves closer to him, running a finger over his chest.

The stranger downs their drink and gets up abruptly. They tell Julian to finish his drink and meet them in the alley outside, with a cheeky comment about seeing what else his mouth could do thrown over their shoulder as they walk out the back of the tavern.

Julian’s breath catches at the thought of a clandestine alleyway quickie, and he can’t deny how appealing the idea seems to him. He stares at the drink remaining in his glass, fighting a mental war over whether to finish it quickly and run to the alley.

Barth approaches Julian, noticing he was about to finish his latest drink and anticipating a request for a refill. While waiting for Julian to finish, he makes light conversation with him. When he asks how you are doing, Julian bolts upright. His face reddens at the mention of your name, knowing he made a grave mistake even considering the stranger’s offer.

Julian leaves the rest of his drink untouched. He awkwardly gets up, says goodnight to Barth and hopes that he won’t run into the stranger when he exits the Raven out the front door. Mercifully, he doesn’t, but he might not have even noticed, he was so focused on getting back to you.

When he reaches the front door of the place you share, he’s sobbing. Even though it’s late, you are waiting up for him, knowing that he often needs you to offer him water and get him to eat some food after a night out. He falls on his knees before you, utterly broken by the kindness of you waiting to take care of him, and begs you to listen to him one last time. He tells you, again, that he is no good for you and it is inevitable he will break your heart. He confesses everything that happened at the bar, his voice breaking when he says how close he was to cheating on you. He admits in a small voice that he will never be worthy of you--despite all he’s changed, he’s always one step away from hurting you.

Lucio

Lucio is dressed in a new outfit, finely made and very flattering. He is about to attend a party at his estate in honor of the summer solstice. The last step in his pre-party ritual before joining you and making a grand entrance fashionably late is to admire himself in the mirror. He poses and struts in front of it, hyping himself up for the night, but stopping short as he notices a grey hair in his meticulously coiffed style.

Moving closer to the mirror, he is horrified that several other grey hairs have popped out since the last time he dyed his hair, not long ago. Stepping back, he frantically tries to change the style to hide them, shrieking as he realizes the wrinkles on his forehead are deeper than he remembers. The time-honored ritual, which has never failed to put him in the right mindset for a night of socialization, has only made him more self-conscious about his age than ever.

He starts pacing around his room, heels clicking and mind racing. He feels a strange sense of longing for his old life, when he had no responsibilities and never worried about the consequences of his actions. He’s old now, and he wishes for the freedom and stupidity of youth.

When he makes the grand entrance with you at the party, his heart isn’t really in it. He immediately heads for a servant, demanding a glass of hard liquor instead of his usual sparkling wine. One glass turns into several, and it’s not long before he’s very intoxicated. You see Lucio drinking more than usual, but you keep getting distracted by guests and can’t figure out what’s going on with him.

Once he’s drunk enough to not care about anything--just as he intended--he makes eye contact with an attractive woman in a slinky gown and winks. His rough flirting works, as the woman comes up to him. He feels a mixture of pride and shame that he’s still attractive and powerful enough to draw someone in with nothing more than a wink.

They chat briefly, but they both know Lucio desires more than conversation and the guest is more than willing to oblige. He takes the woman’s hand, leading her to an alcove far away from the party and they begin to make out. Soon his pants are at his ankles and they’re doing far more than kissing. It’s rough, messy and fast, exactly the thing he would have done in his life before he got the plague and before you.

The woman leaves him panting when they’ve both finished. His stomach drops as he realizes that this cheap attempt at feeling young again only made him feel worse. He realizes with a start that he jeopardized the thing that actually fulfills him and makes him truly happy.

Muriel

Muriel dislikes social interactions with pretty much everyone, especially strangers. How could he possibly cheat on you when he can hardly stand to spend time around his friends?

But as he becomes more comfortable with being around people, he starts spending time around the Palace. Usually, he’s waiting for you to finish your duties with Nadia so he can walk you home or go back to the shop for dinner, but sometimes he comes early so he can spend a quiet moment in the gardens.

The more time he spends at the Palace, befriending some of Lucio’s poorly-behaved albino animals and trying to train them, the more time he spends with a certain servant determined to befriend him.

At first, they don’t even catch his attention, he’s so used to tuning other people out. But this servant notices his gentle nature and sometimes brings him some water or tea and a pastry while he’s sitting by the fountain. They claim that they’ve been trained to always serve the needs of their guests, but they’re mostly interested in getting Muriel to open up.

After several weeks of Muriel becoming used to the servant and accepting that they can be trusted, he begins exchanging a few words with them beyond a grunted thanks for the refreshments. The way the servant approaches him reminds him of you and he finds he doesn’t mind light conversation to entertain him and distract him from Lucio’s pets.

One day, he realizes with a start that he not only trusts the servant and enjoys their company, but that he finds them attractive. He panics, not knowing how to tell you. He feels so ashamed of himself for letting someone new in and he’s never felt attracted to someone like this before, other than with you. He’s confused on how to handle his feelings and how he should tell you, if at all.

He confesses the situation to Asra before going to you. Asra is very kind and supportive, saying that it is natural to find other people attractive and that it’s a good sign that he is willing to let a stranger befriend him. But Muriel can’t shake the idea that he’s done wrong by you and refuses to come back to the gardens.

Portia

Given how much Portia likes secrets and romance stories, I think a part of her would love the idea of a sneaky romance. Portia is a deeply practical person, but there are times where she can get carried away with romanticism. The thrill of getting away with it and using her knowledge of the secret passages in the Palace, etc. to hide a tryst holds some appeal to her, but she’d feel ashamed of even fantasizing about it.

She has to work on the first night of the Masquerade after the events of the game due to her new responsibilities at the Palace. Out of solidarity, you work too, creating real-time magical spectacles to surprise guests. To keep up the aesthetic, you’re both still wearing costumes and masks.

While Portia is in the ballroom, she’s fretting over the floral displays and a heavily intoxicated person knocks into her, sending the vase flying. Before Portia can even react, she falls into strong arms, rescuing her from the splashing water and strewn flowers. She turns to thank the stranger, and they say she can express her gratitude by granting them a dance. In the spirit of the Masquerade, she accepts.

She and the stranger twirl around the dance floor to a fast-paced song. The stranger is a fantastic dancer and leads Portia through the steps flawlessly. They end the song by dipping her low. The music switches to a slow ballad while the lights dim. Still breathless, the stranger pulls Portia close, and she loses herself in the moment. The ambiance is incredible, and kissing a gorgeous masked stranger at a ball could not be more storybook-perfect. Their lips touch, until a swirl of magical energy brushes her and she remembers you. She steps back from the stranger and runs off, forgetting about her duties, the flowers on the ground and the rest of the Masquerade. She feels horrible about kissing someone other than you but can’t shake the smug pleasure deep inside her that loves her fairytale romance coming to life.

[savagesbonergarage]

ok, i need SMUTTY thrawn. like anything you wanna write

Don't we all 😏

I’m weirdly a little upset with Thrawn right now for ridiculous headspace reasons, so this is gonna be interesting. I think I have a good idea, though...We’ll see how this turns out lol

Update: Wow this has a lot of feelings??? Apparently I needed to get that out of my system *shrug*

A/N - Tried to write this for a gender-neutral reader so let me know how that works 🤐, longer than I expected but what else is new, yeah feelings like I said, but it turns into you domming Thrawn so I think it’s worth it, face-riding, cumming in pants, role-play? kinda?, the smut’s at the end

Thrawn

“Neglect”

“What is this?” you asked with a knowing curiosity and no small amount of irritation in your voice.  

You held the painted helmet in your hands, Thrawn’s gaze never leaving it until he eventually answered you through a defeated sigh. “It belonged to one of the rebel captives I’ve been tracking. The boy Jedi.”

“I see...” you retorted unflinchingly, inspecting the crude loth-cat design on the front of it through hardened, yet undeniably sad eyes. “So this is what you’ve been up to this entire time? Spending your vacation working instead of...” 

Instead of being with me, like you’d promised.

The chiss finally rose from his seat, although he still couldn’t bring himself to meet your eyes. He was fully aware of the situation he’d created, of the promises he’d made and failed to keep, and most importantly the lies he’d told in order to continue tracking this particular band of rebels. “I...I apologize for disappointing you.”

You uttered a scoff, nearly rolling your eyes at his words. After finally catching him in the act when he’d sworn he was too tired to stay up with you and was heading straight to bed all these nights, it was difficult not to take this revelation a little personally. Not to mention his superiors had specifically instructed him to use this shore leave to actually relax and enjoy himself after his continuous dedication to the Empire and his duties without fail or complaint - and when he’d arrived with more luggage than usual, you interpreted that to mean that he was intending to stay the entire length of his trip this time with no intention of returning to work early as he typically did - however, that extra baggage was ultimately filled with rebel artifacts that he was fully preparing to study. 

“I’m not disappointed, nor am I surprised,” you admitted through a sigh, moving to stand straight across from him with only the width of the helmet between you as you continued, “I don’t know why I was expecting this time to be different from any of the others. I know you. When you’re dedicated to pursuing something, there’s no stopping you or trying to change your mind.”

His lips parted as though he had something to say, but ultimately decided against it. He must have seen through your facade of trying to keep your expression firm as he gently spoke your name, and you silently cursed yourself for never being able to keep a straight face. You caught his hand when he moved to bring it to your cheek, only holding it firmly in mid air as you kept your head down while you asked him the question that had been plaguing your mind for years.

“Are you still pursuing me?”

You clutched his hand even tighter, your frown already shifting into a grimace as you stared straight down into the visor of the helmet. This talk wasn’t one you’d been particularly looking forward to having, especially since you more or less already had a preconceived notion of what his answer would be. Perhaps your relationship really had changed, and rather than voice it outright, Thrawn expected you to determine the status of it through context to avoid having an uncomfortable conversation. It certainly didn’t feel like the two of you were lovers anymore, and with this revelation that he had the time for intimacy if he desired it and was choosing his usual activities over being in your arms, there was little reason to believe otherwise. 

The helmet was abruptly removed from your hands and placed elsewhere, with the hand that was holding yours moving to snake around your waist as you felt him pull you against his broad chest. It was a kind gesture, but what you really wanted was a definitive answer. 

“Thrawn-”

“I’ve always been adept at coursing after my targets,” he began with an ounce of regret in his somber tone, “yet I find that the ones affecting my career operations tend to take precedence over the ventures in my personal life.”

You’d already known that much, and yet the sinking fear that came with the prospect of the inevitable “it’s not you, it’s me” parting discussion still began to overtake you. It felt like you were going through all the stages of grief all at once - denial, anger, bargaining, depression...but you weren’t ready to accept this just yet. You weren’t sure you ever would be. Anger was definitely occupying the forefront of your mind; anger at Thrawn, anger at the Empire, anger at yourself...you wouldn’t be enduring all of this if you’d never fallen for him in the first place. You just had to go and fall in love with a man that was emotionally and physically unavailable, didn’t you? You’d known at least some extent of what you’d be getting into when you agreed to be his significant other - that your rendezvous together would be short-lived and few and far between, with his work always taking priority over you, but this...knowing that given the choice, given the mandate, he was still choosing the rebels over you...

It hurt.

You were tensing up in his arms, doing all that you could to keep the tears from forming. If only to encourage the transparency you wanted to see from him, you began solemnly pouring your thoughts out against his chest, the release of the words you'd been keeping to yourself for so long aiding in your preemptive recovery somewhat.

"I've often thought about joining the rebellion just to reclaim some of your attention," you admitted, the statement sounding more pathetic to your ears than you'd anticipated, "I've never been an artist, but I like to imagine what it would be like if I made rebel propaganda for you to find. I've wondered if you'd even be able to figure out it was mine, and that with every stroke it was really just me trying to tell you..." ...that I love you.

You hadn’t realized you were crying until you felt yourself involuntarily choking on a sob, and before you could hide your face from him his hands were caressing either side of your jaw and pulling you up into a deep, tender kiss. 

How long had it been? When was the last time you felt his touch like this, let alone a kiss? It almost didn't feel real, and you instinctively returned his vigor to make sure it wasn't all just a fantasy. Your tears were stinging against both of your faces now, and Thrawn drew back to wipe them away with the pads of his thumbs. His glowing red eyes were so melancholy, his brows threading into a line as you held his indigo hands to your face and leaned into them, as though the warmth of his skin was a rare sensation that you were savoring to remember back on when you'd be without it again.

"My love..." Thrawn began, his voice soothing as he brought his lips to the tender flesh of your ear, "if I've been so neglectful of your needs that you would become my enemy to be closer to me, then I've failed you so much more exponentially than I ever could have surmised. For that, I am so, so very sorry."

Part of you perked up at the implication that perhaps he wasn't intending to cut ties with you just yet, although it was clear he had much more to say. You brought his hands down to your chest and interlocked your fingers with his, holding onto them for dear life as he continued. "I...I have become consumed by my mission. My mind won't allow me any reprieve unless I've made substantial new discoveries and analyses concerning these rebels on a constant basis. I haven't faced any challenging opposition like them in quite some time, and to feel the invigoration of facing a worthy opponent with the potential to outmaneuver me...it's...addicting."

You listened to his confession intently, relieved to have him opening his heart to you once again. You brought his hands up to your mouth and smiled with amusement before you placed a kiss against them and bore into his concerned gaze with a look of alleviation gracing your own features. “I think I’m beginning to understand where your superiors were coming from when they demanded you take this leave.”

Thrawn’s countenance softened as he returned your smile, even managing something of a titter while he brought your own hands to his lips. “Am I that insufferable?”

“You already know the answer to that.”

He flashed his teeth in an impudent grin, moistening your skin with his lips as he resumed speaking against it. “Reassuring, as always.”

“Thrawn...” you spoke gingerly as the seriousness of the conversation recommenced and you withdrew your hands, rubbing the place where his warmth had just been while you gathered up the courage to proceed with your thoughts, “I need to know where we stand. It would have been stupid of me to expect our relationship to be like anyone else’s...I’ve been aware from the beginning that your duties come first, and I’m perfectly content with that. I want to see you succeed, and I love that you’re so persistent and driven. But...”

“I know,” he interjected, his guilty conscience evident simply by the tone of his voice, “my behavior as of late has been inexcusable. You mean so much more to me than I’ve led you to believe. It has been despicable of me to overlook your wishes in favor of my work when it is unnecessary. I...I love you, and...I’d like to make it up to you.”

Your heart breathed a sigh of relief, remedied by the fact that it still belonged to him. Before you knew it, you were back in his arms in an instant and planting another passionate kiss at the corner of his mouth while you grasped at his light civilian clothing. “Do you mean it?” you asked before he could properly perform the action in return.

“Of course. There are few things I wouldn’t do for you.”

For you, that was about as good as anyone else saying that they would do anything. Some things were off the table, such as leaving the Empire or betraying the Chiss or halting his investigation of the mysterious alien race that posed a threat to the entire galaxy - but other than that, he was yours, and that was more than enough.

“I might already have a few ideas...” you admitted pleasantly, capturing his lips in a more heated kiss as you wrapped your arms around his neck. His smile granted you more access to the rest of his mouth and you obliged, nipping at his skin and warring with his tongue as both of your actions became more lascivious. It wasn’t long before you felt his warm, strong hands snaking up your bare abdomen while you fumbled with the clasps of his shirt, though it become more difficult to concentrate once he reached your chest and focused his activity there, drawing a moan from deep within your throat. Taking note of your struggle, he briefly took his hands away from you to discard his top and aid you in removing your own. 

“I’m intrigued by these ideas, if you wouldn’t mind enlightening me,” Thrawn said as he reached both arms around you to grasp your behind and knead it through the fabric of your pants while he continued to kiss you along your temples and hairline. Your mouth was too busy peppering his pecs with kisses and love-bites to really say much, but that was alright - you were more of a demonstrator, anyway. You brought his hands to your sides and he helped you slide your bottoms down, giving your ass an excited smack once it was bare for him. He attempted to sneak a hand around the supple flesh of your inner thigh and curl a few digits upwards, but you smacked it away.

“Ah-Ah,” you tsked, guiding his arms away from you entirely. He started working at the sealing strip of his own waistband, but again, you stopped him. “No.”

“No?” he asked, a brow raised in amusement but also plenty of genuine confusion. 

“No,” you reaffirmed as you stepped completely out of your pant legs and planted your palms onto his chest, pushing against him with enough force to influence him to step backward. The pressure was continuous, so he didn’t stop until his back hit the cool metal of the durasteel wall behind him. “You’ve kept me waiting for a long time, Admiral.”

“I...yes,” he uttered, slightly taken aback by the firmness and determination in your voice, and especially the mocking tone you used with his moniker, although he’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t enjoy it. 

In an impressive display of flexibility, you raised your leg up until your heel rested in the curve of Thrawn’s neck and over his shoulder, holding him in place as you stared him down with an air of dominion. “I’ve lost most of my patience,” you explained as you applied a significant amount of strength down through your foot and into his muscle, indicating once again that he was to move. He did so silently this time, enraptured by your confidence as he slid down until he was sitting on the hard ground. Your foot didn’t let up, adding more pressure as your tone became a little more demanding. “Down. All the way.”

He obliged, shifting downwards so he could lean back onto his forearms and lower himself completely onto the floor. Your foot remained on his shoulder, a smile contorting your face as you could see he was taking in the view and enjoying it, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. His eyes eventually met yours, giving you an innocent and questioning look as he spoke.

“Would you like to take this outside of the office? To the bedroom, perhaps?”

“Here’s fine,” you retorted smugly, and for a moment your attention was captured again by the painted rebel helmet that was perched atop the desk beside you. You took it, examining the artwork on the front one more time before you smirked at the curious Chiss beneath you and donned it upon your head. His breath hitched when you suddenly dropped to your knees over his chest and slid your hand around to the apex of his skull, lightly grabbing a fistful of previously perfectly slicked-back hair before gazing straight down into his crimson orbs.

“Are you still curious?” you asked with an inflection of authority.

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion before he spoke lowly, just above a whisper. “I believe I understand.”

“Good,” you began, positioning yourself directly over his face as you pulled his head forward so that the tip of his nose was only centimeters away from the source of your pulsing heat, “...you kriffing Imp.”

With that, you saddled his face and sighed when you felt the hot wetness of his mouth envelop you, the room quickly filling with the sounds of the obscene slurps and smacks of his ministrations on your flesh. Your other hand grasped another lock of his hair as you bucked against him, his tongue finding all your most sensitive spots as it darted over them, and all the while you carefully supported his neck while he fucked you religiously with his face. You looked down at the master tactician through half-lidded eyes before throwing your head back in ecstasy, feeling the creep of your climax edging closer and closer. You were having a difficult time catching your breath, and eventually you decided that this sensation ought to be somewhat mutual.

