#and it is without being fetishizing or ridiculizing which i appreciate even more

[basofy]

uhmmm lisa

[ca-suffit]

First off - I really appreciate what you do here, I'm new to fandom spaces and the things you post about have crystalized what bothered me in this fandom, which has made the experience of sifting through it much easier, knowing why some people's takes make me wildly uncomfortable and why I wasn't convinced by the big blogs big loud voices yelling at me what to think and how. There's an objectivity to your words that takes me out of the shipping war, book nostalgia, societal issue-blind mindset a lot of loud people here flaunt like some intellectual commentary, when it's not.

That aside, I know you mostly comment on fandom racism, but I've been confused for some time with how this fandom deals with transgender AUs. I know that a while back there was a lot of heated discourse and some big blogs saying that Louis shouldn't be feminized, dismissing critique of patriarchy which the show makes so clear, and misinterpreting Lestat's place in the familial structure etc. Now, I'm not talking about that, I wholeheartedly agree with Louis being a feminine (and maternal) figure in regards to gender roles, and with his general demeanor, as well. Though he is more subdued in that sense and gets misinterpreted, due to people used to something more outright like Lestat's flamboyancy.

And I know a lot of fic was written at first to spite the people who were uncomfortable with the notion of a clearly feminized Louis, which brought out MPreg, A/B/O, breeding kink, crossdressing, GNC, and even trans (FTM or MTF) iterations. I've read some great work involving most of those (though I've never wanted to check out any applying to Lestat, since most of them seem ridiculous) which was careful, mindful and made sure to respectfully use real life sensitive tropes, such as transness.

But I've also seen really crude, insensitive, and outright unconvincing characterization of an FTM Louis. Empowerment through writing is great, and I know transmasc writers can vent through the process, but some work has had such blatant fetishization of trans men, and it gets lumped in with praise along other, more serious and deserving fics. Not every FTM Louis is empowering, and I just can't get behind people writing a trans man that's turned on by being called a wife, having his genitalia spoken about in an outright feminized and crude way, AND ENJOYING THE THOUGHT OF GETTING PREGNANT.

Now, I know that various people's dysphoria allows for different things, but the amount of trans men that actually have a single positive thought about pregnancy, their female genitalia being spoken about, or having womanly roles forced upon them in relationships, is so low that writing about it without consideration becomes quite offensive. If you want a mindless smut one-shot of a pregnant or willing to be Louis, go for him as a cis gay man with a breeding kink, for A/B/O, bogus science, or honestly, fucking anything besides him being an FTM.

And I say this especially because I know it's not just trans men reading those crude and smutty iterations, it's also, and mostly, people who have hurt me and many other transmasc individuals with their disgusting chaser behaviour. Talking about it brings up many hurtful memories and I won't go farther for risk of becoming too subjective and affected, but I think trans AUs really shouldn't be treated with as much ease as they are.

first, thank u for the compliments!! I don't rly hear nice things here so it's appreciated when anyone takes time to give feedback and let me know this is doing something.

second, trans stuff is still under the racial umbrella as there's a lot of trans people of color here who get ignored in favor of white fandom bullshit all the time.

idk all the ins and outs of this but my main question reading this was.....are the fics being written by trans ppl or no? Cuz it's one thing if it's trans ppl expressing a spectrum of an identity and another if it's a non trans person using an identity to meet some kind of plot end and not considering the real implications of that. It sounds like it's the latter but I got a little confused.

[banavalope]

Not to be rude but it’s not really ridiculous for somebody to get prickly when you reblog an article that whines about people softblocking the author for being fine with somebody creating erotic pedophiliac content.

I want to tell you that I genuinely appreciate you being the first of, like, anybody to actually tell me what your interpretation of the article was. It gives me a jumping off point for something I've been thinking about all day, which if you're not in the mood for that feel free to tune out after the first paragraph responding directly to you. Otherwise, I'm just using this as an opportunity to open the floor for discussion.

That was not my takeaway from that article, nor has that been the takeaway I've seen other people have, including people I had to ask in my real life about it. I assumed I must have read it wrong by the strong reaction I got. So I would say that, from my perspective, it was in fact very ridiculous. I also respectfully disagree with your interpretation. To even call it whining I find is an incredibly poor read of it. Maybe there's some layer of discourse I'm not privy to, they left names out so I can't investigate these accused artists for myself.

But this perfectly segues us to what I really want to talk about. The entire article is from a japanese artist aimed at a japanese audience, explaining how the word "proship" is an american fandom centric term that has no specific meaning, and therefore cannot be taken at face value. I understand the people coming at me for reblogging it feel that we all unanimously agree proship specifically refers to being pro incest/pedophilia, but I regret to inform you it's not as unanimous as you think.

