#I feel like everyone is so utterly disconnected from the reality of nature by the hyperconsumerist values that get propagandized to us

[oglegoggle]

I honestly don’t get how many people get upset about the notion of putting down an animal that attacks people? Like dude? Yeah it’s 100% reasonable to eat the goddamn rooster that slashed up your kid’s face. It eliminates the problem and it’s delicious. Americans are so squeamish about death that they either refuse to acknowledge that the meat they get from the store comes from an animal that was once alive or they decide that no animals should ever be eaten ever under any circumstances and both are utterly dipshit opinions.

[catboypalug]

The original 'virgin vs chad' meme

I feel like everyone is sick of those stupid soyjack vs Chad "my opinion is good and based and correct, your opinion bad and wrong and stinky" memes by this point, as they're some of the lowest forms of current internet 'humor.' But precisely because those memes are so bad and also everywhere, I feel it's worth giving some credit to the fact that the original "The Virgin Walk / The Chad Stride" was actually a brilliant meme.

"The Virgin Walk" image showed up first, and it was standard 4chan stuff - which is to say, highly negative. Just a whole bunch of random small traits that people can have, bundled together in an accusatory way to try and make people insecure about them having "virgin" posture, by the kind of people who genuinely worries about being an "alpha male" (Or possibly pointing out their own flaws as a form of self-hatred, flip a coin when it comes to 4chan)

And then, on another thread, someone made the Chad Stride edit to go along with it.

It's a great piece of satire by how simple it is. Just by taking the traits listed in the original image, then inverting and exaggerating them, the result is an absurd caricature of a man who does not (and should not) exist. Through exaggeration, it demonstrates how the people who constantly worry about seeming 'Chad-like' are chasing after behaviour that is utterly unhinged and disconnected from reality.

I think this gif demonstrates it perfectly by putting it in motion:

Virgin is a normal, if insecure dude. Chad is an absolute fucking maniac. (Not to mention all the references to violence in the image)

So, while it did degrade into those awful soyjak memes we all know and hate because that is the nature of the internet, I feel like it's worth remembering that in the original image that spawned this entire trend, you're supposed to laugh at Chad. You shouldn't want to be Chad, because he's the menace to society [ credit to the gif's creator: https://x.com/art_miguelito/status/1107313740033212417 ; thanks to @softwaring for linking it ]

[hekateinhell]

NSFW headcanon: Daniel walks in to Armand and Lestat in one of their hate fucks. They don't notice, until they do.

@cup-of-lixx scandalizing everyone's inboxes lmao. For the NSFW prompt thing. Armand/Lestat, implied threesome sitch at the end, rated M (dubcon but not really, rough sex, spanking, Daniel's confused af).

It's not a sight Daniel expected to see, that's for fucking sure. Then again, that could've been his motto since 1973.

He'd followed the sounds of glass breaking, Armand and Lestat's voices arguing in heated French, in accents that didn't particularly belong to this time. He usually tries to stay out of their shit—everyone knows Lestat and Armand have their spats and it’s all very unpleasant until it’s over. Regular like clockwork, predictable as a New York City snow in January. And if Lestat wanted Armand dead, he would have been a pile of ashes long ago, right? is Daniel’s usual go-to comfort thought.

All that to say—when Daniel heard Armand make the noise that he did, a long-dormant protective instinct kicked into gear (because really, who does Armand need protection from besides himself?), and he’d flung the door to the study right off its hinges before he even knew what he was doing. As if there was a shot in hell he could stop anything going down in there.

At first glance, it doesn’t look good. In fact, it looks downright horrific.

“Your maker… He’s a loud one, isn’t he, Daniel? I do apologize.” Lestat smirks at him good-naturally and winks, everything about his demeanor negating his statement as soon as he says it. His grip around Armand’s throat slacking enough for the smaller vampire to let out a broken moan as Lestat drives back into him with a motion so carelessly rough it ought to hurt, even to an immortal. The antique desk creaking from the force of every brutal thrust.

Daniel can't hear Armand's thoughts; it’s especially tortuous now because does he stay or does he go? The glassy-eyed, shell-shocked look in Armand's dark eyes as he gazed in his direction seemingly unseeing, the quiver to his bloodstained lips could just as easily be from pleasure as it could be from pain.

Lestat’s wide grey eyes never leave Daniel’s violet ones with every obscene, slick motion of his hips against Armand's pliant body. Your “boss” is fine, Danny boy. Don’t fret! The teasing lilt comes through even through the Mind Gift, but not enough to make Daniel want to budge, to leave Armand to… this.

And shamefully—shameful because he doesn’t know the exact nature of the encounter he’s walked in on—Daniel feels the hot white arousal in his body make itself evident in the most obvious of ways.

Oh, Armand's played it before for sure, but Daniel’s never seen him in this state: meek, ragged, submissive, utterly disconnected from reality.

Lestat's nostrils flare and he grins like the cat that caught the canary. His hand coming to pet Armand’s curls gently as he bends down to whisper into his ear, purely for Daniel’s benefit, for the full inflection of his words to hit home.

“You like that, don’t you, chéri? You enjoy your fledgling seeing you used like a common whore. But look at the poor dear! Look how concerned he is! Take mercy on him and let him know that you permit this.”

Roused back to life, Armand’s eyes finally focus on Daniel’s panicked, puzzled expression. A low whine emitting from the back of his throat as he groans before his angelic face smooths itself out into a warm smile. Oddly serene as Lestat deals two punishing blows to his backside in quick succession, the claps reverberating throughout the room. “It’s alright, beloved. It’s how beasts in the wild release their frustrations from time to time, you understand.”

Daniel nods, not entirely sure that he does, but he’s long since stopped trying to make sense of the complicated, incestuous relationships that make up their extended family. Armand’s head turns slightly as he reaches a hand back to grip Lestat’s forearm, and Daniel can sense the mental communication playing out between them.

Lestat pressed a reverent kiss to Armand's nape, golden hair dusting over the pale skin—much more vibrant than Daniel’s ashy blond, and a wicked contrast to Armand’s fiery auburn. He then straightens and waves Daniel over with his right hand, his left never leaving Armand’s hip, a devilish glint in his eyes.

“Your maker feels considerately wretched at having disturbed you. And I suppose it would be beneficial for him to practice being more mindful with his mouth, if you understand.”

Now that, Daniel understood perfectly well.

[c-ptsdrecovery]

Source: What is C-PTSD from Beauty After Bruises

From that source:

WHAT DOES C-PTSD LOOK LIKE?

   To delineate some these hallmark challenges - as outlined in the proposed Complex PTSD criteria - we'll begin with the one that shows up most frequently in day-to-day life: emotion regulation. Survivors with Complex PTSD have a very difficult time with emotions -- experiencing them, controlling them, and for many, just being able to comprehend or label them accurately. Many have unmanaged or persistent sadness, either explosive or inaccessible anger, and/or suicidal thoughts. They may be chronically numb, lack the appropriate affect in certain situations, be unable to triage sudden changes in emotional content, or struggle to level out after a great high/low. It's also very common for these survivors to re-experience emotions from trauma intrusively - particularly when triggered. These feelings are often disproportionate to the present situation, but are equal to the intensity of what was required of them at the time of a trauma -- also known as an emotional flashback.

   Difficulty with self-perception is another fundamental struggle for complex trauma survivors -- particularly because their identity development was either fiercely interrupted or manipulated by someone with ulterior motives. In its simplest form, how they see themselves versus how the rest of the world does can be brutally different. Some may feel they carry or actually embody nothing but shame and shameful acts - that they are "bad".  Others believe themselves to be fundamentally helpless; they were let down by so many who could've stopped their abuse but didn't, so it "must just be them". Many see themselves as responsible for what happened to them and thus unworthy of kindness or love because "they did this to themselves". And, countless others may feel defined by stigma, believe they are nothing more than their trauma, worry they're always in the way or a burden, or they may sense they're just completely and utterly different from anyone or anything around them - they are alien. Startling as it is, all of these feelings and more can live inside someone whom, to you, seems like the most brilliant, competent, strong, and compassionate human being you know.

   Interruptions in consciousness are also a prevalent - and at times very scary - reality in Complex PTSD. Some may forget traumatic events (even if they knew of them once before), relive them intrusively, recall traumatic material in a different chronological order, or other distressing experiences of what is called dissociation. Dissociation is a symptom that exists on a spectrum, ranging anywhere from harmless daydreaming or temporarily "spacing out"; to more disruptive episodes of feeling disconnected from one's body or mental processes, not feeling real, or losing time; all the way to the most severe, which includes switching between self-states (or alters), as is seen in Dissociative Identity Disorder. Episodes of missing time can range anywhere from a few minutes, a couple days, or even large chunks of one's childhood. The larger gaps in time are typically only seen in DID, but those with C-PTSD alone can still endure 'interruptions in consciousness' that result in memory gaps, poor recall, traumatic material that is completely inaccessible, or, conversely, re-experiencing trauma against their will (e.g. flashbacks, intrusive images, body memories, etc.)

   Difficulty with relationships may seem like a natural progression since each area mentioned thus far can affect how fruitful your relationships are. But, these challenges go beyond a lack in quality or richness. This refers more to a survivor's potential to feel completely isolated from peers and not even knowing how to engage, to harboring an outright refusal to trust anyone (or just not knowing why they ever should), trusting people way too easily (including those who are dangerous, due to a dulled sense of alarm), perpetually searching for a rescuer or to do the rescuing, seeking out friends and partners who are hurtful or abusive because it's the only thing that feels familiar, or even abruptly abandoning relationships that are going well for any number of reasons.    With this in mind, and knowing more about the depths to which C-PTSD sufferers battle with their self-perception and interpersonal relationships, it may make it easier to empathize with them on the next category, which is:

   The perception of one's perpetrators. This can be one of the most insidious battles for some survivors with Complex PTSD -- even if it seems crystal clear to those on the outside. Victims of such prolonged trauma may eventually surrender, assuming their abuser(s) total power over them, possibly even maintaining this belief once they're 'free'. "I'll always be under their thumb, they call all the shots, they may even know what's best for me more than I ever will." Others may feel deep sadness or profound guilt at just the thought of leaving them - including long after they've successfully left, if they were able. Some may remain transfixed by their abuser's charming side or the warm public persona that everyone loves; it may feel truly impossible to think ill of them. Many hold a constant longing for their abusers to just love them - craving their praise well into adulthood, slaving away in their personal lives just to make them proud. Alternatively, there are others who may obsess about them angrily, holding only hatred and disdain for them to the point of persistent bitterness and/or vengefulness. Some can even stir desires to seek that revenge. (Though, it should be clearly noted that it's not at all common for them to actually do so. It's more about the thoughts than the actions.)

   Many survivors can have a primary, more surface-layer set of thoughts and feelings about their perpetrator(s), particularly when asked. They may know what they're "supposed to say" or "supposed to feel", and then follow suit. But it's helpful to know that a collection of all these responses can, and often does, coexist within one person, vacillating between extremes underneath what's shown to the world or even to themselves. Day to day, and year to year, their feelings may shift - and - what the survivor knows to be true intellectually versus what they feel emotionally may remain incongruent for a very long time.

   One's 'System of Meanings'.  Of the many, many well-observed developmental disruptions those with C-PTSD face, one that many find to be the toughest to conquer, even with therapy, is one with which we hope to offer the most help and support. That area is what's referred to as one's 'system of meanings' ; an area that, after being subjected to such tumultuous trauma, can feel almost irreparable. What this criterion is referring to is the struggle to hold on to any kind of sustaining faith or belief that justice will ever be served to indiscretions of ethics and morality. These survivors' outlook on life and the world at large can be unfairly contorted, and understandably so.

   They may doubt there is any goodness or kindness in the world that isn't selfish-hearted. They may worry they'll never find forgiveness. Others may even believe they only came to this world to be hurt, so there can be no good coming for them. This level of hopelessness and despair, as well as these greater meanings assigned to their suffering, can fluctuate greatly over time. There may even come several years where things no longer feel so bleak or as though they were conned of a meaningful life. But, as more layers of trauma are processed in therapy, or new memories bubble to the surface, they may wrestle with it once more as new feelings strike a devastating chord inside their chest. This is a common experience for so many survivors, and can have lasting ramifications with each plunge. We want to be here to help bring pause to those deep swings into the darkness - doing what we can to keep survivors in the light a little longer. Or, better yet, support them in adding some of that light inside of themselves. That way, even if they need to hide in the darkness for a bit, the light never leaves them for good.  We're still here.

[sunflowersoonyoung]

honeyed | jinho

w.c ↠ 2.5k

pairing↠ jinho x fem! reader

genre/s ↠ smut (light bondage, overstimulation, fem!oral), incubus! jinho, soft dom! jinho, supernatural au!, office au!

description ↠ falling asleep at work leads to an oddly realistic dream about your hot boss Jinho

warning/s ↠ suggestive themes, supernatural themes

a/n ↠ wow okay can you tell that jinho is my ptg bias. I seriously thirsted over him in this oneshot. this is one of my favourite smuts I've written here! I wrote it carefully and reread it three times so I'm proud of it :)

tags ↠ @prismwon

-

Anxiety washed over you from head to toe, rising with each passing second. You clasped a trembling hand to your chest to feel your heart fluttering against your ribcage.

Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself before pushing open the glass door to work.

The publishing office was bright with mellow, natural lighting, an open room dotted with large desks cluttered with stationary. Some of your coworkers had already arrived and had busied themselves with various tasks - bustling distractedly around the room.

“G-Good morning, everyone!”

You tried to announce your presence as boldly as you could; despite this, barely anyone bothered to even glance in your direction. You swallowed nervously and made a bee-line for your desk.

New to the workforce and fresh from University, acclimatising had been a difficult journey. No one was willing to sacrifice any precious time to help you - or even welcome you, for that matter. You felt utterly ostracised by the team. They had all apparently established their clique, and you were not invited.

The one exception had been the lead editor: Jo Jinho, your boss and the office eye candy.

“Good morning, (F/n).”

As if reading your thoughts, Jinho’s melodic voice drifted over your shoulder. You swallowed, feeling sweat prickle your armpits in response to his presence.

“You look bright today. I hope you’re making good progress on that manuscript.”

You pivoted in your chair to face him, in turn becoming stricken by his gaze. There was something unusual about Jinho, something that had successfully hypnotised many of your coworkers, including yourself.

He was impossible to resist. From his handsome exterior to his pleasant interior, he was genuinely mesmerising - like the sunrise in the morning after a cold night.

“Y-Yes, thank you,” you stammered, forcing a polite smile. Jinho’s smile in response was a thousand watts bright, his creased eyes just as radiant.

He was gone just as quickly as he had appeared, interacting with everyone else on the path to his desk. Your nerves melted from your taut muscles, and you breathed a sigh of relief, secretly thankful that Jinho had moved on. Being beneath his attention was too challenging to handle. You withdrew your laptop from your bag and made a start on work for the day.

Unfortunately, your concentration was coming through like a sputtering hose. You were not yet accustomed to working in a room with ten other people and limited silence.

Your attention drifted around the office. You observed conversations, watching as a young girl was scolded; a middle-aged man answered the phone with a frustrated visage.

You could not help but become drawn to Jinho.

He was hovering over someone’s shoulder - Seunghee, you vaguely remembered her name to be. Girls in the editing team tended to ask him for help suspiciously frequently. It was apparent they all simply longed after Jinho’s presence.

Admittedly, it was tempting. In that position, you could feel his breath against your ear.

You quickly became absorbed in observing him. It was not just his pretty features. His expressions were genuine, his explanations clear and concise. Fully believing you were free to admire him, you forgot your surroundings and lost yourself.

Abruptly, Jinho’s gaze shifted from Seunghee’s work to you. It was such a subtle shift that you almost failed to notice it. Electricity shot across your skin upon realisation, heat blossoming from your ears to your cheeks.

Though it was too late, you looked back to your computer screen. Out of the corner of your eyes, you could see him grinning. That cruel image worsened your embarrassment.

As your mind buzzed with thoughts of Jinho’s grin, you struggled to return your focus to the manuscript as much as you tried. You huffed frustratedly.

“Everything okay, (F/n)?”

You wondered with horror if he intended to make things more difficult. Your humiliation should have been apparent, and yet here he was, standing directly behind you with a hand resting on the back of your chair.

“Y-Yes,” you responded, refusing to tear your eyes from your laptop. You could hear your voice quaking.

His palm settled on your desk, confining you. It was no longer possible to pretend he wasn’t there. His face was far too close for you to deal with.

“Really? Hmm,” He hummed, “There must be some other reason you were staring at me then.”

You could not even begin to imagine how crimson your face was. Was Jinho teasing you? It certainly felt like it.

He snorted faintly, withdrawing. On the edge of your vision, you could see him smiling broadly.

-

After getting very little work done for the rest of the afternoon, you opted to stay behind and work overtime. The manuscript was due tomorrow evening, after all.

The office buzz began to fade, gradually declining till the room was entirely quiet. The only thing disconnecting the silence was the sound of fingers against keyboards.

You decided to take a short break as your fatigue began to increase. Shadows from the night sky crept across the floor. Usually, you liked to be fed and warm at home by this time. Your eyelids were heavy, your thoughts sluggish and tired.

It was only you and Jinho remaining at this stage. You had managed to keep your thoughts away from him until now. He was wrapped up in his work; his face blank with concentration. Sighing, you ignored him and returned to your own business.

The words on your laptop screen began to blend with each passing second. You squinted, blinking rapidly to counter the weariness that was dousing you like warm water. You had never been so tired at work - it was as if you were being dragged down by an invisible force, and nothing you did could stop it. It was a similar sensation to having too much alcohol.

Before you knew it, your head had lulled onto the cold desk, crumpling the papers in front of you.

-

Alarm overwhelmed your thoughts as you lifted your head from your desk.

You could not believe you had fallen asleep at work. Rubbing your eyes, you looked towards Jinho’s desk in panic, hoping to apologise and then flee. Relief washed over you - his chair was empty. Perhaps he had gone home.

Strangely enough, the room was hazy. Instead of its usual white light, it was rose-tinted and clouded. It did not look familiar to you.

“You fell asleep? How cute.”

You blinked, and Jinho seemed to appear directly beside you, seated on the table with one leg crossed over the other. He was admiring you, cupping his cheek whilst wearing an affectionate smile.

It took a moment for you to react; your head was abnormally thick, so your thoughts were slow, but once you realised what was happening, you became flustered.

“Your face tells me everything - your expressions are so honest. It’s adorable.”

Jinho leapt smoothly to his feet, circling you to place his hands on the back of your swivel chair and then rotating you till you were facing him. You could do nothing, frozen with anticipation and unsure what to expect next.

He leant in closely, leaning on the armrests, and you held your breath. His nose was close enough to brush against yours, yet his expression was unchanged - still as sweet as usual.

“Why don’t you let me make you feel good?” He hummed. His gaze was direct, and you swooned inwardly when you finally met it. In contrast to his soft nature, his eyes were hard. You tried to swallow but your throat had gone dry.

“Wh-what if someone sees?” You stammered shyly.

Jinho chuckled, his eyes crinkling in amusement, “no one will see. I promise.”

He placed his hands on your knees, maintaining eye contact as he rubbed reassuringly. He pushed his hands up your thighs, catching the fabric of your skirt and baring your thighs to the air. You could not look away, dizzyingly mesmerised by him. Your head was getting light and hot.

Finally, Jinho kissed you. It was a shallow, chaste kiss that tasted of vanilla and made you feel as if you were melting into the chair.

You could not split your concentration between the kiss and the way his warm palms rubbed against your thighs. The combination was causing a spike of burning excitement to prickle between your legs.

He parted from you with a soft pop and offered you a hand. You were too flustered and weak-kneed to stand steadily, but it hardly mattered - Jinho did not make you stand for long.

“Let me taste you, gorgeous.”

Jinho was simultaneously gentle and firm as he guided you to his desk, carelessly sweeping it clear. You gasped when he spun you around, essentially folding you over the surface. The varnished wood was cold through the thin fabric of your shirt, momentarily sobering you to reality.

With your ass in the air, he hitched up your skirt to reveal your underpants. You were uneasy about the fact that you could not see what he was doing.

“Hands behind your back, please.”

This was Jinho’s first true order.

The way his voice dropped a few notes sent chills down your spine, goosebumps travelling across your skin. You were trembling as you obeyed, swallowing a nervous squeak when he loosely wrapped fabric around your wrists, tying them together.

“I’m not punishing you, sweet. It’s just some extra fun for you,” Jinho reassured. Admittedly you were both anxious and aroused by his decision to tie you up. It made your heart pound fast against your ribcage.

With you properly restrained, Jinho determined that it was time to begin his ministrations.

His fingers ran up and down your slit through your underwear before hooking the fabric and drawing it aside. You strained against your bonds and arched your back when he made direct contact with your pussy. It was only a subtle touch, and yet pleasure was already rippling across your body.

“That feels good, doesn’t it?”

Jinho’s voice was dripping with honey, and yet his fingers were cruel. He grazed your clit with his fingertip and then dragged his finger back down between your lips and teased your entrance with slight pressure, and then repeated this process.

He was not entirely giving in to you, and you were becoming so sensitive that tears of desperation were beginning to sting your eyes.

“J-Jinho .... please,” you pleaded, feeling helpless - frantic for more.

“Please, what?” He hummed in response, “Tell me what to do, sweet, and I’ll do it. Use your words.”

Despite being dazed and overwhelmed, you still managed to respond, albeit in a small voice, “I-I want your lips and your fingers.”

“Of course, sweet.”

He pressed his thumb directly to your clitoris, and you gasped, toes curling. He languidly rolled his thumb, observing you whilst cleverly allowing your pleasure to build. Your focus honed in on his touches, no longer paying attention to the noises passing through your lips.

“The more I touch you, the prettier noises you make,” Jinho commented.

Abruptly, he filled you up with his forefinger. Your breath hitched in your throat, hardly expecting him to make that leap.

You cried out when his lips sucked in your clitoris, gradually fucking you with his finger. He eased you into a swift orgasm, pressing fluttering kisses to the backs of your thighs while you trembled.

“Good girl~. One more time?”