You reached your hand back behind you and starting palming Thrawn’s erection through the fabric of his pants, earning an approving sigh between your legs as you stimulated the head through the still-expanding wet stain of his precum. You jerked him as well as you could in tandem with his movements, struggling to suppress the moans and expletives that erupted from your lips as he went at you even harder. His hands gripped your hips with a cautious desperation as both of your breaths became increasingly ragged, and it wasn’t long before your thighs were quivering against his ears as your orgasm crashed over you in waves of absolute pleasure. Your gasps of euphoria coupled with the intensified friction of your touch had Thrawn stilling and slightly jerking his hips not long after, finally leaning his head back away from your entrance as his face flushed while he came in his pants.

The both of you relaxed as you were overtaken by the surge of your highs, and after a while you managed to shift downward so that you were straddling his waist as you removed the helmet and set it aside. You returned your attention to the handsome, feverish warrior panting beneath you and moved a stray strand of his mussed hair back into place. You leaned forward and kissed him gently on his swollen lips, not minding the taste of yourself as you rested on top of him and listened to the accelerated beating of his heart together with yours.

And when his arms wrapped around you while he planted a loving kiss on your forehead, you looked up at the ceiling and pondered just how much work he’d get done the next time he studied that helmet.

[prettywordsyouleft]

10 Date | The Wine & Dine Me Date

Summary: Kim Junmyeon was the epitome of a perfect catch - he was successful, handsome and everything you currently didn’t want in a man. Yet after agreeing to his request to give him 10 dates in total to change your mind, you realised you might have been looking for someone like him all along.

Pairing: Kim Junmyeon x reader

Genre: dating au / romance

Warnings: none

Preview | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

With the launch of your work project right around the corner, dating Junmyeon had become a little difficult. You were back to talking over the phone most nights, one of you falling asleep before the other did. You liked it when you woke up to see the call hadn’t been ended and could talk in the morning before getting ready for work.

Despite not meeting up, you were definitely growing attached to Junmyeon. You thought of him over the simplest of things, you messaged him when you needed moral support or a pep talk to get through the day, and you told him all your deepest thoughts as you lay in your bed, staring up at the ceiling.

You had grown curious of late. What it would be like to get ready for bed at his side? Would you be cute and giggly together or find it a hassle to share a sink brushing your teeth at the same time? What made his skin so soft, did he have a decent skincare routine that trumped yours or was he naturally akin to having clear skin? Did he snore? Move around a lot in bed? Steal the blankets? Maybe sleep talk? Even if you got to speak to him first thing in the morning and had become addicted to his husky, barely awake voice, would it be even more desirable in person? Would you fight a lot?

For someone who had only known him for a little over two months, you sure were full of questions that you craved answers to.

You realised you were more than ready for the next step, far more prepared than you had believed to be on your last date.

Now, you just needed your work commitments to ease up a little.

“I have an incentive for you,” Junmyeon announced as soon as you slipped under the covers, settling into your bedding. You glanced at the phone beside you on speaker and rolled to face it as if you were facing him too. You had adopted funny little habits since most of your time was now spent on phone calls.

“What is it?”

“Your launch date is next Wednesday, right?”

“It is.”

“And then the following week, you mentioned something about some time off?” he continued and you grinned. You had been holding out for that week for over two of them now. You couldn’t wait to sleep in, catch up on hobbies you had put on hold lately and most importantly, see the man you were talking on the phone to right now.

Grinning, you laid back onto your pillows. “A whole week! Sounds like bliss, right?”

“Can I be bold and take up the whole week?” he asked hesitantly and you frowned, glancing at the phone. It was as if he felt your silent curiosity, chuckling lightly before continuing. “I know the plan was thirty but-”

“Italy?” you cut in, sitting up.

“Italy,” he confirmed and you had to cover your mouth to stifle a squeal.

Could you? Could you actually go on a trip with Junmyeon like this? Your mind was already rushing forward with flashes of architecture and tourist spots and holding his hand the entire time through. Waking up in a new city and falling into bouts of passion in the evenings. Had you done enough in this budding relationship to go forward on such an adventure?

This thought alone stopped you. Weeks ago, that’s what you ached for. To become spontaneous, to live in the moment, to go with whatever was thrown your way, even if there were risks involved.

Junmyeon was dangling the opportunity for you to do just that in front of you. A grin crept up on your face again and you were soon nodding even if he couldn’t see you. “A whole week with you in Italy sounds like the best incentive to get me through the remaining days until my project is launched.”

He sounded surprised, perhaps waiting for you to decline such a bold offer. Junmyeon was quick to collect himself with a little breath. “Good because I already booked the tickets.”

“I swear I must have done something good in a past life to have someone like you in my life,” you murmured, still amazed that you had agreed and would be going to the place you had dreamed of ever since you studied Italy in high school. You were already trying to decipher what to pack and what you would possibly end up visiting, anticipating the architecture and the remaining art from the Renaissance era.

You couldn’t wait to see where this adventure would lead you next.

When the plane touched down in Pisa International Airport two weeks later, you were stunned that you had not only gotten on a plane and gone somewhere with Junmyeon almost a day ago, but you were now on Italian soil. There was no way to contain your excitement and Junmyeon seemed to enjoy it, holding you close as you exited the aircraft.

“Airports are busy over here,” he pointed out when you looked up at him now wrapped around you and grinned, allowing him the intimate moment.

Not that you had been against all the touching since seeing him again. Even after sitting next to him, snuggling up and falling asleep on his shoulder during the flight, you couldn’t get enough of the man holding you either.

You could see this trip becoming the catalyst for a lot of impending confessions and overwhelming emotions.

For now, however, you were overstimulated by the sights and smells and the culture shock. On the taxi ride to your stay in Pisa, you peered out the window avidly, gasping endlessly and pointing out everything to Junmyeon. He merely watched your animated expression with a constant grin, satisfied with how happy you were already. And once you were standing on the tiny balcony to your room looking directly at the leaning tower across the courtyard in awe, you realised this was more than you had been expecting.

Junmyeon came in behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist. “Happy?”

“Happy is an understatement. How did you reserve us a place so close— this would have cost a fortune!”

“You promised me money wouldn’t be the talk of this trip,” he murmured against your ear, kissing the skin just below your earlobe. Swallowing as you tilted to the side to give him more access, you then sighed.

“Still, I’m being spoiled.”

“You’ve wanted to come here for so long, I wasn’t going to cut corners,” he admitted and you spun around in his grip, Junmyeon holding up his hand to stop the words you were already forming in response. “In saying that, it’s not as expensive as you might think. This is one of the cheaper boutique B&B’s in the area.”

“How am I going to make this even between us?” you wondered and he grinned, tucking some hair behind your ear.

“You could take me on a date tonight.”

You smiled. “Is that so?”

“Wine and dine me, Y/N,” he urged playfully and you couldn’t help but laugh at the suggestion.

“Where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere your wallet can take me,” he replied simply and you laughed, nodding happily enough as you thought of your comeback.

“So pizza?”

“How could we not have Italian pizza on our first night in Pisa?!”

“You’re right, it’s a must!”

“And pasta,” he added on and you nodded in agreement to that as well. Junmyeon ran a hand over your curves cheekily. “It’s carbs night.”

“Well, we’ll have to put in a lot of walking around Pisa tomorrow to make sure they don’t go and take up residence on my hips,” you compromised and he shook his head.

“Even if they do, it’ll be worth it, right?”

You bit at your lip, not wanting to tell him that anything with him right now was worth it. You were love-drunk in the best sense. A fairytale had come to life, your dashing prince taking you to a magical kingdom where the world seemed all too romantic in every direction you looked. Kelsi had been right all along, you had started to fall for someone spectacular.

Blinking away your thoughts, you looked back at the man watching you intently and tried not to smirk too obviously. “What about dessert?”

Junmyeon pulled you closer, sealing your lips with his momentarily. And then he kissed you again, this time the lust within him more evident. “Maybe we’ll have that when we come back to the room?”

“I like the way you’re thinking,” you agreed as your hands rested on his chest, your eyes glued to his. “I can tell this trip is going to change a lot for us.”

“All for the better, I hope.”

“Are we still just dating?” you wondered coyly and Junmyeon laughed heartily.

“Tonight will be date six, right?”

“Four more until I call you mine?” you concluded and Junmyeon shook his head.

“Not unless that fourth date ends with an I Do.”

“Junmyeon!” you exclaimed, gaping at the man chuckling once again. He then let out a deep breath, cupping your face in his hands and you shifted to kiss his palm gently. “After tonight I’m calling you mine.”

“What do we do with the other four dates? I thought our deal was I had to give you all of them?”

“We’ll do them just for fun,” you announced and Junmyeon grinned.

“I thought that’s what we were already doing.”

Stepping up onto your toes so you could kiss him, you then pulled back just enough to whisper, “I don’t think I need anything more to know I’ve made the right choice with you.”

_________________

Part 7

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[prolestariwrites]

Sweet Revenge Fandom: The Witcher Characters: Yennefer, Triss Rating: Explicit Tags: Sex, Oral, F/F

Summary: Triss and Yennefer reject Geralt's advances towards them both, and decide to find satisfaction in their own way.

Written for @thewitcherzine Also available on AO3

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

Triss can barely breathe when she and Yennefer burst into her room. Yen stumbles to the bed in a fit of laughter as Triss locks the door and sags against it, her stomach hurting as tears roll down her cheeks. “His face… his face!” Yennefer howls, setting them both off again.

She is weak-kneed when it dies down enough to stand upright. A bit dizzy, she moves to the bed and plops down next to Yen on the mattress, trying to ignore the other’s giggles. “Do you think it was too harsh?” she chuckles.

“Absolutely not!” Yennefer cries. Her laughter cuts off as she makes a face and leans back on her hands, glaring at the door. “What an utter jackass. I’m so tired of him.”

“Me too,” Triss agrees.

There is a pause as they both stare at the door, and she wonders what Geralt is doing right now; probably cursing them both as he tries to break the shackles on his wrists. They had worked together to enchant them enough to withstand even a witcher’s strength, and Triss is confident they won’t see or hear from him until he is released. Deep down there is a tiny little twinge at the idea of leaving him there, and she wonders if they had done the right thing. Certainly he deserves to be taught a lesson, and goodness knows he’s hurt her enough. But leaving him chained to a bed in a tavern…?

“He is a prick,” Yennefer declares. She stands and walks confidently through the room, moving to the table to pour herself some wine. Triss watches as she knocks back a full glass and pours herself another. “He wouldn’t know love if it bit him right on the ass.”

Triss chuckles at that. “I hope he learns his lesson.”

Yennefer eyes her as she drinks again. “Please tell me you’re not worried about him. He’s not going to get out of those shackles.”

“I know—”

“And he has toyed with both of us for a long time.”

“Yes—”

“So no more worries,” Yennefer orders. She fills the glass again and walks over, standing in front of Triss, and holds out the glass. “Only wine.”

Triss smiles and takes the glass. She sips it, noticing the smudge on the glass from Yennefer’s lips. Swallowing carefully, she stares at it as Yennefer kneels on the rug in front of her. Her hands settle on Triss’ thighs, pressing comfortably. “He doesn’t deserve us,” Yen says emphatically.

“I know,” Triss answers, trying to keep any sorrow from her voice. Her mixed feelings are rolling inside of her chest, and all at once she’s very filled with questions. “Would you have?” she asks suddenly.

Yennefer tilts her head, and Triss can feel her thumbs rubbing soothing circles on her thighs. “Would I have…?”

“If I hadn’t told you. He wanted us both tonight and… have you? Would you?”

She holds her breath as Yennefer blinks up at her. “I never have,” Yennefer confesses. Then she kneels up, pressing against Triss’ knees as their faces draw closer. “But I…”

Her voice fades away, and there is a moment’s pause before Yen breaks into a grin. “Of course. You’re very beautiful.”

Triss laughs, half in relief and half in embarrassment. “I always thought you were the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” she murmurs, pushing Yennefer’s hair back behind her shoulder.

All at once Yen leans forward and their mouths seal together. Triss holds her breath again, waiting, as Yennefer delivers small, feathery kisses on her lips. The movement is soothing and exciting at the same time, so unlike Geralt, but after the draining day some healing is welcome. She must make a decision now, Triss realizes, and she decides that she deserves this as well.

Triss drapes her arms around Yennefer’s shoulders, tilting her face to kiss her properly. She has never kissed another female before, and she finds it more than pleasant: Yen’s lips are soft and plush and they take turns nipping and sucking on one other before their mouths open and their tongues meet. Triss groans softly as Yen’s slips into her mouth, her body clenching just a bit at the sweet aggression, and before she realizes Yennefer is climbing over her, pressing her to the bed.

She grabs a fistful of the thick, dark locks, pushing Yen’s hair back from her face as their mouths slide together. The kiss grows hotter as Yennefer slots her body between her legs, and Triss eagerly opens her thighs to accommodate one of Yen’s. The girls grind together, still wearing the lingerie that scrapes against her quickly heating flesh. Triss feels her body flush, and she nudges her calf against Yennefer’s hip, marveling at how different it is without a thick cock pressing against her.

Yennefer eventually pulls away, a sly smile on her face as she sits back on her knees. Triss watches with a pounding heart as Yen removes her top, her mouth going dry at the sight of her bare breasts. Eagerly she reaches up and cups them in her palm, guiding her chest to her mouth and greedily rolling her tongue around one of Yennefer’s nipples. “Mmmm…” Yen sighs, pressing her palms to the bed to stay upright enough so Triss can nuzzle one breast, then the other.

Her skin is creamy, her areolas a rosy pink. She laps at each one, back and forth as her nipples turn into hard little buds. Triss’ pulse beats wildly as she takes one in her mouth, sucking slowly, just the way she likes it. Yennefer’s moan is her reward, sending a shock of pleasure to her core. It’s addicting, and Triss now understands why men love to paw at her chest and kiss the soft flesh, unable to resist kneading one as she suckles the other.

“Your turn,” Yennefer says breathlessly as she pulls away. Triss blinks up at her, a twinge of embarrassment making her cheeks heat at the way Yen’s eyes glitter with desire. Her breasts are now flushed a deep color from Triss’ attentions, but she only has a moment to admire before Yen is pulling the straps of her own top down, peeling the fabric back to slowly expose her own chest.

Quickly Triss discards the fabric, her nipples already hard and sensitive. When Yennefer sinks her teeth gently into her flesh, Triss arches on the bed, her legs opening instinctively to give all of herself to her. Yen wastes no time, moving back and forth as she sucks hard on her breasts. Her hands press against Triss’ arms, pinning her to the bed as she works until Triss’ head is spinning in pleasure and desire.

But what more is there? As Yennefer teases her body they move together again, and she desperately grinds her sex against Yen’s body, trying to find a position that will give her the friction she is craving. It is no more than a tease, the lace making things even worse, the fabric soaked with her arousal and scratching her throbbing clit as she rocks her hips upwards.

With a groan Yennefer pulls away, leaving Triss gasping on the bed. She spies her quickly pulling off her panties, and Triss does the same, any embarrassment gone with the desperate need for more as her eyes focus on the hourglass shape of Yen’s body. Triss opens her legs again as Yen climbs between them, biting her lip when Yennefer presses her thighs back so she can press their mounds together.

Triss gasps to feel Yen is just as wet as she is, heat rolling from her body deliciously. Curiously, Yennefer thrusts her hips forward, her pubis grinding against Triss’ clit for a brief moment of pleasure as Yen rubs their bodies together. “We could probably use a cock right now,” Yen laughs breathlessly, but her voice is tight with need.

They experiment a bit longer, and Yennefer leans down to kiss her as they rock against one another. The slick from their bodies makes the sensation slippery and hot, but there just isn’t enough pressure. Soon they are moaning together, hands roaming over hips and breasts as the kiss goes wet and desperate. “There must be… something…” Triss pants.

Unable to take anymore, she slips her hand between them, nearly whimpering as her fingers find her clit. The bit of pressure is a relief, and to her delight Yennefer immediately does the same. She strokes her bud in tight little circles, chasing her much-needed orgasm as Yen does too, their lips barely grazing as they pant against each other’s mouths. Triss can feel Yen’s sex flushed with arousal, coating her fingers, and she stops rubbing her own body for a moment to touch Yennefer’s.

She feels the soft, wet hair as she seeks her opening. Triss opens her eyes to study Yen’s face as she strokes her slit, licking her lips when Yennefer moans. Excitement drives her as she pushes Yennefer’s hand away and presses her thumb against Yen’s clit, finding it smaller than her own but nearly pulsing under her touch. Triss slides two fingers up, slipping easily inside her opening, and her own sex clenches when Yennefer gives a yelp of surprise.

“Oh yes… yes…” Yennefer starts to move, riding her fingers, and Triss is careful to keep her thumb pressed firmly to her clit as she does. After a minute of this, Yennefer sits up, her hips rolling in circles as she arches her back. Her hair cascades down her back, her hands sliding up her stomach to fondle her breasts, and Triss leans up on her other elbow to watch as Yennefer falls apart. Is this what she looks like, she wonders, when she is riding a cock? Yennefer is a vision, her breasts bouncing and her stomach twitching, and Triss can feel her cunt tighten and grow even wetter as she curls her fingers inside. She feels powerful giving so much pleasure, her own forgotten momentarily at the sight.

Yennefer gives a cry as she jerks her hips forward. Triss guides her through her orgasm, keeping the pressure for several counts before slowly easing off, her fingers slowing as they fuck her tight opening, her thumb relaxing the pressure until it gently caresses her. Then Yennefer groans and sits back, catching her breath as Triss grazes her sex with feather-light caresses.

When the sorceress looks down with a half grin, Triss feels her body go instantly tight. “Your turn,” she says for the second time, sliding over her.

But instead of her fingers, Triss feels lips and tongue pressed to her throbbing clit. At once she is bucking up from the bed, her knees drawing up and back as she frantically reaches to grab onto something. Yennefer’s hair slips through her fingers as she digs through her tresses, and Triss moans as she lavishes her opening with long swipes of her tongue, cursing herself for not doing this earlier. What would Yennefer taste like? she wonders vaguely, until Yen uses two fingers to open her hood so she can press the flat of her tongue against her clit.

After that, Triss is lost. She pumps her hips to grind frantically against the rough tongue until she explodes, her orgasm rocking her with deep contractions. Yennefer slurps at her body gently as she rides wave after wave, pleasure pulsing through her until she collapses back with weak limbs and her eyes closing.

Yennefer moves to lay next to her, the two snuggling for a moment as Triss waits for her breathing to return to normal. “Triss…”

She turns her head to see Yennefer watching her curiously. “Yes?”

“I liked that,” Yennefer grins.