As someone who was around in 2015 when the words "proship" and "anti" started to enter the common fandom vernacular, the muddling of what proship actually meant can be pinpointed to bad actors in the MHA twitter fandom at the time, popularizing the use in order to attack people that shipped BakuDeku, or fans who wanted Endeavor to have a redemption arc. This is when the meaning of being "proship" or "anti" began to get extremely conflated.

I'll take a step back real quick to say that the words "pro shipper" and "anti shipper" have been used since the 90s to mean, quite simply, someone who wants to talk about shipping or someone who doesn't. There was no laundry list of ulterior meanings, it was a way to identify who in fandom had no interest in shipping. This is also coming from someone who's been around in these spaces long enough to know this as fact from experience.

Somewhere along the way it started meaning pedophilia/incest/abuse, I find that very suspicious the way it shifted meanings from something so literally innocent, to something so ambiguously ill intended, when you can just say "they fetishize incest" without having to bring shipping into it. You can just call someone a MAP, what does shipping have to do with it. More people should be questioning why that is.

Who benefits from ambiguous terms the most? What kind of people are looking for ways to get around calling themselves pedophiles? Why let them feel safe in fandom spaces by giving them ample opportunity to hide behind something that has nothing to do with them. Shipping isn't your problem dude, you like children, fucking go to therapy. (not a statement aimed at you, the anon)

People are taking issue with the article even wanting to have a nuanced discussion about the word proship, when they should actually be taking issue with the fact nobody knows who our enemies and allies are anymore because we keep inventing new ways to include our personal """squicks""" (for lack of a better word, not huge on the word squick tbh) into it. Just say what you hate, it's fine. I hate people who abuse children, I hate people who abuse adults, I hate terfs, I hate fascists, I hate incest, I don't like pregnancy, eye stuff is weird, death makes me really upset, I think I should be allowed to kiss Rom the Vacuous Spider. Really easy to just say that in no uncertain terms. Anybody of all languages can pick up what I'm putting down.

If someone from another country cannot understand the point you're trying to convey without you first giving them a fandom history lesson as to what it really really means for REAL to be called a proshipper, idk maybe just say you hate pedophiles instead, coward (not calling you, the anon, a coward. I have aimed this at God himself).

And keep in mind too, this is barely a fraction of a tangent to a larger discussion that could be had about this, philosophically. We haven't even touched on the effect media has in real life, the dissolution of fandom minors being able to have safe friendships with fandom mentors, or even how the recent infighting of fandom, and fandom """""Purity Politics""""""" of the last 5 years, can be traced back to decisions made by corporate web3.0 wanting to monetize its 3 biggest platforms SO BADLY that it refuses to create spaces for minors to escape adults. A minor cannot even play roblox without being under threat of a 30 year old content creator existing near them, and I think that's fucked up.

A real plethora of nuanced discussion here to be had.

[invcntions]

∞ finn & slater

send me ∞ + a ship and i’ll tell you…

who’s more into cars?  not so much cars but with vehicles in general my guess would be slater? finn has no interest in cars except to get from point a to point b but i feel like slater might actually have an interest in how he travels around.  who’s traveled more?  potentially finn. his family were very much in the circle of adults showing off with “look where we went on holiday” while he was growing up so he went to some interesting places even if he’d much rather be able to go back to them all now with slater. who swears more often?  definitely slater. he is cool enough to swear whereas finn has always been very polite in most situations, the one exception being when they're lowkey arguing apparently in which case it becomes slightly more even but even then slater still wins. who believes in ghosts?  i want to say neither? i may be misjudging slater but I feel like they're both almost too practical to believe in most of the supernatural. who would plant a garden in the backyard?  i feel like finn. he'd be the one who would get rather into them having a little garden if they ever had a place together and just likes proving that they can keep something alive so he can talk slater into getting a pet. who would paint the walls in the living room an obnoxious color without asking the other?  truly i do not think either of them would care enough to? like I don't think either really even has the time, their walls would just stay the same colour in some shade of grey lmao. who owns more shoes?  slater? i feel like he has more money and the opportunity to buy nice shoes and trainers while finn just alternates between two different pairs. who takes up most of the counter space in the bathroom?  probably finn, he pretends not to care but has a surprising number of hair products and just a lot of stuff like an excessive number of contact lenses or first aid kit. he doesn't want to be unprepared with anything they might need. who’s the big spoon?   they definitely take it in turns depending who has had a rough day and deserves to just be held onto for a little while. who has the kinkier fetish? (bonus points: what is the fetish?)  this almost has to be slater. he has kinkier energy somehow whereas finn is kinda blissfully ignorant of most fetishes he's just there for a good time with someone he cares about lmao. also they both give me top vibes? I'm not sure about slater but finn would normally top 99% of the time but also like he trusts slater so completely he would genuinely just do anything he wanted like he is definitely the exception. who forces the other to recycle?  probably finn, he's very aware of the disaster the planet is in and is a big believer in them doing their small part to try and make that better. who always leaves their dishes in the sink? who ends up cleaning them?  finn is lowkey a cleaner like he grew up in a home where he couldn't make a mess and that's kind of stuck with him plus it just makes him feel in control of life so slater wouldn't even get chance to let dishes pile up finn would either ask him to do them or more likely just do them himself. who would be more likely to cook the other a romantic surprise meal?  i actually do think both, like I could imagine slater doing so for finn when he's actually doing his training in the wards and has ridiculously long days and finn definitely does for slater as a way to show how much he appreciates him and just to have cute romantic nights together. plus I truly reckon he would have already done this for them several times even as friends. who’s more likely to come home with a romantic gift just because?  I feel like slater because he seems like if he was out and saw something that made him think of finn he'd just buy it. plus he's more of a show how you feel then say it sorta person and that's always a cute way to do so. who’s parents are more controlling?  technically finn but given he no longer speaks to them and slater works with his from day to day it's more so slater. who was more popular in high school?  I want to say finn. I feel like slater was probably a sort of bad boy in school while finn was golden boy jock while it was much easier to just blend in with the popular crowd and play football. you bet if they'd been in the same place still-pretending-to-be-straight finn would have been lowkey staring at slater for far too long any time he walked by though even thought they probably would have never spoken. who is more frugal?  again probably finn just because he's a student and a big believer in budgeting whereas slater actually has a fair bit of money.