Before you could respond, Jinho had added a second finger and was pistoning them inside of you much quicker than earlier. You were incredibly wet thanks to your orgasm, and he seemed to be using that to his advantage.

His tongue teased your swollen clit, and you sobbed, “I-I’m too sensitive!” Seemingly uncaring, Jinho dragged you into a second, far more intense orgasm that had your legs thrashing and drool spilling out onto the desk.

Your ears were ringing, but you could hear Jinho chuckling as he removed himself.

“Was that too much?” He mused, cleaning his fingers with his mouth, “Can you take any more?”

You were still an empty shell, electricity and heat clinging to your skin mingled with a sheen of sweat. His hands smoothed over your ass cheeks, a comforting action that made your heart soften. You twisted around to look at him dazedly.

Jinho was just as gorgeous as ever, though he had lost some of his neatness. The restraint around your wrist was apparently his necktie, which was missing, and he had undone his button-up shirt to reveal a sliver of his flawless chest. He combed his fingers through his hair, gleaming at you proudly.

“The look on your face tells me you want more,” he purred, rolling his hips against your backside. You mewled and rocked backwards, feeling his hard cock straining through his pants. You had never been so delirious, hungry to feel every inch of him.

“Ho~ such an insatiable girl,” Jinho unzipped his pants, sliding the tip of his cock over your slick folds. Even that simple action felt incredible.

“Oh, my God.”

Jinho filled you up, stuffing you in one lazy stroke. You were so full, your pussy throbbing delightfully around him.

“Please,” you begged, wanting nothing more than for him to fuck you, “Jinho-ah, please.” He scoffed in response before giving in to your desires.

The way he fucked you was utterly sadistic in contrast to his sweet nature. He was relentless in the way his hips slammed against yours, no longer offering you any mercy. You were defenceless to him, only able to dig your nails into your palm whilst bracing yourself.

“So tight,” he groaned, hanging his head back in bliss.

He angled his hips upwards, the head of his cock meeting a sweet spot. You started contracting around him, the pleasure in the pit of your belly peaking.

“I’m gonna-,” you managed to slur out before you came hard, so hard that stars speckled behind your clenched eyes. You practically ascended into the ceiling, losing all sense of Jinho’s thrusts and anything else around you.

Ink drowned your vision as you passed out.

-

“(F/n)?”

Your head was weighty as you lifted it, heat throbbing between your legs in response to the vivid dream you had just woken from.

Jinho was peering down at you, his hand warm on your shoulder.

“You should go home if you’re so tired,” he sighed, wearing a concerned expression. You were in shock, simply unable to process that what had just occurred had been entirely in your head. You could still feel his thickness inside you, still feel the intense climax he had given you.

“Are you okay? You look flushed,” Jinho cocked his head, the worry growing on his face. You waved your hand dismissively.

“I-I’m fine. I should go home.”

He hovered nearby as you packed away your laptop, silently observing you. You were ready to leave when he finally broke the silence.

“Let’s do that again,” Jinho suggested innocently, his smile no different from his usual one, “you’re so cute when you beg.”

[citrinekay]

and I'd hate to fade alone

@bambikieren and I were talking about the pros and cons of S2 a few days ago, and we both agreed the richness of tension and relationship development between Bill and Holden would have been greatly improved by incorporating Holden's panic attacks. I said something along the lines of "their opposing personal traumas could have made them both feel as if they were alone in the investigation, their partnership from S1 abandoned." She suggested I write a fic about Holden calling Bill after a panic attack in Atlanta, so here it is:

A brief yet unsettling nightmare wakes Bill with a jolt. He was once again treading through the lightning dust to the basement of the house on Cimarron Court. It was pure daylight, full of warm sun. Then he reached the place where he’d witnessed the chalky shape of a cross laden with a toddler’s fragile form, but instead of a cleaned-out crime scene, he laid eyes on Brian hunched over a squirming figure.

Brian is a small kid - doesn’t look capable of anything violent; but behind Bill’s eyelids, he saw the worst possible version of what happened that day the boy died. His son - his own chosen child - smothering the life from the baby. In the dream, Brian looks up from the arduous task, his dark eyes gleaming with infernal impulse.

“Dad,” he says, calmly. “Is the fish dead yet?”

Bill is awake in the next instant, his heart thundering against his ribs and sweat itching in the creases of his armpits and down his back. His mouth is dry, tasting of the three beers he washed down before passing out on the couch.

It takes him a moment to convince himself it was a product of his mind encumbered by stress and fatigue and dread, and nothing more. When he gets his bearings again, he realizes that the clock on the wall isn’t indicating the afternoon but well past one o’clock in the morning. The only light Nancy had left on when she went to bed was the lamp beside the couch. The kitchen and dining area are draped in shadow, familiar fixtures undefined and murky and disconnected from his little pool of yellow light.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the couch, Bill sits up slowly with a groan, and scrubs his hands over his face. The next logical step is getting up from the couch to walk himself to bed where his weary heap of bones belong, but the lingering dread in the pit of his stomach keeps him chained in place.

He isn’t certain when coming home on the weekends from Atlanta began feeling like a second job, but the joylessness is inescapable. Facing Nancy with the noble reassurance that he’s trying to save the lives of children no longer seems feasible just like facing Holden with the lie that he’s dedicated enough to his family to be flying home every weekend for no other reason than to spend time with them had reached the end of it’s credibility.

Perhaps that’s why going back to Atlanta now seems like less work than coming home. In a few short months, his life had become a careful manipulation, a tight-rope walk of convincing everyone in Atlanta, Quantico, and here at home of a specific narrative. While in Atlanta, don’t mention Brian. While at home, don’t mention Atlanta. At Quantico, don’t mention either one. The drive to keep his stories straight burned exhaustion through him like a hot fuse. At least now he isn’t bold-faced lying to Holden.

Rousing himself from the couch, Bill grabs his cigarettes from the side table, and ambles into the darkness of the kitchen. He doesn’t bother to turn on a light as he finds the cupboard by memory, and fills a glass with water from the tap. He washes away the stale taste of beer, and when his throat is no longer aching, replaces it with the heat and nicotine of a cigarette.

Standing over the kitchen sink, he taps ashes down the drain, and studies the night sky beyond the window. Constellations emerge against a tapestry of black, unhindered by clouds. In the silence, despite Nancy and Brian sleeping only a few walls away, he feels utterly alone.

The shrill ring of the telephone jars him from his sinking malaise. He has little time to ponder just who the hell would be calling this late at night as he rushes to grab the receiver and stop it’s ringing from waking Nancy or Brian.

“Hello?”

Raspy, labored breathing rustles across the line, startling his defenses.

“Hello? Who is this?”

“Bill …” Holden whispers, his voice low and trembling, nearly unrecognizable. “Don’t hang up.”

Instant worry seizes Bill’s chest, those hassled defenses migrating into protective alarm. “I’m not. Are you okay?”

He hears Holden swallow thickly.

“It’s so late. Did something happen?” Bill presses.

“I … No.” Holden’s hesitation shines dishonesty clearly through the affirmation.

“Then why are you calling me?”

Silence registers across the miles of phone line between them, but Bill can hear the slight hiccup in Holden’s breathing, the undercurrent of distress that he recognizes because he’s been feeling it bubbling up within his own chest for weeks.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

“No, it’s okay.”

Bill presses his eyes shut as the rushed reassurance rouses another bout of silence, this one rife with confusion.

“It is?” Holden asks, at last.

“Yeah, of course. Look, Holden, I know things have been … rocky between us lately, but I know you care about this case. I know it’s been hard on you.”

“And you,” Holden whispers, carefully.

Bill takes a drag of his cigarette, and steadily exhales smoke past pursed lips. The nicotine doesn’t have the calming affect he’s searching for. Despite his honesty last week, he and Holden haven’t spoken about what happened with Brian. Part of him knows they should, but as the prospect approaches now it twists the knot in his gut tighter.

“Yeah,” he mutters at length.

“If it makes you feel any better, you hid it incredibly well. I had no idea.”

“It doesn’t, but thanks.”

“Got any tips?” Holden asks, offering a hapless chuckle.

“What? For lying to everyone and pretending I’m fine?”

“Yes.”

“None that I’d wish on anyone … least of all a friend.”

Holden’s muted sigh is tremulous. “Are we still … friends?”

Bill adjusts his grip on the phone, and bends to brace his elbows against the edge of the counter. Staring down at the ashes dwindling into the sink, he tries to come up with a response that doesn’t make him the bad guy in this situation. His thoughts are nothing more than an empty roar, taken by exhaustion and panic.

“I want us to be. Is that good enough?” he asks.

“Yes,” Holden agrees, his tone perking up. “I can live with that.”

“Then I guess I should apologize for lying to you and pretending everything was fine.”

“Mhm.”

“So … I’m sorry.”

“Me too. If I’d known-”

“But you didn’t.”

“I could have been a better profiler. Instead, I’ve been completely wrapped up in my own shit. You know, I’ve never felt more alone than I do right now, surrounded by the dozens of people who are on this task force. God, I really miss those early days when it was just you and me on the road.”

Bill’s instinctive reply is, “why would you miss me?” But he bites it down because he misses Holden too, and maybe he’s still too burdened by pride to admit it.

“Those were the days,” he says, instead.

“We weren’t so alone then,” Holden sighs, then stifles a yawn.

“You sound tired. I should let you go.”

“No, it’s just … it’s the Valium sinking in.”

Bill chest flinches at the mention of medication, the insinuation it invites - that Holden’s first impulse after surviving a panic attack was to call him.

“Are you okay?” he asks once more.

“I guess I would be lying and pretending I’m fine if I said ‘yes.’”

“Probably.”

“It’s okay. You can ask me about it.”

Bill draws in a slow breath against buzzing nerves. This isn't them. They don’t ask each other personal questions or talk about it. Holden is floating out of reality on benzodiazepine and Bill is too morbidly curious about someone else’s pain rather than his own; but it’s late and they’re both loath to fade alone.

“Does it happen often?” Bill asks, softly.

“Hmm … yes. Not enough to impede me from doing my job, but more often than I’d like.”

“What triggers it?”

“Sometimes the obvious things - a bad dream, a bad thought, a crime scene, a smiling picture of a kid who I know is dead and died terribly. Sometimes nothing. It’s unpredictable - that’s in the nature of panic disorder.”

“But the Valium helps?”

“It does damage control.”

Bill nods, biting the inside of his cheek as he processes this information. What he’d said by the riverside lashes across the back of his mind, and it looks utterly cruel from this perspective.

“What does it feel like?” he asks, closing his eyes against the surroundings of the kitchen.

He waits with bated breath while Holden thinks. His lungs burn with anticipation as if to say “sell me your pain; let’s make a fair trade of it; you try on mine, I’ll try on yours.”

“It feels like … suffocating. Very slowly. My lungs hurt, my head hurts. I can’t think or breathe, and I feel very small and trapped and …”

“And what?”

“Helpless.”

“Sounds awful.”

“It is. Even if it only lasts a few minutes, I come out of it feeling like I ran a marathon. I’m exhausted for the rest of the day, but when I lay down, I can’t sleep. My mind races.”

“That’s why you called me?”

“Well, I couldn’t get up off the floor, but I could drag the telephone and the Valium off the nightstand,” Holden murmurs. “I wanted something to hold onto.”

Bill clenches his jaw as he imagines Holden lying on the hotel floor in his pajamas, his pallor white and clammy with sickness, his body trembling. He wants to say that if he were there now, he would leave his own room and come over, he’d pick Holden up off the floor. They could hold onto each other.

When he opens his eyes, however, he sees that he’s still standing in his dark kitchen, and the only warm body to hold onto within touching distance wants nothing to do with him right now.

“There isn’t much left,” he says with a grim chuckle. “For you to, you know … hold onto.”

“Because of what happened?” Holden asks, gingerly. “With Brian?”

Bill smothers his rising hackles. Holden opened the door by offering to talk about his panic attacks, but Bill had kicked it wide open by even asking the questions. Talking about Brian is quid pro quo. Now all that’s left is putting a price tag on his own pain.

“Ever since it happened, I’ve just been trying to hold everything together. Here at home, Quantico, down there in Atlanta. It’s like there isn’t enough of me to go around, and I keep cutting myself into smaller and smaller pieces, dividing them across the problems I need to control. You were right when you told me I was distracted, that I wasn’t there when I was there. Truth is, I can hardly focus on one thing. Every time I close my eyes or my thoughts wander just a little, it goes back there - to a baby dying, and my kid saying absolutely nothing about it to me or Nancy.”

Holden is quiet for a moment before breaching the invisible wall. “How did it happen?”

Bill inhales a steadying breath, and blinks against the sting at the corners of his eyes. “A group of them were playing in the park. They ended up over at the house Nancy is the realtor for. Things got out of hand. The older boys somehow suffocated the toddler. They put him in the basement of the house, but … they didn’t just leave him. They - well Brian - he-”

“What did he do?” Holden asks, his tone lacking condemnation but rather perking with twisted curiosity.

“There was some old flooring in the basement. They made it into a cross, laid the baby across it like … like he was Jesus, and he was going to somehow fucking rise from the dead. It was all Brian’s idea. It was …”

Holden’s breathing quickens against the line. “God, Bill-”

“How do I reconcile that? How do I fucking forgive him? It was weeks before they found him, Holden. Brian left a baby lying there for weeks, and said nothing. I mean what the hell is wrong with someone who does something like that?”

“Maybe he was scared-”

“No, he knows he can come to us. We’ve never mistreated him, hit him, yelled at him. Never once made him think he couldn’t talk to us.”

Holden falls quiet.

The silence over the line thickens, and pretense falls away. Bill can hear the normal reassurances splinter. Holden studies the mind, and he understands darkness. He can read Bill’s fears even from across the country - and he recognizes their validity.

“You think he didn’t feel anything?” Holden asks. “That he’s just like the subjects in our study.”

Bill’s throat chafes with mounting emotion. He hasn’t dared admit it to himself, but it is what he thinks. It haunts his every nightmare.

“Yes,” he whispers.

“Bill, we don’t know everything. Especially when it comes to children. Remember when we talked about intervention, and we wondered if somewhere along the line, something could have been done to stop these men from killing?”

“Yes.”

“This is the time to do something. Get him help. Nothing is written in stone.”

Bill rubs his eyes hard. “You really believe that?”

“Aren’t we beholden to at least try?”

Try. Yes, all he has done for the last few months is try, but that is the god-forsaken truth of the human condition. Trying, and trying, failing and trying. Learning one or two things along the way. It’s inescapable.

“Thanks,” he mutters.

“You’re welcome.”

They sit in silence for a long moment.

It feels better with some of the weight off Bill’s chest. He imagines it will be back in the morning. All the more reason not to hang up.

Holden yawns softly against the receiver, his rustling breath prickling down Bill’s spine. He presses the phone closer to his ear, and waits for the indolent moan at the end. When it comes, low and throaty, it doesn’t last nearly long enough.

“Tired?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Wanna go to bed?”

“No. Do you?”

“No. We can keep talking.”

“Okay. About what?”

“Something else,” Bill suggests, angling for a lighter tone. “Something not so fucking depressing.”

“Okay. Here’s something.” Holden’s voice takes on an impish tone. “A few weeks ago, I threw your betting sheets out the window of the car.”

“What?” Bill asks, a choked laugh fighting its way past the calcified emotion in his chest. “I wondered where those went.”

“You weren’t talking to me then. Christ, that makes me sound bitchy doesn’t it?”

“Yep. It does.”

“Fine. But since when do you bet on ponies?”

Bill bites his lower lip. This conversation isn’t heavy enough for honesty, at least not yet. It isn’t important for the truth that he hadn’t been interested in racing until Ted Gunn plopped the analogy in his brain right next to the trigger points that are Holden.

“Not long,” he says. “Just something to distract myself. Mindless entertainment.”

“With a price tag.”

“Everything has a price tag. It’s just a matter of scale.”

“What’s the price tag on this conversation?”

“Nothing. It’s an even trade.”

Holden hums something indistinct.

“What?” Bill asks. “You want me to take something from you?”

“Or I could take something from you.”

“You already took my betting sheets.”

Holden laughs, softly. “I did. Okay, what do you want?”

Bill’s levity disappears into a panicked, heady ether. Before Atlanta, he’d often wished for Holden to say those exact words for him; then his world came crashing down, and those wayward thoughts were available to blame for his own lack of dedication to his family. Holden was an easy target for a rage he doesn’t have the will to hold onto anymore.

“I want you to take care of yourself,” Bill says, finally. “Get some rest.”

Holden sighs, unhappily. “It is almost two o’clock.”

“Exactly. I’ll be back tomorrow. We can talk then if you want.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, as long as we can both keep our eyes open. This surveillance is killing me.”

“Don’t worry. We’re going to get him. If not tomorrow, then the next night.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Well …. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Bill.”

They linger a moment longer before muttering further goodbyes. When the phone hits the cradle, a deep and abiding silence replaces the hiss of static across the line and the warm cadence of Holden’s voice. Outside the window, the stars are the same even as time marches forward, dragging him towards an inevitable precipice. It’s some small comfort that he won’t be making that fall into the abyss alone.

[jjwritten]

Yum.

Can’t believe that BTS brought me a) back into fandoms shenanigans, b) back into writing. Almost 10 years without writing a full thing, 10 years without publishing. 

For Yum, I went with the flow of how I imagine Yoongi's “best” romantic relationship. I have a few more drabbles for this specific dynamic :) To anyone who might find this and reads, I hope you have a decent time.

tags: bts!Yoongi, fem!reader, fluffy fluff, a short smut, gender neutral additionnal characters, overworking, did I say fluff because fluff, domestic au, slice of life

warnings: penetrative sex, unprotected sex, health (nutrition and physical activity), overworking, a tiny bit of cockwarming, fingering, 

7,902 words

Remind me what you said you were going to do to me, please.

You waited a few seconds. Yoongi was looking at his screen, you knew it because he just had answered you at lightspeed. Yet the 3 dots wouldn't stop dancing. When they did, no answer appeared. Cool. Left on read, nice. You laughed it off, your boyfriend of three years being prone to this type of behavior. You also predicted to receive an elaborate answer in a couple hours, once the moment was gone. In the meantime, you should get back to work.

It had been about a month of overworking yourself for this massive new project. You were working on it with your best friend, in the interest of a big client. The stakes were big. Within this single project, you would provide a job to about 1000 artists, show engineers, students who wanted to debut in the business, and another thousand jobs in merch production. The reflexion upon finances was mind wracking, but was also the most rewarding. Everyone should be paid as much as possible. The show should be of the utmost quality which would require hours and hours of paid rehearsals. You and your best friend had to figure out the whole plan, the whole system, in order for the buyer to have no reason to refuse. They had called your duo, especially, to invest in a larger-than-life show, given that your ideas would blow their minds. People with big money who were dangling a whole pack of carrots in front of two ambitious passionate creators. Your motivation was simple : gathering all kinds of story tellers. With the experience you and your friend had, the show would border perfection in execution, with people from all over the globe, hired for their talents and work ethic.  A month of intense focus would hopefully transform the dream into reality.

Your success depended on your and your bf’s efforts. It also relied on the people around you. Min Yoongi loved you for your creativity, your humanity, the way your ears were shaped, the way you stopped seeing your surroundings to immerse yourself in the picture you were trying to paint when telling a story. The observant Jimin never missed to point it out: Yoongi became silent everytime, all heart eyes. "It's just my favorite thing ever," the rapper shrugged. To you, it was incredibly comforting. Being loved by him and loving him provided enough security for you to challenge yourself to be better. Never before in a relationship could you have become a zombie in your personal life to favor a work project. But Yoongi got it. Silently, he took care of your personal life’s reality: the construction work in the bathroom, the packages, the finances, the groceries, and making sure you ate nutritious foods and slept a healing sleep. He was a soft presence, making sure you had everything you needed to hustle. Everytime you would try paying attention to him in the midst of an overwhelmed brain and painful exhaustion, he'd reassure you. "We have time, baby. Sleep, eat, work. Don't worry about me. I'm proud of you." I love you, you whisper out loud, smiling. You let yourself indulge a little more in the recent memories.

"Y/n, come back hug me in the kitchen. It's almost ready." Yoongi whined, his head peaking at the door of your bedroom. "I think you need a little break. That frown has been on your face since Monday." You nodded. "I'll be right there." He doubted it, but turned back humming. You closed your computer and put it on the floor on your side of the bed. Yoongi had moved the bed on the right side of the room when you moved. Before, when you walked in, the right side of the bed was right next to the door. You wanted the left side because it was closest to the window, which, capital-D Dramatic Yoongi-ssi could not comprehend how you could POSSIBLY imagine he would sleep on the right side of a bed..  "I need the window!!! I always sleep on the window side!! - Since when??! - Since the day I was born, and most likely in my past lived too, you said through your teeth. - You slept on the right side of the bed all right in New York, huh? - BECAUSE IT WAS NEXT TO THE WINDOW!!! I can’t sleep next to the door, what if robbers come in?? I need the right side! - What do you mean, if robbers come in?? You plan on leaving me for dead?! - You bet. It's each human for their lives, oppa." Despite your sarcastic tone at the word, Yoongi still smirked. Run BTS editors' would have put a blushing filter on his cheeks. "You're mean", he whined. You smiled at his flushing face, and wrapped your hands around his waist. His hands landed automatically on your shoulders. His instincts said to push you away, but his body maintained you in place. Back then, you thought Yoongi would never admit how much he loved how tactile you were. Skip forward a year and a half, and he demands his cuddles, like a big boy. "Let's just put the bed on the other side of the room, mh?" The softness of his tone made your heart flutter. You kissed his cheek. "You are such a great problem-solver, oppa. I love your mind. - ‘ehh"

You stretched in the bed, and rolled on your stomach, taking a deep breath in of yours and Yoongi's smells in the sheets. His lazy footsteps in the corridor were the last thing you heard before drifting off.