Triss chuckles. “I did too. I want to do it again.”

Yennefer’s smile grows wider. She rolls to her back, Triss following, and they kiss slowly and deeply as she pictures all the ways she wants to see Yennefer fall apart again.

[get-your-fics]

Violent Ends - Chapter Twenty

Atonement

Summary: Bruce Wayne is addicted to a lot of things to distract from his dark urges, but his addiction to you might only increase them.

Pairing: dark!Bruce Wayne x reader

Series warnings: Violence, language, smut, rape/non-con, stalking, kidnapping, underage drinking, drug use, torture, abuse

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The interrogation room was sterile and cold. The walls were stone, and the floor was concrete. I sat in a rigid chair, handcuffed to a metal table in front of me. There was one way in and out: a door in the corner of the room. It was locked, and I was sure that it had a deadbolt on the outside. The sounds of my breathing and the beating of my heart were extremely audible in the otherwise quiet room. The only colorful thing in the room was the dot of red light on the white security camera in the corner. Everything was impenetrable, built to keep people in not out, like a prison.

But I guess I was a prisoner now.

I stared in my reflection in the one way mirror. The scratch on my forehead had scabbed over, and I still had dry, crusted blood trailing from the corner of my mouth down my chin to my jaw. Brambles and cotton fuzz stuck to my black turtleneck, and dirt and grass stains smeared across my black slacks. My eyes weren’t so dark anymore. They were back to their original honey brown. I didn’t know if anyone was on the other side of the mirror looking in, but if there was, I wondered what they thought of me. Did they see a beaten up rich boy who lost his head at some point along the way? Or did they see a monster, all of the horrid and terrible things he had done written all over his face?

The turning of the lock on the door sounded like a gunshot in the deadly silent room. My head snapped to the door, and I waited with bated breath as it slowly creaked open. All the air left my lungs as your form filled the doorway. You looked completely different from when I had last seen you. Your hair was well-groomed and glossy. You wore Louboutins, a black pant suit, and a white blouse underneath. Your signature diamond necklace encircled your neck. You stared at me with wide eyes, like I could break out of my handcuffs and pounce on you at any moment. You didn’t move from the doorway.

“(Y/N),” I breathed out, a small smile on my face. “You came to see me.”

You gripped the doorframe with your hands and clenched your jaw. “I don’t have much time. I slipped an officer a hundred to get me in here.”

My heart fluttered in my chest at your words. Could it be possible that you still felt something for me, even after everything that happened? I didn’t say anything as you stepped one foot into the room like the floor was molten lava. When you didn’t burn up, you closed the door behind you and crossed the room to the metal chair across from me. You pulled it out and sat down, keeping a comfortable amount of distance between us.

I grinned. I couldn’t believe you were here, sitting across from me. “I confessed,” I admitted to you. “I told them everything, everything that happened, everything I did to you.”

“I know.” You narrowed your eyes at me. “You pleaded guilty so you could get a plea bargain for six months in prison.”

My jaw dropped. “That is not true,” I profusely denied. “I did it so that I could be punished for everything I did to you. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“Well, how sweet it is of you to think of me after all the months you spent torturing me nonstop.” You leaned back in the chair and folded your arms over your chest. “You must have some pretty good lawyers if they can get you off with six months for kidnapping, raping, and torturing a woman.” “I can’t help that. They wanted to keep the whole matter discreet for the sake of the company. I thought it was the right thing to do.”

You scoffed. “For you,” you mumbled under your breath, rolling your eyes.

I furrowed my thick brows. “I’m doing this for you.”

“What are you talking about? Everything up to this point has been because of you! All of this is about you!” Your voice bounced off of the stone walls. “You even want to be punished because it’s what you think I want, so you can feel better about yourself.”

“If you don’t want me to be locked up, then what do you want?” I asked.

You pressed your hands flat on the metal table and leaned forward. “I want you to rot in hell,” you hissed. “I want you to be torn to shreds and consumed in fire.”

I raised a brow. “Is that really what you want?”

Your gaze flickered down to the table as your rage simmered. “No.” Your tone was suddenly soft and quiet. “I’m not like you. I don’t take lives, especially not those of innocent people who didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I haven’t killed anyone.” A small smirk tugged at the corners of my lips. “Brant Jones was the result of a mugging, and Grace Blomdahl is missing for all anyone knows. Her body hasn’t been recovered, and you know what they say: no corpse, no crime.”

Your hands balled into fists on the table, your knuckles turning white. “You’re so pleased with yourself, aren’t you? So smug.”

My smile vanished. “I’m not. If you’re worried about me not suffering, I will, gorgeous. Every single day I’m without you, I’ll be suffering.” I shook my head solemnly. “I’ll never be able to forget you, never be able to get you off my mind.”

“I’ll never be able to forget you either, because every time I look in the mirror, I’ll see these.” You pulled your suit jacket down your arms and pushed up the sleeves of your blouse over your elbows, revealing raised, little cuts littered across your skin. Some were fainter than others, while some were still shades of red and pink. They ran all the way up your arms to your neck, and I knew you had many more concealed underneath all your layers of clothing. “These scars will never fade. They will always be here, a reminder of all the shit you put me through.” Tears welled in your eyes.

I stared at you, stunned. I tried to feel guilt or shame, but pride bloomed within my chest at seeing the evidence of what I had done to you. Now, no matter how much you tried, you’d be forced to remember me. I would always be with you, whether you liked it or not. “I still love you,” I whispered.

“Don’t,” your voice was sharp like a knife, “don’t say that to me. You don’t love me. My mom loves me, Brant loved me. You don’t love me.”

“Do you still really believe that?” I questioned. “Why else do you think I would’ve done the things I did?” I tilted my head to the side, studying you intently. “I still remember when you said it to me, you know.”

“Because you made me!” you fired back.

The handcuffs rattled as I moved my hands. “I gave you everything.”

“You took everything from me!” The chair scraped against the concrete as you halfway rose out of it and slammed your hands down on the metal table. The bang echoed inside the small room. Your eyes widened as you stared down at me, and you drew in a sharp breath. “I’m filing a restraining order against you.”

My heart sank to my stomach at your words. I slumped in my chair, my back arching inwardly. My stomach hollowed out as my spine curved. I kicked my legs out in front of me. It felt like all the energy had been sucked out of me. It was just a piece of paper, but it made all the difference.

You sat back down, adjusting your blouse and suit jacket. “I hope you’ll abide by it and keep your distance after you get out of prison, or it’ll be pretty worthless and a waste of my time.”

“I will.” I nodded. “I will. I promise.” And when had I never kept a promise to you?

“Then take a good look. This is the last time you’ll ever see me.” And even though your image was burned into my brain, I did what you said. I raked over the violet bags under your bloodshot eyes and your lips pulled taut into a straight line, committing each detail to memory. Even dead tired, you looked beautiful. How could I ever get you out of my system?

“Goodbye, gorgeous,” I breathed out, my voice small.

You bit the inside of your cheek. “Don’t call me that.”

You stood from the chair and went over to the door. You wrenched it open and stepped into the hall just as Alfred approached. You both made eye contact as you passed each other, exchanging words that went unsaid. His eyes followed you as you retreated down the hall, disappearing into the shadows, and I listened to the noisy click clack of your heels against the concrete until they faded into the distance.

Alfred stopped in the doorway and turned back to look at me. “Are you ready, Master Bruce?”

I replied with a soundless nod.

I was sent to an out of state prison and rehabilitation facility. I got out in three months on good behavior and making substantial progress. Those three months, I spent jotting all this down on any scraps of paper I could find. I wrote it all down from the beginning — at least the second beginning — all the bad parts and the good parts and the sick, perverted things I did that should never be written down, let alone spoken aloud. Everything I could remember, and I like to think I remember everything about you, about us. Or at least almost everything.

I’ll always think about what would’ve happened if I hadn’t have dropped out of Anders Preparatory Academy that day, if I hadn’t have killed Ra’s al Ghul. If I hadn’t have let my desires get the best of me, if I had pursued a normal relationship with you and severed off the twisted, depraved part of myself. If I had listened to you and left you alone. If I hadn’t have turned to drugs and drinking and sex for comfort and had been better for you. I’ll always be plagued by what ifs. They’ll always swarm and swirl in my head like a hurricane wracking the shore.

When I came out, I learned you quit your job as fundraising chairman of your family’s company. You moved out of Gotham with your stepmom, and I think you operate on your own now. You could never lose your will to give, I knew that about you. I had only looked up your name a couple of times.

I rehired Alfred as my butler, and I’m back at Wayne Manor now. I don’t hang out with Tommy anymore. The last thing I need is to go back down that path again and hurt someone else. There will never be someone like you. Alfred pushed me to take a more active role in Wayne Enterprises again, and I finally took his advice and listened to him. It’s not enough to fuel my soul, but nothing is anymore. Nothing ever was, except for you.

I don’t know where you went, but I made good on my promise. I didn’t look for you. I didn’t search for you. I let you disappear off the face of the Earth as if you had never been there in the first place. I’m playing by your rules now, but I can’t let you go just yet.

I’m giving this letter to Alfred to deliver to you. He says he knows where you are and that he’ll give it to you. I don’t know if this will ever make its way to you, if it’ll get lost or if Alfred will pocket it or if you’ll tear it to shreds and burn it before reading a single word, but if there is some way you are reading this, there is something I want you to know.

I didn’t apologize to you at our last confrontation because I knew you wouldn’t accept it. It would be like a slap in the face, like nails on a chalkboard. The last thing you want to hear me say is I’m sorry because no amount of apologies in the world, no way that I could string the words, could ever make up for all the things I did to you. But I am sorry. I do feel regret and remorse, and that’s something that I was starting to think was impossible for me. In a way, you gave me one last gift before you left. Maybe now I can start to heal.

I don’t expect you to forgive me. I definitely don’t expect a reply to this letter. I don’t expect you to reach out and wipe the slate clean and start over. I don’t expect another beginning, even if they say third time’s a charm. I just needed to get this off my chest, to lift the weight off of my shoulders, because you may have the scars, but I carry the burden with me everywhere I go.

I may not ever get the punishment you think I deserve, but I lost you, and for that I’ll have to atone for alone.

THE END

[bethanthrax]

Elizabeth Nora Jones

VERY LONG POST about my OC, Beth Jones.

I found this question list here: https://www.deviantart.com/catastrotaffy/art/Blank-Character-Bio-Sheet-90733420

BASIC INFORMATION Full name: Elizabeth Nora Jones Pronunciation: Pretty self-explanatory Nickname(s) or Alias: Beth or Betty (Only Nate called her Betty, though). Gender: Cis female Species: Human Age: 34 (or 244, taking vault time into account) Birthday: 2nd September 2043 Sexuality: Pansexual Nationality: American Religion: None, though she celebrates Christmas City or town of birth: Providence, RI Currently lives: Boston, MA Languages spoken: English Native language: English Relationship Status: Married/Widowed PHYSICAL APPEARANCE Height: 5′5″

Weight: She prefers not to know… Figure/build: Full hourglass. Big up top, slender waist, shapely hips and butt, soft post-partum belly. Average-sized arms, long legs (She’d say her legs are her best feature if you asked). Hair colour: Light brown Hairstyle: Long and curly, nearly always frizzy. Usually wears it tied up with a headscarf. Facial Hairstyle: N/A Eye colour: Gray Skin/fur/etc colour: Super pale, freckly. Tattoos: None. Piercings: Just her earlobes. Scars/distinguishing marks: None really, though she broke her nose in 4th grade falling off the top of a jungle gym, and she’s been self-conscious about the little bump there since High School. Preferred style of clothing: Classic 2070′s flared dresses; she feels they flatter her figure. Frequently worn jewellery/accessories: Her engagement ring, wedding band, and simple diamond stud earrings that Nate got her when she had Shaun. HEALTH Smoker? Occasionally Drinker? Yes Recreational Drug User? Which? No Addictions: None…though she does enjoy a drink. Allergies: None Any physical ailments/illnesses/disabilities: She’s struggled with her mental health, as she and Nate had been told that she couldn’t have children.  Any medication regularly taken: None PERSONALITY Personality: If you asked her, she’d say she was an introvert. She prefers quiet nights in with a select few people, rather than big events with crowds. Tends to get suspicious when she receives attention, suspects that they have an agenda. Others find her very difficult to read - she doesn’t give much away about herself until she really trusts someone. Incredible poker face. Beth was never a ‘popular’ person; she chooses her friends very carefully, and can come off as stand-offish. However, she is very kind, almost to a fault, and sees the good in everyone; this has lead to people taking advantage of her in the past, resulting in her closed-off demeanour as she got older. Likes: Literature, poetry, art, theatre, riddles, sunny days (as long as there is shade), heavy rain (as long as there is shelter), animals, nature, food. Loves when people are polite and kind. Dislikes: Mathematics, physical exertion, people who lie, large crowds, arrogance, violence. Hates people being unnecessarily cruel and closed-minded. Fears/phobias: It happened the day the bombs fell - losing everyone she loved. The fear that she still may lose her son is what is keeping her alive. Favourite colour: Light blue Hobbies: Cooking. Beth absolutely adores making large meals, and bakes almost every day. Nate used to tell her that she was the reason he couldn’t fit into his formal jacket since they got married. One of the little things she really misses post-Vault. Taste in music: Generally prefers upbeat songs, but is pretty easy. SKILLS Talents/skills: She’s good at knowing what to say, and can fly on the seat of her pants in almost any situation. She’s a very fast learner, and will not stop practising something until she is at least capable. She’s convinced this started with the multitude of burnt/soggy/collapsed cakes she had to endure before she got good. Can figure out how things work simply by studying them (both objects and people). Intuitive and good at blending into the background when needed. Ability to drive a car? Operate any other vehicles? Beth misses her old powder-blue Corvega convertible so much. She used to take any opportunity to cruise around Boston with her big sunglasses and headscarf on, the radio chattering happily and the trees flitting past. EATING HABITS Omnivore/Carnivore/Herbivore (Vegetarian): Just…loves food. Will eat (almost) anything. Favourite food(s): Liquorice. Holy shit, the woman could decimate a bag of the stuff easily. She has to settle for Gum Drops post-vault, which don’t compare, but needs must. Favourite drink(s): Can’t function in the morning without two large, strong cups of coffee. Enjoys a beer. Disliked food(s): She hasn’t found anything she doesn’t like yet (lucky, since she never thought she’d be eating Iguana On A Stick). Disliked drink(s): Can’t stand whiskey - she get very sick one night as a teenager after drinking nearly a full bottle to herself. Just the smell turns her stomach. HOUSE AND HOME Describe the character’s house/home: Beth’s a homebody, so the house is nearly always immaculate and beautifully decorated. This is something she takes with her into the wasteland, and spends days meticulously constructing pleasant living quarters for her settlers. Do they share their home with anyone? Who? Nobody, any more. Her German Shepherd, if that counts. Significant/special belongings: Her rings and earrings; they were all picked for her by Nate and she would never part from them. She wears Nate’s wedding band on a silver chain around her neck, tucked underneath her clothes. CAREER Level of education: College graduate.

Qualifications: Law degree Current job title and description: Homemaker - she quit her job as a legal secretary after having Shaun, and surprisingly had never been happier. Name of employer: N/A COMBAT Peaceful or aggressive attitude? Peaceful. Will always attempt to diffuse a situation rather than engage in violence. Fighting skills/techniques: Honestly, she’s pretty terrible. She has bad short-range aim, and isn’t particularly strong or resilient. However, if she can find a vantage point where she’s not likely to be seen, she can pick enemies off one by one with proficiency. Tries to avoid close combat, preferring to lure enemies into a trap or snipe them at long-range. She spends a lot of time and energy modding her weapons and armour, because for her, they’re the best chance she has at survival. Special skills/magical powers/etc: n/a Weapon of choice (if any): Long-range, high-spec guns.  Weaknesses in combat: Anything close-combat or requiring a lot of strength. Strengths in combat: Like a freakin’ ninja. You won’t know she’s there until she wants you to. FAMILY, FRIENDS AND FOES Parents names: Ryan and Mary Williams. Are parents alive or dead? Dead Is the character still in contact with their parents? n/a Siblings? Relationship with siblings? An older brother, Tobias, and a younger sister, Amelia. Not particularly close with Tobias but would speak to Amelia every day. Other Important Relatives: Was very close with her grandmother, who passed away when Beth was in her early 20s. She features regularly in her dreams, over ten years later. Partner/Spouse: Nathaniel Jonathan Jones (deceased) Children: One - Shaun. Best Friend: She would probably consider her sister Amelia her best friend. Other Important Friends: She had a small group of very close friends - Jennifer, who she’s known since High School; Moira, who she met in college, and Marcus, who she worked with at the law firm. She prefers not to know what happened to them on the day the bombs fell. Acquaintances: None - she would be polite with the neighbours, but generally preferred the company of her three friends, sister, and husband.

Pets: None before the war. Dogmeat post-Vault. Enemies? Why are they enemies? That bald, scarred bastard that killed Nate and stole her baby. She has vowed that she would do unspeakably violent things to him if she ever got her hands on him. She was not prepared for the searing hatred she felt towards him, or her intense desire to inflict pain on him. She didn’t realise she was capable of such emotion. BACKSTORY Describe their childhood (newborn - age 10): Elizabeth Nora Williams was born in Providence, RI on September 2nd, 2043. She was the middle child of Ryan Williams, a College professor, and Mary Williams (nee O’Shea), a biologist. Her family lived in Pawtucket, RI, where she grew up and went to school. Beth was a quiet and solitary child; though she wasn’t particularly shy, she preferred drawing and playing alone in the garden to engaging with the other kids on her street. Beth had no desire to be part of the group at school (’Why would I want to play house? I’m going to do that for real when I grow up. It’s boring.’), and was pegged as being ‘bright’ at a young age. Describe their  teenage years (11 - 19): Teenage Beth was, she would say, unremarkable. She achieved very good grades, but was not top of any class. She was neither particularly popular, nor a loner. She spent her free time hanging around with her friend Jennifer at each other’s houses. In her later teens, she started to get romantic attention from others, which she had no idea how to react to. She brushed off most of the advances she received, suspecting they were insincere, or only after one thing. Her first love was Nate, whom she met the summer after she finished High School. Nate was in the military and they met by chance at a party for Jennifer’s 18th birthday. They spoke as friends for a few months, keeping in touch when Beth went to study Law at Northeastern University, and met up back in Pawtucket that Christmas, where Nate confessed his feelings for her. By this point, Beth had fallen hard for him, too, and the rest is history. Describe their  adult years (20+): Beth and Nate got married in 2066, when she was 22. Nate was away on tour a lot, so Beth lived with Nate’s parents until he unfortunately lost his right foot in action in 2068. Nate subsequently left the military and became a mentor for young people who wished to join the armed forces, giving talks and running courses. He was very active in veteran events, and accepted an offer to become involved full-time in charity fundraising in Boston in 2069, which is when they moved to Sanctuary Hills.