[thefeedress]

FFA MUSINGS

I was 17 when I learned the terms "feeder" "feedee" and "feederism" from stumbling across one of those trash documentaries about the kink. Apparently, my sexuality revolved around extremes and predators: creepy straight men coercing naive women into transforming their bodies and their lives - the women didn't particularly seem to be getting off on it or even have much agency in the whole thing. The men were awful. (Sometimes, these days, I look back and wonder how much all the negatives of what I saw were exaggerated by the editing…)

That was my lightbulb moment, where I discovered the label for something very personal and private that I'd had all my life but always felt confused and ashamed about. I now also had the pleasure of feeling extra disgusting and very alone, having been shown what horrible company I was in, and that I now knew I was a feeder, but apparently all feeders were men.

Any furtive investigations online (in the reasonably early days of the internet) seem to confirm this suspicion: female feeders were not A Thing, there might possibly be one or two others out there at best. Male gainers only seemed to exist in their own niche in gay subculture, and although I was happy they were out there somewhere living their best lives, they were obviously Not For Me.

I was 34 when after years of pushing it all to the back of my mind, I finally gave in. I've been with the same (non-feedist) partner since my early 20s, so I just assumed that I'd never be able to explore it irl anyway, and that was that. I can't remember what happened or why I decided that I had to try to find some others to connect with, even just to chat with, but in the end (with my partner's blessing) I found and joined Feabie (of which I have many opinions but I'll leave those for another time…) and interacted with other feedists online for the first time in my life.

Guess what: straight male feedees exist. They exist, and there's fucking loads of them!! Tons of the buggers in my inbox all day every day for weeks. Pretty heady experience going from outcast freak to Much Sought After Item - apparently female feeders really are quite rare, or we don't have much of an online presence (or most of us are lurking in a secret lair somewhere that the others haven't invited me to, rude….) or they're also out there somewhere thinking they're the only one.

The unbridled glee of feeling popular and desirable for being something I'd always felt ashamed of did wear off a teensy bit after the endless onslaught of "hey" "hi" "how u" "ayy babygurl" "I'm looking for a feeder please accommodate all my kinks even though I'm a total stranger and I clearly don't give a shit about you as a human being" "You're a woman on the internet I'm entitled to your attention don't be difficult what's your problem" and my current favourite, the bizarrely ominous "Can I ask ur opinion?" (The answer is no my friend, if I wanted to be spammed with anonymous torso pics that I'm meant to manufacture comments about that you can get off to I'd have asked YOU.)

But. I'm still completely overjoyed that male feedees exist, that I've spoken to so many cool and interesting and lovely guys, that I've had experiences I'd always assumed I wouldn't, that I FINALLY MET OTHER FFAs and they are awesome and now I'm close friends with one and it's freaking GREAT. All of this has also lead my partner and I to discover polyamory and now I'm in love with two people who love me back NOBODY EVER SAID YOU WERE ALLOWED TO DO THAT WHY THE FUCK DID NO ONE TELL ME

There are so many nuances and preferences I'd never considered. I knew what I liked and that's what I sought out in terms of porn and that was that. Actually talking to feedees and learning about the whole spectrum of things they each did or didn't enjoy or want to participate in was a revelation, and also helped me clarify my own preferences myself.

There are still things I've yet to come to terms with or decide how to feel about. The main things I'd always felt guilty or ashamed of were less to do with fat or fat guys, it was the feeding itself.