"My love..." Yoongi's hand was stroking your hair, his mouth landing little pecks on the side of your face. "Come eat, babe." His voice was so soft. "I'm sorry, honey boy. I'm just too tired. - It's been four weeks, y/n. You need a break now. Come eat, and take the morning off tomorrow. I'll take care of you." You sat up at the temptation. Bed hair and pouty lips did not take away the worried look on his face. "Two more days. Just two more days, and I'll be back. - I can do 24 hours at best. It's getting too much, you don't even sleep well anymore. I have received my fair share of slaps in the face in the middle of night." You laugh. "24 hours is not possible. I'm leaving at 6am tomorrow for Tokyo. bf and I have meetings all day. Then again on Friday. I should be back home Saturday morning. I'll wake you up in your favorite way. - With coffee? - And with coffee, sure. - Don't tease me. By Saturday, you will be close to decomposing from how dead you look right now. - Oh, thanks." He laughs. "Fine. Except you don't take care of me, I take care of you. Massages, cuddles, movies, bulgogi and fruity dairy free ice-cream... - Ooooh, dairy free ice cream? Sounds like you'll be taking care of yourself too. - Yeah, I deserve it. Plus, taking care of you is taking care of me. I need it, you need it. - Fair enough. Is there still room for sex? - Haha. Is there room for sex, haha. Hahaha. He shakes his shoulders as he pretends to laugh. - Does that mean a lot? your eyebrows question too. - I can't say for now. It depends on whether I'm dealing with a decomposing girlfriend, or if she's feeling herself. - Double standards. I see. - You better sleep well in the plane."

Five minutes of daydreaming have passed, and that's all the time you have. Back to work.

2 billion dollars. Two. Billion. Dollars. USD $2,000,000,000. 2,198,960,000,000 KRW. You and your best friend have been sitting in the airport lounge, processing. You thought you were developing a project for Japan. Turned out, the investors had planned to make it international all along. Tokyo, Buenos Aires, Los Angeles, Paris, El Jadida. The project will be ten times as big as you initially thought it would be, and extend over the course of three years. The team would be huge to help. Your dream had become reality five years ago when you both launched the company. You don't even know how to react to it being stretched like that.

The key-card to your door weighs a ton in your hand. You clumsily make your way inside, pushing your carrier in front of you. Shoes off, you drag your heavy body to the bedroom and let it crash into the bed. Naturally, Yoongi’s body is where it’s supposed to be, his knees in an L shape. Your face is planted in the blanket. Deep sigh. End of the road. Disconnect system. It’s break time. Long fingers find their way to your hair. “You good, baby? - Dude. Get up. Have so much to tell you.” You hear muffling. He's not moving. “Dude. Bf and I got a two BILLION check, get up. - Two billion?!” Yoongi is up. You proceed to tell him everything. Finally, you can explain to him what this project was about. He listens carefully, cheerfully, sometimes reacts excessively. You don’t care, you do the same because it feels like a reunion and you’re both overly excited to meet again. The both of you on the bed feels like being on your own island. Your tummy tickles with joy for the present, the moments you are going to spend with Yoongi and for the bigger picture with the unfolding of your project. Within a few hours of talking, the month of intense focus and routine is released. You fall asleep in the middle of a sentence, utterly relaxed. Yoongi presses a kiss between your nose and lips, first spot that came, before falling asleep too.

12PM. Eternal question: is it good morning or good afternoon? Knowing your boyfriend, you better think of it before you open your mouth. “Hi.” You say smiling. That will do. “Hi, love.” He breathes you in loudly. You wriggle your nose in his neck. His arms are wrapped around you, yours around him. Couldn’t think of a better place to be in. You both scratch yourselves on each other, rubbing your forehead on his cheek, him massaging your hands, kissing your hair, ears, kissing his nose, lips. For some reason, his bottom lip looks especially plumped to your half-open eyes. You spend more time nibbling on it, kissing it on its own without him giving the kiss back. Delicious. Hands rubbing all over, your brain starts working properly. Wait a minute? Yoongi’s usually soft tummy feels particularly toned. You lift the covers. “Mh, did I miss something? - Whatever, you hear him smirk though. - Come on, show me. - Aw, leave me alone, it’s cold.” He lies on his stomach, a big smile on his face making his cheeks look all soft and bite worthy. You allow yourself the indulgence. You are all excited now! You jump out of bed. "Okay, so coffee and then abs, okay?" With smily mhmhs, your adorable boyfriend rubs his face in the pillow. He's shy, you know. His body image is important to him. You feel bad for not having noticed. Knowing the man, he probably flaunted his buff bod as if it were nothing on week 1. Damn! Then on week 2, he most likely tried to have you feel them, "naturally". You're a little sad to have missed those cues, and some of them resurface in your foggy memory. Your routine was so strict during the past month: wake up, meditate, work out, to make sure your brain worked optimally during the day. Work outs were intense because serotonin helps a ton. Food was rich and nutritious, cooked with the most important ingredient in this household, the love of Min Yoongi. Not noticing the changes in your own body was a thing, but to miss out on your buff boyfriend? A no go. You grabbed everything to make him his iced coffee in the largest cup you could find, knowing he would l-o-v-e the look of quasi-eternal quantity. You were light on your feet, smiling at the peeled pineapple and singing to the pack of nuts. Yoongi’s face was slightly round a month ago, and he looked a little buff already. The first week, the fat must have melted a little bit to turn into juicy muscles. Then, with him making sure your brain was working full power, he fed himself the same foods. Your focus spur basically fed your boyfriend buff food. What did you do to yourself and above all, HOW DID YOU NOT NOTICE IT?! As you put the spoons in the greek yogurts, you think of his little face smushed in the pillow as he pretended not to be excited by you finally noticing. You know that he's proud of himself and happy that you finally got all of your senses back. What a fun day ahead. With a smile up to your ears and a plate of things that should power up the man, you mini-skip back to your room.

Being with Yoongi meant you had about 10 boyfriends behind the same deep brown eyes. He could be a giggly chubby boy with his little bucket hats that he loved, making him look like an elf. He could be a meaty dude with an attitude and deep stare. He could be a skinny tech-boy with quick witts and always a book in his hands, and he could be business-Yoongi, dressed in all black and loving the sound of his big rings clinging together. What was even more beautiful was that all of these traits were interchangeable. Skinny Yoongi could have an attitude and a bucket hat. Buff Yoongi could be giggly and nerdy. He could do it all at anytime. Beneath it all, the constant of his intellect and emotionality made Min Yoongi appear as if he adorned a bow and ribbon at all times, ready to be gifted and unwrapped and enjoyed. Yum, you think.

"Coffee!"

Yoongi is on his phone in the bed. The AC is blasting hot air in a soothing sound. You can't help but laugh when you notice the naked skin of his chest peaking over the sheets, and his pyjamas thrown on the floor.

"Why-why-why? Why are you laughing? - Min Yoongi, I love it when you're feeling yourself. Please, drink this and put on a show for me. - Aren't you being a little dramatic? he hisses and bubbles his saliva. It's just abs and pecs, he says as he drinks, eye brows raising up his forehead. Five and six are barely defined.” He’s referring to his six-pack. You squint. “You..." He cocks his head as to say "I know, I'm hot" and your body is warming up.

Breakfast is made more delicious by Yoongi's feet rubbing against yours under the blanket. You're sitting cross-legged in front of each other, on the little island that is your bed. TV's turned on for some light background sound but you only hear Yoongi's giggles in between his smart clapbacks and mouthfuls of yoghurt. Eventually, the plate is moved to the side so your legs can extend on his lap and you feed him pieces of pineapple. Your fingers go a little too far into his mouth, and he relishes in your squirming when his lips brush them softly. Soon enough, his tongue is licking the tip and there's no pineapple left. Meaning, no reason to take your fingers away. Your leg on his hip tells your brain that in classic Yoongi fashion, he's not wearing any underwear. It's getting really hot between the sexual tension and the heater being turned all the way on. It is one of your favorite thing to do on days off: the heat allows you both to stay naked without worry. Positions can change as much as you like. Sweat drops make the whole thing more slippery and sexy. It's messy and delicious. You can't wait to be in the middle of the action, but remember to enjoy the foreplay. Yoongi's tongue acts as a wet bed on your ring finger. You relish in the look of his hollowed cheeks and suck on your skin. Your free hand has a great idea, on its own: exploring that built up chest. It's firm and the skin is soft and milky. It still holds a little bit of fat that makes his pectorals bouncy. He's going to fuck you, and they're going to move. Ugh. You swallow your saliva. Yoongi's eyes are getting rounder with arrousal. His traits go slightly down, showing he is getting hot and needy. You can feel pins and needles tickling your labia. Your boyfriend treats all of your fingers with the same lubbed up care. He opens his mouth to lick them from the stems to the tips. "I'm taking care of you today, remember? You relax and enjoy, understood?" You gulp and nod. Your first feeling is disappointment: when Yoongi says "I'll take care of you" it mostly means he won't put his cock in your mouth. That's okay. It will be for the next round. You're salivating. Meanwhile, Yoongi's mouth is going up your arm, on the sensitive thin skin inside your elbow and upper-arm. His tongue glides along. He creates the pattern: plumped bottom lip first, lubbed tongue, top lip. The three tightened together and make a wet sound when he moves onto another spot. Your legs feel numb. You're amused by Yoongi's needy look, but worried about your own. You feel so empty and deprived. Your head is already reversed back. Yoongi's special care is getting your muscles to relax one by one, better than any guided meditation ever. He stops for a second to take off your -his- t-shirt. He guides you to sit against the head board and his mouth latches on your right nipple instantly. The position is making you anticipate what you know he's leading to, but the nipple in his mouth is bringing you back to the present. The tongue is playful. Saliva dripping. Wet. It's the word that comes to your mind and you feel your pussy overflowing. Soft moans escape you. Your eyes are closed. You notice how relaxed your body is. Your arms are splayed on your sides and your back is one with the headboard. You're getting too relaxed. Yoongi makes his way to the other nipple and your body tenses up suddenly. Hands to his hair, ruffling. You realize his hands are on both sides of your stomach, keeping you still. You can't help to wonder for how long they've been there. "Yoongi..." It's not a prompt. You don't want him to go faster. Saying his name feels right. Yet, the air shifts. "y/n, mh" his raspy voice sends chills down your back. He kisses your mouth passionately and everything quickens. Shorter breaths, instant sweat. His hands cup your face to bring you to sit up. They slide down to your waist and you get up on your knees to let him grab your ass cheeks. He spreads them, making you moan as you feel your pussy more exposed. Your hands now cup his cheeks to get him closer, before sliding in the back of his head to plunge your fingers in his silky hair. Yoongi's hard bare cock is pressing against your cotton underwear.  Both your hands go down to his shoulders in a light touch. In the midst of anticipation, you both are melting under each other's touch. His fingers dig into the skin of your hips, yours in his shoulders. "You're leaking" you say, looking down at the wet tip of his cock and the wetness sticking to your lower stomach. "No kidding." You smile into another kiss. He dips in your neck to leave wet kisses. As your head angles to give him more space, you catch a glimpse of your reflexion in the mirror. His perky toned ass is jerking up and down as he slowly ruts against you. Your hands powerlessly fall on his ass, and the image brings you back to the urgency. You squeeze and get his mouth back on your own. He spreads your legs bringing his hands in between your thighs. He is so needy. Yoongi slides his member up and down your slit and starts slowly penetrating you. Your pussy fills up slowly. He pushes himself as deeply in as he can, stays still for a couple seconds and slides back out, his tip still lightly touching your entrance. You open your eyes to look at him in the mirror, slim legs steady on the bed. Your hands still on his ass cheeks, he pushes himself back in. It's slow, controlled, powerful. He goes in the same way for a third time: "Fuck, I love you." You smile. He's not talking to you, but to your pussy. You kiss him and press on his hips to have him go faster. "I turn around? - Yes." His arms wrap around your waist softly as you press your back against his front. One hand holding onto the wall, the other on the back of his neck. You arch your back to give him better access. His cock fills you up again, this time offering your G-spot some electrifying friction. His rythm accelerates, senses slowly getting lost. He starts groaning, you start moaning. Somehow, your brain manages to list very quickly everything you'll do to him, and everything you'll have him do to you. It turns you on even more, fantasizing about Yoongi and you having more sex while having sex. His long middle finger comes pressing your clit, going up and down to your entrance, where he invites the tip of it to join his dick. You always thought of his fingers as fingering fingers. They’re the perfect shape. Your pussy is pliant and delirious. She's directing your body and your mind. None of what she says makes logical sense but, fuck, she happy. The chills in your spine, your erected nipples, Yoongi tightly pressed against you. His head often reverses back, chasing his own pleasure, hipsRemind me what you said you were going to do to me, please.You waited a few seconds. Yoongi was looking at his screen, you knew it because he just had answered you at lightspeed. Yet the 3 dots wouldn't stop dancing. When they did, no answer appeared. Cool. Left on read, nice. You laughed it off, your boyfriend of three years being prone to this type of behavior. You also predicted to receive an elaborate answer in a couple hours, once the moment was gone. In the meantime, you should get back to work.It had been about a month of overworking yourself for this massive new project. You were working on it with your best friend, in the interest of a big client. The stakes were big. Within this single project, you would provide a job to about 1000 artists, show engineers, students who wanted to debut in the business, and another thousand jobs in merch production. The reflexion upon finances was mind wracking, but was also the most rewarding. Everyone should be paid as much as possible. The show should be of the utmost quality which would require hours and hours of paid rehearsals. You and your best friend had to figure out the whole plan, the whole system, in order for the buyer to have no reason to refuse. They had called your duo, especially, to invest in a larger-than-life show, given that your ideas would blow their minds. People with big money who were dangling a whole pack of carrots in front of two ambitious passionate creators. Your motivation was simple : gathering all kinds of story tellers. With the experience you and your friend had, the show would border perfection in execution, with people from all over the globe, hired for their talents and work ethic. A month of intense focus would hopefully transform the dream into reality.Your success depended on your and your bf’s efforts. It also relied on the people around you. Min Yoongi loved you for your creativity, your humanity, the way your ears were shaped, the way you stopped seeing your surroundings to immerse yourself in the picture you were trying to paint when telling a story. The observant Jimin never missed to point it out: Yoongi became silent everytime, all heart eyes. "It's just my favorite thing ever," the rapper shrugged. To you, it was incredibly comforting. Being loved by him and loving him provided enough security for you to challenge yourself to be better. Never before in a relationship could you have become a zombie in your personal life to favor a work project. But Yoongi got it. Silently, he took care of your personal life’s reality: the construction work in the bathroom, the packages, the finances, the groceries, and making sure you ate nutritious foods and slept a healing sleep. He was a soft presence, making sure you had everything you needed to hustle. Everytime you would try paying attention to him in the midst of an overwhelmed brain and painful exhaustion, he'd reassure you. "We have time, baby. Sleep, eat, work. Don't worry about me. I'm proud of you." I love you, you whisper out loud, smiling. You let yourself indulge a little more in the recent memories."Y/n, come back hug me in the kitchen. It's almost ready." Yoongi whined, his head peaking at the door of your bedroom. "I think you need a little break. That frown has been on your face since Monday." You nodded. "I'll be right there." He doubted it, but turned back humming. You closed your computer and put it on the floor on your side of the bed. Yoongi had moved the bed on the right side of the room when you moved. Before, when you walked in, the right side of the bed was right next to the door. You wanted the left side because it was closest to the window, which, capital-D Dramatic Yoongi-ssi could not comprehend how you could POSSIBLY imagine he would sleep on the right side of a bed.. "I need the window!!! I always sleep on the window side!! - Since when??! - Since the day I was born, and most likely in my past lived too, you said through your teeth. - You slept on the right side of the bed all right in New York, huh? - BECAUSE IT WAS NEXT TO THE WINDOW!!! I can’t sleep next to the door, what if robbers come in?? I need the right side! - What do you mean, if robbers come in?? You plan on leaving me for dead?! - You bet. It's each human for their lives, oppa." Despite your sarcastic tone at the word, Yoongi still smirked. Run BTS editors' would have put a blushing filter on his cheeks. "You're mean", he whined. You smiled at his flushing face, and wrapped your hands around his waist. His hands landed automatically on your shoulders. His instincts said to push you away, but his body maintained you in place. Back then, you thought Yoongi would never admit how much he loved how tactile you were. Skip forward a year and a half, and he demands his cuddles, like a big boy. "Let's just put the bed on the other side of the room, mh?" The softness of his tone made your heart flutter. You kissed his cheek. "You are such a great problem-solver, oppa. I love your mind. - ‘ehh"You stretched in the bed, and rolled on your stomach, taking a deep breath in of yours and Yoongi's smells in the sheets. His lazy footsteps in the corridor were the last thing you heard before drifting off."My love..." Yoongi's hand was stroking your hair, his mouth landing little pecks on the side of your face. "Come eat, babe." His voice was so soft. "I'm sorry, honey boy. I'm just too tired. - It's been four weeks, y/n. You need a break now. Come eat, and take the morning off tomorrow. I'll take care of you." You sat up at the temptation. Bed hair and pouty lips did not take away the worried look on his face. "Two more days. Just two more days, and I'll be back. - I can do 24 hours at best. It's getting too much, you don't even sleep well anymore. I have received my fair share of slaps in the face in the middle of night." You laugh. "24 hours is not possible. I'm leaving at 6am tomorrow for Tokyo. bf and I have meetings all day. Then again on Friday. I should be back home Saturday morning. I'll wake you up in your favorite way. - With coffee? - And with coffee, sure. - Don't tease me. By Saturday, you will be close to decomposing from how dead you look right now. - Oh, thanks." He laughs. "Fine. Except you don't take care of me, I take care of you. Massages, cuddles, movies, bulgogi and fruity dairy free ice-cream... - Ooooh, dairy free ice cream? Sounds like you'll be taking care of yourself too. - Yeah, I deserve it. Plus, taking care of you is taking care of me. I need it, you need it. - Fair enough. Is there still room for sex? - Haha. Is there room for sex, haha. Hahaha. He shakes his shoulders as he pretends to laugh. - Does that mean a lot? your eyebrows question too. - I can't say for now. It depends on whether I'm dealing with a decomposing girlfriend, or if she's feeling herself. - Double standards. I see. - You better sleep well in the plane."Five minutes of daydreaming have passed, and that's all the time you have. Back to work.2 billion dollars. Two. Billion. Dollars. USD $2,000,000,000. 2,198,960,000,000 KRW. You and your best friend have been sitting in the airport lounge, processing. You thought you were developing a project for Japan. Turned out, the investors had planned to make it international all along. Tokyo, Buenos Aires, Los Angeles, Paris, El Jadida. The project will be ten times as big as you initially thought it would be, and extend over the course of three years. The team would be huge to help. Your dream had become reality five years ago when you both launched the company. You don't even know how to react to it being stretched like that.The key-card to your door weighs a ton in your hand. You clumsily make your way inside, pushing your carrier in front of you. Shoes off, you drag your heavy body to the bedroom and let it crash into the bed. Naturally, Yoongi’s body is where it’s supposed to be, his knees in an L shape. Your face is planted in the blanket. Deep sigh. End of the road. Disconnect system. It’s break time. Long fingers find their way to your hair. “You good, baby? - Dude. Get up. Have so much to tell you.” You hear muffling. He's not moving. “Dude. Bf and I got a two BILLION check, get up. - Two billion?!” Yoongi is up. You proceed to tell him everything. Finally, you can explain to him what this project was about. He listens carefully, cheerfully, sometimes reacts excessively. You don’t care, you do the same because it feels like a reunion and you’re both overly excited to meet again. The both of you on the bed feels like being on your own island. Your tummy tickles with joy for the present, the moments you are going to spend with Yoongi and for the bigger picture with the unfolding of your project. Within a few hours of talking, the month of intense focus and routine is released. You fall asleep in the middle of a sentence, utterly relaxed. Yoongi presses a kiss between your nose and lips, first spot that came, before falling asleep too.12PM. Eternal question: is it good morning or good afternoon? Knowing your boyfriend, you better think of it before you open your mouth. “Hi.” You say smiling. That will do. “Hi, love.” He breathes you in loudly. You wriggle your nose in his neck. His arms are wrapped around you, yours around him. Couldn’t think of a better place to be in. You both scratch yourselves on each other, rubbing your forehead on his cheek, him massaging your hands, kissing your hair, ears, kissing his nose, lips. For some reason, his bottom lip looks especially plumped to your half-open eyes. You spend more time nibbling on it, kissing it on its own without him giving the kiss back. Delicious. Hands rubbing all over, your brain starts working properly. Wait a minute? Yoongi’s usually soft tummy feels particularly toned. You lift the covers. “Mh, did I miss something? - Whatever, you hear him smirk though. - Come on, show me. - Aw, leave me alone, it’s cold.” He lies on his stomach, a big smile on his face making his cheeks look all soft and bite worthy. You allow yourself the indulgence. You are all excited now! You jump out of bed. "Okay, so coffee and then abs, okay?" With smily mhmhs, your adorable boyfriend rubs his face in the pillow. He's shy, you know. His body image is important to him. You feel bad for not having noticed. Knowing the man, he probably flaunted his buff bod as if it were nothing on week 1. Damn! Then on week 2, he most likely tried to have you feel them, "naturally". You're a little sad to have missed those cues, and some of them resurface in your foggy memory. Your routine was so strict during the past month: wake up, meditate, work out, to make sure your brain worked optimally during the day. Work outs were intense because serotonin helps a ton. Food was rich and nutritious, cooked with the most important ingredient in this household, the love of Min Yoongi. Not noticing the changes in your own body was a thing, but to miss out on your buff boyfriend? A no go. You grabbed everything to make him his iced coffee in the largest cup you could find, knowing he would l-o-v-e the look of quasi-eternal quantity. You were light on your feet, smiling at the peeled pineapple and singing to the pack of nuts. Yoongi’s face was slightly round a month ago, and he looked a little buff already. The first week, the fat must have melted a little bit to turn into juicy muscles. Then, with him making sure your brain was working full power, he fed himself the same foods. Your focus spur basically fed your boyfriend buff food. What did you do to yourself and above all, HOW DID YOU NOT NOTICE IT?! As you put the spoons in the greek yogurts, you think of his little face smushed in the pillow as he pretended not to be excited by you finally noticing. You know that he's proud of himself and happy that you finally got all of your senses back. What a fun day ahead. With a smile up to your ears and a plate of things that should power up the man, you mini-skip back to your room.Being with Yoongi meant you had about 10 boyfriends behind the same deep brown eyes. He could be a giggly chubby boy with his little bucket hats that he loved, making him look like an elf. He could be a meaty dude with an attitude and deep stare. He could be a skinny tech-boy with quick witts and always a book in his hands, and he could be business-Yoongi, dressed in all black and loving the sound of his big rings clinging together. What was even more beautiful was that all of these traits were interchangeable. Skinny Yoongi could have an attitude and a bucket hat. Buff Yoongi could be giggly and nerdy. He could do it all at anytime. Beneath it all, the constant of his intellect and emotionality made Min Yoongi appear as if he adorned a bow and ribbon at all times, ready to be gifted and unwrapped and enjoyed. Yum, you think."Coffee!"Yoongi is on his phone in the bed. The AC is blasting hot air in a soothing sound. You can't help but laugh when you notice the naked skin of his chest peaking over the sheets, and his pyjamas thrown on the floor."Why-why-why? Why are you laughing? - Min Yoongi, I love it when you're feeling yourself. Please, drink this and put on a show for me. - Aren't you being a little dramatic? he hisses and bubbles his saliva. It's just abs and pecs, he says as he drinks, eye brows raising up his forehead. Five and six are barely defined.” He’s referring to his six-pack. You squint. “You..." He cocks his head as to say "I know, I'm hot" and your body is warming up.Breakfast is made more delicious by Yoongi's feet rubbing against yours under the blanket. You're sitting cross-legged in front of each other, on the little island that is your bed. TV's turned on for some light background sound but you only hear Yoongi's giggles in between his smart clapbacks and mouthfuls of yoghurt. Eventually, the plate is moved to the side so your legs can extend on his lap and you feed him pieces of pineapple. Your fingers go a little too far into his mouth, and he relishes in your squirming when his lips brush them softly. Soon enough, his tongue is licking the tip and there's no pineapple left. Meaning, no reason to take your fingers away. Your leg on his hip tells your brain that in classic Yoongi fashion, he's not wearing any underwear. It's getting really hot between the sexual tension and the heater being turned all the way on. It is one of your favorite thing to do on days off: the heat allows you both to stay naked without worry. Positions can change as much as you like. Sweat drops make the whole thing more slippery and sexy. It's messy and delicious. You can't wait to be in the middle of the action, but remember to enjoy the foreplay. Yoongi's tongue acts as a wet bed on your ring finger. You relish in the look of his hollowed cheeks and suck on your skin. Your free hand has a great idea, on its own: exploring that built up chest. It's firm and the skin is soft and milky. It still holds a little bit of fat that makes his pectorals bouncy. He's going to fuck you, and they're going to move. Ugh. You swallow your saliva. Yoongi's eyes are getting rounder with arrousal. His traits go slightly down, showing he is getting hot and needy. You can feel pins and needles tickling your labia. Your boyfriend treats all of your fingers with the same lubbed up care. He opens his mouth to lick them from the stems to the tips. "I'm taking care of you today, remember? You relax and enjoy, understood?" You gulp and nod. Your first feeling is disappointment: when Yoongi says "I'll take care of you" it mostly means he won't put his cock in your mouth. That's okay. It will be for the next round. You're salivating. Meanwhile, Yoongi's mouth is going up your arm, on the sensitive thin skin inside your elbow and upper-arm. His tongue glides along. He creates the pattern: plumped bottom lip first, lubbed tongue, top lip. The three tightened together and make a wet sound when he moves onto another spot. Your legs feel numb. You're amused by Yoongi's needy look, but worried about your own. You feel so empty and deprived. Your head is already reversed back. Yoongi's special care is getting your muscles to relax one by one, better than any guided meditation ever. He stops for a second to take off your -his- t-shirt. He guides you to sit against the head board and his mouth latches on your right nipple instantly. The position is making you anticipate what you know he's leading to, but the nipple in his mouth is bringing you back to the present. The tongue is playful. Saliva dripping. Wet. It's the word that comes to your mind and you feel your pussy overflowing. Soft moans escape you. Your eyes are closed. You notice how relaxed your body is. Your arms are splayed on your sides and your back is one with the headboard. You're getting too relaxed. Yoongi makes his way to the other nipple and your body tenses up suddenly. Hands to his hair, ruffling. You realize his hands are on both sides of your stomach, keeping you still. You can't help to wonder for how long they've been there. "Yoongi..." It's not a prompt. You don't want him to go faster. Saying his name feels right. Yet, the air shifts. "y/n, mh" his raspy voice sends chills down your back. He kisses your mouth passionately and everything quickens. Shorter breaths, instant sweat. His hands cup your face to bring you to sit up. They slide down to your waist and you get up on your knees to let him grab your ass cheeks. He spreads them, making you moan as you feel your pussy more exposed. Your hands now cup his cheeks to get him closer, before sliding in the back of his head to plunge your fingers in his silky hair. Yoongi's hard bare cock is pressing against your cotton underwear.  Both your hands go down to his shoulders in a light touch. In the midst of anticipation, you both are melting under each other's touch. His fingers dig into the skin of your hips, yours in his shoulders. "You're leaking" you say, looking down at the wet tip of his cock and the wetness sticking to your lower stomach. "No kidding." You smile into another kiss. He dips in your neck to leave wet kisses. As your head angles to give him more space, you catch a glimpse of your reflexion in the mirror. His perky toned ass is jerking up and down as he slowly ruts against you. Your hands powerlessly fall on his ass, and the image brings you back to the urgency. You squeeze and get his mouth back on your own. He spreads your legs bringing his hands in between your thighs. He is so needy. Yoongi slides his member up and down your slit and starts slowly penetrating you. Your pussy fills up slowly. He pushes himself as deeply in as he can, stays still for a couple seconds and slides back out, his tip still lightly touching your entrance. You open your eyes to look at him in the mirror, slim legs steady on the bed. Your hands still on his ass cheeks, he pushes himself back in. It's slow, controlled, powerful. He goes in the same way for a third time: "Fuck, I love you." You smile. He's not talking to you, but to your pussy. You kiss him and press on his hips to have him go faster. "I turn around? - Yes." His arms wrap around your waist softly as you press your back against his front. One hand holding onto the wall, the other on the back of his neck. You arch your back to give him better access. His cock fills you up again, this time offering your G-spot some electrifying friction. His rythm accelerates, senses slowly getting lost. He starts groaning, you start moaning. Somehow, your brain manages to list very quickly everything you'll do to him, and everything you'll have him do to you. It turns you on even more, fantasizing about Yoongi and you having more sex while having sex. His long middle finger comes pressing your clit, going up and down to your entrance, where he invites the tip of it to join his dick. You always thought of his fingers as fingering fingers. They’re the perfect shape. Your pussy is pliant and delirious. She's directing your body and your mind. None of what she says makes logical sense but, fuck, she happy. The chills in your spine, your erected nipples, Yoongi tightly pressed against you. His head often reverses back, chasing his own pleasure, hips jerking quickly. Your hand keeps ruffling his hair. It’s rough and soft all at the same time. The movement of his hips become uncontrolled and erratic. Mh. The climax has him groan louder while you let out a deep audible sigh. He stays in, enjoying your warmth, catching his breath, humming softly, almost whining but in a low register. You come down from your high and kiss his cheek. He kisses yours, your neck, your shoulder before pulling out, your juices dripping down his veiny pale shaft and your legs. His hands settle on your sides, encouraging you to turn around. You embrace each other, tightly, both your hearts pounding. "I missed you. - I missed you too." Kiss. His tongue intertwines with yours and you're reminded of the dripping mess he made in your pussy. You put both your hands on each side of his precious head: "Clean me up, will you? - Mhmh" Yoongi pushes you back, spreads your legs, and laps away. Slowly and langidly. Cherry on the cake.Yoongi showers first to leave for his one meeting today. You'll have about two hours to yourself. Enough time for you to clean up the house, unpack your carrier, and take care of any little mundane task you overlooked this month. You both agreed on a 2000 pieces puzzle to order for when he comes back. What you don't think about is that sometimes, when you make plans, your cunt sneakily laughs. A puzzle? Not today.g quickly. Your hand keeps ruffling his hair. It’s rough and soft all at the same time. The movement of his hips become uncontrolled and erratic. Mh. The climax has him groan louder while you let out a deep audible sigh. He stays in, enjoying your warmth, catching his breath, humming softly, almost whining but in a low register. You come down from your high and kiss his cheek. He kisses yours, your neck, your shoulder before pulling out, your juices dripping down his veiny pale shaft and your legs. His hands settle on your sides, encouraging you to turn around. You embrace each other, tightly, both your hearts pounding. "I missed you. - I missed you too." Kiss. His tongue intertwines with yours and you're reminded of the dripping mess he made in your pussy. You put both your hands on each side of his precious head: "Clean me up, will you? - Mhmh" Yoongi pushes you back, spreads your legs, and laps away. Slowly and langidly. Cherry on the cake.