Beth worked as a legal secretary after leaving college; she used to say that she had ‘lost her passion’ for Law, and had no desire to enter into the competitive and cutthroat career following the near loss of her husband. Nate wore a below-the-knee prosthetic after losing his foot, though around the house he preferred crutches.

Beth and Nate wanted a big family; they started trying for a baby in 2070, and carried on trying for six years. They went for tests and were told Beth was unable to have children. Beth was crushed, but tried to see the bright side of the situation, planning vacations and making the most of the time she spent with Nate by doing fun things together. They had just gotten their heads around the idea that they may never be parents, when Beth fell pregnant by complete surprise. Nate was over the moon, and spent every spare moment fixing things up for the nursery, and reading up on parenting. Beth was…terrified. They’d waited so long, and she’d convinced herself that it wasn’t meant to be - now the enormous weight of what was happening had fallen on her from nowhere, and she worried that she wouldn’t be a good mother, after it all. 

The biggest shock for her was how easily she fell into motherhood. She had never been more happy; she didn’t resent the night feeds, or the dirty diapers, or the changes in her body. In complete contrast to what she thought she wanted in childhood, Beth quit her job at the firm and became a full-time homemaker. She loved showering Shaun with love; she loved baking pies and making meals for her family. She loved the scent of her baby’s head, the feeling of making up the bed in the morning, the casual strolls around the quiet neighbourhood just outside Boston where they lived. She reignited her loves of reading, the theatre, and art; she spoke to her sister daily and her mother weekly. Beth would spend one day every week with Jennifer and her two daughters, catching up and relaxing in each other’s company. Beth convinced Nate to invest in a Mr Handy to help her around the house, meaning that Nate wouldn’t have to feel that he ‘wasn’t pulling his weight’ due to the restrictions in his mobility. 

Everything felt perfect.

Until October 23rd, 2077.

[madamhatter]

rebellicnstar inquired: /)///v///(\ { Natsume or Subaru? :O } Send “/)///v///(\” to see how my muse would talk about yours to another person. | accepting ! | @rebellicnstar​

   In the life of the heiress, dexterity and adaptability were tools of her trade. Exchanging between facades of demure submissiveness to diffident civilness to the taciturn schemer -- several more masks hung up in the closet for emergencies -, eclectic she was to personate any caricature best-filling the situation. After all, the theatrics of lying and disguising intentions were merely commonplace in the affluent. And, for she who led a life as the misfortunate of three, subservient to the whims of tradition and family, she would do all that she must as the actress to ensure her sisters’ safety, health, and future

  ...And, perhaps, impersonating different possibilities of life she couldn’t have, were drops of bittersweet euphoria. Far too addicting, Miss Hatter. Best control your intake before plummetting off the abyss.

   What mask had she adorned today? The day embraced winter wondrously, a light cooling breeze swept through the city and, by God’s name, the sun peeked from out from behind her curtains of gray clouds today. A perfect day for an outing and the heiress was roped into such arrangements. From the modest, plainly dress of grey to grey slacks and white button-down, from monotonously shaded, thick shawl to gray blazer, and chipped, old brown boots to one-inch closed-toed pumps of black, and tightly braided low braid to high braid of brown and silver locks, from grey mouse to the silver fox, the Hatter resides in the professional sphere. A controlled smile, observant eye, and illegible mind were all a part of this mask. 

     A gaggle of five -- Alice, Cynthia, Denise, Ivania,  and Samantha -- roughly in their late teens but still younger than Sophie, gathered at the front of the cafe, facing another in their seats, chatting away while silver-haired sat overlooking both the busy street corner and girls. Ivania brushed her fingers through her pixie cut of purple, smiling impishly while eyeing between the dewy-eyed Denise of long, wavy brown locks and wide-eyed, gasping Samantha of straw-yellow and thin, long hair pushed together into a lazy bun. To the left of Ivania was the snickering Alice, twirling her finger into her Rapunzel-length hair, passing comments to a quiet, equally as humored Cynthia, who adjusted her head wrap. 

    Chaperoning was of the most common duties for Sophie, gained by both the trust of her much older business partners and unrelenting demand of her stepmother when she trained. Only out of the rules of social etiquette did the eldest participate -- after all, these relationships held ulterior motives. There no such thing as a relationship in Sophie’s life; all came with a price, a purpose, and it fell on her to provide. After all, she was to be used, broken. That’s all good she’s for. 

     Refraining from eye-rolling, the heiress shifts in her seat, frame straightening, as she opens her sketchbook. A chorus of giggles and whispers aside, the atmosphere remained relatively peaceful, besides from what infested the current conversation. Currently, the topic was among one of those. Typical teenage talk of gossip and...ugh, love.

     Headlong romances, summer crushes, and formal arrangements, none of which suited the teenager. Most around the table had only received from confession letters in their school bags or hidden on their desks. Off-the-table conversations of long term romances were far and in between the young women and their families; there was simply no desirability to follow that tradition with how secured their fortunes were.

    Well, that must be nice, Sophie thought. Back home, and even before she turned eighteen, her postbox had been full of strangers proposing through letters, promising of love, security, and devotion. But, it was only a flaunting show to what they believed she desperately: security and wealth. The greed of man drowned itself in the desperation of the helpless and unfortunate, willing to compromise ethics and create deceits for any means to take advantage. 

     “Eh, Sophie, have you?” Cynthia’s umber irises glanced down the eldest at the table, mildly adjusting the pale pink headscarf carefully yet barely touching the material. Sophie blinks hard, lifting her head. “Pardon?” Sophie twirls the pencil between her fingers, inquiring context. “Has anyone taken a fancy to you?” Cynthia replied forwardly, raising a black brow with slight intrigue.

     Glancing down to the parchment, following the faintest traces of lead and the outline of an undetailed face, Sophie’s lips part. Yet, nothing leaves. Anytime the post came full of proposals, it meant that the fireplace in her father’s study would be well-used that night. She drums the end of her pencil against the sketchbook, drumming along to her thoughts. Yet, for the five seated in anticipation, it was ---

     “Why are ya’ reluctant? Your mum doesn’t know?”  Ivania inches forward. She hadn’t shared any of her personal life with them, Sophie realized. Though, what point was there to blend two different lives she’s already strived to keep separate all this time? 

    “No, no, no,” the heiress waves up her left hand, dismissing the claim. She looks down at her sketchbook. “Ah--” But, there was--

   "Oh, I have.” Sophie’s head snaps up. “A most interesting proposal. An up-coming and rising Japanese celebrity outright proposed without a second thought. Not only that, it was an invitation to a polyamory group...with other celebrities.” 

   “I thought Lettie was jokin’!” Denise gasps. “You’re surely mistaken,” the heiress cocks a brow. Shit, seems like Lettie has a case of leaky lips. How could I even ever tell her of my current predicament? 

     “I did turn it down. But, the one who’d approached my hand is an exquisitely bright young man! He knows how to draw attention to him whenever he enters the room with merely a flash of his smile. I suppose the most telling part of his person as his eyes. Beryl color, large, ever so capturing anyone he sees, and it feels like he listens to every word he could before blurting out everything he wants to say.” 

    “Ahaha--” A stray silver strand rests against her face and she brushes it aside as she laughs. “He’s quite the forward person who’d be honest with his feelings and never shy away about why he would like something.” Like how he adored coins simply for their shine. “It’s so rare to find someone who’d be as willing to say whatever it is on their mind without making a whole game out of it,” she huffs, refusing to name names. 

    “Now that I think about it, I stand taller than him if I did put on my heels, which aren't terribly high. But, that doesn’t matter at all -- I’m not sure why the lot of you at your age take someone’s height to be such an important factor.” Her fingers begin threading through her ponytail. “He’s also a wonderful dancer, from what I recall. All of his unit are, really. They’re a part of the group that he invited me to. Oh, they sing too! They’re musicians.” 

    “Oh goodness, the more I think of it, he’s certainly one who thinks out of the box with his replies. He’s..He’s much like the sun if I think of it now. I haven’t ever seen his sad, but he truly exudes such positive, albeit hyperactive, energy. A free spirit too, ah...” Sophie sighs, curling her index finger through the ends of her ponytail. 

      The heiress waves off her thoughts, clearing her throat. “Forgive me, girls, I went off on a terrible tangent. I don’t meddle with romance. Too much work to do when I’m up to my head with my own business and duties running my corporation.” 

     In unison, the table shouts, “HOW COULD YOU TURN HIM DOWN?” 

[stretchjournalemerson]

Revisiting Buffy the Vampire Slayer : Intersectional Feminism in 2019

By Allison Hoag

Over twenty years after the series first premiered, Buffy the Vampire Slayer remains not only as a popular show in the public consciousness, but also as a hotly debated text in the academic sphere. What exactly is it about this demon-fighting, vampire-slaying, teenage girl that has captivated audiences for so long, and why has Buffy spawned so much controversy both publicly and academically? Most importantly, how should Buffy and its various implications about gender, race, and “otherness” be read in 2019?

It is undeniable that Buffy is a somewhat exclusionary narrative that directs our sympathies solely towards its overwhelmingly white and privileged characters. Any feminist inclinations this series espouses are emblematic of the equally exclusionary white feminism. However, even within these constraints—focusing only on feminism impactful to socioeconomically privileged white women—Buffy scholarship continually debates the extent of feminist messaging in the series. In 2019, surface-level white feminism alone is often not seen as enough to define a text as feminist. More and more, people are embracing Kimberle Crenshaw’s notions of intersectionality as a lens through which to evaluate texts. Crenshaw suggested that both feminist and anti-racist movements exclude black women, who face the most discrimination because of the intersection of their race and gender, arguing that “feminism must include an analysis of race if it hopes to express the aspirations of non-white women” (166). This term has since expanded to include class, ability, gender identity, and sexuality in feminist critiques.

Recently, the feminist debate over Buffy has been revisited after a somewhat shocking blog post by Buffy creator Joss Whedon’s ex-wife, Kai Cole, that suggested Whedon is not the ��loveable geek-feminist” he presents himself as (Cole). Despite the flaws of its creator, is there still a way for Buffy to be viewed as a feminist show? Is this a matter of separating the artist from the art, or, because his intentions while making this art are being called into question, are the two inextricably linked? In light of these revelations, I intend to reexamine Buffy through Crenshaw’s intersectional lens, focusing less on surface-level feminist readings of this series, but instead shifting the focus onto specific storylines to explore how Whedon addresses topics of gender, race, love, and rape.

***

It is not without reason that critics and fans alike have showered Buffy with feminist praise since its debut in 1997. Not only does this series make Buffy the “subject of traditionally masculine storytelling tropes…, [but] she does it all as a tiny, blonde former cheerleader…the embodiment of the girl her genre usually kills first” (Grady). Buffy takes the idea of a “strong” woman quite literally and manifests a teenage girl with superhuman strength who “must stand against the vampires, demons, and forces of darkness,” as the introduction to each episode reminds us (Whedon). Buffy seems to be a show rife with positive female role models for the impressionable teen and pre-teen girls that make up its audience: Buffy is selfless and strong (physically and emotionally); Willow is kind, intelligent, and stands up for what she believes is right; Cordelia is bold and unafraid to go after what she wants; Tara is loving and is constantly helping and caring for her friends.

Buffy often addresses topics that many members of this teen audience may face, largely through its (sometimes heavy handed) metaphorical use of vampires and demons, as well as online predators (“I Robot…You, Jane”), drinking at parties (“Beer Bad”), and drug addiction (“Wrecked”). Seemingly less metaphorical, however, is its feminism. Throughout the series, Buffy repeatedly defends the whole of humanity against vampires, demons, and the like, maintains positive relationships with the other women in her life, is independent, and has (mostly) healthy romantic relationships. The overt “girl-power” theme of this show is quite clear. However, in its final season, Buffy “raises the explicit feminist stakes of the series considerably” (Pender). While in previous seasons, the metaphorical misogyny of the villains Buffy faces could be debated, season seven’s “big bad” is, “of all the show’s myriad manifestations of evil, the most recognizably misogynist” (Pender). Dubbed “Reverend-I-Hate-Women” by Xander (“Touched”), Caleb can only be defeated if Buffy teams up with and shares her power with all potential Slayers across the globe, an act that takes “female empowerment” quite literally in the series finale.

But how did Buffy get to this point? Buffy wasn’t even initially intended for the pre-teen and teenage girl demographic who would become its main audience. Knowing that this show was originally aimed at a male demographic, “it seems evident that producers did not intend to market a feminist show” (Riordan 292). Not only do some of the feminist statements in Buffy feel painfully forced, but upon deeper exploration, much of this show’s “feminism” is only surface-level and disregards Crenshaw’s notions of intersectionality.

Mary Magoulick, a folklorist and Professor of English, Interdisciplinary Studies, and Women’s Studies at Georgia College (“Mary Magoulick”), explores some of the downfalls of “feminist” shows that were primarily created by men for predominantly male audiences in her article, “Frustrating Female Heroism: Mixed Messages in Xena, Nikita, and Buffy.” Magoulick argues that female heroes like Buffy that are “conceived of and written mostly by men in a still male-dominated world…project the status quo more than they fulfill feminist hopes” (729). An integral part of Magoulick’s argument is the idea that “Buffy [is] less concerned with building or celebrating a world than surviving a hostile one” (745). Although Magoulick acknowledges that recognizing the hostility women face in the world is an important part of feminist conversations, Buffy is widely praised for its progressive presentation of women, not for “presenting the troubling reality women live in” (750). Buffy continually expresses her desire to escape from her responsibilities as the Slayer and lead an average life; yet, she continues fighting vampires and demons, largely due to the pressure from her Watcher, Giles. The idea that Buffy cannot escape her situation because of a social institution—the Watcher’s Council, dominated by men and put in place to control women—provides strong textual support for Magoulick’s claim that Buffy is “reflective of current social inequities and gender roles” (750).

Ultimately Buffy escapes her duties as Slayer, sacrificing herself in the season five finale, only for her friends to later resurrect her, bringing her back from what they believe to be a hell dimension. However, Buffy confesses to Spike, “I think I was in heaven. And now I'm not…this is hell” (“After Life”), making him promise to never tell her friends. After coming back to life, Buffy almost immediately returns to her predetermined social position and initially deals with being brought back into her personal version of hell alone, wanting to protect her friends from the truth. Not only does this arc present the feminist concept of emotional labor as something inherently expected of women, but it also more directly begs the question Magoulick poses regarding the entirety of the series: “Is survival in hell, albeit with occasional victories and humor, the best [women] can imagine?” (748).

***

Magoulick promotes an argument first raised by Elyce Rae Helford that “[Buffy] is laudable for allowing women unusual space to voice and act out anger” while also sending strong implications about what kind of women are allowed to express anger (733). Of the Slayers introduced throughout the series, Buffy is the only one who is allowed to act upon her anger, and most of the time this anger is expressed towards the vampires and demons she fights, not people in her personal life. However, Kendra—a Slayer who is also a woman of color—has her anger framed in a much more negative way. Despite the lack of people of color in Buffy—or possibly because of the show’s few characters played by people of color—race and racism have become prominent topics in Buffy scholarship. A closer examination of direct and indirect racist implications in Buffy reinforces the idea that any feminist tendencies in Buffy fall strictly into the category of white feminism, and the show cannot be considered an example of the intersectional feminism pushed for in 2019.

The intersectional failings of Buffy are further explored by Kent A. Ono, a Professor and former Chair of the Department of Communication at the University of Utah who researches representations of race, gender, sexuality, class, and nation in print, film, and television media (“Kent A. Ono”). In his article, “To Be a Vampire on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Race and (‘Other’) Socially Marginalizing Positions on Horror TV,” Ono argues that Buffy “conveys debilitating images of and ideas about people of color” (163), claiming that “the valorization and heroification [sic] of a white feminist protagonist is constructed through an associated villainization and demonization of people of color” (164). Here, Ono quite literally means demonization. Most of the vampires and demons that appear on this show are played by white actors, so it is not necessarily a question of casting people of color as villains, so much as it is a question of who these villains are intended to be.

As previously established, the writers of Buffy can be somewhat aggressive with their use of metaphor; therefore, it is inarguable that, on Buffy, a vampire isn’t just a vampire. Ono argues that “the marginalization of vampires on the show takes the place of racial marginalization in the world outside the show” (172). In contrast, Magoulick presents a non-racial reading of the teenage vampires as “representative of gangs” (745). Considering the show’s overarching plot, especially the first few seasons Magoulick references when Buffy is still in high school, both of these interpretations are equally valid, and both can be supported by textual evidence. Given the history of representation of people of color on television, it is particularly disturbing that two of the major metaphorical interpretations of vampires on this show are as people of color and as gang members. It is not unreasonable to believe that Whedon and his writers were familiar with racist representations on television that were prominent in the 60s and early 70s, especially because some of these representations still exist twenty years after the show was created. With this understanding, it could be argued that vampires were equally intended to represent people who were racially marginalized and gangs. Ono argues that because the villains of Buffy were the ones chosen to represent people of color, “Buffy…indirectly and directly shows violence by primarily white vigilante youths against people of color in the name of civilization” (168), evoking images of violent white supremacy that are present throughout American history and to the present day.

However, there is a reason Ono describes the “vigilante youths” as only primarily white (168). Kendra, the previously mentioned second Slayer portrayed by Bianca Lawson who is featured in three episodes over the course of Buffy’s second season, is a black woman. Although only appearing in three episodes, Kendra is credited as “offer[ing] the most complex development of a black female character in Buffy” (Edwards 95). While this is technically true, it is important to note that her arc was fairly straightforward, and any character development is as a result of a somewhat racist narrative of acceptance only after assimilation. However, because she is one of the few examples of a prominent character who is a person of color and essentially the only person of color who works with Buffy, I will be examining her in some detail.

Ono argues that because she takes the responsibility of being the Slayer far more seriously, Kendra is a threat to Buffy, causing Buffy’s own racism to emerge. Ono specifically cites “[Buffy’s] discomfort with Kendra’s language…When Buffy uses the word wiggy and Kendra asks what that means, Buffy responds with a racist comment…‘You know, no kicko, no fighto’” (174). However, Buffy’s comment is indicative of a much larger issue in the show’s production team. “By casting Bianca Lawson, a black actress, in the role of Kendra, the second Slayer, [Whedon] makes character a sign imbued with cultural meanings about gender, race, and race relations” (Edwards 87). Kendra is marked as other not only by her skin color, but also by her heavy Jamaican accent, and she is not accepted by Buffy and her friends until she begins to assimilate, sending the message that people of color are responsible for changing themselves if they want to be accepted by white America.