Where being an FFA is concerned - I like to think that if I'd ever been lucky enough to have a fat boyfriend when I was younger, I wouldn't have been shallow enough to care what anyone else thought. It's possible I'm giving my younger self too much credit; I know for certain that some people in my life would have made nasty comments, I was also hugely insecure myself, and I have no idea what it really would have been like. I have no doubt that living all my life in a fatphobic society has affected me in more ways than I'm even aware of (same as everyone else in some way, I'm guessing....). I think any uneasiness I felt there was less worrying about shallow friends or family members, and more how to find potential fat partners without offending them. I have always been conscious of the fact that the majority of fat people would very likely be horrified to be thought of and objectified through the lens of this fetish. You never know what someone's relationship to their own body is, but it's safe to bet that it's a more complex one than it seems, and also, unless you're expressly invited into that relationship by that person, it's none of your fucking business.

But anyway, the main reason I never had many hangups about it was that I don't think I even *was* attracted to fat people when I was young - sometimes I'm not sure I was even attracted to anyone. I had crushes on boys all the time, but I never thought of anyone sexually. My teenage fantasies were pure belly kink: stuffing, chugging, bloating, inflation, any kind of ridiculous fantasy belly expansion - the actual fattening aspect of feeding was less a part of it, and fancying fat dudes was never connected to it. By the time I'd begun to join the dots and wonder if I liked fat boys, I'd started to happen across media that portrays the worst of Feedism, and since I liked sadistic fucked up stuff and already felt ashamed of it, all of that just confirmed to me that I was right to hate myself. Even now, when I'm exposed to much more conversation about this kink than I ever used to be, I notice a lot of love for soft feedism, wholesome fatness appreciation, body positivity, romance (all of which I absolutely love, don't get me wrong) and I still sometimes feel Iike I'm being left out of the party. Keeping my fingers crossed for more consensual femdom-feedism love (and content, ugh…)

But… what would have happened if I hadn't gotten the fuck over myself and put myself out there, tried to find others? How many other young people see themselves portrayed horribly in the media and hide parts of themselves FROM THEMSELVES forever? What happens next? I've apparently found the one person who likes all the same twisted things I do, but actually getting to see him irl ever or do any of the things we want to do seems impossible, and not just because of Covid.

This fetish is lonely for most of us I think, in some way or another. There aren't many feedists, there don't seem to be as many female feeders or male feedees, there probably aren't many people who will share the same preferences within the fetish that you do, and frankly when you filter out the people who aren't crazy or creepy or don't know how to hold a conversation, the pool shrinks even further. I've seen plenty of posts bemoaning how hard it is to find someone, but seriously, having spent most of my life in a vacuum where this stuff is concerned, I'm still buzzing from having engaged with the small handful of people I've engaged with, even just to chat to.

What I want to say to my younger self is: you're a good person. You're just a kinky bitch, that's all.

I feel like this description probably applies to all the best people, I can live with that.

[lifewithdavefarts]

DaveFarts - Episode 16 “Just a Beer” [Episode List] After filming another session for Greg, Dave and Tom go to a pub to have a couple of beers and watch a football match together. After the game, things get a bit gassy… but Tom is no Tim.

I’m too gay to write about sport properly, so expect lots of made-up names for teams and players.

POV: Tom

Just a Beer

“And that’s one more sting from the Wasps!” I said, taking a triumphant sip of my beer.

Like half of the crowd in the pub around us cheered, while the other half complained, all eyes glued on the screen.

“You guys are just lucky as fuck!” Dave yelled back at me, in a lame attempt to mock my team. He wasn’t mad, but clearly he didn’t like losing. Who does.

Dave is, for the lack of a better word, a friend from work, and we have a very… peculiar relationship back at the workplace. Our common friend, Greg, is a wannabe movie director and he’s currently trying to make some short films about obscure kinks, including mine: fart fetish. My role is essentially the “taker”, while Dave here is the farter, and a really good one I have to admit.

Over the last few weeks we had a bunch of sessions in front of the camera, and while Greg’s films were not my first experience in regards of, well, “acting” in this genre, Dave, my straight partner, certainly is unlike anyone I ever met. He’s ridiculously chill and we bonded pretty quickly, and I’m surprised by how actually comfortable he is around me even after Greg sends us home, as not only he obviously knows that I have a fart kink, but also because my job is to basically be under his farting ass.

“Come on, Badgers!” Dave exulted, as his team almost scored a point.

So, me and this guy started hanging out a bit more after each work session, due to some common interests, and in the end we decided to watch some football matches together in a pub not very far from Greg’s warehouse. This is like the 5th time we’ve been getting mad at football players together.

“Tough night, huh?” I mocked him.

He answered with a death glare and took a silent sip of his own beer.

At this point, The Wasps (my beloved Wasps) were leading the match and we were only a few minutes from the end. I’m pretty well-versed in sports and I actually play football myself with some buds. Dave is a sport guy as well, but he’s not as cultured as I am on the subject, though it is one of our main common interests, that’s for sure.