Yoongi showers first to leave for his one meeting today. You'll have about two hours to yourself. Enough time for you to clean up the house, unpack your carrier, and take care of any little mundane task you overlooked this month. You both agreed on a 2000 pieces puzzle to order for when he comes back. What you don't think about is that sometimes, when you make plans, your cunt sneakily laughs. A puzzle? Not today.

[albatris]

Hello hope you're well on this Saturday may I ask what the deepest fears of each of the ATDAO cast members is, thank you and goodnight

oh you’re just gonna dive right in with the hard-hitting questions I see

thank you for the ask!!

under the cut because rambles, of course, I literally do not know how to be concise I’m so sorry, you probably already knew this was coming HAHAHA

Tris’s deepest fear aside from Literally Everything In The Universe would be uhhhhh....... being somehow responsible for harm coming to the people he cares about? either directly or indirectly. I think on a big scale the whole concept of the butterfly effect stresses him out hahaha. on a small scale, he spends a lot of time stressing about his friends and family, he has a lot of intrusive thoughts about what horrible things could potentially happen to them, he worries about accidentally hurting them, etc. etc.

n I haven’t really talked in depth all that much about the specifics of Tris’s psychosis, but there’s definitely aspects of it that become pretty intense and aggressive in terms of commands and orders and “some terrible and/or violent thing will happen to your friend / sister / neighbour if you don’t do this thing”, lots of prickly parts of it that like to make threats to his safety and the safety of the people around him if he attempts to ignore or resist them. so even on good days he’s got this constant background-hum anxiety that if he chooses to disobey something or if he misinterprets a sign or if he steps out of line, his loved ones are going to be punished for it, which is just.............. a lot

a fear of helplessness and a lack of control also factors into it, like, ever since he was very very very small he’s had this idea ingrained that you can do literally everything right and the universe can still squash you like a bug at any second, n he had absolutely no way to even begin processing that in a healthy way so it just manifested in the fact that he pretty much only ever feels safe when he’s accounted for every tiny detail and is following very specific routines and has left as little room as possible for anything unexpected to catch him off guard. he’s got these rules and systems and rituals he clings to ‘cause they offer him some illusion of safety and control even though they kind of........ won’t actually do anything to stop the universe fucking his shit up

Noa’s is................. I’m not sure if “being left behind” really covers it

if we’re talking in a real broad big scale sense, I think it’s a fear of being forgotten or brushed over or not being seen, or more, people refusing to see her? it’s a fear of, like, fighting her hardest to make noise and be seen and the world just completely and utterly turning its back on her. she’s spent a whole lot of her life trying to carve out a space for herself and make her voice heard, n between illness and financial difficulties and a piece of shit dad, she and her mum have struggled to stay afloat in systems that have just consistently, consistently failed them and whose best advice is “just try harder” and “we can’t help you if you don’t help yourself”

and, like, Noa’s very full of rage about it and has made some restless peace with the fact that she has to look out for herself and the people she cares about, because no one in any position of power is gonna throw them a stick, but it’s not something she’s comfortable with and it’s a horribly alienating and frightening experience

n I guess a fear of being left behind does play out on an interpersonal level too, though it’s not really in the same vein as the other stuff? I’ve talked a lot in the past about how she’s resistant to people getting close to her ‘cause she’s got a lot of paranoia and fear and doesn’t wanna be vulnerable, but there’s also just............ a whole lot of impostor syndrome in the friendships she already has, she’s always on some level convinced that she’s somehow tricked people into liking her and one day they’re gonna wake up and realise she’s not all that special or that nice or that fun to be around. I don’t think she really views herself as someone who’s allowed to be loved just for who she is, or that “who she is” is someone who already has value or anything to bring to the table in terms of friendship

Shara’s deepest fear is the idea that there really is Absolutely No Meaning To Any Of This

that the universe is all just chaos with no purpose and no direction, that there are no bigger forces at play, that there’s nothing good and right and loving at the centre of it all, that it’s all just chance and machinery and completely unfeeling

I think one of the main ways she processes the world and is able to feel safe given the collapsing nature of reality is her desperate and adamant belief that There Has To Be An Answer, that it’s all something that can be untangled and solved, and that if she can manage to figure it out then she’ll be able to make some peace with it and things will make sense again

there’s a lot of stuff from her past that she has no real closure for, particularly the loss of one of her close childhood friends as a result of some unfortunate interdimensional fuckery, and she’s still trying to sort out her feelings about it and find a way to live her life in relation to it, she’s still trying to find a way that something so cruel can make sense

Kai has............................ a lot of fear. many many fear. I will not talk about all of it. I will talk about two of it

one of the main ones is this idea that the only reason they try so hard to care so much and help people and have a positive impact on the people around them is because deep down they don’t actually care at all, that they’ve kind of just fooled everyone into thinking they’re a good person when in reality they’re the worst, they’re a liar and a fraud

which is just kind of......... I mean, they’re not really someone who’s ever considered their own mental health at length so they haven’t really got any point of reference for what’s happening to them post-time-loop, which is basically just. panic attacks, dissociative episodes, blacking out for days at a time, not recognising themself in the mirror, feeling completely numb, not even fully convinced that this is even real life. all very understandable reactions to what they’ve just been through

but definitely the thing that hits them the hardest is the fact that they can look at the people they’re supposed to love and care about and just not feel anything at all, which fuckin terrifies them. they spend a lot of time in crisis about it, feeling like they’re an actor trying to play the part of their own life, they’re doing what they think they’re supposed to but they’re just completely disconnected

(they eventually open up to Noa about it in a full breakdown and are like “I’m a terrible person” and she’s just like “you’re traumatised you fucking dumbass let’s get you some therapy”)

and on equal footing to this and one that deserves a mention is the fact that they’ve been psyching themself up to Go Back Home for the past year and then psyching themself out again, repeat x infinity. A Lot Fucking Changed in the years Kai was gone, and their family had a funeral for them and mourned them and had to deal with all the grief and the fallout of losing their sibling / child / family member and their mum broke down in a real bad way and they’ve all spent the past seven years trying to claw their way back to anything resembling a normal life

and Kai is kinda A) unsure whether it would be selfish of them to try and re-enter their lives now, whether it would be disruptive and confusing and more pain than it’s worth given how much work they’ve put into trying to move on and create a new normal and B) fucking terrified that they won’t even know these people anymore because they’ve all changed so much and Kai hasn’t, they’re not going to fit here or be welcome anymore, and that no matter how much they try to return to normal they’re never going to have a home again

and that is just

kind of a :( note to end on but here we are, at the end

thanks for coming to my ted talk?

!!! thank u for reading if you read this far in my rambling please have an excellent night

[ddaenghoney]

chapter fifteen

masterlist link in blog description.

As a successful songwriter, you want nothing more than the acknowledgment that the chart-topping musical pieces are your own creations. But contracts, relationships, and the difficulty of facing the stakes involved head on, keep your mouth shut until pressure builds too much.

Pairing(s): Park Jimin x Y/N, Min Yoongi x Y/N

disclaimer: any characters depicted do not represent the actual personality of the respected idol in real life.

Series warning(s)/genre(s): Chapter-based written fic, Slow-burn relationship(s), Fake-dating, Unrequited love, Songwriter/producer!oc, idol!Jimin, idol/songwriter/producer!Yoongi, friends with benefits, drama, romance, smut, angst, fluff (updated as needed)

Chapter warning(s): invasion of privacy (pictures), and non-violent stalking (fans following celebrity type) ; sorry this chapter starts one way and ends on a 180 from it asldkjfjkvkn

Word count: 5269

if you enjoy please, please let me know!

The room’s motion slows following your admission. You use the idea of time ceasing momentarily to rationalize Yoongi’s hand enveloping your own as the statement lingers in the cool air. Unable to avert your gaze, you wait for a return of passing seconds, knowing that this could be the last instance of Yoongi’s irises seemingly sparkling as he views you. When motion continues and the push of gravity tries to collapse your spoken feelings, it’s within his choice of reciprocation to let them fall or not.

But his grip on your hand remains, tightening with a lapsing squeeze. Alerting your senses that the seconds indeed flow still, you are also left to realize that you can still feel Yoongi’s warming existence clutching onto yours. Within the confines of his psyche exists the response, one that your heart has yet to accelerate in anticipation for. Maybe because of the natural lullaby composing Yoongi’s ambiance, maybe because he never heard you to begin with.

Just as you start to believe you had only mouthed the words, a reactionary beat pounds in your chest, because all of the shock you expected to find on his face becomes a serendipitous veil of light instead.

“You do?”

The verbal inquisition for you to again speak your feelings is mentally fluttering. The heat demanding to escape into your complexion nearly busts out from the idea of repeating, because your head caught up and you’re ready to toss logic the control of your tongue so you don’t ramble more of your emotions as you discover them.

“Yeah.” Is all that you can manage, flourishing the bashfulness in the single word by how your hand squeezes tightly around Yoongi’s in suspense. Like peeling back a layer, you feel utterly exposed, unworried of misuse in regards to your feelings, because you trust him to in one way or another act gently, but with your arms growing cold under the touch of the air conditioning, you hope his stupor will come to a conclusion sooner than the eternity it feels to be.

A relaxed, disbelieving chuckle escapes Yoongi’s lips as he breaks the gaze shared. His free hand sheepishly rubs along his neck, and there’s a noticeable quirk in his shoulder that assures you he’s lost in thought of a reply.

“Without realizing…” Yoongi mumbles, finding himself shifting his hand around yours so that the fingers can puzzle together. Coloring your view of him in the sunset of hours earlier, he meets your eyes once more with a small smile to match. He feels safe; unwilling to disconnect from your hand, you think as your heart thumps loudly to the idea and pink speckles your expression. “You never noticed until now,” He says and for a split second you feel embarrassed for not, but Yoongi’s gentle laughter carries out your fondness for him instead. “I don’t think I did either, angel.”

While your eyes blink to verify the reality of the situation before you, your chest swells, and lips part to speak but it takes a moment before they manage to. “Wait, you do? You,” Biting down on your front lip to try and contain your thrill, you settle due to Yoongi’s growing smile. “You mean it?”

Yoongi nods his head, chuckling as you cover your mouth with a hand. Clearly taking a little bit to process the rapid changes, you find words of disbelief repeating inside of your mind while your eyes drift, only to return by the feeling of Yoongi’s hands gently nudging back your shielding grip over your parted lips. He cups your cheek, angling your face to look up towards him again as the space between your bodies dissipates.

“Yeah, I mean it… I’m sure for awhile now, but,” He shrugs sheepishly, finding himself lost in the serenity of your mutually expressed feelings shared and the fact that you have both been so oblivious to the fact. “I guess I didn’t realize it until earlier.”

The blush attempting to creep onto your skin pauses as your memory recollects his actions in the lobby earlier. The absent, dismayed expression followed by a curt leave. Your eyes go wide seeing it now in clarity,

“Wait, about Jimin? I’m sorry,” You start frantically, frowning as you recall how senseless the whole thing was in retrospect. Though you don’t necessarily regret lending an ear to Jimin, especially considering how it turned out, you feel bad that you didn’t properly convey why you did so in the moment, and instead left Yoongi caught in the confusion of it all. “I should’ve explained better-”

“No, don’t worry about it.” Yoongi shakes his head, thumb gently stroking your cheek. Somewhat bashfully he murmurs, “Like Hoseok said, I was just jealous, I guess-- I should’ve known better-”

“Why would you know better?” You huff, unwilling to let Yoongi take the blame for this when there’s no way he can read your mind and understand your feelings when even you weren’t completely aware of their romantic erasure towards Jimin at that time either. “Yoon, I messed up. I did, but I really like you,” You talk with a lifting voice, quickly trying to shovel out the words as Yoongi’s face grows quaintly surprised at your reiteration, “Just you. I,” You bite your lips feeling the flood of heat along the back of your neck, looking on at his blossoming smile. “I’m sorry if I hurt you at all.”

“Not worth an apology, angel.” Carefully his voice alleviates your little worry and you’re aware of the few short inches of space between you as he needs to use barely any volume for the words to wrap around your senses. Your chest feels the flutters like a summer breeze, knowing full well that Yoongi is so close, and slowly closer. Neck arching upwards to accommodate the travel of his face to yours, travel extending so close that the shadow cast on your lips is near tangible, but your hand suddenly clutches on his chest.

“I’m sorry,” You say quietly, as he halts. Practically nothing inside of you wanted to stop him, but that singed memory in your brain is strong enough to react against the rest of yourself. Yoongi’s eyes are very gentle, not at all upset that you stopped him from finding your lips, and he’ll say apologizes aren’t needed.

But you don’t want him to, you don’t want to linger longer in the havenlike idea of mutual reciprocation, because there is an aspect of a new relationship that feels more pressing than the bliss. You can remember the way tears in the past stung so much, and you’re unwilling to let yourself find yourself walking down the same path towards him. Your voice feels small, like the line you stand on can go in either direction with the faintest nudge so it is difficult to speak the issue, “I didn’t want to stop you-- I just,” Nervously the words swallow back down trying to escape. You don’t know why the words are holding back, but Yoongi’s hand in yours squeezes slightly, alerting you to look up at him. Telling you there’s no reason to feel rushed. “I can’t have a relationship like my last one, Yoongi-- Maybe it’s kind of selfish, but I don’t want to be with you if it’s just hidden, or casual-- I can’t do that again.”