It is important to note that Bianca Lawson’s casting wasn’t accidental. The script specifically delineates Kendra as an “ethnic young woman” (Edwards 91). Whedon has admitted that he did not make any efforts to hire people of color behind the scenes (Busis), so there is a possibility that the overwhelmingly white writers’ room and crew did not detect the racist treatment of Kendra. However, that in itself poses a major issue, not only socially, but also with how we’re supposed to understand the treatment of the few people of color and the metaphorical “people of color”/vampires throughout the series. The absence of people of color behind the scenes could also at least partially account for the Ono’s observation that “no person of color acknowledged as such on the series has been able to remain a significant character. All characters of color…have either died or have failed to reappear” (177).

Although she was killed off after only three episodes, as a black woman, Kendra represents the black women facing discrimination based on both race and gender that Crenshaw advocated for in developing her theory of intersectional feminism. Kendra’s treatment in Buffy is indicative of both the white feminism that will often ignore racist representations in a text because of its slight feminist messaging, and the necessity of including intersectionality in the evaluation and creation of feminist texts.

***

Buffy is filled with incredibly disturbing scenes. We watch Willow get skinned alive by a demon (“Same Time, Same Place”), Buffy’s own mother attempt to burn her at the stake (“Gingerbread”), and a demon stalk and murder sickly children in their hospital beds (“Killed by Death”). However, “Seeing Red” (2002) remains one of Buffy’s most upsetting episodes. Spike corners an injured Buffy in her bathroom and violently attempts to rape her until she is finally able to fight him off. In a recent interview, James Marsters (Spike) described his opposition to the scene, inadvertently pinpointing the reason this scene is so difficult to watch: “My argument was that, actually, when anyone is watching Buffy, they are Buffy…the audience, especially the female audience, they are not superheroes, but they are Buffy” (Marsters). This scene is particularly upsetting not only because of the content, but also because it presents many women’s worst fears—if an injured Buffy, who is still exponentially stronger than an average woman, can barely fight off Spike, what hope do they have of fighting off their attacker? Additionally, Spike is not presented as a violent vampire here: he is presented as human, making this scene more realistic and horrifying.

Wendy Fall, a doctoral candidate at Marquette University and editor of Marquette’s Gothic Archive (“Graduate Research”), discusses this scene at length in her article “Spike Is Forgiven: The Sympathetic Vampire's Resonance with Rape Culture.” She suggests that because James Malcolm Rymer’s Varney the Vampire (1845) is the first English-language vampire narrative that conflates an attack and rape scene, it established a “three-part strategy [gaslighting, silencing the victim, and emphasizing the assailant’s goodness] which encouraged readers to overlook Varney’s sexual violence, and thereby increased their sympathy for him” (Fall 76). She argues that although Spike’s attempted rape technically avoids Rymer’s narrative because he does not attempt to bite Buffy and is never even seen as a vampire, “The more problematic nature of this attack…is in what happens next, when the show adopts similar narrative schemes to Rymer’s to reinforce sympathy for Spike after his attempted sexual assault” (Fall 76).

Fall points out that there are only three more episodes in season six following Spike’s attempted rape, followed by a four-month gap between seasons, prompting the audience to forget how violent and serious it was (77). Not only are Spike and Buffy not seen together for the rest of the season, but they are separated because attempting to rape Buffy acts as a catalyst for Spike’s quest to get his soul back. This gives the audience time to develop sympathy for Spike as they watch him go through painful trials as he tries to recover his soul, while diminishing the severity of the attempted rape in their minds—because, surely, someone willing to go to this extent to obtain their soul and be a better person would never have acted as violently as he did.

Fall argues that Buffy also follows Varney’s narrative strategy of silencing the victim because “the show’s writers seem unwilling to allow the characters to have further discussion on the topic; Buffy never tells anyone the full story, and after this scene, she rarely mentions it again” (78). Fall further claims that “they had access to a strong female character and the opportunity to address her experience of trauma, but they opt not to pursue it” (78). Surely, at least part of the reason we never see Buffy attempting to deal with the emotional aftermath of someone she trusted trying to rape her is because the larger narrative suggests a degree of victim blaming that cannot coexist with holding Spike accountable for his actions. Prior to this scene, Buffy and Spike had been having a consensual sexual relationship, and Buffy attributes the start of this relationship to her “bad kissing decisions” (“Smashed”), so “when Spike attempts to rape her, it seems like an inevitable consequence of her poor decisions” (Nichol).

Finally, Fall suggests that Buffy completes this pattern when it “adopts a narrative strategy that redirects attention away from sexual violence by emphasizing the assailant’s positive contributions” (80). Not only does the rest of season six focus on Spike’s attempt to regain a soul, but the early episodes of season seven also show Spike as psychologically damaged as he comes to terms with the harm he caused as a vampire, putting Buffy and the audience in a position to want to pity Spike when we next see Spike and Buffy interact. Fall suggests that this plotline goes further than simply asking the audience to excuse the fact that this character tried to rape someone. She argues that “the vampire narrative’s memory-altering strategies are also deployed to reinforce rape culture, mostly in the cases of assailants who have sufficient financial power to reframe their own narratives to emphasize their better deeds” (Fall 83). This narrative is everywhere, especially after it became widely acceptable, even expected, to report on the #MeToo movement. It’s unfortunate that this supposedly feminist show perpetuates and validates this narrative that has successfully allowed so many rapists to escape legal scrutiny; Brock Turner’s swimming career comes to mind as a relatively recent example. While Fall ends her article on a relatively hopeful note, providing research stating that articles—like hers—that challenge rape myths can make people more likely to believe survivors than assailants (83), arguments for forgiving Spike still abound.

In 2017, Alyssa Rosenberg, an opinion writer for the Washington Post who covers culture and politics (“Alyssa Rosenberg”), made a case for why both Buffy and the audience should have a more forgiving view of Spike. In her article, “On ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” we fell for the Slayer along with Angel, Riley and Spike," Rosenberg specifically addresses this scene as a “horrifying…illustration that Spike’s gestures are not the same as moral reform” (Rosenberg); however, she identifies it as “the catalyst for a quest that ends with Spike…earning back his soul and sacrificing himself to save the world” (Rosenberg). Rosenberg’s argument falls flat in a way many rapist-apology narratives do. She directly acknowledges the horror of the narrative, both literally in the scene and also in the audience’s minds as they grapple with the fact that this character who is supposedly trying to reform himself can still do something this violent; yet, she quickly glosses over it. Rosenberg immediately dives into how trying to rape Buffy influenced Spike to become a better person, without addressing how it affected Buffy—the actual victim. She highlights that Whedon’s integration of the narrative tactics Rymer introduced to get the audience to want to forgive Spike were effective.

Rosenberg argues that although Spike “commits some of the show’s cruelest acts…he sacrifices the most in an attempt to atone for his sins” (Rosenberg). She additionally characterizes his arc following his attempted rape of Buffy as “a journey that encourages us to think about the conditions under which even someone guilty of heinous acts can perform genuine penance and achieve real redemption” (Rosenberg). Interestingly, her choice of the word “penance” invokes a religious underscoring that implies that once he has performed this penance, Buffy, and by extension, the audience who identifies with her, have no choice but to forgive him. Additionally, none of the “penance” Rosenberg describes is directed towards Buffy. Spike undoubtedly goes through physically and emotionally painful trials as he attempts to regain his soul; however, this is not so much penance as it is a self-centered act. Spike believes that getting a soul might make Buffy finally love him, eventually “becom[ing] a legitimate romantic interest after the near-rape incident” (Nichol).

Rosenberg claims that Buffy “explored where evil and misogyny come from and urged us to fight them,” while simultaneously “ask[ing] those of us who loved Buffy and identified with her to contemplate grace and forgiveness” (Rosenberg). She technically is not wrong here, Whedon absolutely positions us to want to forgive Spike. However, I would venture to argue that the question up for debate is not so much the question Rosenberg poses of are we put in a position to forgive him, as it is, should we be put in a position to forgive him. Buffy is intended to be a role model for the pre-teen and teenage girls who watch the series. Yet, here, it sends a very damaging message: if you have a consensual sexual relationship with someone without loving them, you’re responsible if they attempt to rape you; but even if someone tries to rape you, you should easily forgive them and possibly begin a romantic relationship with them because they may change.

***

In the past few years, the public feminist conversation has shifted towards embracing Crenshaw’s idea of intersectionality. This has therefore influenced the ways we read all texts, even texts such as Buffy that were created after Crenshaw’s paper was first published but before intersectionality was a major concern of the feminist movement. Additionally, the #MeToo movement has revealed the prevalence of the abuse of power by men in all sectors, but notably in Hollywood. Joss Whedon admittedly “didn’t make a point of hiring female directors…[or] people of color’” (Busis); explicitly equated a woman unable to have children with the Hulk—yes, that Hulk (Yang); and, as recently as 2015, refused to call himself a feminist (Busis). The combination of these two public paradigm shifts, closer examinations of Whedon both personally and as a creator, as well as Kai Cole’s disturbing essay about her ex-husband has many people questioning what Whedon’s work can add to the cultural conversation surrounding feminism in 2019. Is the problematic nature of Joss Whedon a matter of separating the artist from the art, or, because his intentions while making this art are being called into question, are the two inextricably linked?

Joss Whedon has made his name creating and writing shows featuring strong female characters. However, he does not seem to understand that “having a girl beat up guys is not equivalent to a strong female character when they always, constantly depend on men” (Simons). Yet, he has still managed to create a career and profit off of television’s lack of actual strong female characters, catering to a largely underserved audience who hoped to see any sort of feminist ideas in fictional television. “Whedon’s openly feminist agenda, frequently mentioned in interviews, has provided an interpretive framework for much Buffy scholarship” (Berridge 478). Whedon pushes this narrative and the public’s perception of him as a well-meaning feminist, while refusing to be labeled as such “because suddenly that’s the litmus test for everything you do…if you don’t live up to the litmus test of feminism in this one instance, then you’re a misogynist” (Busis). It’s upsetting for fans of Buffy to realize that its creator feels that unless he is overtly espousing feminist ideas, his writing will be seen as misogynistic—which, it has been, he’s been criticized for both his Avengers: Age of Ultron script (Yang) and his rejected Wonder Woman script (White).

Although his public persona is that of a feminist, a closer look at his work and his personal life tells a very different story. In a commentary DVD extra for the second season of Buffy, Whedon discusses writing the script for the initial confrontation between Buffy and Angelus, saying “It felt icky that I could make him say these things. It felt icky and kind of powerful. It was very uncomfortable and very exciting for me to do it” (Nichol). This short piece of commentary is a perfect metaphor for Whedon’s career. He’s trying to be seen as “more” of a feminist by claiming he had no idea how he could write a scene where his heroine is eviscerated by her (newly-evil) boyfriend after having sex with him. However, he’s actually taking what could’ve been a moment to discuss the prevalence of slut shaming in our culture and refocusing it on himself.

Not only has his work contained misogynistic and offensive language toward women, but according to his ex-wife, Kai Cole’s, guest blog on The Wrap, he has also had several inappropriate affairs “with his actresses, co-workers, fans, and friends” (Cole). Aside from cheating on his wife, as creator and producer of several prominent series—at least in terms of his actresses, co-workers, and fans—it could be argued that he objectively had more power in these situations. This begs the question of exactly how consensual these affairs were and how much, if any, (possibly unintentional) coercion may have been involved. Furthermore, Cole says he wrote her a letter trying to excuse these affairs, explaining that he “was surrounded by beautiful, needy, aggressive young women” (Cole), and blaming them, rather than taking responsibility for his actions. This pattern of blame is unsettlingly close to the blame Buffy endures for her relationship with Spike.

***

Despite the shortcomings of both this show and its creator, Buffy was, and remains, a prominent series in the lives of many of the pre-teen and teenage girls who have watched and grown with Buffy and her friends since its 1997 premiere—this author included. However, as we become more educated on certain cultural topics, we—especially those of us in positions of power and privilege—are often forced to reconcile our love of certain texts with their more problematic aspects.

I began this essay with a very different conception of Buffy than I have now. Admittedly, I bought into the allure of this series’ surface-level feminism and girl power when I was watching it for the first time. Sure, it was sometimes overtly problematic, but the positive aspects seemed to outweigh the negatives. I thought that this essay would reveal the surface-level feminism of Buffy ran much deeper than I originally realized—not the opposite. A closer examination of Buffy has revealed that the issues with this series are far more serious than its creator’s personal failings. Reading Buffy as a cultural text exposes a series of disturbing messages. Moreover, even when it does put forth feminist ideas, they often fall under the more exclusionary sect of white feminism, completely ignoring Crenshaw’s proposed intersectionality, which had been published nearly a decade before Buffy’s premiere.

The question of how Buffy should be read in 2019 is a question that has been repeated a lot recently: Can the Harvey Weinstein’s films still be appreciated? What about The Cosby Show? Or shows affiliated with Fox Broadcasting, and, therefore, Roger Ailes? While some argue that these men and any texts or media associated with them should be “cancelled,” others call for a separation between the artist and the art. However, I would argue that, at least for Buffy, it is not so much about separating the artist from the art as it is about recognizing the art for what it is—its limits included.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank my mom for proofreading all 4,500-odd words of this and catching the many mistakes I missed. I would also like to profusely thank Mary Kovaleski Byrnes for her support, guidance, and the much-needed periodic confidence boosts.

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Whedon, Joss. Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The WB and UPN, 1997-2003.

White, Adam. "Five time Joss Whedon, self-proclaimed 'woke bae', blew his feminist credentials." The Telegraph, edited by Martin Chilton, The Daily Telegraph, 21 Aug. 2017, www.telegraph.co.uk/tv/0/joss-whedon-5-times-blew-feminist-credentials/.

“Wrecked.” Buffy the Vampire Slayer, season 6, episode 10, UPN, 27 Nov. 2001. Hulu, www.hulu.com/watch/661f80ab-5cdc-426f-a494-283b03cf2ca6.

Yang, Jeff. "Is Joss Whedon a feminist?" Editorial. CNN Wire, 8 May 2015. EBSCOhost, www.cnn.com/2015/05/08/opinions/yang-joss-whedon-feminism/index.html.

[vanbwi]

Me paenitet -a/m.

me paenitet (Latin; I’m sorry)

member: Kim Namjoon

genre: angst, smut, college!au

trigger warnings: graphic self-harm, suicidal thoughts, death, depression, drug use, paranoia and self-hatred.

↠  words: 4.7k

*Reader discretion is advised.

At some point, you have to realize that some people can stay in your heart but not your life. 🌹

Everyone knew her name. The perfect good girl, a law student with straight A’s with zero annotations. The professors adored her. Students looked up to her. She was the ideal image of a hardworking Harvard student who desired to be a successful lawyer. She was flawless inside and out. 

Lovely and kindhearted personality. She cared, she cared so much about others. She was irresistible and charming.  Luxurious hair, spotless and soft skin, a desirable body. Alluring eyes, mushy cheeks and a bright smile. A smile that could light up the whole room. 

But nobody really knew who she actually was.

Before he properly met her, they’ve exchanged a couple of smiles and small conversations to bore the time. Y/N was always there in the library, studying and studying. There were so much readings that had to be done in her major. Big piles of books in front of her that shielded her away from the crowd. He was completely shocked, him who’s taking a masters degree in philosophy and literature at the same time. He didn’t have to read that much. 

Namjoon actually looked up to her too, appreciate how much work she is putting in to reach her dreams. She basically lived there together with him. She came there to study while he came there to relax and read. They were always the last ones to leave the library once it’s closed. 

He was an awkward little bean so he stopped and pretended to tie his shoe laces to avoid walking side by side with her. Since she lived only two rooms away from him. However, there was a pair of cute artistic shoes that stopped in front of him. She bent down on her knees, “Hey Kim Namjoon, right? Do you want to walk back together to the dormitory?” 

“S-sure, Y/N.” He brushed his hair back and scratched his neck awkwardly. 

They stood up and walked side by side. He could smell her scent as the cold wind blew past her. She smelt like citrus, orchids and the rain forest smell, it was so serene and calming. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, breathing in her scent and keep her in his grip forever. But she snapped him out of his dreamy thoughts.

“How did you know my name anyway?” Y/N questioned, smiling and showed her deep dimples. She was so humble.

“Well, everyone knows you. The straight A’s student with a dream of becoming a lawyer. I really admire how hard you’re working to reach your dreams. You’ll get very successful.” 

She laughed an airy laugh. A grin so big that made the corner of her eyes wrinkled. God, she was so beautiful. Her laugh was adorable. Y/N stopped for a second, gazed into his eyes and he swore, he saw sparkling stars in her eyes. 

“I admire you too, Nams. Everyone knows who you are too. The cute dimpled genius with a high IQ. Instead of becoming an engineer, you chose literature and philosophy. Something that interests you. Not everyone are brave enough to reach for their dreams.” 

Namjoon looked down to his feet, redness appeared by the corner of his ears and roamed to his mushy cheeks.

That was the start of their friendship. Although they didn’t have the same classes together. They got more closer and closer, they sat next to each other at the library. Sharing snacks and coffee. Discussing books, art and music. Learning new Latin phrases together so that only the two of you would understand. Planning trips after graduation. Not long, they were running after each other in the library hallways, piggy ride each other on the fields, buying lunch for each other. She rarely went to frat parties so they chose to stay in the dorms together with takeaways and rented movies. 

He remembered those relaxing nights and stressful mornings. He remembered her small hands engulfed in his. Her head against his chest, hearing her slow breathing. Saturday morning was the only day where they can snuggled til the sun sets again. He loved to wake up to her by his side every morning. Watching her peaceful face, seeing some small acne around her face. Pimples by her chin. Looking at the scar by her forehead and her right cheek. An eyelash by the tip of her nose. Studying all the beautiful imperfections. They were perfect to him.

He knew everything about her. Her favorite topping on pizza. Her favorite color, her favorite clothing and her father’s favorite band. She knew his favorite author, his favorite book and his mother’s favorite song. She knew that he got his smile from his mother. She even know the snoring pattern when he sleeps. But that didn’t bother her since she was a deep sleeper and his snoring was calming to her.

“Do you want some more beer? I have more in the fridge.” Y/N stretched her arms, untangling herself away from him.

“Yes, please.” He said politely. Watched her body swinging away to the little cabinet. He didn’t wanted to get caught staring so he returned his gaze down to the coffee table. But he noticed something, a small white box tucked underneath her leather bag loaded with books.

A box of cigarettes? 

“Do you smoke?” Namjoon blurted out with curiosity and anxiousness. Please, say it’s her roommate’s. Don’t let her destroy herself with poison. Although he already knew the answer, she didn’t have any roommate. 