I ordered another round of beer (I’m a noble winner, so it’s on me), which my new straight bud gladly accepted. Despite the rivalry, we had a toast, just as the match ended, with Dave and half of the pub complaining about the embarrassing defeat of their precious Badgers. Luckily, no barroom brawl ensued.

“Can’t spell Badgers without bad.” I love being stupidly petty about this.

“You know what” Dave said. “Why don’t we take this outside, bro?”

“Ohhh you wanna go outside?” I replied. “Bring it, mate!”

We both stood up as if we were ready to throw hands at each other, but this was simply our super-manly-playful way to jokingly tell each other that we were ready to leave the pub, just to have one last beer in the park across the street, where we’d usually discuss the match we just saw without the loud crowd of the pub.

Before leaving we bought two bottled beers and then left. It was relatively cold outside, but my jacket did the job. Dave was sporting his most casual “tuesday night” outfit, a green hoodie and a pair of jeans. What was odd, among other things, it’s that this is what he wore for today’s fart session, which made me think of his rough denim ass crushing my face as he blasted me. He actually didn’t fart much outside of filming sessions, which I honestly appreciated. I’m happy he’s chill but I’m not hanging out with him to get kinky.

It’s quickly become a tradition between us that, since this town is pretty dead and boring unless it’s the weekend, we simply take a walk in the empty park, probably getting mistaken for weirdos, or two dudes going on a romantic date, if you want to consider this shitty park “romantic”. We usually then look for the bench behind some trees and bushes, were we could have just a beer and chat a bit more before going home.

Yes, two guys sitting on a bench at night, drinking beer and chatting, all alone, far from everyone. We’re either the most boring men you ever met, or the gayest ones (despite the lack of any actual attraction).

“We completely destroyed you” I said, commenting tonight’s game “but I gotta admit that you got Donovan, who’s a beast. Too bad he’s the only competent player in that sewer.”

Dave was sitting next to me with his own beer. “You may be a filthy Wasp, but at least you’re not blind.”

“I’m a noble winner, I don’t kick a man while he’s down… unlike Bennet.”

“Oh please.” he said. “That was an accident, Wood fell in front of him. He literally tripped over him.” he took a sip of his beer. “If you’re looking for an asshole, just ask Foster.”

“Foster is like the best player of the last decade.” he laughed at my statement. “I can respect Donovan ‘cause at least he got skills, but your boyfriend Bennet is mediocre at best. And that middle finger he gave Reed? Totally uncalled for.”

Dave chuckled and then pointed his index finger up, a smirk drawn on his face, and looked at me.

“You know what else is totally uncalled for?”

He narrowed his eyes a bit and the silence around us was immediately broken by a loud, long fart. I felt the bench almost vibrating because of the power of that blast, as he also leaned just a bit to ease his fart out. My first reaction was a stupid laughter: fetish or not, this guy got some mad farting skills.

What was even more impressive, other than the sound and the loudness, was the length: 7 seconds and it was still going strong. I tip my imaginary hat to you.

“You see.” Dave said, after the fart faded out, sitting normally again. “That was a fart, and it was still a better point than yours.”

“Asshole.” I replied.

“Yep. That’s where it came from I think.” he joked back.

We both resumed talking about the game, past games, future games, all while carefully making our beers last longer. All taunting aside, Dave did bring up some good points (actual real points) about both teams and he also agreed with some of the stuff I said. It was a civil discussion, until he casually started ripping another one of his loud farts. I didn’t mind the interruption, maybe...

“Don’t waste your gas, dude. We gotta work together again tomorrow.” I joked.

He laughed, as his relatively short 5 seconds blast ended.

“Well, we’re hanging out. So technically we’re still at work.”

He laughed again. I was confused instead.

Dave stood up, now towering over me, then slowly turned around and lifted his leg, fully showing off his denim butt almost in front of my face. He then gently reached for my head with his hand, gradually pulling me closer to his ass.

“I guess you could say that farting in your face is literally my job.”

The fart was incredibly loud, up close and personal... but I was having none of that.

I pushed him away, perhaps a bit too harshly, before the stench could reach my nostrils.

“What the fuck.” I said.

He interrupted his loud fart and he was visibly confused by my reaction.

“What’s the matter with you?” I asked him, as I however let him sit next to me again.

I wasn’t feeling in danger or anything, but come on. A straight guy just casually face-farting someone like me as if it’s the most normal thing in the world?

“I’m sorry… I thought-“

“Oh please. You can drop the act, dude.” I was kind of mad, not gonna lie. “What are you up to?”

Dave stared at me like a confused dog for a few seconds, as if he was trying to understand what’s going on.

“What’s your endgame? What do you get out of this?” I asked. “You have a dom kink? That’s okay man, you can tell me.” I tried to sound as calm as possible, but then I said some stuff that was downright, well, an accusation. “Are… are you doing this to blackmail me later? Are you filming all of th-“

“What the fuck.” he seemed genuinely offended by those last questions. “Why would I ever do that?”