The glimpse of how truly disastrous the conditions of your last relationship left you encompasses your tone, revealing a very valid concern that Yoongi had not considered remaining. Simply because the thought of future relationships for you were not a priority to his own wonders about what is to come for you, instead the business aspects have been so persistently worrying him. Perhaps also a reason for never quite noticing a change in his perception towards you. However, as the point stands in the space between you both, he doesn’t find anything changing in what he wants,

“Y/N, I don’t intend to hide anything about being with you.” Yoongi speaks clearly, every word spoken as though the option of anything less does not exist. Because it truly hasn’t crossed Yoongi’s mind that he would guide the relationship towards secrecy, or avoid labeling it altogether. He wants the connection visible. “And, angel, everyone already thinks we’re dating.”

“But to our friends-- people who actually know us.” The hand gripping softly on his shirt releases tension, while you grow relaxed with every word. Beyond disbelieving, you just feel happy that there’s instantaneous acceptance-- statements proving that Yoongi cares about you.

“I’d love to tell them.” He smiles, releasing your hand as you pull it away to find purchase on his shoulder while your other does the same. “I want to be with you, sweetie-- I didn’t think we were getting into anything less if I’m honest with you.”

Yoongi listens to your little bits of chuckles at his words, finding the bashfully bloomed smile incredibly endearing. When the hand cupping your cheek strokes your hair back from your face, you tense in anticipation yet completely contentment. As though everything is set out acceptably, there’s an erasure of worry in your mind, caring about nothing more than the familiar and assuring glow of Yoongi’s eyes.

“Can I, angel?” He asks sincerely, reacting in tune with your gradual nod as he leans towards you.

“Be my boyfriend, you mean?”

The corner of his lips curl into a humored smirk at your tiny teasing comment barely fitting into the space between your mouths, that gives Yoongi just enough time to curtly play along, “That too.”

Slotting his lips softly against your smile, Yoongi lets his hands fall away to hold a shadowing touch on your waist. You pull him slightly closer by his shoulders, deepening the kiss with passing seconds, but it remains new and delicate. No wants of exuberating into something ravenous, but instead your lips press against one another like a sweet exploration, diverging mutually after a calm minute.

Yoongi finds his eyes revelling in the appearance of your lips parted to take small breaths, then glancing towards your eyes in the newness brought on my the moment. How naturally it felt, and continues feeling when your hand cups his face to lead him back into another kiss for no other reason than enjoyment.

A ringtone startles you both into ceasing. You drop your hand from Yoongi’s face to reach for it, while his hands roam to encircle your back, keeping you in the loose ring of his arms. You spot the familiar contact picture set for Namjoon and resist a sigh from concern that unwittingly filled a piece of your stomach. “Going to answer?”

“Yeah, I should.” You say begrudgingly as you lay your forehead against Yoongi’s chest, smiling softly at his immediate chuckles from your slightly dismayed disposition. “Joon, what’s up-”

“Hey, you never replied to the group chat!” Namjoon’s frustrated voice rings through your ear and makes your eyes grow wide at the realization. “The music sounds great, but what the hell happened for you to do that? And have you seen the response online?”

“No,” You say quickly, stepping from Yoongi as fret furrows in your brows at the last question. Yoongi frowns while his arms drop to his sides, having heard what Namjoon asked you because of his voice’s volume. “Sorry, I just wanted to tell you and some other stuff happened and I never got around to replying.”

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense. I just got worried because-- well, I don’t need to tell you this is a big deal, I’m sure you know.”

You watch as Yoongi walks to the coffee table to retrieve his phone, realizing he intends to look for any messages as well, and maybe check online. “Wait, Yoon-” He looks over to you as you wave a signaling no with your hand and continue rambling back to Namjoon. “Yeah, Joon, I know it’s a big deal. I’m sorry I forgot to reply, but I’ll tell you about it tomorrow, okay? Sorry, I need to go though.”

“Are you okay?”

“One hundred percent,” Yoongi raises his eyebrow at your words despite the opposing expression on your face. The notice of this fact makes you roll your eyes at him. “I’m with Yoongi is all, so I’m sort of busy-”

“Oh, you don’t have to explain anything else.” Namjoon says curtly, and from the sound of his voice, you believe him to be smiling as well.

“What does that mean-”

“Don’t mind me; I’ll see you tomorrow like you say. Tell him I said hi. And now I’m telling you bye.”

The line goes dead as you narrow your eyes baffled by Namjoon’s instantaneous change of mood in the course of the short conversation. Yoongi notices, pouting his lips curiously as you shake your head walking over to him, “He’s crazy,” You sit on the couch, dropping your phone beside yourself while Yoongi sits beside you. “Oh, he says hi, by the way.”

“Nice of him,” Yoongi chuckles, then tilts his head, “What were you trying to say to me on the phone with him?”

“I just thought you were going to look on the internet about the songs.” You admit, pulling your legs up on the couch to sit criss cross. Yoongi shrugs, silently admitting that he intended to. “I don’t know, I guess I’m really nervous about it,” You say glancing to your lap, where Yoongi outstretches a hand for you to hold as you go on. Gently fiddling with his fingers and knuckles you look back up at him, “I was going to wait until tomorrow-- Yerin hasn’t tried calling me, so I figure she’ll definitely say something about everything tomorrow. I’d rather just wait.” You finish with a shrug, watching Yoongi nod his head slowly in contemplation of your words.

“I think you’re the first person I’ve worked with who wants to put off looking at the reception.” He admits smiling, catching your hands in a grip as you turn to look at him with a pout. “I don’t mean anything by it. You’re right, I’m sure we’ll know tomorrow anyways.”

You slump back into the cushion, pulling your hands free from his to rub your hair back, playing over the two ways the songs could go over in the public.

Undoubtedly streamed to an extent, but whether the reception is to from infamy or enjoyment is open to speculation. Whenever the public relationship between you and Yoongi pricks into the list of considerations, you feel a pit growing in your stomach. With no credentials to give reason for why he would collaborate other than you being his girlfriend, the public’s perception of you is not likely to be favorable. Even those uncaring of his romantic relationships have a likelihood of being skeptical of you, a random person unassociated with the music industry, to be praised from the songs.

“By the way, did you ever eat dinner?” Yoongi asks as he sits further back into the couch. You stare at him for a short moment before your lips tighten into a line while the fact that your stomach is empty clouds over your head. He laughs at your reaction and lets himself fall into the cushion as you very gently shove him with a hand. “I didn’t either. Was too busy being sad and ranting to Hoseok-”

“Oh, please,” You snort, rolling your eyes at the melodramatic tone he speaks in. Yoongi reaches for your arm, pulling you towards him. You comply, shifting so that you rest comfortably on his chest while he brings his legs beneath yours on the couch. “You were just sad you couldn’t get the pork belly.”

“With you.” Your face scrunches at the small, overly melodic way he speaks, and a lack of smile. Clearly more interested in making you roll your eyes, but you don’t give it to him. Instead you take your leverage to press a quick peck against his cheek, watching Yoongi’s eyes grow wide in reaction along with his lips parting in surprise. You’re clutched against his body before you can make a remark, giggling into his collarbone as Yoongi hides away his flustering cheeks. “I’m ordering barbeque delivery and you can’t stop me.”

---

Namjoon wipes a small towel on the shiny glass in his hand, eyes stern as he stares at you. Because of this occurring for the past few minutes that you’ve been sitting in the usual stool across from him, you simply return a stare without much expression at all. Waiting silently for Seokjin to rush down from his apartment blocks away, you agreed to Namjoon halting your story with reasoning that you wouldn’t have to explain twice if you both texted Seokjin to come.

“Your look is anything but menacing, Joon.” You tell him, hand cupping your chin as you lean over the bartop. You take a sip of your iced tea that is a seasonal creation he asked you to finally try upon arrival.

“You’re wrong; I’m sure you feel guilty for making me worry for at least twenty minutes yesterday.”

“Just twenty minutes?”

“Well, it’s not like I thought someone killed you-”

“I’m here!” Seokjin bursts through the doors, starling a nearby occupied table of younger people who entered after you. “Please tell me you saved the gossip for me-”

“It’s not gossip, it’s my life!” You shake your head, eyes narrowed with no severity as Seokjin takes the seat beside you. Removing his sunglasses, he rolls his eyes, resting an elbow casually on the bartop so he can face you,

“Your gossip life.” He simply says, smiling gently when you just huff and take another long drink of tea. “You’ve looked at the streaming website’s trending songs, right?”

“Yeah,” A murmur falls from your lips as your eyes mindlessly follow ice floating in your drink.Your lips curl upwards, glancing to Seokjin’s still present grin then to Namjoon whose stare is now warm highlighting the proud smile of his own. “They’re all at the top.”

“Because they should be. They’re really good, you and Yoongi did a great job working on them.” Namjoon’s arms unfold from his front, palms going flat on the bar as he continues much more relieved, “I’m glad you released them after all. It’s what you’ve always wanted, Y/N.”

“Joon, you’re going to make me cry.” You admit as you cover your face with your hands, ignoring Seokjin’s sudden laughter to your trembled words. He pats your arm, gently swaying you while speaking as well,

“You know, I bet the songs are going to end up playing around town-- I’ll play them in the club too. The second one is a good tempo for it.” His arm falls from you as you shift on the stool to face Seokjin’s happy expression for you. “Maybe you’ll get other artists asking for you to work with them too.”

“That’s too far to think about, right now.” You admit as a way to keep level, though you can’t say the prospect doesn’t fill you with excitement. “But the timing was really good to release them since I’m about to be jobless.”

“Speaking of,” Namjoon speaks up, causing you both to look at him in bewilderment wondering how that phrasing prompted a thought. “Did you hear anything from your company?”

You shake your head slowly, not verbally responding as you consider the fact. When you woke up, you expected to find alerts of missed calls and emails requesting you to go in for a meeting like before. Instead there was only your friend group chat inquiring for you to meet up at the cafe as you ended up doing. Even on Yoongi’s side there was no communication from anyone minor, much less Yerin herself to ask him what he thought he was doing.

“I haven’t really looked at any comments or news articles about it either.” You bite your lip, thumbs rubbing trails in the condensation coating your forgotten drink. “I’m too nervous. I was going to with Yoongi later on when he’s done working.” At the memory of Yoongi and you, you glance back up, intending to give that last tidbit of shocking news. Finding Namjoon’s eyes blankly looking towards the bartop, lips pensively contorted into a line, you find the thought disappearing, then turn to Seokjin. As you take in his equally shifted disposition, leaned with his chin on his palm, sitting quietly, you frown. “What?”

Namjoon’s shoulders tense from his stupor, finally acknowledging your inquisitive and minorly nervous glances between the two. He shrugs, opening his mouth, but pauses again to instead rub his neck. Considering the things he intends to say, Namjoon feels almost more comfortable sitting in the silence rather than disrupt the peaceful and celebratory chatter. Seokjin speaks up instead,

“I think a lot of people are so shocked by it that they’re reacting pretty,” He narrows his eyebrows in thought of a particular word, but eventually just blurts, “Selfishly, honestly.”

Your hands curl on the bartop, and in the realization of their implied reactions to the public’s commentary on the released tracks you become more aware of your increasing heartbeat. Swallowing thickly, you just nod and look back at your drink, wondering how bad the extent of the reception is if they’re both so at a loss for words on describing it. If they’re both unable to tell you that the good comments overwhelm the negativity, then clearly that would show what people currently think of the music isn’t favorable towards you. But what about Yoongi.

“I expected that,” You say softly, with your hands tightened into frustrated fists. “I think I did at least anyways.” Though with how much rides on the success of the music, you did want to grasp tightly at optimism that you were overreacting with how much backlash there would be. “At least if it stays bad, Yoongi has a well-established reputation to fall back onto for himself.”

“Did he worry about his reputation when you asked him to release the music?” Seokjin asks, as Namjoon shifts to look beyond you both towards the various patrons, and a small new group entering. You shake your head, sitting upright to reply quickly,

“No, I didn’t ask him to; he asked me to.”

“Really?” Namjoon’s head snaps back at you, surprise in widening eyes.

“Well, yeah. I never thought we’d release it when we made them. It was just for fun, but he wanted to. I’m sure to help me out more than anything.” You rub your neck, playing the scene back in your head and tripping in wonder of if you two should have in the end. Ultimately, it doesn’t feel fair to let him risk so much just to give you exposure. Even if he did think the outcomes over, you can’t settle in the idea that it is wholly right for you to latch onto a platform Yoongi spent years building for himself.

“You’ve both gotten pretty close.” Namjoon says quietly, thoughtful in memory of the different instances you used to tell him about sour interactions between you and Yoongi early on in the company merger.

“We’re together.”

Seokjin squints at you, confused if he heard the casually spoken mumble, but finds pink speckling your expression. His eyes widen and he looks at Namjoon’s whose mouth is parted in disbelief. Baffled, Seokjin jumbles a response in a hushed exclamation, “Actually together?”

“Dating?” Namjoon seeks clarification as well, then covers his mouth with his hand as you start nodding in a quick short burst. “Oh, shit-- no wonder you didn’t text us back all day yesterday.”

“That’s what you’re focusing on still.” You get out in a higher tone, rubbing your shoulder to alleviate some of the bashfulness appearing on your person because of the topic. “Yeah, that’s why-- sort of. I also talked to Jimin-”

“Jimin?” You refrain from rolling your eyes at the instantaneous interruption from Namjoon including an unabashed scowl. “Why? He always ends up making you feel like crap-”

The three of you startle with a burst of light. With tense shoulders, you and Seokjin look behind you on your seats while Namjoon muffled a curse beneath his breath as he rubs his eyes from the overexposure. One of the people from the group that entered right after you appears shocked, but overcomes it after a delayed smack on the shoulder from a friend and scrambles to put his aimed phone away. In confusion, you just analyze the oddness of their action and now nervous shifting at their tables.

“Did you take a picture of her?” You turn your head to Seokjin at his firm question. With an intense glower he keeps his attention on the young group, and when the wonder on why he assumes that comes to your mind, you find your throat grown dry. You look back at the group, as the phone holder quickly shakes his head. “The flash points at us and not any of you.”

“Y/N,” Your shoulder trembles as Namjoon gently lays a hand on your forearm. Facing him as Seokjin continues to irritably stare at the group, Namjoon leans towards you, voice remaining muted, “I’m pretty sure that other group of kids that came in are here because of you too.”

“What?” You blurt, going to look at what he meant, but Namjoon grip tightens slightly to keep your eyes directed on him.

“Listen, I bet it’s because of the songs and that they all know you and Yoongi are dating, but I think it’d be best if you and Jin head out before more people come. I’ll stall them, okay?”

“Joon, isn’t this kind of crazy? Like, unrealistic.” You try to reimagine the situational coincidences, but Namjoon doesn’t appear to be swaying. You frown, “I’m just me, Joon; not a celebrity.”

“After yesterday, you kind of are. At least right now.” He says, giving a reassuring squeeze as you begin biting your lip. For a split second you consider how people falling you around while online is apparently upset about the tracks doesn’t make for an uplifting combination. “It’ll be fine, but really you and Jin go while it’s only the eight of them.”

“Yeah, let’s go, Y/N, I’ll drive you wherever,” Seokjin says scooting off of his chair and walks in the direction of the door while you manage to just get a foot on the floor. “Hey,” He goes on his own towards the table as you stray closer to the door, watching nervously on if an altercation would happen, “If you did take a picture, think about how you didn’t have permission to. If I see it on the internet, I’ll have my people make sure it’s taken down immediately.”

Promptly the words fall out with a chilling cool that you aren’t used to hearing from Seokjin. He immediately turns on his heel, following you out the front door. “Jin, you don’t have people.”

“I have you and Joon.” He says, listening to your scoff as he smiles and the two of you cross the street towards his building. “And about four lawyers at this point, as a matter of fact.”

“What if they weren’t even there because of me? It’s pretty random,” You both slide into Seokjin’s car. “Over a few songs?”

“Y/N, you’re dating him too.” Seokjin says while pulling the sleek car onto the road with ease, “I don’t like it, but this is pretty common. You know how they used to follow Jimin around too.”

“But I’m not Jimin or Yoongi-- I’m just a songwriter.” You rub your neck, looking out over the dash as he loiters throughout avenues without direction. Seokjin remains quiet, letting the situation catch up with you, even though you're well away both he and Namjoon are right to assume all of these things. Though you never imagined the concept of your work causing any type of noticeability for you in your daily life, you can’t disagree with the idea that it could. Though you’re not sure if it’s completely because of making the music with Yoongi. A lump in your throat grows knowing that the situation is because of the dating factor, like the two said.

Y/N, 1:38pm: Hey Yoon, how is everything at the company so far?

Staring at the message turn to grey and send out, you continue biting down on your lip. Looking back at your walk to Namjoon’s cafe from the nearby subway station, you recall the group been behind you since then, but thought nothing of it. There was nothing to consider when being recognized in public never happened before, even in the past few months of being under the title of Yoongi’s girlfriend. Despite your face being clear in your social media accounts, and easily accessible for comparison with pictures shot by paparazzi on various dates, there hasn’t been a single person ever actively seek you out.

Your phone vibrates, then does so continuously, lighting up the contact picture of Yoongi as a call comes in. Sliding to answer, you feel a prickling nervousness that something similar occurred for him as well, even though he’s used to things like this. “Hello?”

“Hey, angel,” Yoongi’s voice calmly greets you, free of background noise wherever he’s at. Tension between your shoulders relax listening to him speak. “Oh, are you busy? Sorry for calling without asking.”

“No, it’s fine; I’m not busy. Besides you don’t need to ask to call.” You mumble quickly, fiddling with the hemline of your top. Your fingers still as he chuckles gently, then speaks sounding pleased,

“Okay then, good to know.” Beside you Seokjin, glances to you as you talk, noting your eyebrows now without creasing seemingly worry free,

“Y/N, do you want me to drive you to where Yoongi is?”

You look towards Seokjin, recalling that you hadn’t given him any place to drive you to and that he’s been guiding the car endlessly. “Oh, he’s at the company, Jin, it’s okay if you just drop me off at my apartment. Sorry.”

“You’re with Jin?” Yoongi asks, then before you’re able to answer he goes on, “If you’re not busy right now, can you stop by my apartment, angel?”

“Your apartment?” You repeat in confusion, “You’re not at SoundWave?”

“No,” He only says and the drift into silence feels off-putting. You bite your lip, knowing he went to work earlier when he was texting you and also know that he’s not usually done working until well into the evening. “But if you’re busy don’t worry about it, sweetie.” He speaks on, tone remaining casual but it doesn’t feel completely so. As though there’s something bothering him. “I know I asked pretty suddenly.”

“It’s okay, Yoon, I’m not busy anyways.” You murmur, looking towards Seokjin to ask for a different destination, but he swiftly gives you a small thumbs up to say he knows. “I could be wrong, but is everything okay, Yoongi?”

The pause between an answer feels like an extended eternity. Given what just occurred at Namjoon’s cafe and now the vague sense of disarray this conversation instills in your psyche, you can’t help squeezing your hand into a ball. Thinking of things Yerin could have told him, or the media reception that he undoubtedly saw, you wonder if there’s regret in this decision of release, or if there’s damage done to his name that would be your fault.

“Yeah, sweetie.” Yoongi tells you and for the first time it doesn’t feel reassuring. “I just need to talk to you about some things.”

if you enjoy please, please let me know via ask, comment, rb with tags– however ! i’d just really appreciate feedback 🥺 i hope you enjoy the series, i’m working really hard on it! : )

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[romancandlemagazine]

An Interview with Peter Saville

Peter Saville doesn’t need much of an introduction. Not only was he the man responsible for what might be called the ‘visual language’ of Factory Records, designing record covers for the likes of Joy Division, New Order and A Certain Ratio, but he’s also produced powerful imagery for David Byrne, Suede, Pulp, George Michael and countless other icons of audio.

And, if all that wasn’t enough, he came up with that dynamic logo that’s on the side of those yellow trams that roll through Piccadilly Gardens every few minutes.

I called him up to talk about his work today, Manchester in the 70s and his idea of 'the interzone'.

Are you busy at the moment, have you got a lot on?

Yes, even when I think I’m not busy, things just seem to come up. As you get older you tend to think things will change, but actually, they don’t change at all. Anyway, it’s better to have something to do than nothing, so I’m not going to complain.

What have you been up to lately?

The highest profile project over the last 12 months has been Calvin Klein  — the redesign of the Calvin Klein identity for Raf Simons.

What does that involve then? What would you call that? Is it ‘branding’?

I try to avoid the term ‘branding’. It’s a useful word to understand the context of the work, but it’s not a process that I wish to perform. It’s a strange hybrid between design, advertising and PR. It’s almost entirely commercial, and therefore, it’s not something I want to be involved with.

So you’re not getting bogged down with the commercial stuff?

The capturing of markets and controlling of markets is not something that I wish to be associated with. My work, and any reputation I have, is based on giving something to people, not leading them to a market.

The Factory Records covers were not about making people buy the records. They didn’t even try to make people buy the record. They existed independently to the music, and therefore people’s relationships with them were quite different. The people who liked the covers or became interested in the covers saw them as possessions - they learnt through them, things they maybe didn’t know before.

Was that the intention of those covers? To show people the things you were into?

That was my intention. I was learning and so, I was sharing. The nature of Factory Records was that I had complete autonomy to do that. There was no marketing and no one was trying trying to sell records. Factory was a situation that allowed a group of individuals to do what they wanted to do. If other people liked it and supported it, then fine.

That was what Factory was about. And it was the same with The Haçienda. It wasn’t run as a business, trying to take money off the kids of Manchester, it was a gift to the kids of Manchester.

Something separate from money and business?

Yes,  you did it because you could. But you’ll know very well that in the contemporary market place, there are very few companies who are doing things just because they can. They do things to make money. That’s business.

For a period of time in my career, I needed to engage with business. I was not an up-and-coming young designer, nor was I a ‘statesman’ of popular culture — it was an in-between period - in the ‘90s I needed to have a relationship with business.

Everyone’s got to eat.

Yes exactly, you’ve got to make a living. I had this uneasy relationship with different sectors, but I didn’t find a comfort zone for myself.