“Yeah.” She replied simply. “I know it’s not good for me but I feel relaxed. Smoking also feels better paired with coffee and frustration.” She joked slightly by the end, grinning without her dimples to be seen. Why weren’t they there? 

He knew something was off, once she returned with two bottles of beers in her hands. One of them was nearly emptied. She made a little distance between them. However, Namjoon understood her. He scooted closer to her, locking her in a corner and wrapped his arms around her. 

Y/N’s stiff body grew relaxed by his touch. She leaned her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. Smelling his warmth mixed with books and expensive cologne. 

“It’s alright.” Namjoon whispered and stroked her soft hair. Kissed her forehead gently. “I’m here for you. If you ever need anything. Cigarettes aren’t always the answer.” 

She smiled, small dimples appeared on her cheeks. “Thanks, Nams. You can stay the night.” 

He hated seeing her smoke. The way she hold that damn thing between her fingers. The way she inhales the toxic in herself. How emotionless and cold she looks. It was like seeing her ripping herself apart in pieces. He couldn’t bare that. Smoking was a classic way to commit suicide. Every time she smokes in his sight, he would stomp that bloody thing under his feet.

Now she’s left with coffee and frustration without a smoke. She let out a huff and stared annoyed at the floor.

“Tell me what’s bothering you instead. Don’t cage the feelings inside yourself.” Namjoon towered over her. “Please, Y/N... You know that I’ll always be here for you.” 

Y/N rolled her eyes and sighed. Smiling slightly.Yeah, she’s smiling. But don’t let that fool you. Look into her eyes, it’s breaking inside. 

Goddamn she was hard to crack. He already knew that something was wrong, he noticed the way she gets stiff when they’re talking about feelings or what’s bothering them. The tiredness in her face, the veins in her stormy eyes. Her chapped cold lips, her freezing hands. She looked so fragile and broken. 

She have been strong for way too long.

“You must know that every words I’ve said to you. I mean it. I care for you. You’re so important to me. You were always there for me when I’ve faced problems. It’s my turn to return the favor. I’m always thinking of you.” He confessed, holding her frozen hands. Caressing the top of her hand. 

“I’ve laid on my bed at night, thinking if you’re okay. Have you eaten or not? Have someone hurt you? What’s bothering you? Have you gotten safe home? Are you sleeping well?” Namjoon’s voice started to crack. Tears were streaming down his face. He meant everything he said. 

Goosebumps crept up Y/N’s skin. She felt guilt, was she the one who made her cry? Was she the one who should be blamed for all of this? Why did he care so much? 

“I care about you. I’m here for you.” He brushed her hair away from her face. Cupping her mushy cheeks and wiped away her silent tears. “Always. I trust you with my life.”

She breathed in, gathering up her voice. “We are all addicted to something that takes the pain away.“ 

Her voice was breaking apart, she tried to hold in her tears again. She hated to cry. It made her feel the attention and the pity he gave her. “I’ll be alright one day. Someday. But not today.“ 

Namjoon pulled her into a tight hug. Wrapped her in his arms tighter than ever. Never letting her go. Want her to know that if something goes wrong, he’ll be there. He’ll always be there. 

Y/N sobbed into his shirt, quietly whimpering and wetting his shirt with her wet tears. She cried harder than she ever cried. Feeling her nose and her throat getting stuffed. It hurt to breath and cry. She felt like something was crawling up her throat. She wanted to scream in exasperation. 

“I can’t concentrate anymore.” She croaked out. She clung onto him hard and buried her face in his chest. “My grades are dropping. Everything I’ve read, they don’t stay in my head. The big exam is coming up, I don’t remember anything!” 

“You’ve been on the top for so long. We’re soon graduating... You’re almost there Y/N. Your dream is becoming true.” He kissed the top of her head, stroking her hair gently. 

She violently pushed him away. Gripped her head, wanting to rip her hair from her head. Wanting to get out of her own skin. “I don’t want to be a lawyer! I never wanted anything of this! Law doesn’t interest me! I wanted to make my parents proud, I wanted to make everyone proud! But I’ve never been happy, I regret it. I regret everything... God.” 

She wept and wept. Clutching her chest and digging her nails into her skin. She rolled into a ball, wrapping her arms around herself. Namjoon was blown away by her outrage. He stared at her, more tears pouring down his face like rocky waterfalls. It wasn’t her dream. She never wanted to be a lawyer. 

He bent down, engulfed her into his warm embrace. 

Y/N started smiling again. However, he noticed that her dimples were gone. The dimples becomes visible when she meant it. She faked the smiles to everyone. The professors, the freshmen and her friends. But he saw it right through her. Her eyes were gray and stormy. Full of sorrows. She was so strong and independent. Came back right to the tracks again, studying hard and distanced herself from him. His friends even questioned where she was. She didn’t return his calls or his messages. It felt like months.

Maybe he was the distraction? Maybe it was his fault? Namjoon thought to himself, staring at her cigarette box in his own hands. He took it away from her, they didn’t help her. The addiction will drive her mad. 

The exams came. He wished her luck. 

Three weeks later he got the results back. He passed with full score. However, he couldn’t help but think about her. Did she pass? And if she didn’t was she satisfied with the results? He searched for her in the crowd. But all he saw was a glimpse of her heading towards the dormitory. 

“Y/N!” Namjoon shouted and sprinted after her. She heard him but didn’t turn back, picked up her pace and shut the door behind her. Locking it securely. 

“Please, Y/N!” He banged on the door. “Let’s talk, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” 

Stupid. He thought. Of course she wasn’t okay. 

“It will get better.” Namjoon shouted through the door, clung onto the hand lock. Hoping that she will open up to let him in.

“No, it won’t.”  She shouted back.

“I’m here for you.” ¨

“Bullshit!” She screamed in defeat. It pained him, he could hear her small whimpers. Her stuffed breathing and the way 

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” She banged her head against the door. “Let me be.”

Namjoon backed away slowly, felt his heart breaking in pieces. Y/N haven’t come out for many weeks. She locked herself in that stupid dorm, starving herself and driving herself mad. She never answered any calls or messages. He assumed that she have broken her phone. 

 He was worried and concerned. Although he was the only one that cared. None of her friends came by, they probably haven’t noticed that she have isolated herself in. Heartless people, nobody cared. 

He came by everyday, knocking on the door, bringing food to her. But she haven’t touched them one bit. All he could hear through the door was her rigid and unstable breathing. Mixed with muffled cries and sobs. He was afraid that one day she will be gone. One day he wouldn’t get to see that beautiful smile, he wouldn’t hear her soft voice. 

How long can a human survive without food? How long could a human survive with their disturbing mind?

One month passed, the graduation day was right by the corner. He hoped that this day she would let him in. He knocked softly and leaned his head against the door, “Y/N? Can you please let me in? I’ve brought some food. You really must eat something.” 

Some seconds later, he heard the distant soft footsteps approaching the door. Unlocked it. She finally faced him, a small smile on her face. Her voice was dry and scratchy, like she have been screaming and crying. “Hey.” 

Oh, Y/N. What have you done? She have lost so much weight, he could see the prominent collarbones and the bones peeking through her chest. Her cute squishy cheeks were gone. There weren’t any colors on her skin tone. Grayish and blue even. Her hair was thinner and dried up. She had on an oversize baggy sweater that reached above her kneecaps.

“I’ve missed you.” Namjoon whispered and closed the door behind him. Observing the surrounding. There weren’t any source of light coming through. It was a mess. Her room didn’t smell like citrus anymore. It reeked of smoke and the metallic blood smell. 

She sat down by the unmade bed. Sucking her teeth and tried to smile. “I’ve missed you too, Nams.” 

Namjoon opened the food tray and started to feed her. She didn’t denied the food, accepted it and stared at him. Her eyes were bloodshot red and the corner of her lips were a trail of blood. “Is it good?” 

She nodded and coughed up, “Taste good.” 

Her tranquil dark gaze. She stared at the wall. Empty and emotionless. She have destroyed herself completely. She couldn’t even cry anymore. In that moment he felt like she didn't exist anymore.

“I’m just kinda tired you know. I’m tired of feeling like a failure all the time.” She mumbled faintly. Shifted her gaze to him, he held her cold hands. Pulled her into a tender hug.

She opened up, whispering in a hushed voice. “I want to give up, I’m done with myself. I can’t leave because I care too much and it’s killing me. I know it would destroy my friends and my family. So I take this pain, I choose to smile so the people I love doesn’t feel the same way as I’m feeling right now.” 

Y/N felt so guilty for bringing him into this. She used all the strength she had and gently pulled him onto the bed. She laid in his arms, their legs tangled together.

“I want to stop trying and not care for one day. Sometimes I wish people didn’t care so I cloud kill myself without feeling bad? Does that make me a horrible person? To finally get what I actually want instead of adjusting myself to others?” 

Namjoon shake his head. 

“Sometimes I don’t want to feel better, I don’t want things to get better. Sometimes I want things to get really bad so I have a reason to kill myself.” She confessed. She told everything she always wanted to say. Slowly there were tears dripping down her face.

“That exam results pushed me. I’ve barely passed. But I don’t want to be a lawyer. I don’t want to study all over again. I’ve always been interested in art, I want to be an artist.” Y/N sighed heavily. She dreamed and dreamed to finally get what she wanted. Although 

“It’s alright, Y/N. You must reach for your dreams, I’ll always be here for you. We can live in an apartment together. You’re studying while I’m working. I mean it. I want a future with you.” Namjoon caressed her back, feeling the bony spine peeking through the sweater.

His chest heaving up and down, she listened to his steady heartbeat. “You’re the most wonderful person I’ve ever met. You mean so much to me. I already know it. I’m so in love with you Y/N.” 

Y/N weakly smiled, slowly dimples started to appear on her soft cheeks. “I love you too, Namjoon.” Since a long time, she was happy. She felt loved and she knew that he would always be there for her. She leaned in and gently kissed him. Tasting the sweetness from his lips. His lips were so soft compared to her cold chapped lips. 

Namjoon played with her hair, caressing her cheeks and softly stroke her legs. Feeling every curve and every skin on her body. Making her feel worthy and beautiful. He wanted to make her feel loved, let her know that she was so important to him. He rolled over, looking at her small frame as he hovered over her. 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous.” He said deeply. She smiled once again, reaching her cold hands to the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head. Namjoon did the same to her, but for a while she seem hesitant about it. 

“It’s okay.” 

He gently pulled her big sweater over her head. Observing her fragile body. What has she done? There were deep scars, burnt marks and scratches. She also ripped her own skin. Some of them were old and some haven’t fully healed. Instead of being disgusted, he stared at her masterpiece. He softly kissed every pieces of her body. She have become so thin, her sternum and her ribs were visible. 

Teardrops gathered by the corner of his eyes. “Please, don’t hurt yourself again. Do you know how important you are to me?” 

Y/N gently nodded and crashed her lips against his. A passionate and deep kiss with everything poured into it. She grasped his hair and slowly started to grind onto him, locking him between her thighs. She could feel his growing bulge pressed against her lower stomach. She whispered, “Please, make me forget the pain. I love you so much.” 

His hands caressed her legs and gripped her inner thighs. Pressing her against the bed, taking control. He pinned her arms above her heads, sucking her neck and downwards. To her breast, her ribs, her stomach, her bellybutton. All the time he kept his eyes on her, looking at her pretty face gasping for air. Her chest heaving up and down as she kept squirming under his touch. 

“Oh, god... Namjoon.” She moaned once his hands reached down to cup her heat. His fingers pressed against her covered core. 

“You’re soaking wet already.” Namjoon grunted and slipped down her underwear, craving a taste of her. She let out a shaky sigh and arched her back. His slow tongue soothed over her bottom lip. He started to suck the juices and gently swept his tongue between the slit. His plump lips wrapped around her core.

His fingers pressed into the heat, spreading her lip wider. “Fuck!” Y/N bucked her body, her breathing became heavier and she gasped at the pleasure. Namjoon gripped her thighs tighter, making her stay in her place. Her body trembled as he quickened his pace. His tongue never leaving her lower lip. Her walls tightened against his fingers.

“Holy shit.” He breathed against her, sending vibrations through her body. She couldn’t do it anymore, she squirmed upwards and plopped herself on her elbows.

Y/N stared at his swollen lips and his dark lustful eyes. “Just fuck me already.” She laid back down on the bed, trying to calm her violent heart. 

She heard the sound of his belt unbuckling and the zipper zipping down. “You got any condoms?” He winced at the contact of his stinging member. Once he pulled down his underwear, his cock bounced up against his stomach. The precum were leaking out and made a big wet spot on his boxers.

“No, it’s alright. Just put it in me.” Y/N closed her eyes. 

Namjoon hovered over her, looking down to guide his throbbing member towards her little cunt. He stroked his cock against her heat, coating her juices over the head of his member. At the same time he was afraid to touch her, he was afraid to break her. 

“Shit, just fuck me already.” She moaned at the contact of his cock against her. He held his breath as he pushed himself inside her. Stretching her out wide around him. She winced at the sudden pain, biting his biceps. 

“Ah- are you okay?” Namjoon controlled himself from not pounding into her right at the spot. Concern washed over him.

“No, it feels so good... You can move.” Y/N whimpered slightly and clung onto his back. Pressing his chest against hers. 

He placed his arms beside her face and thrust deeper into her. He stared down at her, looking at her beautiful face. He deeply whispered, “You’re so fucking tight and wet around me.” 

Namjoon picked up his pace and started to ram deeply into her. Feeling her warmth and the tightness around him. She could feel his prominent throbbing veins on his cock brushing against her core. Her walls clenched tightly against him, he grunted. Not being able to thrust deeper.

“Namjoon, I’m close.” She moaned and intensely stared into his eyes. 

“Fuck, me too.” He heavily groaned. She came around his member, releasing a loud moan that sounded like heaven to him. It wasn’t long until he chased after his high. Rapidly pounding into her swollen core. She cried at the over sensitivity. He shot his warm load inside her and pulled out, rubbing his sticky cum around her cunt. 

He slumped down beside her, their body sweaty and sticky. The bed sheets were sticking to their skin. Y/N turned to the side and placed her head on his chest. Listening to his pumping heart.

“Can we start over? Can we be strangers again?” She sobbed, letting the cold tears rolling down her cheeks. 

“Let me introduce myself.  We can laugh and talk. And relearn what we already know, and come up with new inside jokes. And create new memories and give each others a second chance. A second chance. I’ve filled you up with bad memories and bad words already. I’ve ruined you.”

Y/N cupped his face, looking into his deep eyes. “I’m so sorry. I love you so much. You’ve always been there for me, whatever I’m experiencing. It’s not you. It was never you.” 

Tomorrow was the graduation day. Namjoon was so thrilled and excited, he couldn’t help and smiled at the memories from last night with Y/N. God, he was utterly in love. He promised to take care of her, he won’t ever let her out of his sight again. Finally, they were graduating together like they promised. 

He woke up later than usual, he didn’t even check his phone, put on some shirt and saw that his roommate have already woken up. The first thing he wanted to see in the morning was her face. 

Head directly over to the cafeteria with a big goofy smile plastered on his face. He greeted the barista, Yoongi. “Two cappuccinos, please.” 

“Well, aren’t you happy today? Finally, I haven’t seen you smile in a while, Namjoon.” Yoongi gave him the usual gummy smile, wrinkly triangular eyes. He’s also graduating today with his master’s degree in music production. Yoongi was so passionate, working half-time and studying full-time. Namjoon admired him as well. They were close friends with the same music taste.

“it’s Y/N right?” Yoongi guessed and handed him the two plastic cups. 

“Yeah.” Namjoon blushed. 

“Say hello from me to her, will you? It’s been a while since I’ve seen her by your side. I hope she’s doing well. You guys are really cute together.” Yoongi nodded and maybe he was one of those who actually cared for her more than her friends.

Namjoon waved and slowly jogged to her dorm. Nearly skipping in happiness and excitement. “Y/N! Wakey, wakey! I’ve brought you some coffee, maybe we can go out for pancakes together?” He didn’t knocked and walked straight in. 

No one was there. A complete silent welcomed him. Her bed was still unmade from yesterday. However, the mess in her room have been cleaned up, the windows were still shield shut. The only source of light was coming from the bathroom.

“Y/N?” He called out, getting worried. An uncomfortable feeling filled his stomach. His heart beat faster and faster. 

His footsteps approached the opened door. Gulping, he turned to the corner and saw something he wished that he wasn’t the one witnessing. He instantly dropped the coffee on the floor, sprinted over to her, shouting for her to come back. He screamed for help.

There she was, lifeless in the bathtub filled with red fresh blood. The bathroom smelt like the familiar metallic smell and it was far worse than the smoke. She had a razor in her hand that formed a deep cut on her throat. The blood have already stopped oozing out, he could even see the white skin beneath the cut. But her eyes was still full of life, she looked somewhat tranquil and calm. She cut pieces of her cheeks, showing dimples. Those dimples that he loved so much. 

He clutched her body onto his chest, tried to feel a heartbeat coming from her. At the same time, he was enraged. Why? Why did she leave him? He told her that everything is going to be okay. She promised to graduate together with him. It was only one day away. One day. 

Why today? Why did you do it? Y/N...

Namjoon kept crying and crying, the ambulance came but he still didn’t let go off her. He didn’t want to accept the fact that he’ll never see her again. He’ll never feel the warmth, he’ll never wake up beside her in the next morning, the first thing he would see... Her beautiful face, her gentle smile, her deep dimples and her adorable laughter. 

Everything flashed in his eyes, the ambulance took her away. The principal came to talk with him. The students were down like they have lost the sunshine. Yoongi gave him another cup of cappuccino, for the first time. Namjoon saw that Yoongi cried. 

Namjoon stayed in her room. Trying to remember every single details they shared last night. However his eyes spotted something on the desk. A box full with cigarettes, the lighter that she always carried around and a drawing of a crow. He picked up the drawing, observing her beautiful hidden talent.

He flipped it around, at the back was her good bye letter to him. Her last words. He chewed his lips bitterly, picked up the lighter and set the piece of paper on fire. 

At some point, you have to realize that some people can stay in your heart but not your life.

> Masterlist 🌹

[mst3kproject]

Reefer Madness

The first time I saw this movie was on a colourized DVD release with special features, one of which was a commentary.  How exactly do you do a DVD commentary on a movie made in 1936?  Everybody involved in making it is now either senile or dead!  Well, if you already know that everyone watching your movie will be doing so ironically (and probably baked like potatoes), you hire Mike Nelson.  Yes ladies and gentlemen, this the only movie I have ever encountered where the Rifftrack is actually on the official DVD.