Unbelievable. “Oh shut up Dave. A straight guy, just a guy, with no fart kink whatsoever, just deciding to blast my face? For no reason whatsoever?” as I said, unbelievable. “I mean it’s already weird given what we do for Greg, but this? I’m not buying it.”

I was mad, but I didn’t want to insult Dave, though I did have my reasons to be skeptical. The guy seemed like he was looking for the right words to say in the meantime.

“I see.” he finally said, then laughed a bit. “I mean, I can’t blame you if you’re super skeptical about this. Me, a straight guy, of all people, just being suspiciously open-minded about your disgusting fetish. Clearly he’s got some ulterior motives…”

Disgusting is not a bad word for me and he didn’t look like he said it to insult me, weirdly enough. I mean, fart-sniffing? I can admit it’s weird and gross!

“But I can assure you man, I’m just a guy.”

I narrowed my eyes, I was still not buying it. “There has to be a reason. No one is that open minded.”

He just smiled a bit, staring back at me. “Look, I’m not naive. I do have an internet connection! I know this is gross.” he said, as he stood up, as if he wanted to be listened carefully. “I wouldn’t want people to know that I’m face-farting you whether it’s for a film or when we’re, you know, hanging out.”

He took another sip of beer and laughed bit more, clearly knowing how surreal this fart-related discussion was.

“But I don’t know man, perhaps I have a messed-up sense of humor. Maybe I’m just as weird or simply… I know that my bud likes it, so I think… why not?”

“Yeah. Why not having gay dude’s face up your straight butt as you fart. Totally normal.”

“OK… What do you want me to say, Tom?” he sat next to me again. “You want me to insult you? You want me to tell you to get lost? I can do it if you want but that wouldn’t be the truth!” he was sincere, against all odds. “Dude: I like hanging out with you, despite well, your obvious gross issue: being a Wasp supporter.” he joked, why was he joking?!

I was still skeptical, maybe too skeptical know, so out of nowhere I reached for his denim crotch, with no respect whatsoever of his personal space.

“Whoa. Going for the second base, man?” he said, half-serious.

What I felt was, well, nice, but indeed he wasn’t having a boner. He had no kink about farts or being dominant. And honestly I had no reason to think at this point that he was filming this to blackmail me in a way or another, when he could easily do that with the hours of fart sessions we filmed back at Greg’s warehouse anyway.

Fuck. I just realized I crotch-grabbed this guy. I quickly backed away.

“Okay, I apologise for that. This was uncalled fo- please don’t use that as a fart-cue again.”

He laughed, being super chill about my awkwardness. Fuck. I’m not awkward, I’m mad! I’m not a stuttering mess! I’m better than this!

“B-But you do understand that this still is absurd: I have the right to be skeptical.”

“You totally do.” he firmly said. “I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable.”

“It’s just… really, why would you do that? You really get nothing out it?”

Dave just shrugged and smiled. “I guess I got it all: I’m nice, cute, open-minded.” he joked. “And I’m comfortable with my own sexuality of course. You’re cool, but your face up my ass is not gonna awake anything in me, sorry dude.” he chuckled a bit.

I smiled and shook my head in disbelief, this guy truly is one of a kind. I’m not saying that all straight buds should be like him, I can accept people being disgusted by my kink, but man, Dave sure is different...

“Also, as I said, I’m aware that it’s disgusting, okay? Does that make you feel better, you freak?”

I laughed a bit. “I suppose so.”

“I know you’re not your fetish, man.” he finally said, as if this was the answer he wanted to give me like ten sentences ago. “Does that answer your question?”

“It doesn’t” I simply relied. “But in a weird way, it also does. Thanks.”

To me, it was still weird that a straight guy like him would just casually face-fart me with “no strings attached”, but I guess Dave can be trusted nonetheless, and I’m okay with that.

There was an awkward silence, but my new straight bud immediately knew how to break the ice again.

“And bro.” he said. “I’m just so good at it. Regardless of any fetish, why wouldn’t I want to share this?”

The bench shook as if there was an earthquake under the power of Dave’s blast, loud and proud as usual. It probably was the impressive rest of the fart that he tried to rip in my face earlier (what a weird sentence to say), and man, that only made his gas angrier and louder.

14 seconds, then silence, only Dave’s trying not laugh too much, with his damn smirk drawn on his face. I was impressed, and admittedly horny. I wanted to be mad, but there was something about him and what he said that, well, either he’ sincere or he’s the greatest liar in the world. I’d say the former.

“So what’s gonna happen now?” I asked.

“Same time, same place this Saturday? It’s the Wasps VS the Lobsters this weekend.”

I appreciated that. “Thanks, but I also meant, well-“

Dave simply stood up yet again, basically re-enacting what he did earlier, this time without me stopping him. Once in front of me he turned around, raised his leg and reached for my head with his hand, gently planting my face in his denim ass, immediately ripping another loud blast, a fart that he probably thought he owed me. I could inhale the stench of all of his previous blasts, as this final one made my nostrils burn.