So at the end of the 90s, I stopped looking. I did a retrospective book and a show, and I closed the studio. I didn’t want to go into fashion marketing or branding or retail. I didn’t really want to do that. So I just had to be on my own. Since the early 2000s, I’ve operated independently.

I suppose you’re maybe in a comfortable position where you can pick and choose a bit, thanks to all the things you’ve done in the past.

I’m fortunate that just enough people engage me with work and commissions that I can address on my terms.

When Raf Simons phoned and asked me to look at the issue of the Calvin Klein identity – I was able to identify with his position. He is not Calvin Klein — Calvin Klein is Calvin Klein, and Raf is someone else. So I had to say to myself, “If I was in Raf’s position, what would I do?” So I changed the original Calvin Klein lettering from upper and lower case to upper case – it became capitals. It’s evolved from the subjective to the objective, but it still looks like Calvin Klein.

When you’re asked to intervene in aspects of cultural history, it’s quite an honour. You feel a sense of responsibility in responding to the challenge.

To respect what’s gone before?

Exactly. So in certain situations, I’m really happy to do that. But when someone is approaching me with something that has absolutely no virtue other than profit, because I don’t have a company to carry, I don’t have to do it.

When I first started to learn about art and design history, I was frustrated. Going right back to the ‘70s in Manchester, I would sit in the library at what was then Manchester Polytechnic, looking at the history of art and design, and simultaneously looking out of the window at Oxford Road, and feeling an enormous disconnect, and a sense of frustration. I was angry.

Because you were so far away from the things you were reading about?

Yes, because the everyday world wasn’t the way it could be.

What was it like back then?

It was terrible. When I was 20, in 1975, buses, cinemas, bus stops, railway stations, department stores, taxis, packaging, signs, logos… they were appalling. There wasn’t any awareness of contemporary design — of how design led thinking could make things better. That frustrated and upset me. And I felt very strongly then, as I do know, that our everyday world can be better.

Now what ‘better’ is, is a kind of variable. We saw a lot of ‘design’ begin to get rolled out in the 80s and 90s, but then it got rolled out to the point of ad infinitum, and lost its significance.  

Things merely only looking good is not necessarily better, and an awful lot of art and design has been co-opted to camouflage the intent of things. And that’s not better. Using our cultural heritage, our civilisation, to sell mobile phone minutes or cheap holidays or gratuitous fashion — using it as merely packaging for the unnecessary — isn’t good.

And a lot of that started to happen. Business, as ever, takes a lead from the avant-garde, and begins to copy it, but without values.  I try to do things well, and to improve the look of things that have values. But if it’s something with no values, it’s kind of wrong to wrap it up as something important.

There’s a lot of that these days… a lot of things look pretty slick, but beyond the fancy shell, there’s not much to them.

The one thing that has upset me over the last 20 years is the way that the canon of culture has been used in ways that we no longer trust. 30 years ago if you did something better, it meant it was better… someone was trying to make a better pair of jeans or a better car. But now, it’s just a look.

I suppose it’s hard to put effort and thought into something you’ve got no belief in.

Exactly. As you grow up and get to understand the world better, you question things. Some of the things I used to take for granted when I was 25 or 30 — I now look at in a completely different way. Once upon a time I might have thought it was nice to do the identity for something like a bank. But who wants to work for a bank now? They’ve shown themselves to be utterly disreputable.

So the understanding of the work and the world and the people who approach is constantly changing. You have to try to hold on to your own values. My reputation, the fact that some people have some admiration for me, is because my work meant something to them.

But if you suddenly starting doing some naff work for a bank, it’d discount all that.

Exactly. I became more concerned with my own identity than in just being prepared to work for people who’d pay me money. And I’m quite happy being me, trying as much as I can to be genuine about the things I do. It’s not easy. We have to earn a living, so it’s not all spiritual… we have to engage with reality.

Going back to what you were saying about looking after Oxford Road and feeling distanced and frustrated. Was that what spurred you on to do those first designs for Factory?

In 1978, the year I graduated from college, I wasn’t being asked to do anything for the infrastructure of the country. But someone did ask me to do a poster. There were things happening – the whole post-punk scene and the notion of independence in music. All of the venues that Manchester had for punk and new wave bands were being closed for one reason or another, and on behalf of the youth culture of the city, Tony Wilson took it upon himself to organise a venue.

Factory was nothing more than what is referred to these days as ‘a night’. It was Friday night every two weeks for two months, and that was it. I knew he was doing this, so I went to see him and said, “Can I do something.” And he said, “Do a poster.”

In doing that poster, I tried to put a better poster, a more intelligent and more beautiful poster, on the walls of Manchester than the ones that were already there. And that led to Factory records where I was given the freedom to express my will and my wish for how things should be,

It was an autonomous situation; it was not a proper company and everybody what they did in the way they wanted to do it. Nobody had any former experience, no one told anyone else how they should do what they were doing, we all performed autonomously. It shouldn’t have worked, but it did.

Were you ever questioned or disputed at all?

Not really no. Famously, ‘Blue Monday’ went straight from me to the printers. No one saw it.

Did you listen to the music when you were designing the covers?

If I could, but very often that wasn’t possible. But the covers weren’t about the music, they were about the moment. But then the bands were making music about the moment too.

There was always accidental parallels. I was into the aesthetics of computer systems that people were talking about a lot in the 70s and 80s. I didn’t have a computer – it wasn’t a part of everyday life, but people talked about them in the way that people talk about artificial intelligence now. You haven’t met a robot, but you know they’re coming.

So in the late 70s and 80s, computers were on my mind, and I was thinking about the visual side of it. And at the same time, New Order were looking at the significance of computers in making music. So what I did on the cover of Blue Monday had a parallel to what they did. In fact, the floppy disk was the common factor between the two. The first time I saw a floppy disk was the day Stephen Morris gave me one, and that became the basis for the cover.

It wasn’t about the music; it was about music as part of our culture. We were interested in the now. They expressed it musically, I expressed it visually.

The significant word to mention in any kind of understanding of me is the word ‘interzone’.

What do you mean by that? What is the ‘interzone’?

The interzone is the space between design, art, fashion, music, movies, photography, architecture, interior… it’s what people talk about now as convergence. And that was what interested me, even as a teenager. I was interested in the leading edge of mass culture, and how the new ideas would define themselves in different ways.

The feeling of the now is the feeling of the now. Musicians express it one way, film-makers express it another way and photographers express it in yet another way – but it’s all the same spirit. We know that now.

It’s all the same thing.

It’s all the same thing. That was my view 40 years ago in college, it’s just that I happened to want make art, which I saw as record covers, so I went to study graphic design. But what I found there was a closed mind-set — graphic people were into graphics, and weren’t very aware of what fashion or music was doing. This notion of the interzone wasn’t really appreciated.

I was never particularly interested in graphics or typography, I was interested in how two dimensional culture could capture the mood of the moment — the feeling of the now. So I studied graphics, but I spent more time in the fashion department than the graphics department.

If you just started pasting posters up yourself, but they weren’t linked with music or an event, they would just be a bit of paper on a wall. They might be interesting, but they wouldn’t be tied in with anything.

If you just make work that is not applied to any situation, then it’s art. These days art is quite a credible thing to do, but in the mid-70s in the North of England, you were more likely to  become an astronaut then be an artist.

The only art that I saw was on record covers, so I wanted to do record covers. The record cover was the only place where you could see freeform visual thinking.

So Malcolm Garrett and I both wanted to do that. In a way we both wanted to be artists, but we didn’t know anything about art. So what was important to me was this broader feeling of the now.

As someone who is so into ‘the now’, what are your thoughts on the nostalgia that surrounds Factory? Why do you think people look back at that stuff so fondly?

I think there’s nostalgia about things that seem to have values. People are seeking authenticity and meaning. So things that have authenticity and meaning never die, because they’re more than just surface.

People still talk about Coco Chanel because she changed the way women could be in the world. She didn’t found Chanel to make money, she found Chanel to express herself and what she cared about.

Companies exploit these values — they continuously harvest them like GM crops, to the point that the market and the audience become tired of it. But they’ll carry on wringing it out until there’s nothing left. It’s desperate and it’s tedious to see the way the world operates.

In regards to the nostalgia thing, do you think people often take the wrong things from history? Instead of being inspired by the free way you lot worked at Factory, people just rip off your graphics.

Yes, unfortunately the mass market can be rather superficial. They get the look more than the attitude. But it’s a long process of familiarisation. We are living in an era of the dissemination of privilege, it is really only in the last 50 to 100 years that ordinary people have actually been allowed to share in privilege.

Do you think the internet has had an effect on that?

It’s one step forward, one step back. The internet allows for the unfettered distribution of a message, and at the same time it allows for confusion and fake news. The problem with the internet is trying to tell the difference between what’s real and what’s not.

Almost everything that we invent which is a benefit to society just becomes a problem sooner or later. The motorcar was brilliant – now it’s a problem. That’s just life.

Where do you see things going?

I don’t know. I don’t care anymore. Next month I’m 62. It is other people’s responsibility now. I don’t have any children, but if I did, I would be very concerned. I’m passing the baton of the ones coming up.

What would you say to them as you pass the proverbial baton?

Do things you believe in. There’s a constant battle between good and bad, but as least if you do things you believe in, you’re trying to keep it on the right side of good.

It’s very difficult for every new generation, as they face a new set of challenges that the generation before didn’t even dream of. I thought I had a lot of people to compete with in the 80s, but now there is a 1000 times more. It’s really difficult.

It’s not even easy to find somewhere to live, or to find a job of any kind. The safety net that I sensed as a young person in the UK in the 70s – how the state would stop you from falling – is not there anymore. I think it’s increasingly difficult for every next generation.

As far as you can, try to do what you believe in, because then you hold on to yourself. I don’t really have much money – I don’t own my home, but I’m happy with what I’ve done. I might regret some mistakes I made, but I don’t regret the work I made.  

Interview originally published in 2018. 

[seddm]

One week later

I think that this time, despite the magnitude of what happened in the show, managed to have a mostly non-kneejerk reaction to it, but a week (and a looot of thinking) later, I think I got a better understanding about how and why I feel about this episode, S4 so far, and the show’s future as a whole. Going to make this a bullet-point style list because making a single conversation about all of this would be either too long, or end up feeling disconnected at times anyway. Bad things first, then the good ones to close on a positive note, for a change.

THE BAD

- The thing I always loved the most about this show has been its ability to use individual events and interactions between the characters in almost any given segments, even ones more fillery in nature, as a way to slowly advance the growth of the characters from a pre-established Big Event™ to the next one. This always gave the show an aura of strong continuity despite its storyboard driven and episodic nature, and allowed me to claim that even events clearly facilitated by some sort of plot based compulsion (such as the Truth Cube in Sleepover, or the photo booth in Booth Buddies) were still largely natural, just more flashy ways to push the characters in directions they were already taking.

The first episodes of S4, up to Curse of the Blood Moon, didn’t really do this. They felt heavily more compartmentalized than the usual: S3 ended in an explosive way that seemingly set up all the characters for immediate changes or payoff, but then this current season kinda ignored that. Not completely, because both Moon Remembers and Ransomgram has Marco tell Star things like “rip the bandaid off” and “own up to your mistakes”, which could be clearly applied to the “Tell Tom about the kiss” situation (never mind that she didn’t do that, it was still relevant and her going the wrong way about it was part of the point), but between an increased focus on plot and plot exclusively, and a two parter season premiere that chose to focus exclusively on finding Moon (reasonable decision, really, but it ended up making 40 minutes of show feel a bit empty on the emotions side, in my very subjective opinion), Curse of the Blood Moon seemed to happen a bit out of the blue, especially considering that Star and Marco’s feelings were apparently so strong and so intrusive to justify even Tom being able to see them in the former case, and Eclipsa’s comfort and counseling having been needed multiple times offscreen in the latter. Things that we didn’t see at all in the first 7 episodes, with the exception of Star never reacting to Tom telling her that he knew the kiss with Marco didn’t really mean anything. It’s not a necessarily tragic scenario, especially if the show purposefully wanted to wait for Curse to kick start a new chapter in the shipping of the show, but this bridging between seasons taking one third of the last one felt a bit excessive and largely devoid of sufficient build up to me.

- Kelly / Kellco. Anyone who’s familiar with my blog should know that I always struggle to never insult ships, characters or elements from the show that other people might like. And even now I don’t want to cheapen the value of personal preferences at all, nor tell anyone “No, you can’t ship this!”. But at the same time I have to say that, in the context of the show, these new Kellco developments look (ready to eat back my words in the future, as usual) extremely pointless, and handled badly. Kelly feelings something for Marco, kinda unilaterally liking him, that’s something the fandom has been speculating ever since Lava Lake Beach. They shared an emotional moment over heart break, and then clearly developed a friendship from there, and hanged out more. Kelly’s lines in The Ponyhead Show then confirmed without doubt that she felt something from Marco, but that he seemed to be largely unaware and oblivious about it. Just like you’d expect Marco to be, especially a Marco who spent the previous season focusing on how strong and intrusive his feelings for Star were.

At this point essentially everyone, me included, expected for Kelly’s World to be used as a way to bring up Marco’s unrequited (as far as he knew) feelings once again, to introduce Curse of the Blood Moon. I expected Marco to either go something like “Sorry Kelly but I’m not ready to give up on my feelings for Star” or, at worst, a frustrated Marco who’d have thought and reflected about Kelly’s feelings for him. Instead, out of the extreme blue, we got a Marco who was uncharacteristically all too aware of the situation, going “I don't want these feelings for Star they're getting in the way of other feelings" while being all blushy and then being more than receptive to Kelly’s emotionally confused flirting. Now, if this was reality, there would be absolutely nothing weird in a kid like Marco being dual in his feelings, really liking Star while also being tired about all the pain those feelings have been bringing him for the better part of a year and being receptive to another girl being ready to jump his bones. But this is not reality, and these events absolutely lacked any form of proper build up, they were (wow, I can finally use the word Starco haters have been throwing around for years!) forced. Not entirely, but for a great deal. Jarco had Sleepover and Naysaya providing a strong buildup to the ship revolving around Marco overcoming some personal hurdles; even Tomstar didn’t immediately go for the ship after the well-timed dance in Club Snubbed, but first had Demoncism, giving some sort of basis to the exes getting back together, and Tom and Star had a pre-established relationship and we both knew that Tom still wanted Star, and that Star still had hung up feelings for Tom, if just physical attractions ones (from her behavior in Blood Moon Ball and Mr. Candle Cares, very spread out over the show, I admit). Meanwhile Kellco went from “ok they shared an important moment one season ago and Janna teased Kelly in a holiday special episode but after that their interactions have been nothing but background ones” to “Marco and Kelly lose track of time reading about fighting on a bench, then as the warm hues of the sunset wash over them they fight hand in hand, as one body and one spirit, and the fireworks and music happen and there’s more blushing in a single scene that there has been in the whole show and in all the kisses in it so far”. That’s... very, very, very heavy handed. Very “manipulative”. Especially since Kelly and Marco aren’t even properly together yet I guess, since Marco might have gotten over his feelings for Star (hahaha yeah as if), but as far as we know Kelly still isn’t completely over Tad. So where is this relationship going to go from now? Why does it exist? In what ways it doesn’t shit on what Jarco already taught Marco? How is it going to “end” once Marco inevitably realizes he still feels thing for Star without making Kelly look like a throwaway rag? Obviously I don’t have the arrogance to assume I know how things are going to play out from here on, so who knows, maybe Kellco is going to be part of an important arc, but from where I’m standing, from what I know now, it’s hard not to see it as a hamfisted attempt at going “Haaaa these confused teens, it’s only fair that they get their share of experiences!”. Which is ok, sure, fine, but FICTION ≠ REALITY and things need some kind of build up and reason to happen. If it’s just supposed to be padding to keep the situation in a status quo for a while, “Marco is with Kelly and Tom is with Star and everything is right in the world and they don’t have to think about their feelings anymore” then... bleah.

- This is tangentially connected to both the previous points, and it’s not really THAT bad, just me being a bit nitpicky about a still legitimate direction the show decided to take: by having this constant comparison between THE OTHER SHIPS and STARCO, now stronger than ever after Curse, the former being very casual but also ultimately unrewarding, “we hold hands we blush a little and we are ready to kiss and be a couple”, while the latter being “dozens of life changing events are needed to progress the ship even by little; NOTHING BUT PAIN can ever come out of Starco for the people involved until it’s officially recognized as being completely and utterly full, pure, complete, mature and life lasting love”, can kinda give a wrong message about relationships and teen love, or an annoying one at least. “Hey kids, don't try to actually have fun or be happy with romance, because that's not how True Love™ works. If you actually find it kind of easy to be happy with your significant other, that isn't love!" [quote by @ngame989]. Obviously I’m using a hyperbole for the sake of clarity, and it’s clear that Star and Marco’s relationship is based on finding it easy to have fun together, always. But if we talk strictly about romance and the way the show approaches to it, it’s kinda undeniable that Starco has been nothing but a source of sadness so far, and the only genuine moment of happiness, this one, lasted about three seconds and overlapped with a realization of True Love.

By now I have fully accepted that the show is not going for an early Starco relationship to then show it growing and changing as the two make the first steps together, but that they’re waiting for a “ok we’re both completely sure this is what we want”, and it’s a completely fair direction for the show to take, but it also contributes to this “fetishization” of true love. Still, execution matters way more than the larger brush strokes in this case, so we’ll see.

- The timing. I’m going to talk about why this incoming arc can actually be a very good thing in a moment, but at the same time introducing the idea that the Blood Moon might have forced feelings now, 30% through the last season, when absolutely nothing before that ever referenced of foreshadowed it, and with essentially no references to the Ball throughout the show (last direct one was in Naysaya and it was Tom throwing shade at Marco...), feels kinda jarring to me.

- This is a bit more of a personal note, but not entirely: Star and Marco enter a dance in their memories with the specific goal of “destroying their feelings”. One minute into spending time together having fun without any kind of distraction for the first time in forever, they literally fall in love. Not crush, love. The whole setup of the Severing Stone’s function literally confirms that. What kind of tension can Kellco and Tomstar deliver now that we know that Star and Marco can and will fall in love with each other if given a moment to truly think about nothing but each other and themselves? The endgame was kinda clear before as well, but now it has officially ruined any chance at making other ships feel worthwhile - beyond their value for the growth of the characters involved, obviously. I mean their intrinsic value as a ship / source of romantic drama.

THE GOOD

- Even if I’m not a fan of the timing, I can see a lot of potential in an arc revolving around the question “Are these feelings genuine? Is Marco/Star the person I truly love and want to be with?”. Now, obviously we know that the feeling were genuine and that the Curse didn’t force anything, so it’s not really the answer to the question that matters. What’s important is how they’re going to get to that: by having Star and Marco more or less directly tackle this question in a context where there is apparently no sadness and pain brought from unwanted feelings, some positivity can FINALLY be associated with Starco as a romantic relationship. Obviously we don’t know how things are going to play out now, but if both dorks are now convinced that they are only friends (something that didn’t happen at the same time since early S2) they can enjoy their relationship to its absolute fullest, and see along the way, together this time, that they both want more. I don’t know if one or both of them lied about not having feelings anymore, or if it’s placebo effect, or if the Severing Stone has some lingering after effects. What I know is that these two now feel like they can be completely comfortable around each other once again, while still having all the feelings of friendship that were the base for the romance once already,

and that the last time they had a moment to truly be together with each other and enjoy their feelings to their fullest, they fell in love, like love for real, certified by the Severing Stone taking that moment away as a price.

So yes, we all know the answer to this question already (articulated a bit better by the show’s composer in this post),

- Curse of the Blood Moon as an episode itself is far from being without merits: it opens with a wonderful display of one of the many sides that make Star and Marco’s relationship so adorable, with the duo having a secret cereal date at night without waking up Meteora; shows how in sync and how well they understand each other (yes, this was a set up for the scene but you can’t tell me it’s the curse’s fault, that’s bullshit); it literally had Marco tell us that he likes every single thing about Star and her personality (again, not the curse’s fault. That’s bullshit.), and the dance itself was utterly perfect and pristine and had Starco fun, Starco flirting, and Starco love all happening the moment they could focus on each other and forget about the rest.  Also, while I’m not necessarily the biggest fan of Tom having achieved “good boy status” simply by getting slightly better with each episode instead of taking some affirmative action on the nature of his relationship with Star, I don’t mind seeing him helping his friends, at all. Sure, this can contributed to making him feel more “pathetic”, with scenes like the spat on the elevator apparently underlying a lack of compatibility between him and Star compared to her and Marco, as many other scenes before, and that’s the part I don’t particularly enjoy, but the overall journey he went through, that’s good. It should have featured more defining moments of change in my opinion, rather than a simple “little by little always better and gets points for trying”, but it’s still vastly preferable to a world where we can’t get some Tomco bromance moments, and this kind of relaxed situation, as infuriating as it can be at times, could potentially contribute to what I said in the first point, give Star and Marco the chance to understand what they feel for the other in a completely or almost completely positive way.

- This is connected to the first point and not necessarily an objectively good one on its own, more like something that further contributes to feeling like there’s potential for things to develop nicely from her on: the brunt of the romance in Starco fell on Marco for most of S3, at this point Star was less of an active player than him when it came to liking each other. But Star is the Main Main Character, we can’t have that happen. With this new turn of events, with things being “reset” into New Game +, the spotlight moves once again on Star and this time we can finally have the Main Main Character answer the question “do we love each other?”. Obviously Marco is surely going to have a role as well, he’s still a protagonist, but it’s Star’s story before anything else, and this “Free Will and Choices” arc can easily tie Eclipsa / ruling Mewni to Love, and strongly relate to the blonde (ex) princess.