Even without that, though, Reefer Madness would be a serious MST3K candidate.  It's full of curiously old teenagers and flamboyant overacting, and is as ridiculous in its condemnation of marijuana as The Sinister Urge was in its insistence that pornography is the worst of all crimes.  It's also widely considered One Of The Worst Movies Ever, an honour it shares with MST3K features like Manos: the Hands of Fate and The Incredibly Strange Creatures who Stopped Living and became Mixed-Up Zombies.  If you can't find the version with Mike's commentary, it's easy to riff it yourself.  Light up and pass the doritos, and let’s watch.

Reefer Madness begins with multiple forms of exposition.  First there's a dull opening crawl about the evils of 'marihuana' (Mike helpfully tells us that this was before the invention of the letter J).  Then there's a series of fake newspaper headlines about the 'war on dope', which flash by too quickly for me to see if there are any new petitions against tax (there are photos showing horses).  Then we go to a special PTA meeting, where high school principal Dr. Alfred Carroll is expounding on the need to make laws and educate our children about drugs.  He promises us a lurid tale of what this horrible substance will drive our children to do.

Then the story finally starts, and we get some characters.  We meet May and Jack, a couple who sell pot out of their apartment – May doesn't like her beau's practice of selling drugs to 'young kids', which he does by singling them out at the local malt shop and inviting them to ‘parties’ – once they get there, they are offered joints in place of cigarettes, and bam!  Instant addicton and g-rated debauchery for everyone!  Laughter!  Singing!  Dancing!  Kissing! Good god, man, it's as if these people are having a good time!  Dilbert's boss is the malt shop's piano player for some reason.

So much for our villains.  Our protagonists are Billy and Mary, who I believe are supposed to be about fifteen or sixteen years old.  Do I need to mention that they're played by twenty-five-year-old actors? I didn't think so.  They drink hot chocolate while studying together, flirt by reading Shakespeare, and use the word 'swell' a lot.  I think the movie wants us to feel that they're nice young folks with their whole lives ahead of them.  I find myself looking eagerly forward to seeing horrible things happen to them.  Sure enough, first Mary’s brother, Jimmy, and then Billy himself are snared by May and Jack, and proceed to descend into drug-fueled madness!

Almost everybody who so much as touches pot in this movie comes to a horrible end.  Mary, worried about her brother and boyfriend, happens across the place and is given a joint.  She didn’t even know what it was, but as soon as it starts taking effect the man who gave it to her tries to rape her.  Moments later, Billy blunders in and sees, and in the ensuing fight Mary gets shot and killed.  Bill is blamed and is sentenced to hanging.  The guy who tried to rape Mary goes insane and beats Jack to death.  May confesses everything to the cops and then, consumed by remorse, jumps out a window to her death.  The would-be rapist is thrown in the nuthouse for the rest of his life, while Billy and Jimmy will have to live with the knowledge that they are at least tangentially responsible for Mary's murder. This is supposed to be a sequence of horrific tragedy upon horrific tragedy, but it's all so histrionic that the audience cannot help but laugh.

Then finally we're back with Dr. Carroll, as he grimly informs us that we must spread the truth about ‘marihuana’ or such tragedies are doomed to happen again.  The movie wants to hold Dr. Carroll up as a crusader for good, but from the point of view of somebody watching while not stoned he comes across as a paranoid asshole.  This whole story of awful things happening because of drugs is him talking, remember, so when we recognize that what he's saying is absurd, we have to assume that it's him exaggerating in order to scare the shit out of his audience of concerned parents.

Then there's the way he treats his students.  At one point in Billy's spiral into addiction, Carroll calls him into his office for a word. There, he tells him he's going to ask him a straightforward question, and then he says “isn't it true that you have, perhaps unwillingly, acquired a certain harmful habit through association with certain undesirable people?”  That's a straightforward question?  I can barely parse that and I'm stone-cold sober!  He adds, “if you ever want to confide in me, no-one will ever be the wiser.” Remember, we're supposedly hearing this sordid story as he tells it to the entire PTA. I'm betting no student ever told him anything ever again.

Another scare tactic used in the movie is much more subtle than the overblown exaggeration.  In the real world kids who try drugs usually do so either out of curiosity or a desire to fit in, but Billy and Mary are both tricked into their first joint.  This tells the viewer that no matter how sweet and well-behaved their kids are, they're still vulnerable to pushers. Mary and Billy are each offered a cigarette they are told is ordinary tobacco, which is actually both funny and deeply repugnant given the movie's emphasis on what good kids they are.  How dare those evil dealers take something as pure and wholesome as smoking and turn it into a tool of moral degredation!

The two 'first joint' scenes also demonstrate quite efficiently that nobody involved in the making of this movie had ever been anywhere near marijuana.  If they had, they would have known that it smells totally different from tobacco... or maybe they wouldn't, because they'd all been smoking cigarettes since they were fourteen and their senses of smell were long extinguished.  It's actually rather uncomfortable how a film that insists marijuana is 'the real public enemy number one!' shows its teenage characters smoking tobacco as if it's the most normal thing in the world.  I asked my grandfather if fifteen-year-olds really smoked back then, and he said they smoked just as much as they could afford to.  How does this species survive?!

Equally hilarious and horrifying is how Reefer Madness places such an emphasis on the ideas of 'truth' and 'education' when it is itself such a fountain of bullshit.  I've only ever smoked pot once (it put me right to sleep), but even I can tell that Reefer Madness engages in some truly staggering hyperbole.  According to Wikipedia, the side-effects of marijuana include dry mouth, red or itchy eyes, paranoia, and a decrease in short-term memory – but none of the twitchy, violent behaviour depicted in this movie.  The stoners I've hung out with are usually too busy snacking their way through philosophical conversations to go out and commit violent crimes – yet here we're shown manslaughter and attempted rape, and are told about (though not shown) a boy murdering his entire family with an axe!

The movie goes to some trouble to show how one person's drug use affects an entire family, but of course it takes it to melodramatic extremes.  It's Mary's concern for her brother Jimmy that leads her to the pot den, where she is accidentally shot in a struggle.  Her parents have to deal with losing one child to drugs and the other to murder, while Billy's parents have to watch their son confess to a crime and be sentenced to hang.  Your children's drug use won't just ruin their lives, it'll make you look bad in front of the neighbours!

All this is very bombastic and silly, but there is exactly one good point buried in it.  Education is important, and is the best way to combat social problems like drugs.  When people know how something works, they're less likely to do it in dangerous ways. Consider sex education: studies suggest that kids who've had comprehensive sex ed actually have less sex than the ones who've been told the devil lurks in a vagina.  They certainly have fewer unplanned pregnancies and STDs.  Sex is not a forbidden fruit to them, so they're less curious about it, and when they do it, they know how to do it safely.  The same is true of marijuana: people who know how to use it responsibly will, whereas those who only know it's a Naughty Thing will just blunder through it and make mistakes.

That's not what Reefer Madness has in mind, though.  The movie has every intention of shouting its lies and exaggerations from the rooftops to scare people off ever trying marijuana in the first place.  In the real world, this will always be counterproductive, because those who have actually used the drug know perfectly well it's not that bad.  Sure enough, by 1938 the supposedly-educational film Tell Your Children had been re-titled Reefer Madness and was playing in grindhouses rather than PTA meetings, having already become a joke.  A camp classic is the only type of classic this could ever have been.

[aestrophilia]

February Favorites | 2017

Time passed by and it’s already February! 2017 started pretty well for me, and I hope it will remain like that for the rest of the year.

It’s already February and that means: VALENTINES DAY IS NEAR!! I can feel the love already! I’ve been waiting for this month since it ended because, our Valentines Fair is near and I cant wait to enjoy three days of no classes. Since it’s already February, kalat na naman ang mga bitter. Andiyan na naman ang mga bitter sa forever…

Anyways, it’s just the second month of the year and school has been so stressful already. We are students, we’re not robots. Sometimes I think teachers forget that school is not about the costly projects, high grades, and perfect scores on exams. School is about learning. But all these crazy stuffs is making me more productive in school and I think that’s weird.

School might have been very frustrating but that wont stop me from trying out things for this blog. Without further ado, let’s get started! Here are my faves for this month:

Iced Coffee – In my country, the weather is slightly cold these past few weeks and coffee is really convenient, not just because of the weather but also because IT HELPS ME TO STAY AWAKE. There are times when I’m so sleepy but I have to study, and a bottle of coffee saves the day. Yes, bottle of coffee, because I prefer iced coffee rather than the usual ones. Take note: A good day starts with a bottle of coffee.

Cheetos – Don’t ask me why, I just love Cheetos.

Pepero – It’s kinda pricey because it always leave my wallet empty. Cookies and cream is my fave, what about you? Comment down your answer.

Sweet Daydream – I think every girl must own at least one Victoria’s Secret product, because duh, VS smells like heaven. It has this fruity scent that you’ll absolutely love. (thanks to my aunt’s friend for giving me this on my birthday)

Pure Seduction – This is also one of my favorite VS product. I have mine in travel size that’s why this is my go-to-perfume for this month. If you’re looking for a perfume that smells amazing and worth the money, buy one from VS. YOU’LL LOVE IT TRUST ME. You could never go wrong with a Victoria’s Secret product. What’s your favorite VS scent? Comment your answer.

Bourbon Strawberry and Vanilla – This is probably the best Bath & Body Works product. It smells like heaven and it’s literally perfection. I love the packaging, it has a nice combination of floral and fruity fragrance, the scent is addicting I SWEAR, and it’s worth the money! Bless Bath & Body Works for having the bests products ever!

Aloe Vera Hand & Body Lotion – I’m not a fan of products that came from extracts of plants because it doesn’t smell good at all (in my opinion) BUT this lotion is an exemption. It doesn’t really smell like aloe vera, but it has a pleasant smell and the packaging is nice and simple. The only con is that, it has a pump bottle, I don’t think it’s a go-to-lotion for travelling because it might spill in your bag… Though, it’s easy to use, it feels light on the skin, and I know you’ll like it as much as I do. By the way, this one is from Marks and Spencer.

China Blue – This one is also from Marks and Spencer. I’m not really a fan of M&S but this product makes me want to buy more from them.

Between Now and Ever After – Love, in whatever shape or form, is always beautiful. Despite hurdles and heartaches, it inspires us to be brave and bold in realizing the desires of our heart. The stories in this collection explore the resetlessness of keeping love a secret for too long, the anxiety of confessing one’s feelings, the exhilaration of having one’s affection returned, and the heartbreak of losing someone dear. Read through the stories written by Pop Fiction’s beloved authors ilurvbooks, fallenbabybubu, peachxvision, j_harry08, and shirlengtearjerky as they share the sweet and bittersweet things of finding love between now and ever after. I didn’t really had a hard time reading this book, fortunately, because it’s just a short story, but, it made my heart ache. If you want to read it, just click here.

Tales of the Peculiar – I don’t know how to explain this but this book is one of my faves for this month. This book is by Ransom Riggs.

Library of Souls – I saw this book in our library a few days ago, and I borrowed it immediately. Though, I haven’t read the 1st and 2nd book, nor watch the movie yet. There’s something in books that I cant explain, I just love reading. This awesome book is also by Ransom Riggs.

Snapchat – Snapchat is fun, Snapchat is life. That’s all.

Highlighters – not the type of highlighter that you use on your face but the highlighter that you use on books. I love highlighting my textbooks which I often end up coloring the whole page. WHERE CAN YOU BUY PASTEL STABILO HIGHLIGHTERS? I want one.

Gel pens – they’re kinda pricey but it makes my handwriting neat and better sooo…

How Far I’ll Go – I always sing this song, everyday! Yes, everyday! And I don’t know why. LSS.

24K Magic – Bruno Mars is slaying again!

Drake – Do I have to explain this? Drake’s songs are the bomb.

That’s all of my February favorites for this year. How about you? What are your favorites this month? Feel free to comment your faves.

La vie est belle! ♡

*sorry this was posted late*

[avelera]

“The Lying Detective” Analysis

Sherlock 4.2, putting it below the cut!

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Oh that was MUCH BETTER!

Oh that episode was such a relief!

So I had to go read some other people’s thoughts on 4.1 before writing my own because frankly... I didn’t really like. In retrospect, that’s because it was “putting to bed” season 3, wrapping it up and since that was overall a rather disjointed season, the episode was disjointed. But I suspected that we were heading towards a reset and boy howdy was I right. Talk about a reset!

Because that, ladies and gentleman, was a fantastic reinvention of Season 1, episode 1 of Sherlock. 

In the starring roles:

Mary Watson as Afghanistan

Culverton Smith as The Cab Driver

Moriarty as Eurus Holmes 

The Cane in a returning role as itself AND as a symbol of their relationship

I could go on, but the send offs to previous GOOD episodes were very, very interesting.

A few quick observations:

The moment I realized we were truly doing my heart’s desire of a reset episode was when Culverton began to confess, perhaps I was a bit slow on the uptake that it took so long. BUT he really was less of a Trump figure than I feared he would be (thank god, I really am sick in anticipation of how much we’ll have to rehash that particular figure in the coming years as every artist out there reacts) and actually much more of the Study in Pink Cab Driver. I liked the discussion of how a wealthy serial killer would get away with it, in fact I’m surprised they didn’t bring up the suspected royal family member who some believed was Jack the Ripper for the very reason that there was no trace so it must have been covered up. BUT I actually gave a round of applause at the call back to the Holmes Murder House of the 19th c. (and another one JUST NOW to the Eurus Holmes murder house of the psychiatrist, very nice!). 

So I expected to hate Culverton’s character as a pithy, 2-dimensional reference to current events and was very pleased that he was really more of a further exploration of the Cab driver’s particular brand of serial killer who needs an audience. The salvation scene of 1.1 was also reinvented in fun and interesting ways that gave me a tear of nostalgia. 

On to the next topic, Mary. As I discussed, Mary has struggled to fit into the Sherlock narrative for all that she’s a fantastic woman, she hasn’t quite fit into the dynamic. Mary the Ghost, however, is a fantastic use of the character. For several reasons:

- We don’t have to wonder why she isn’t coming on cases. She can add her wonderful sardonic insights without real world logistics. 

- She is quite literally now the war John carries with him. She is his new Afghanistan. John was recovering from a horrible loss in 1.1 when he went to Sherlock, and now we’ve had a very real reset there but in a way that adds depth and shows the passage of time. 

- The plot device of Ghost Mary allows John to make deductions. Watson in the ACD books makes explicit that he’s actually not as dumb as his fictional counterpart, mostly he can keep up with Sherlock but he dumbs down his own character in order to explain the deductions to the audience. John is not stupid. John by virtue of being a doctor AND being Sherlock’s colleague for so long, is quite probably the second best detective in the world right now. But he doesn’t allow himself to believe it. The Ghost of Mary making deductions is John making deductions, John freeing himself from his view of himself and how others see him to actually exercise a his very well-trained brain. It’s absolutely delightful to behold him coming into his own in that respect. Interesting too within the context of him seeing himself as a better man in her eyes.

- As I said in my previous analysis, it’s too soon to dissect her “Go to Hell” comment, or John’s infidelity, or anything else because we didn’t have the whole picture yet. Very pleased to be vindicated (albeit on what should have been a very obvious point IT’S A CLIFFHANGER FOR A REASON FOLKS).

- On to other characters, Mrs. Hudson kicked ass in the most delightful way, I’m so glad for the call back to her husband being a drug dealer, I love that it’s her car, loved every second she was in the show. Loved too how she was the one who was first able to crack John’s wall with Sherlock because she knows him. 

- I was incredibly relieved that Eurus not Moriarty is revolving into the season’s villain, it’s a great character to pick, and knowing it’s almost certainly not Moriarty means we can start focusing on the real clues. 

- For example, people assumed Sherlock’s slip up with missing “daughter” instead of son was because Rosie doesn’t exist. But I’ve always taken issue with that. If you want to show a character is an unreliable narrator in film you use their lens. You make sure that a certain event or person is never seen outside that person’s perception. However, we had multiple scenes where Rosie was discussed when Sherlock wasn’t in the room, between characters we know are real and not in any way impaired. So the daughter thing was a good catch by theorists about Rosie, but really it’s about Eurus, which I love. Also as a side note, the Rosie thing probably came out of viewers who worried over how the baby logistics will work out, but the show has already mostly dismissed them in the same way they dismiss John’s need to make money by being a doctor. 

- (As the writer of Bilbo having a child he can’t handle though in No Heir of Durin, I was particularly proud of how similar were my depiction of Bilbo and John over being parents who can’t currently handle raising a child after a romantic partner has died.)

- I’m also proud of deducing that we shouldn’t leap to conclusions about John’s affair as of 4.1, and that it was indeed a trap. What blew my mind was that it was all the same actress between the therapist, “Culveton’s daughter” and the Eurus. Was it the same actress? I’m blown away if so!

On to shippy things!

- Ok so A Study in Pink is really the episode that launched Johnlock, so it’s one more reason I’m delighted because we really, really need these two to reconcile and they finally, finally did. And literally just as I was thinking they were going all heteronormative with the Irene talk, I mean my heart was really sinking, all of a sudden Sherlock didn’t call her and my Johnlock feels were like

- I’m going to have to go back and watch it again but it certainly felt like all that talk of infidelity, “it’s just texting” “we’re only human” etc was really very much about John, Sherlock, and the women in their life vs. their own relationship (and its exact nature). As we recall, Irene said John and Sherlock were a couple. 

- John insisting that Sherlock not let love with Irene get away from him as an expression of his anguish over Mary was wonderfully poignant but also interestingly desperate. As if daring Sherlock to go seize a woman’s love now that John is unattached himself. Also interesting that texting was the nature of John’s infidelity, but it was also his infidelity towards Mary while planning their wedding, when he was constantly texting Sherlock (and she was fine with it, btw, as she is very fine with Sherlock and John being together even in John’s head). 

- And really, Sherlock saying that there’s nothing between him and Irene, that it’s “Just texting” is really him saying “I’m not having an affair, and I’m not interested in her.” It’s his birthday, so she sends him a cheeky text. He doesn’t text back because he’s not and never has been interested. The Night in Karachi is all in John’s head, John assumes there was sex or passion, but we know more than he does and know the interest was never really there. 

- Jumping around slightly, but the moment I knew we’d get an actual, real reconciliation between John and Sherlock the kind which we never truly got in season 3 (because of Mary’s presence, which wasn’t her fault, it was John’s guilt not allowing him to have two people he loved in his life even though she insisted that it’s fine). The reason is... Culverton talking shit about Sherlock. Humiliating him. What John can’t stand about Sherlock is when he’s arrogant and when other people fawn all over him, but he will always defend Sherlock from others who insult him. His heart will overrule any bad feeling to protect him. Culverton tried to drive a wedge between them by undermining Sherlock in John’s eyes which is the exact opposite of what he should do. Call Sherlock crazy, call him an addict, call him scum, and John will remember everything he loves about Sherlock oh and also he’ll beat the shit out of you. 