That lasted “only” 6 seconds, but given the context, I thought it was the best one. I got farted on by Dave many times because of our filming sessions, but this one time felt different, and even better.

After that, he turned around and sat next to me again, as if nothing happened.

“Does that answer your *other* question?” he laughed a bit, and finished his beer.

No guy was able to make me look like an awkward idiot before Dave, fuck. But as I said, I appreciated that, not just for my weird kink. We both fully accepted each other tonight I guess, and I wanted to propose a toast to our weirdness, but I finished my own beer instead.

I didn’t want the face-farting to be the norm between us however, despite how I obviously appreciate Dave being ridiculously comfortable about it, but he seemed to understand that anyway.

We finally left our bench and walked towards the park exit, as it was getting late and we both had “normal” jobs to be at the next morning. As we approached the exit, Dave messaged back and forth with someone on his phone.

“Girlfriend?” I asked.

“Sort of” he chuckled. “This saturday a friend of mine is gonna join us.”

“Please not Greg!” we both laughed.

“Don’t worry. He’s my roommate. Not a sports guy but in his family they’re avid Lobster supporters.”

I faked an outraged expression. “The common enemy…” I whispered.

“I know!” he stated. “Let’s crush him!”

We shook hands as if we had a deal and called truce, temporarily ending our rivalry, because we’re very mature adults. We then went separate ways, not before exchanging a very manly bro-fist.

Thanks for the beer, but I still think you’re weird, Dave Maning. I guess you can be a good friend though, despite being a filthy Badger.

End of Episode 16

[neon-junkie]

Hey everyone,

This will be my final post addressing the fandom conflict that has quite frankly gotten out of hand. Although it’s very likely this post will be picked apart, no matter how well intended it is, I will no longer be addressing, interacting, or responding to any further accusations made against me. Of course, if people have questions from a genuine place of interest, I will be happy to clarify anything for you, either via DM’s or non-anon asks. I will not be answering anonymous asks on this, as I do not want anything else posted on this topic. 

As a side note: For anyone tempted to wade into the debate, I sincerely ask you not to get involved. Do not make yourself a target, do not feel you need to ‘pick a side’, and please do not think you have an obligation to reason with either side. It seems to be well past the point of that, so please find people you get along with in this fandom and curate a space for yourself away from all this conflict.

Warning: This post will contain uncensored slurs, mentions of racism, paedophilia, transphobia, LGBTQ+ phobia, death threats, threats of violence, targeted harassment, and abusive language.

To start off, I want to apologise to everyone who has somehow gotten drawn into this mess by either defending me, following me, or interacting with my content. This whole situation with me began well over a year ago when I wrote a crack-smut fic featuring Javier/Micah, posted back in August 2019. A crack fic is defined as “a work of fan fiction that is absurd, surprising or ridiculous, often intentionally.” It was inspired by a camp interaction between Micah and Javier, and like many other fanfiction writers, I decided to write smut about it. The fic was titled ‘Dirty Fucking Greaser’, and if that shocks you, I’m sure you can imagine how shocked I was to be informed afterwards that ‘Greaser’ was in fact a very serious 19th century slur for a Mexican individual. My first encounter with this word as insult was via RDR2, where it was used like a very casual insult. My only prior knowledge of this term was in regards to the greasers youth subculture, so the severity was lost on me. This obviously does not excuse my ignorance, and I should have researched the term better, but this is just again to apologize for that oversight, the insensitivity, and to highlight that my use of this term was not meant maliciously. Following this being pointed out, I proceeded to make 3 separate apology posts [Unfortunately I can only find the third one: HERE], renamed the fic, and added slur warnings in both the tags and the fic description. When I continued to receive complaints and increasingly aggressive abuse (which included being told my apologies weren’t good enough and I should delete my account and even kill myself), I attempted to delete the fic and mistakenly abandoned it instead. I contacted AO3 to see if it could be removed, but they said there was nothing they could do. I contacted their DMCA takedown team, who also said they couldn't remove it. Please note that all this happened 7-8 months ago, and has been dragged on for almost a year. 

So, from this one unfortunate incident, I’ve been branded a racist, and someone who attacks POC, when all I have done is tried to defend myself and correct my past mistakes. I could have done this more gracefully in the past, but frankly when you’re suddenly the target of unrelenting callout posts and nasty anons, it’s very hard to be open to criticism of this sort, but this is what I’m trying to move past.

Over the course of the year, this one mistake has spiralled, and the crusade against me has somehow coincided with moral conflicts over certain characters and ships. This has devolved into dehumanizing abuse, witch hunts, death threats, doxxing, anon hate, and much more unpleasant behaviour.