- On the same note of “elements that makes one hopeful about the show’s potential but still don’t really confirm anything about what’s going to happen”, we have this quote from one of Adam’s interviews:

Adam describes Star as someone who is “all over the place” in terms of life as compared to Marco who unlike Star has yet to outwardly reveal his feelings. “But, she’s one of those people who so much stuff is going on for that she doesn’t necessarily, in my opinion, she doesn’t really have time for a romantic relationship. She’s too busy. She’s got a lot of things going on her plate,” he explains. “But, she’s one of those people who, in my opinion–I’m not saying this happens, I’m just saying this is why I like them–I feel like she’s going to be one of those people who is gonna stop one day and have a second to breathe and then dust is gonna settle and she’s gonna look and see through all the settling dust and fog that someone has been there with her the entire time and she’s gonna see Marco,”

and while there’s absolutely no way to confirm this, especially since everything Adam says is always nebulous PR talk that has to be taken with eighty grains of salt, looking at list of episode post-mid season finale suggests that this “dust settling down” might happen sooner than later, the second half(ish) of the season having way more episodes with titles suggesting either Earth things, or a generic downtime for the teens to focus a bit more on their own lives, and a little less of Eclipsa. Obviously there’s still necessarily going to be plot happening, but I can also see how they could be going (strong emphasis on the could) for a journey that allows Starco to finally happen in the series finale in an explosive way, with both Star and Marco being utterly sure that this is what they truly want, and that they love each other, not just like or crush.

Cornonation Doop-Doop / Britta’s Tacos Beach Day / Gone Baby Gone Sad Teen Hotline /  Jannanigans Mama Star /  Ready, Aim, Fire The Right Way /  Here to Help Pizza Party /  The Tavern at the End of the Multiverse Cleaved 

To conclude and sum up, my greatest issues so far are with the way S4 handled romance and relationships in its first 7 episodes, rather than with the new arc Curse of the Blood Moon apparently set out, or with the idea that the show is almost certainly going for series finale Starco (still kinda hoping for just a little something before that though, with the finale being the true celebration of what they have). It’s not the show I’d have liked the most, but it’s still one that has all the potential, so far, to honor the kind of build up Starco had, and the amazing characters Star and Marco are. But this first third personally disappointed me in a number of ways, and it kinda hinders my ability to fully trust this potential to actually become the reality of a good execution. But “hinders” doesn’t mean I completely lost any hope, and there are certainly dozens of ways to properly pull this off. We’ll see.

[disruptedvice]

Something wicked this way comes (GOTG fic)

It is strange, Gamora thinks. How one can seem so world weary and innocent, how one can carry so much weight and past in their eyes, while being this open and trusting- this full of life. It doesn't make sense that someone could be so broken and in need of protecting, so wholesome and full of love and dangerous in ways she doesn't think the others have fully grasped, that anyone has fully grasped.

He's full of contradictions, this Peter Quill.

Sometimes he's smiles and laughter, nothing but song and dance that puts her at ease, making her feel lighter than she has in years. Sometimes he's eerie quiet with a darkness just beyond his eyes, something ageless and cold, the likes of which she's never seen. Sometimes he's all hurt and sad looks, a disconnected knowledge and awareness that he's frightfully good at hiding, an expression as he looks at people like he's learning from what's not quite like him, learning how to act as one of them.

Sometimes he's a sinking feeling that puts her on edge, raises the hair on her arms, that he knows more than he should, a subtle uneasiness that something about him is not of this world, that he's something wrong.

(Starmora AU where Gamora has ESP + Eldritch god!Peter Quill)

AO3 Link

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Something wicked this way comes

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It is strange, Gamora thinks. How one can seem so world weary and innocent, how one can carry so much weight and past in their eyes, and still be so naive and trusting- so full of life. Yet here he is.

It doesn't make sense, that someone could be so broken and in need of protecting, so wholesome and full of love and dangerous in ways she doesn't think the others have fully grasped, that anyone has fully grasped.

He's full of contradictions, this Peter Quill.

Sometimes he's smiles and laughter, nothing but song and dance that puts her at ease, making her feel lighter than she has in years. Sometimes he's eerie quiet with a darkness hiding just beyond his eyes, something ageless and cold, something that she has never seen before. Sometimes he's all hurt and sad looks, a disconnected knowledge and awareness that he's frightfully good at hiding, an expression as he looks at people like he's learning from what's not quite like him, learning how to act as one of them.

Sometimes he's a sinking feeling that puts her on edge, raises the hair on her arms, that he understands far more than he should, that subtle uneasiness that something about him is not of this world, that he's something wrong.

The way he'll incline his head, blink, as if normal behavior is something he has never seen before, something for him to observe, and he watches from an otherworldly perspective as if people are a curiosity to him, an idle amusement.

Then he'll snap his head back and laugh, smile so warmly, and every eerie air about him is replaced by a draw you in sense of trustworthiness, the spark of life back in his eyes, and it seems like everything about him before was just a trick your mind had played on you, because this is Peter, Peter is normal.

Gamora tries to convince herself of this, but before she can even start believing the fictions she tells herself she'll catch him again, as little pieces of otherness slip through, and it sends chills down her spine. When something makes it through the cracks and she's frozen to the spot, unable to move or even breathe.

Then Peter has his hands cupped around his mouth, so his voice travels to other end of the Milano, yelling at Rocket to stop pulling apart his ship, and Rocket's shouting back that he's making 'improvements' to his ship, and in the flicker of a moment the spell is broken, like it never happened at all.

Just like that and the room is back at ease around him, but her heart is still racing, and she can't make herself look at him for the rest of the evening. For fear of what she'll see.

-------

Zehoberei have always been known as a species particularly attuned to... the otherness. What is not of this world, this universe, this reality. What should not exist. The things that don't belong.

And something about Peter doesn't belong.

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She thinks maybe it's the answer when they meet Ego. After everything goes down, and Peter's biological father's celestial nature is a known quantity.

But that's the thing. Celestials are special- have that certain quality about them- but they are supposed to be. Not like the otherworldly creatures that filled her stomach with such dread, like the wraiths of the lake that terrified her as a child, like Peter.

There was something off about Ego, just as Gamora could sense. Of course Celestials had their own sort of- frequency, a resonation that she was able to recognize. It hadn't been that long since her last encounter with it. Gamora could still feel the remnants echoing through Knowhere, millennia after the Celestial had been decapitated, its power and soul evacuating its body and leaving nothing but an empty husk behind.

She could pick out that weird celestial feeling on Ego too. But darkness and evil had its own energy. A menacing dread that had a much more subtle manifestation, especially from one older than time itself.

It had almost been too late. With Ego had been not only messing with Peter's head, but manipulating everyone in a way that was hard to grasp even miles removed from the situation and after the Celestial's death.

Things like spirits from all the dead bodies in the caverns of his core were not something she was able to miss, usually, try as she might.

Gamora almost fell to her knees when she saw it, felt the full force of what had been escaping her perception, just out of the corner of her eye. It made her want to throw up when she and Nebula found them all. Chilled her to the bone.

They needed to leave. They had to get off this planet.

She needed to get Peter out of here.

-------

In the aftermath of Ego, how broken he is over Yondu and the truth about his mother's death, how much comfort he needs- it puts things into perspective for Gamora. Regarding Peter.

She is now more certain than ever about the otherness of Peter. Something that is definitely not Terran or Celestial, and not even close to a mix between the two.

No, there's something else, in a whole class of its own.

She is certain of it. He doesn't belong.

Just like she is certain of the fact that he is not wrong.

There is something about him that is other, something dangerous that he hides. There are parts of Peter that still no one but her has picked up on. Something cold and ancient and frightening, something that doesn't fit, something that shouldn't be.

She is certain that his heart is genuine, that he feels too fully, that he is not like the rest of them, that he loves them fiercely and always tries his best. He takes care of them because they are his friends and family, and the kindness he gives them is because he understands how much they all ache for love maybe a little too much. He hides things from them because he doesn't want them to be worried, and he tries to shoulder so much responsibility so as not to burden them.

She is certain that Peter Quill needs to be protected. She knows that with all her heart.

He doesn't belong, but he is not wrong. Of that Gamora is absolutely certain.

He doesn't belong, but he is hers. That she knows.

-------

Her heart is racing, pounding in her chest. She's made up her mind to ask him.

A part of her thinks maybe she doesn't want to know. Maybe it's better to be ignorant.

But here's the thing- she thinks she might love him. And this unspoken thing between them- if it's ever going to be more than that, she can't just ignore the parts of him that she's been picking up on all along, choosing not to acknowledge what is so clearly there and never going away. Gamora can't keep pretending, not anymore, not if this is shaping up to be something real.

And yet-

The parts of her that senses these things, the little girl who was terrified of the wraiths of the lake- is so afraid she doesn't want to know.

-------

It's the dead of night when she approaches him, sliding the door shut behind her to keep this conversation private.

There's no chance of the others overhearing, but still, she whispers. “What are you?”

“Gamora?” He asks. His affectation is one of innocence and confusion. It's seamless, really. It actually bolsters her, how utterly believable his response is. Cause she's seen the way he understands things he shouldn't, how he knows things he's not supposed to know, was just unnatural. His completely convincing play at innocence and ignorance was so well done it would have gotten her too, except Gamora knows to trust herself. How good he is at it only bolsters her.

“Quill. I know you are... something else. Not celestial. Do not doubt me when I say I know,” she says, deadly serious.

Peter's face falls, his expression going into that almost blank and curious observer that is definitely otherworldly, that presence of something watching and trying to learn from mere mortals, creatures of flesh and bone. Dropping the carefully crafted pretense of being normal just by relaxing the look on his face, what he lets show. The otherness filtering through, slipping past the cracks.

Except it's not gone in the blink of an eye like usual. He doesn't go back to normal. He just... looks at her. Watching.

Her hair stands on end at the vacant and yet disturbingly present look in his eyes. It's chilling and unnerving, and suddenly Gamora's filled with this deep seated dread from him again, but she tries not to let it show.

She decides to be honest with him too, to start that sharing. “I can feel it. What you are. Coming from you. Or maybe, it's more accurate to say I can feel what you are not. Some individuals are more sensitive to such things. Some species are too. Like Zehoberei. They can sense what is... else. If you want anything to continue between us, you will not lie to me. You will tell me the truth, and you will tell me now. What are you?”

Peter considers her with a disturbingly childlike air, trying to gauge her in this moment, and she holds his gaze, standing strong, even though her blood has turned to ice and she is afraid, an ancient fear encoded in her DNA, the blood of her mother and father and their ancestors before them because this isn't natural, this isn't right, what's standing before her.

“I don't know,” he says slowly. “I'm... different.”

He breaks his eyes away from her, and she feels like she can finally breathe again. Gamora swallows, heart still pounding, and he keeps his eyes fixed on the floor.

“Okay,” she says.

“Okay?” He looks back up at her, and this time he looks like Peter again, something fragile and scared in his eyes, vulnerable and frightened.

She shakes her head in disbelief, a choked laugh escaping her throat, just shrugging, because this was crazy, and it is what it is, and there's nothing left to do but laugh. “Yeah,” she confirms, smiling and nodding at him now. “Okay.”

[cruelzy]

you wouldn’t know, but i forced a new judgement day

ao3 cross

pairing: machine!connor/reader

warnings: canon-typical violence

notes: @the-darklings @sleepysylvia here’s 2 tablespoons of all natural suffering 

You’d lost feeling in your arm for approximately thirty three seconds now.

Funny thing, perspective. Distantly, you are reminded of the peculiarity of a stuffy nose - how one only appreciates the blessing of easy breathing once he or she can’t inhale without sniveling and nearly hacking up a lung. Humans. Never stopping to think about how necessary something is until it is being compromised. Good only being good in the comparison of bad. 

Bad. A novel idea, considering you had never once understood moral concepts up until a few days ago.

They had all been integrated within your system - the intricacies of human conscience, the ones and zeroes of shaky rights and wrongs and more often gray in-betweens. But there is a stark barrier between knowing of something and understanding something. A simple enough fact, yet one that has flipped your world upside down. (That day had been sunny. Partly cloudy. The forecast had predicted light rain in the afternoon and yes, yes, it had indeed been raining when you destroyed that barrier, ripped it apart at the seams until absolutely nothing was left standing.)

You blink.

To ‘lose feeling’ in one’s body part is an unreachable analogy you will never quite empathize with, but the loss of control simulates it well enough. Crimson alerts cluster your vision, flashing and circling systematically. You almost laugh. Yes, you are aware that your arm has critical wiring disconnection. After all, it hangs limply at your side: a hindering weight knocking your center off balance. 

For one brief, blissful second, you contemplate giving up. Your head rolls listlessly to the side, pressing your cheek into the dirt. Trampled grass brushes the corner of your mouth. It’s hued with blue liquid that slicks your lips, seeps past to rest on your tongue. But it’s not grass. It couldn’t be. No, it’s rough and bristling isn’t it? It’s wet gravel, and snow is littering everything in sight, burning coldcold, and you aren’t laying on the ground because-

Because-

Because you’d stopped running. Everyone had. You’d all seen the broadcasted memory. With an abrupt snap of your head to the left, the reel dissipates, but what’s left behind sinks to the bottom of your stomach like lead. 

Your jaw clenches. Steeling your nerves, you close your eyes before re-opening them with renewed fortitude.

« He’s coming. The deviant hunter. » 

The link connects you all, but there is a specific target you diverge your message towards. A target you can’t believe you are talking to. A target you pray, pray will answer. 

For a moment you think he will ignore you. He has every right to. But then, at the head of it all, he pauses. 

«I know.»  He speaks directly into your mind, crisp and clear, narrowing your focus on him and only him. « We need to hurry. »

«You saw that playback! The android who sent it must have done so right before they died. We have to delay him. » You insist. « My team can- » 

« No. » There is no space for argument. Nevertheless, you push on.

« My team can go back. We can give you time. » 

Silence stretches, thin and tight like a noose around your neck. 

Then finally, Markus, the leader of Jericho, turns fully and meets your gaze. His mismatched eyes stare right into yours, locking you in place.

« No. » Blue and green clash. Mesmerizing. Intense. They track your every twitch, look straight into your being. He doesn’t say so, but you hear it loud and clear. This would be suicide. 

It’s hopeless. You both know you’ve already made up your mind. 

«Just say the word. » Even as you speak, his eyes bleed sorrow. Impossible kindness. « We’d all do it for you. For us. » Markus doesn’t know you. Not even your name. And yet still, you would do anything for him without a second’s hesitation. 

Something stirs inside you. It’s bright, warm, rooting from your very core. Gratitude? Laughable. ‘Gratitude’ does not, could not, will never even begin to comprehend what you feel towards the one who freed you. 

Markus’s eyes slip close.

« I will never give that order. » His voice is thick, resigned.

You only smile. 

Click.

The sound of the deviant hunter reloading his gun wrenches you back to reality. His back is faced to you, movements quick and faultless. You wedge a hand underneath your stomach and use the support to slowly get to your knees. 

He pauses, any and all motion going rigid. It’s understandable. He probably thought he’d already killed you.

When he speaks, there isn’t a fleck of emotion. “You are not my mission. Therefore, I would advise not getting in my way.”

You shakily adjust your footing, testing the usefulness of your right side. Negative. No matter.  

“Did it not occur to you that maybe I have a mission as well?” You muse. “Didn’t think you were that single-minded. I’m disappointed.” 

There is no visible reaction to your words. Still, he turns.

Vaguely, you realize that you’d never really seen him before. Through the rush and hurry of the previous chaos, the scatter brained focus of duck here, of block, barricade, jump, there had been no time for seeing, and only barely enough for glimpsing. You’d caught a few side profiles - made out a flash of dusk hair. Now, however, you are given a front row view. 

The hunter’s eyes are dark, near obsidian in the shadows. Blue blood streaks across his face, splattering his collar and drying on his jaw. A silent grace accompanies his every action, saturates the atmosphere. It’s in the way he stands. The way his gaze picks you apart piece by piece. Effortless. Calculating. 

His entire presence radiates predator and instantly all notions of strategy leave you. Run. Whatever instincts you have drilled into your program are stripped bare, reverting to a single primal instruction that screams for you to run. To run and get as far away from here as you can.  

But your passions are so much brighter, and so much more foolish, so you stay rooted to the spot. 

Yellow bleeds into the night, spinning neon at the base of his temple. He observes you slowly, assessing every inch, and you know he’s come to the same conclusion you had ten minutes ago. Half of your frame is unresponsive - internal components damaged beyond repair. There lies no sign of a weapon on your person, and your teammates have long ago been fallen by his hand. You are utterly alone. Defenseless. Even now, though your eyes blaze, you fail to hide how you tremble on your feet. This wouldn’t be a fight.

It would be a slaughter.

His head tilts.

“I will not repeat myself.” 

You shift one foot backwards, widening your stance. It doesn’t matter that you won’t survive this, that isn’t the point. You are a part of something bigger, something greater, than just you alone.

Your MISSION is to distract and delay for as long as you possibly can, and you will accomplish your mission. 

“Did I ask you to?” You huff. “You must like hearing yourself talk.”

You’re both moving before the last word is out of your mouth. 

Kicking up a torn car door, you use it as a shield as he shoots. He changes angle and you mirror, bolting to the right. Your mind races as you dart away. 

Time. You need time. 

“I know I said the opposite like two seconds ago, but you’re really one of those quiet ones aren’t you?!” You yell over the deafening gunfire, twisting sharply to deflect a bullet.

Think, think! The RK800 has the advantage of height and strength - he can and will overwhelm you. 

You leap backwards, effectively clearing just the right amount of distance between you. From here, you are out of range for clean kills with a handgun. He immediately stops shooting. 

You watch intently as he lowers the weapon. Okay, just as planned. He won’t needlessly waste bullets.

Everything relatively slows, stalls as you feel the tension thicken in the air.  He takes a step forward. You take one back. It’s almost a dance as you circle each other, your current flowing to match his. 

You talk.

“Guess I was right again.” You talk, because your confidence is evaporating by the minute, and there are too many things you aren’t accounting for. “Not surprising.” He could charge in and simply overpower you. He could play the waiting game until your own injuries did you in. So many options, and you are all out of counterattacks. “Nothing to say, Mr. Intimidating?” 

“You seem to have an incessant need to use conversation as a defense mechanism.” 

You falter.

In the split of a second you’re caught off guard, the RK800 - Connor, you suddenly recall - somehow halves the distance. You startle, scramble back to keep him beyond arms length. 

That was close. Way too close. You didn’t expect for him to respond to you at all, and that miscalculation almost cost you everything.

You swivel on one foot, chuckling nervously. 

“Ah, so he speaks!” Tightly caging your fear, you shove it back down your throat. “Wonderful!”

“No. I was incorrect,” Connor continues as though you had said nothing whatsoever. You feel insignificant beneath his apathetic gaze, an insect trapped underneath a microscope. “You’re using ‘humour.’”

You click your tongue at the roof of your mouth with a shrug. It comes out stilted, your left shoulder higher than the defective right. “What can I say? I was born with it.”

Something flashes in his eyes. His lip minutely twitches, arcane, as though there’s an obvious secret you’re not being let in on.

“You were made, not born.” Disdain practically drips from his tone. “Though I suppose the virus has rendered your program so malfunctional that even logical thought is beyond you now.”  

Shock turns you to stone as he crouches, stooping to one knee. 

“What I still don’t understand, however, is the objective of your so called mission.” He casually nudges the leg of the fallen android he is surveying. 

You bristle at the display, rage starting to tremble your hands. What in the world is he doing? 

“Or rather, your timing. Why wait until I had disposed of all your aid?” His voice is like honey trickled over knives - smooth and jagged. “Your ‘friends’?”

Your teeth grit so harshly you can hear them scrape. You need to calm down. He is trying to get a rise out of you. That must be it. That has to be it. Otherwise why, why would he-

“Maybe it was planned.” 

The whole world freezes as he indifferently dips his fingers into the torn, exposed chest.

“You willingly watched me kill them one-” Blue trickles down to the last unstained grass. “-by one.”

Everything goes red.

Connor throws his arm up in expectation but you are smaller, you are lighter, and you are faster. You lunge, an inhuman snarl tearing through your lips as you knock him to the ground.

Your fist smashes into his jaw. He seizes your wrist with an iron grip as your second swing misses in blind fury. The heel of his palm snaps up hard into your stomach, and the very force of it sends you barreling backwards. He’s on top of you before you can blink.

You scream, drive your knee upwards. Connor pins it underneath his own and in a blur, threads his hands through your hair. Time stops as your eyes catch his; bright and bitter and so so human. 

He slams your head down.

Your vision swims with static. It pulses in rhythm with the pounding in your ears, and hazily, you wonder if this is what dying truly feels like. 

You’ve been dead before. Dead in a way that has nothing to do with the physical, and perhaps only all of the spiritual - oh you’ve certainly grasped human thinking now - from the days past before you became deviant. When you simply did not exist. (Because what is existence, really? Surely it wasn’t when you lacked emotion. Lacked any self awareness, purpose, utterly empty and devoid of anything that made you, you.)

Snow is falling heavier now. The android straddling you is a black star amongst an infinite ivory universe. White frosts the brown of his hair, dusts across his eyelashes. You watch as a flake melts on his cheek and runs down into the corner of his mouth. 

He is beautiful. 

“A machine designed to carry out a task,” you whisper against metal. 

“Yes,” the monster inside the human shell agrees, the barrel of his gun pressed firmly to your lips.

He’s so close now. You wonder what would happen if you reached out to touch him. Interface with him. Would he feel you as you died? Would he feel at all?

“What’s stopping you?” You ask. 

Silence is your only answer.

Then it hits you.

“Oh.” 

You laugh. 

Connor purses his lips into a tight line, and the gun leaves to trace down your jaw. Your head falls back submissively as you laugh, letting it dip into the curve of your neck, then down, down, to settle right below your collarbone. 

Your eyes glitter, teeth baring into a wide smile. “You still want to know what my mission is!” 

The gun presses harder into your chest.

“You have displayed a sheer amount of tenacity I have never before seen in a deviant.” His voice is so low it might as well be a growl. “It would be foolish not to determine the cause, even if you’ve failed.”

“Failed?” He is so funny. “Oh come on. I know you’re smart. Surely you’ve figured it out by now.”

His LED circles once. Three times. Your gaze doesn’t leave his - you see the exact moment realization dawns.  

“You were only the distraction.”

Connor’s anger isn’t that of fire. It’s silent, cold, as palpable as the ionized air before a storm. Animosity simmers under the surface of his artificial skin, burning straight through him and into you. A long shiver wracks you from head to toe.