- (The one thing John can’t stand and which does drive a wedge between him and Sherlock is when Sherlock uses his brain to outsmart John. That is the trust that was violated at the end of season 2, in particular with Sherlock going away and using his brain to convince John he was dead. John is very wary of Sherlock’s intelligence because he respects it so much, and he’s terrified of Sherlock using it against him because he gives Sherlock so much power over him, he has to trust Sherlock won’t violate that trust, that they’re always on the same team. That’s why he’s put up such an unbreachable wall between them since that betrayal. Seeing Sherlock vulnerable though allows them to be on the same team again).

- John’s self loathing over the infidelity is very interesting, and I suspected what it’s really about is showing John is a good man rather than the opposite. He’s tearing himself to pieces, and they never actually did anything. He had locked himself inside a wall of self-hatred, and that’s why Sherlock and Ghost Mary’s forgiveness of him, and the understanding that he was human which meant he could now allow Sherlock and Mary to be human was the thing that needed to finally give way for him to be ok again. He held them both to such high standards, but no higher than he holds himself. John is the pillar of morality, that’s why we were all so outraged over that tawdry little affair (I suspect it’s why Eurus went for that route too, to tear him and Sherlock down by hitting them where it hurts, Sherlock in his deductions and John in his morality). Anyway, allowing himself to be human, and Mary and Sherlock to be human, was the catharsis John needs to be ok again and for him and Sherlock to be ok again and for them to grow as people and reconcile. 

- So I’m still not sure we’ll get canon “johnlock” as in an openly gay relationship, I’ve always been unsure we’d get that in main characters of such a popular show. BUT I’m super relieved that we seem to be heading towards an actual reconciliation where they’re at least together again. That hug between them was hugely cathartic (have they hugged before?) and Sherlock being there for John so they could be ok again. I think Sherlock being in love with John and not straight was made all the more clear. Still not sure we’ll get canon bi John, to be honest. It’d be amazing, but we’ll see, I’d love to be wrong but I won’t be upset if it doesn’t happen. But it’s very interesting that they’re talking about women, infidelity, texting, that we’re seeing the cane again, the serial killer who needs an audience, the mastermind, they’re emotions being played by a villainous figure. In short, we’re getting a retelling of the first episode, when they “fell in love” as a way for them to reconcile in this one and move forward. The reset was very clear, and it’s very clear that Sherlock loves John and John is now ok again to be around him again, so I’m curious to see what happens next. But this was a much, much better episode. The series feels back on track (knock on wood!).

[clausvonbohlen]

24 Deligianni Street, Athens.

24 Deligianni street is where I live. It is a πολυκατοικία – an apartment block. Literally, this means: ‘many (πολύ) – relating to (κατά)  - the home (οίκος) ,  a ‘many-home-dwelling’. Oίκος  is the archaic root that resurfaces in English words such as ‘economy’ (the management of the home), and ecology (the study of the home, in this case planet earth). It is a good example of how, in Greece and in Greek, the ancient and the modern, the old and the new, are interconnected.

  My building is located in Exarcheia, beside the archaeological museum and midway between Exarcheia square, to the south, and Pedio Areos park, to the north. This was once a very desirable neighborhood, but in the 1960s and 70s many of the more affluent inhabitants moved out of the centre and into the suburbs. Immigrant communities were drawn to Exarcheia because of low rents and good transport links, and now it is very diverse, with many Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, Nigerians, and, more recently, Afghans and Syrians.

  The archaeological museum is next to the National Technical University of Athens, the Πολυτεχνείο,  famous for the student uprising against the military junta in 1973, in which 23 students died. Exarcheia has been an area of politicised resistance ever since; the mantle has now been taken up by a broad group that define themselves as anarchists, though this appears – at least from the outside - to include anyone with any kind of grievance.

  My building dates from 1930. It has an old cage lift built by Schindler lifts, a company founded in Lucerne, Switzerland, in 1874. This lift is not much newer, and some of its important looking cables are patched up with yellow insulating tape. To step into it is, firstly, to feel a little bit nervous, and, secondly, to step back in time.

  My apartment is on the fifth floor. It has a terrace on which I have  recently started to grow bougainvillea, jasmine, wisteria, solanum and fragrant rhyncospermum. My mornings now begin with a round of watering, and then the sweeping of leaves and petals that the night breeze has shaken to the ground. It is a fine way to begin a new day, and reminds me of life in a Zen monastery.

  The terrace overlooks the the archaeological museum, which houses the gold mask that Schliemann unearthed at Mycenae in 1876. Caution was not Schliemann’s guiding principle; upon finding the mask, he telegraphed King George of Greece to say, ‘I have gazed upon the face of Agamemnon.’ Subseqent archaeological research has concluded that the mask predates the period of the legendary Trojan war by about 300 years. Nevertheless, when I sit on my sweet-scented terrace and feel the life-affirming tingle of inspiration, then I sometimes wonder whether I might be picking up the energetic emanations of an ancient warrior-poet, relayed to me across the ages through his gold death mask, just a stone’s throw away.

  On other nights, the terrace is an excellent place to watch the clashes between anarchists, who throw Molotov cocktails, and the riot police, who mostly stand around smoking and looking bored. The clashes happen once or twice a month, and they have now acquired an oddly scripted quality, as if everyone involved is playing a role in which they no longer believe. The only exception are the journalists who pullulate behind the police. They are immediately obvious because of the luminous rectangles of their film cameras, and because they wear elephantine gas masks. Sometimes I feel as if I have box seats in an absurdist theatre.

  My mother is coming to visit me next month. She will like the fact that I live beside the archaeological museum. When I was a teenager, she once told me that as a young girl she dreamt of becoming an archaeologist. But she never went to university, since from a young age she was a pawn in her parents’ acrimonious divorce, both of whom refused to pay for her education. She ended their ugly game by becoming a stewardess, thereby gaining her total independence at a comparatively young age. But it was a significant moment for me when she told me that she had wanted to become an archaeologist, because it was the first time that I had thought of her as a full person, with a life before I was born, and with dreams and ambitions of her own. I remember feeling a rush of tenderness for her then, as I do whenever I think back to that moment.

  My landlady, Κυρία Φητίλης, lives on the floor below me. She is eighty years old and lives with what I initially thought was her mother, but I have since found out is the family’s former servant. This lady, whose name I do not know, is 99 years old. I don’t think I have ever met a 99 year old before. She is not surprisingly rather shrunken, with tremendous hairs sprouting from her upper lip and chin. She is very hard of hearing, and forgetful, so I have to shout to re-introduce myself every time I enter their apartment to pay my rent. However, she has a bat-like sensitivity for the sound of doorbells, and should her sonar pick up on the ringing of a bell, her tremulous cry of πιος είναι ? – who is it? – reverberates around the entire πολυκατοικία.  But what I find most astonishing is the thought that she was already a young woman when the Nazis came goose-stepping through the centre of Athens.

  Shortly after I moved in, I shared the lift with another tenant, this one in her sixties. Having confirmed that I was the new tenant on the 5ht floor, she then asked me if I was married.

  ‘No,’ I replied.

  ‘Ah, you must meet my daughter. She works in the university museum in Plaka.’

  Then she noted down my phone number. A couple of days later I received a bashful message from her daughter, offering me a tour of her museum. I took her up on the offer and she gave me a very thorough tour of a rather uninspiring museum.

                                 *

  24 Deligianni is pressed up against its neighbours. The buildings must share some of the inner stairwells, since from my own kitchen I can clearly hear the family who live in the next door building, when they are in their kitchen. Most often I hear the mother, whose accent is deep and African, and whose vocal range is impressive. She likes to chat on the phone while cooking; at least, that is what I infer from her long monologues, punctuated by laughter, and accompanied by bubbling and splashing noises.

  In my mind’s eye I can’t help picturing her with a tea towel around her head and a big white apron, like Mammy in ‘Gone With the Wind’. That does, I fear, make me a racist, albeit an unconscious one. In my defence, I did grow up with a much-loved cuddly toy golliwog, and I remember collecting the rather natty little ‘Golly’ badges that came with jars of Robinson’s jam. It is not just Κυρία Φητίλης’  centenarian servant who has seen changes in their lifetime.

  My direct neighbours are a young graphic designer couple who live on the same floor as me. Their apartment is similar in size and shape, but while I have tried to preserve the style and spirit of old Athens, theirs is contemporary and cool and decorated with bright pieces of pop-art furniture. It seems we are all attracted to the unfamiliar, though that means different things for different people.

  I was reminded of this when I met Zoe, a Greek girl who has set up a small artists’ cooperative in an old villa, not far from my apartment. She took me for coffee near the cooperative, in an elegant and minimalist new cafe that serves artesanal coffee. ‘Some Swiss contemporary artists came to visit recently,’ she confessed to me, ‘and I brought them here. They were horrified. So inauthentic! they kept saying. So gentrified! Well, I pretended to agree with them, but the truth is that all my life I have been longing for Athens to get a little bit gentrified, and now that it has – even if it’s just one small cafe – I’m delighted!’

  For some people, Athens is a city with longed for pockets of gentrification.  For others, it is ‘the new Berlin’. For me it is a time-warp to a slower, more peaceful, analogue past. Once again I am brought to the realisation that we all seek out what pleases us, and ignore the rest, and thereby create the reality which we experience, and which we mistakenly assume to be the same for everyone.

                              *

  If I walk directly north from 24 Deligianni street, I soon come to the Pedio Areos park. Many homeless people live here. During the day they mostly sleep in the park, screened from view by bushes and trees. At night they congregate in front of what is now a boarded up building, but was once a tea salon. When I walk past this area in the early morning, on my way to swim in the Panelinios Atheltic Club pool, it is a depressing sight. Some addicts lie passed out on the steps of the building, while others scour the pavement for lost drugs. Small fires smolder, kept alive by pieces of broken furniture. Food remains litter the area and are fought over by dogs and pigeons. But by the time I return from swimming, the street cleaners have swept everything away.

  A few weeks ago I stumbled back this way late at night, rather drunk. I loitered for a few moments and was soon approached by an Afghan  dealer, from whom I bought a small quantity of refined opium. I was reminded of organic farm-to-table restaurants in San Francisco, though happily my Afghan dealer spared me a lecture on the precise location of the poppy field where the opium poppies had been harvested. A bearded hipster waiter in San Francisco would not have been so reticent.

  I also bought what I thought was crack, but turned out to be crystal meth. Service was excellent and the meth dealer even threw in a new glass pipe, for free. Then I went home and smoked my purchases. The alcoholic fug exploded instantly and I felt great. I was way too wired to sleep, but not in a jittery way, since the opium made for a dreamy wakefulness. I stayed up all night and read a book from cover to cover.

  I was still feeling pretty good the following day, but when the crash finally came, it was worse than I have ever experienced. I know that you only ever borrow energy - the loan will always be called back in eventually. But I was not anticipating that eviscerating intensity of inner emptiness. It lasted for four days, during which I scanned every new room for places that could support a noose. Having come through safely on the other side, I can confidently state that this experience marks the end of my intermittent 20 year relationship with recreational narcotics.

  The memory of that wintery narco-weekend has faded. We are now in άνοιξη – spring, literally ‘the opening’. The fine days are here again. And so, on an afternoon with a sky so blue that it hurt, I strolled up Pnyx, the hill where the ancient Athenians held their assemblies. In front of me two dogs were playing, pointed ears bouncing up and down above the meadow flowers. Their owners were two Greek girls whose limpid laughter reverberated in the clear air. Behind me was the βέμα, the speaker’s platform carved out of the rock, from which every Athenian citizen had the right to speak on matters concerning the polity. And beyond the girls and the meadow, hovering in the distance like a vision, was the Parthenon itself, sanctuary of the Goddess, icon of Athens, and symbol of Western civilization.

  As I walked back home, I remembered the line attributed to the Emperor Marcus Aurelius in Ridley Scott’s ‘Gladiator’: ‘There was once a dream that was Rome.’ Perhaps the Emperor overslept; five hundred years earlier, there was a dream that was Athens. It excluded many, but it was a dream nonetheless.

  I opened the heavy front door of 24 Deligianni street and took the cage lift up to my apartment. I went out to the terrace. A pale moon hung low above the archaeological museum. For a few moments, my own life here seemed unreal to me. But perhaps that shouldn’t come as a surprise; it is, in a sense, a dream within a dream.

[katkatcorf-blog]

smoke but no fire

by Kat Corfman / feature article published in The Yale Herald / 09.22.17

Settling into a corner table at Jojo’s, I open my laptop and start typing. My closest friend at Yale sits across from me with her iced latte and asks what homework I’m doing. This, I’ve noticed, is how we bond at Yale: not just by getting coffee, but by sharing our academic sufferings.

I tell her that, actually, I’m researching Tobacco-Free Yale. She laughs — she’s a smoker, herself — and waits to find out what the hell that is and if I’m going to try and convince her to give up the habit.

“Let’s clear the air” is no longer just an opening for an uncomfortable confession. Now, thanks to the Yale administration, it’s a slogan for a health campaign that President Peter Salovey calls “a journey to become a tobacco-free campus.”

In the Information Age, it’s nearly impossible to be oblivious to the dangers of tobacco: its direct link to various cancers is common knowledge, and nicotine’s addictive quality makes quitting a challenge. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), the habit claims the lives of nearly 500,000 Americans each year, so it’s no surprise that Yale aims to eradicate the practice on its campus.

By introducing the Tobacco-Free Yale initiative as a campaign, rather than simply banning smoking, it’s clear that Yale was hoping to engage its student body in the process. But the administration’s sudden desire to get involved was woefully off-target.

In the fall of 2015, Yale’s campus was steeped in media attention over two controversies, both of which demanded direct and immediate response from the administration. What was then Calhoun College, named for the vehement 19th-century white supremacist, was the focus of numerous protests as students pushed for its renaming. Then, in October of that year, one Yale professor sent out an email encouraging students to dress up as they pleased for Halloween, regardless of potential cultural or racial offensiveness. This provoked additional widespread backlash and further magnified tensions on campus.

In the midst of all this commotion, as students grew increasingly frustrated over the administration’s lack of (appropriate) action, Tobacco-Free Yale was launched. Whether it was intended to be a demonstration of the administration’s interest in campus affairs or a simple attempt to divert attention from two considerably more precarious issues, the campaign instantly fell flat.

In November 2015, the month of the campaign’s launch, Yale held a kickoff event at the Schwarzman Center offering refreshments and free water bottles. Even if you missed the kickoff event, you may have seen the laminated posters around campus oh-so-cleverly imploring us to “clear the air.” But of all the students I spoke to, only about half of them even knew what the campaign was.

On the Tobacco-Free Yale website, there’s a link to the campaign’s Facebook page. Upon opening the page, the viewer is greeted by the header photo, which is a collage of “No Smoking” signs boldly declaring that “YALE UNIVERSITY IS TOBACCO FREE.” The page has a whopping total of 306 likes — less than two percent of Yale’s combined student and faculty population.

This publicity deficit is stark when we consider the wealth of resources at Tobacco-Free Yale’s disposal. The Yale Tobacco Center of Regulatory Science offered grants ranging from $25,000 to $75,000 for “projects that study tobacco additives and modified risk tobacco products,” according to the first article posted on the Tobacco-Free Yale website in October 2015.

But given the Tobacco-Free Yale campaign’s failure to gain traction among the student body, one may speculate whether Yale’s tobacco scene is prevalent enough to warrant this degree of expenditure or if these funds could have been allocated to more relevant, student-advocated projects. It’s not hard to conjure up a list of possibilities for how this kind of money could be spent — subsidizing textbooks or printing services, for example.

Tobacco-Free Yale can pour university resources into kickoff events and free food, but at the end of the day, how is this mass tobacco sweep being enforced? In a YDN article following the launch event, Yale’s Deputy Vice President for Human Resources and Administration, Janet Lindner, is quoted as having called the campaign an “outreach,” meaning that it will not involve “smoking police.” I approached a couple of Yale Security officers with the hope of getting a sense of how much enforcement there is, if any, when it comes to reducing tobacco use on campus. When I asked if they would ever ask a student or faculty member to put out their cigarette or to move elsewhere, one of them replied, “Would you?” I told him the truth: no, I wouldn’t. He nodded and shrugged. “It’s a hard thing to do.”

In order to get on the American Nonsmokers’ Rights Foundation’s list of smoke- and tobacco-free colleges and universities, either smoking or tobacco must be 100 percent prohibited by the school. This would mean no designated smoking areas, no special exemptions or permissions, and actual enforcement of those rules. But, according to one Yale junior who asked to remain anonymous, it’s easy to smoke anywhere on Yale’s campus (except inside university buildings, as specified by state law).

President Salovey hopes that Yale will “become a model for other universities to emulate,” as he asserts in the Tobacco-Free Yale mission statement. If the university does become totally tobacco-free, it will be the first Ivy League school to do so, although Harvard launched its own efforts to become tobacco-free in 2014. One could argue that there is nothing wrong with wanting to be first, but perhaps this aim fuels further doubt as to the campaign’s motives.

There remains a much simpler explanation for the campaign’s apparent stagnancy. Maybe the fire isn’t catching because there isn’t enough kindling — perhaps tobacco use just isn’t a major issue at Yale.

The campaign’s website provides a plethora of statistics detailing the negative health effects of smoking, the benefits of quitting smoking, and a few statistical points about the smoking scene in colleges. But what does this tell us about our school?

Despite the Tobacco-Free Yale campaign’s enthusiasm for statistics, there has been no data collected on tobacco use at Yale specifically. The state of Connecticut, however, has one of the lowest smoking rates in the United States (13.5 percent in 2016), and its restaurants and bars are by law 100 percent smoke-free. Connecticut is also one of only two states that has not allocated any amount of state funds for the prevention of tobacco use.

Over the summer, incoming first-years are required to complete an online course entitled, “Work Hard, Play Smart: Making Mindful Choices about Alcohol and Other Drugs.” Because nicotine (the primary additive in tobacco) is a drug, tobacco is often lumped in with these categories. And yet, the hour-long interactive session, which is produced by Yale, makes no mention of it. Although the Tobacco-Free Yale campaign outwardly claims student wellness as its top concern, the initiative is not yet influential enough to merit inclusion in this mandatory course on substance use.

Since its inception, Tobacco-Free Yale appears to have had almost no effect on tobacco consumption. Yale views campus tobacco use as a problem extensive enough to have warranted multi-thousand-dollar grants towards its initial research, yet the campaign remains virtually invisible. While any reduction in smoking would undoubtedly be a positive development, Tobacco-Free Yale’s stagnation — especially in light of the campaign’s questionable origins amid campus-wide upheaval — may suggest a loss of interest on the part of Yale’s administration.

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