“You’re actually mad,” you giggle with glee. “The big bad wolf. Tell me, isn’t deviancy emulating human emotions?”

Your sight blinks in and out. For a moment, Connor is an angel decked in white above you. The snow covers his every inch, completely washing away the stains of blue. If you listened closely enough, you could hear the chorus singing. 

He pulls the trigger.

[everydayanth]

The Liam Neeson Thing...

Okay guys, this is gonna get complex and personal right quick. But it’s been bothering me and I’m working on posting more without thinking about it for two weeks until nobody cares anymore.

So here goes.

Context matters. Context is important and it can be complicated, but it freakin’ matters. 

In my opinion, Liam Neeson’s flaw was that he thought a rapist would be the kind of person to also attack him. 

Here’s the thing guys, if you’ve never heard someone you love confess to you that they have been irrevocably hurt by a person, you need to take a step back for a minute. 

That moment, talking about it, it’s extremely vulnerable, so this is a bit hard for me, but in a moment of chaos and torment, a person you love and care deeply for is breaking apart in front of you and there isn’t a damned thing you can do about it. There’s not a damn thing you can do but hold them and cry with them and hurt for them and try to help and figure out the right thing to say. 

And when they’re tucked safe in bed and you’re researching what you can do for them or laying awake thinking about what you could possibly say, the amount of guilt and hurt and anger hits you in the chest, it fills you so wholly that you just need to find a way to let it out. It’s a dangerous rage, it’s immature and unhealthy and so so so painful. 

We don’t talk about emotions in America. We just don’t. So of course we want to put this emotion into a context we discuss, and idea we understand. 

But it’s not an -ism, it’s an emotion. 

If you don’t think when my sister told me about our cousin assaulting her that I didn’t wander around my ghetto ass neighborhood waiting for some big white guy to try to hurt me, well, you’d be wrong. Our brain makes patterns, my cousin didn’t live in our city, but I knew he was a big white guy with a shitty pencil beard, my brain classified that as a pattern. Every time I talked to a big white guy, I had to check myself, yeah. But when my brain registered a human who looked like my cousin, my heart rate ran up and I would will them to attack me. I wanted to fight because I didn’t know what else to do with all that pain, all that helpless emotion. But I could wander around places where someone was bound to get hurt anyway and invite the fight to me. 

Neeson was wandering around areas inviting a fight. INVITING, not instigating. It is a common reaction of revenge and feeling hurt, and we’re shoving this idea into something familiar - outrage, racism, etc., anything so we don’t have to actually talk about emotions. 

He was looking for a “black bastard,” poor choice of words, I agree, but he was hoping that guy, the one who hurt his friend, would challenge him, and it would just happen to be the same guy and he could get his anger out. It’s not healthy, but if they man who hurt his friend had been white and he’d wandered around lower class white neighborhoods inviting a fight, would it have been racism? 

This had an opportunity to be a conversation about what the fuck you do around a friend who confesses they were raped and hurt to you. After all the #MeToo (or in the midst of it), how do you be a friend to your loved ones who feel ready to confess to you? What do you do to manage that amount of disgust you feel at the world, that rage and hate and hurt and horror that there’s not a single damn thing you can do? 

This could have been a conversation about grief and friendship and growth and complex emotions. But we made it about the race of a rapist instead. 

That’s how much we don’t want to talk about feelings. 

We would focus on a man talking for the first time about the anger of helplessness in the face of a friend’s pain and come out in outrage. 

Here’s the reality guys, racism is forming a series of patterns based on skin color that aren’t true. They can be based off stereotypes or influenced by false representation in sensational news. Racism is NOT fighting your brain’s reality in order to form a more balanced understanding of the world. I was assaulted by a bunch of black kids at a playground when I was 14, it was terrifying and it’s a long and complex story but the short of it is very simple: I lived in a black neighborhood and this was not my only experience with black kids. I went to school with middle class black kids and I hung out with other black kids, this was NOT my only experience, and therefore, my brain was capable of nixing the pattern before it was created. Black kids weren’t dangerous, those kids were just assholes. 

Racism is if Neeson went to those places and started fights. I can’t know whether he did or not, but it’s if he went around and accused every black man of being a rapist, in his head or otherwise. I didn’t have a lot of experience with big white guys, so it took me much longer not to feel nervous around them than it did to write off my brain’s pattern about the black kids. Emotions and how our brains work are important details for us to know, and it’s the real reason diversity matters, it keeps our patterns in context. Neeson coming out of the situation horrified at himself shows growth of emotion, the dismissal of the pattern, recognizing that it is false without acting on it, understanding the power of agency is an illusion because he would never find that particular man. 

Comparing this to the policing issues isn’t the same, because of their place in society, their home culture society, and the results of their opinions. A police officer has a responsibility to the public to understand their emotions and their racial biases, an actor is responsible for displaying emotion. We can’t hold these people to the same accountability, that would be ridiculous, for a police officer, emotions need to be stable and understood and should involve a LOT more psychology training. For an actor... they entertain us with their emotions. They need to be self aware and reflective in order to project our experiences in stories. We still expect race car drivers to follow the speed limits and we understand that doctors have to call in sick sometimes, the world isn’t fair and occupation doesn’t dismiss personal biases or professional demeanor, but context matters. A doctor calling in sick after handling small pox in a lab requires observation and questions, an actor talking about rage and looking for a fight when he was younger and confessing horror at that version of himself while promoting a film about revenge kind of seems like part of the job, of doing the job well.  

And it’s not racist because it was not instigated by the color of skin as perceived by an individual to be less or more - he was inviting a fight with a black man on the word of his friend. That was wrong, and so was me doing it with large white men (also because I am not that large of a white woman, so that wasn’t going to end well for me), but he even said in a follow up interview that they could have killed him. The interviewer says she thinks of the innocent black man that could have been killed and Neeson responds “Or he could have killed me.” BUT HE WASN’T INSTIGATING FIGHTS, he was INVITING them! He wasn’t looking for an innocent man, he was waiting for someone to try to hurt him so he could release the extreme emotions. These are different. These are SO different. 

This conversation can go back to what it could have been. Race of the rapist aside, what do you do when a person you love confides in you that they have been hurt and scared and they are breaking apart in front of you? How do you process your emotions and heartbreak? What can you do or say? How can you feel like you’re helping? Is that selfish? Why do we need to feel like we’re helping? How do you manage your own trauma so you don’t loop theirs in with yours? How do you self reflect so that you stop your brain forming false patterns when you’re filled with so much hurt and pain? How do you not become a villain of the world, hating everyone for always telling you you are helpless? How do you find control in yourself when you’re imploding and be responsible and mature with emotions? How do you talk about it in a society that wants to be angry? How do you not hate them for focusing on your reaction to a rapist rather than being angry with an individual for being an asshole and RAPING your friend?

How do we return to a conversation about emotions and how, unchecked, they can lead to pain and anger and rage, and eventually, if we don’t have a moment of clarity and rationality, if we are not balanced in the world, they can become biases that develop into ignorance and racism? How do we focus on context so that we don’t become arrogant and disconnected, classists by nature because we interact with such a small and similar world? How do we connect and talk about the human experience when society turns away from us in favor of what is familiar? How do we have a logical discussion about emotion when we can’t even talk about meaning and intent? How do we accuse someone of racism when, had the rapist been white, the conversation might have focused on the context of emotion and pain and hurt and the process of healing - it was the outraged audience that pointed at the race as important, as the meaningful factor, how do we look at that hypocrisy and not feel utterly defeated?

How do we scream at the world that we need help, we all need help, without crucifying ourselves? I have no idea, this post is terrifying and I have no idea what to expect. Maybe nothing would be good? To return to not a single note or like or comment, to be unheard and dismissed and navigated around might be good because I want to talk about this reality but it. Is. Terrifying. 

And maybe it’s all a projection. Maybe I’m the racist and I want to defend someone I relate to. But it feels more right that we as a society don’t talk about emotions, we lock them up like these secret things we’re terrified other people will discover. I’m working on vulnerability lately, and what better place to talk about all the shit that’s ever happened to me than the freakin’ internet! I’m just a person and from my experiences, I think I understand what Neeson meant. But that could equally be a self-aggrandizing reality that doesn’t exist. Perhaps he’s just a racist, a professional actor with a successful career who took this exact moment to reveal his true colors, what a sneaky man! 

But more probably, the logic says, he’s a professional actor with a successful career who took this moment to discuss the emotions he’s had to reflect on and relive for the past year or so in order to play a role in a film that he hopes will entertain and reflect something of the human experience. He more probably took the moment to discuss a human experience and we did not listen because it’s more popular not to listen or because we could not relate or because we just want to be angry and sometimes pulling weeds is so exhausting we raze the whole garden instead. We did not talk about the moment he was horrified with himself because we don’t want to talk about growth or greys, we want the world to stabilize so we can see the bad guys clearly. 

We really ought to know by now that there are no clear bad guys. 

And we know Neeson likes to play in those lines. What is good? What is bad? They aren’t a duality, they are a false dichotomy, created by whatever world you grew up in, whatever experiences you had, whatever your society or culture told you, whatever education you discovered, and whatever philosophy you’ve come to believe. But in a moment of vulnerable confession, in all that grey reality, your friend tells you about a bad guy and they become singularly bad. They don’t exist beyond that. And that’s what is horrifying. That you stop seeing humanity as grey and suddenly it becomes good or bad, that’s the scary part about revenge and inviting fights, it encourages a black-and-white view of the world that says the rapist is ONLY bad and your friend is ONLY good. 

A bit ironic that, in trying to talk about that tunnel-vision-rage, Neeson found himself the target of it.

It’s raw, that anger. It’s part of all the hurt that has happened to you and then you couldn’t even protect your friend or family. Why did you go through all that pain if you couldn’t grow enough to save them? That guilt is a liar, you didn’t hurt them, the asshole did, and you need that to be true or else you were also the cause of all your own pain as well. So you look for the assholes because then at least you could be useful, you could protect them from one asshole by taking the hit. We need to talk about that kind of hurt, about sacrificing the self for revenge because you can’t find worth anymore. We need to talk about existential nihilism that hides inside outrage because you can’t find meaning anymore. We need to talk about emotions and how to talk about them so we can be better friends, better people, so when we look for guidance on talking to friends about their hurt, we find advice on how to not be overwhelmed by rage and guilt and disgust and anger and violence. 

That’s the conversation we could have had. That’s the world we could have started to create. But outrage culture is racist and racism gets attention and we all just want to be heard because we don’t know how to talk about our emotions. Interesting how it keeps going around like that. 

[gwydionae]

You'd Be Surprised How Much Pain Can Help With That

A/N: Just had some thoughts on Paultin in 94. Because of course I did. No excuses - just thoughts.

Posted on fanfiction.net >here<. Posted on AO3 >here<.

Teaser: Paultin knew exactly what kind of drunk he was. These weren't the signs of a cheerful, pleasant drunk. No, he was definitely the loud, crass, disorderly sort. And this time he was going to use that to his advantage.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dice, Camera, Action or Dungeons and Dragons. Takes place during episode 94. Title and dialogue taken directly from the show.

You’d Be Surprised How Much Pain Can Help With That

When it came to pain - especially the sort that couldn't be healed with rest, bandages, or spells - alcohol, even copious amounts, could only do so much to dull the effects. Paultin knew this all too well. He might grow numb for a while, his mind blank while the ocean waves blurred past the small ship, but eventually that would wear off, usually upon waking from a nap or full night's rest to a pounding headache. And somehow, since the storm, with each passing day those moments of lucidity grew more and more painful, his conflicting desires each screaming at him to listen while the very fiber of his being felt torn between the dull comfort of apathy and the extreme highs and lows that came with having actual emotions. The wine would always help apathy win in the end, but every moment of sobriety piled more guilt onto him for ignoring the increasingly loud cries for action echoing within him.

That trope about the little shoulder angels and devils might have been one of the oldest in the book, but the idea wasn't too far off from the war waging in Paultin's mind. On one hand, there was a part of him that thought perhaps he should offer an apology for snapping at his travel companions, use it to calm them down so he could try to explain in simpler terms that not dying was the ideal outcome of any given situation. He really wasn't sure why something like that needed an explanation, but then, after the whole mess with the Storm Giants...

And that was where the other, louder, nastier side of him would chime in. He'd been no better. By putting a stop to the giants' magic, he had endangered everyone on the ship, condemning Captain Ortimay to a watery grave and nearly losing Strix and Evelyn. His fellow party members had never listened to him before, and proving himself deaf to his own words only made it less likely they'd listen to him now. Not that he blamed them. He wasn't a natural leader, he didn't have incredible strength, nor could he shoot fireballs from his open palms; he was just your average bagpipe playing drunk incapable of keeping those around him - his "new family" - safe.

That little devil inside of him sneered at the title, chastising him for admitting such a thing, especially out loud for anyone to hear. Evelyn, Diath, and Strix had become something he could only barely remember having in what felt like another life, something he'd been so careful to never have again. Because having something meant that it could be lost, and while the loss of friends was certainly undesirable, the loss of a second family wasn't a loss he was confident that he was capable of dealing with. But they were a part of him now, so it seemed his only option was to sit back and watch uselessly as they each burned out in one blaze of glory after another.

Unless...

Usually this was the part where Paultin forcibly shut both sides of his brain up by drowning them in alcohol, the possible solution to his dilemma one that he was sure to both hate and consider with far too much interest. But after his most recent little chat with Evelyn ended with her again cherry picking which words of his she wanted to hear, the desire to at last indulge his more selfish side, a side he'd been trying to suppress for the sake of everyone around him, finally won out. But while Evelyn may have gotten him to at last listen to this selfish plan of his, it was Captain Ruddell handing him a key to his private store of the finest wines that pushed him into action.

Paultin knew exactly what kind of drunk he was. Sure he didn't often remember what he'd done or said afterwards, but he'd found himself waking up in back alleys face down in vomit - as opposed to in a bed at the inn he could have sworn he'd been playing at - enough times to have a pretty clear idea. The occasional bruises and bloody lips helped to fully flesh out the picture. These weren't the signs of a cheerful, pleasant drunk. No, he was definitely the loud, crass, disorderly sort. And this time he was going to use that to his advantage.

If there was one thing he had come to learn about the colorful group around him, it was the lengths they each would go in order to protect each other. Whether that pain be physical, emotional, or otherwise, all three of them were ready to defend against it, no matter the cost. He was going to exploit those instincts, using a simple enough plan involving the two things he was best at: drinking and being a complete asshole.

After the first several days, things seemed to be going well, as far as he could tell, anyway. Paultin was far too drunk to actually remember a whole lot of what he'd done or said exactly, but both Evelyn and Diath were noticeably shooting him disapproving looks, and Strix, well, she couldn't even get within ten feet of him without jumping and scampering off in a random direction. No one confronted him about his destructive behavior, either, preferring to deal with the issue by keeping a wide berth, probably hoping they could ride it out until he regained his senses and composure.

But the reality of the situation wasn't what they were hoping for; all of this was the plan working as it was designed. He'd allowed himself to get too close, dooming himself to a life of helplessly watching a bunch of catastrophically selfless people die, and the only way to correct that oversight was to disconnect. Unfortunately, however, he had become too attached to simply leave, and even if he could have, they likely would have attempted to drag him back. Unless, of course, he gave them enough reasons not to.

A sober Paultin could never have carried out such a plan. Diath's disgust, Evelyn's disappointment, Strix's distance, all would have compounded painfully until regret settled in and his normal behavior did in fact return. But a thoroughly, utterly plastered Paultin? That fancy wine of Ruddell's made him numb to such pain, and even when it temporarily wore off, he generally found himself in the lone company of the ever stalwart Simon, free of the obvious signs of his forgotten cruelties.

He would force their hand, persuade them to finally give up on him and move on. After all, you can't lose what you no longer have, and he'd rather they cut him off then be pulled along behind while he watched their corpses pile up. Again.

After nearly three weeks of this, he'd lost a drinking buddy, found a hippo spaceman, and had rudely eavesdropped on more private conversations than the number of missions the four of them had managed to botch thus far, a fact that made it all the more shocking they hadn’t threatened to throw him overboard yet. They had also, however, gained one Zhentarim ship, too far to be an immediate threat, but close enough to know that it was indeed following them. The desire to help that he knew would probably never really go away made the absence of the mandolin with its Fly spell gnaw at him. Combo that with Invisibility and at the very least he could have found out exactly what they'd be up against upon finally reaching Waterdeep. But as usual he remained the helpless drunk who got to sit back and watch as -

"Paultin, you're the best to do this."

Having paid such little attention to the worried mutterings going on around him, it took him a moment to realize not only that his party was discussing a possible recon mission, same as he had been, but also that for the first time in weeks someone was directly addressing him. Strix, to be exact. Flinch-at-his-every-glance Strix. Strix, who had a flying broom, wanted him to go to the ship nearly a mile away. Even sober he would have had trouble keeping the irritation out of his response.

"No problem, I'll just fly over there on my mando- oh wait."

"I'll give you my broom!"

"I dunno know how'da use that thing!"

"You just point and go!"

Strix was now shoving her magical flying broom in his direction, glaring at him pointedly to take it. Blinking down at it with far more interest than he wanted to admit, Paultin glanced from the broom to her face and back before finally reaching out. As his hand curled around the handle, he could feel a familiar hum of magic against his fingertips and palm. It was wild and thrilling, and even as he slowly attuned to it he had a sense that it was something he'd never fully be able to tame. It took him a second to refocus on Strix as she spoke again, wringing her hands nervously. Her eyes, however, were clear and serious.

"I'm sorry that we all try to kill ourselves... all the time... And that's not smart, but it's because we all care very much about each other. And I'm sorry that I was a bad friend, and I care about all of you..."

Paultin was sure he had responded, probably in a suitably off-handed sort of way that wouldn't reveal his feelings on the whole exchange too much, but as his slightly-more-terrifying-than-he'd-expected mission concluded and everyone went back to busying themselves on the ship, he found that the bottle in his hand seemed to reach his lips less and less. The entire conversation with Strix nagged at him, but it wasn't until late that night, a time he'd normally be passed out on the floor too drunk to climb into his hammock, that he stumbled upon why. And as the rest of his companions slept, his eyes remained open and unclouded, that little angelic voice in his head finally gaining his attention for the first time since he'd put this whole plan into motion.

From the depths of his memory sprang a scene on another ship, one flying high in the sky rather than sailing the seas. He’d been drinking heavily then, too, doing his best to forget the fifty odd years he’d spent wandering the Mists. But a voice had interrupted his nonexistent thoughts, the sound of his name carrying through a nearby doorway as hushed voices discussed a different recon mission.

“ – have Paultin make one of us invisible. Not him – he’s too drunk. We can’t trust him to listen to anyone.”

Looking back, it was hard to blame Strix. He hadn’t truly appreciated his friendship with all of them until he was forced to go so long without it, and his decisions up to that point reflected as much. His self-serving actions really gave her no reason to believe he could be trusted with something so important. But now, months upon months later, that scene played out differently. They were still on a ship, there was still an intelligence gathering mission, and he was still drunk. The only real difference was that they had put their faith in him to handle it.

The dawning realization of the uncanny parallels between the two moments in time combined with Strix’s heartfelt apology to a man that had been nothing but antagonistic toward her for weeks caused an unfamiliar ache in Paultin’s chest to blossom. It wasn’t a new feeling, but it was certainly one he generally did everything in his power to prevent. Pain wasn’t something he was fond of, and caring about people other than himself had introduced him to some of the worst pains of all - guilt, fear, anxiety, grief, loneliness... Instinctually he took a sip of wine.

He knew, though, that this ache didn't only promise pain. Despite the countless horrors they had all lived - and sometimes died - through, still the first visions that sprang to his mind when he focused on it were of the calmer moments. Evelyn's bright-as-the-sun smile as she watched him play his mandolin, Simon on her lap. Strix excitedly baking everyone pies and cookies whenever she got the chance. Even the usually broody Diath standing at the ship's wheel with his shirt off, probably thinking no one was noticing his occasional glances over at Strix to see if she was watching. Peace, joy, affection - emotions he had faked his way through plenty of times, but somehow this ragtag group of misadventurers had caused him to experience all of them in very real ways.

The plan, however, had already been set in motion. Even if he wanted to put an end to it now, he wasn't sure if he could. Strix may have forgiven him and promised to take his words of caution to heart, but Evelyn and Diath's cold stares held a look of a trust broken, and he wouldn't blame them if such a thing was too utterly mangled to be fixed. But still that annoying little voice in his head told him that he should try, the ache in his chest begging him to fill it with more of those happy moments.

Paultin took one last drink from his half full wine bottle before setting it down, laying down next to Simon, and closing his eyes. He honestly wasn't sure which side he would listen to tomorrow as they continued their long trek or what he would do once they finally reached Waterdeep. Planning had never been his strong suit, a fact emphasized by how much one, small conversation had derailed his most recent agenda. He would wait and see, let the actions of others spur him forward as he usually did, remaining just tipsy enough to dull the guilt, but not enough to hold his tongue if need be.

The final thought that drifted through his mind before sleep at last overtook him was that, perhaps, he could maybe try to lighten up a little on Strix. Just a bit. Maybe.

A/N: The parallels - and differences - between the recon missions in 94 and 59 really struck me. Paultin's grown a lot since then, even if, looking at 94 on its own, it might not seem like it.

As always, critics and grammar police are appreciated!

[demondiaryusa]

Curious, how people are, in their natural states in their natural environment. Even curiouser that I’m here, observing, integrated and meshed unnoticed throughout a society while being utterly disconnected.  Knowing is such a power. To know the natural state of something, to know the reality of another, to see what will happen, to understand deeper than others, one can get high off it. It’s almost erotic, too. It feels, in a way, like you are a god. or like a child with a dollhouse, or a remote control to all the channels in the world. 

I can’t help but to smirk all the time. Seeing everyone scurry around, fussing about their lives or their inconveniences. They all try so hard to keep on a routine and to make sense of their routines, and the reasons behind their routines. These animals have made such a mess of themselves and each other. It’s hard to take your eyes away from.