I have been in fandom for a very long time, and at the heart of all fandom circles is the fear of censorship and subsequent purges, so the ‘ship and let ship’ mentality was more or less the pinnacle of fandom philosophy. And yes, this can be problematic in some contexts. People have their right to be uncomfortable with content, have a right to be offended by content, but that is not content meant for you. This argument has devolved into ‘what material is morally right to engage with’ and that is a mentality in which fandom will not survive, because for every person who is telling me I’m an awful person for writing about Micah, there are three other people telling me how much they appreciate me making that content. For every fic in which I characterize Javier and Flaco a certain way, some people are made uncomfortable by it and others tell me they enjoy it. And this isn’t just white people, but POC too, which makes it very difficult to know whether I am genuinely in the right or the wrong, especially when it comes to the concept of ‘fetishization’ which I have been made aware I need to educate myself on. I intend to do so, but I disagree with the common accusation that finding non-white men romantically and sexually attractive is inherently fetishistic and makes me racist. It’s pushing a catch-22; don’t find POC sexually attractive? Racist. Find POC sexually attractive? Racist.

I am always willing to be (politely) approached about anything my readers may be concerned about, but if it’s something I’ve specifically tagged for (such as themes, scenarios, etc.) I’m afraid you consented to reading it and with that I cannot help you. You are just as responsible for curating your space and what you see/read just as much as I am responsible for tagging it appropriately.  

On the topic of racism, I want to bring up my prior use of ‘white racism’ which has obviously been a point of contention among both white and people of colour. The (literal) black vs white concept of racism is incredibly American-centric, and as someone from Europe, which has a history of oppression against white cultures and those of people of colour, it feels inaccurate. However, this has recently been discussed with me and I came to the realization that while growing up, especially in the UK, ‘xenophobia’ and ‘racism’ were marketed as one and the same. So, with this little revelation in mind, I will no longer be using ‘white racism’ (Or ‘reverse racism’) to identify the abuse I have been receiving, but will instead call it by what it really is; dehumanizing, debasing, xenophobic, puritanical.   

Very briefly, I will also touch on the NewAustin situation, which has also been dredged into this. I did not ‘chase a POC from tumblr’. NA was a minor who for some reason was on my 18+ blog and took issue with me, likely from the ongoing discourse regarding my fic and initial mistake, as well as my interest in Micah. They were subsequently harassed into deleting their account by anonymous hate following various conflicts with other users for their support of me or their ships in general. I have never encouraged my followers to target anyone, and have always asked to be blocked and blacklisted by those who do not like me or my content. When NewAustin messaged me following the deletion of their blog, I was admittedly indifferent to the point of being unkind, and accused them of sending the hate themselves. This was based on the anon hate being racially-driven without there being any prior knowledge or publication that NA was a person of colour. This aside, I should have at the time, whether I believed it was my followers or not, condemned this behaviour. Regardless of the issues I’ve had with these people, it is never ever ok to send hate to anyone, no matter the motivation behind it, and that should have been stated at the time.

All I can do at this point is acknowledged and apologize for my past mistakes, and try to improve myself going forward.  

It is not my place to dictate the morals of the character/ship-aspect of this argument, and I am not interested in waging a war of opinion. This post is simply to clarify how I am involved in this, and why I am so viscerally targeted. You can draw your own conclusions, but I am no longer interested in this endless back and forth.

To my mutuals/followers, I stand by my request to not interact and to block and move on, as this is what I’ll be doing too.

Thank you for taking the time to read this, and I hope it makes things from my perspective a little clearer.

-RAT <3

EDIT: Just after this post was made, the fic in question was finally removed. I had to go through a DMCA take down, which can take months, since I originally abandoned the fic, thinking that meant delete. I explain this in more detail above. Said fic is gone, and has been gone since this post has been around.

[nct-oli]

I haven’t talked about Lovely Writer on here at all I think, but I really am loving it so much. It took a while to grow on me, especially given how attached I have been this year to A Tale of Thousand Stars (it was hard to open my heart to another show lol), but I really do look forward to each episode, and I’ll be genuinely so sad when it ends next week.

I’m incredibly critical of the media I consume, and I think my standards are quite high when it comes to specific aspects of that media. I think the BL industry romanticizes a ton of toxic bullshit in their series, and fans eat it all up without ever recognizing the problems at play. I can’t 100% blame fans for enjoying the media that is blatantly presented to them as positive and not automatically finding the faults, but it’s a really toxic relationship between BL creators and BL fans. The supply and demand for really problematic content is so high.

A Tale of Thousand Stars and Lovely Writer, in my opinion, have been so refreshing as someone who was getting honestly really tired of BL series recycling the same toxic tropes over and over again. Neither of these series are perfect (that should never be the expectation), and they both have elements I’d still deem controversial or troublesome. But in comparison? Absolute standouts.

A Tale of Thousand Stars was able to tell a beautiful queer romance without the coming out drama, without the homophobia, without the oversexualization, and without the bland, two-dimensional characterization you too often see with queer characters. The only coming out scene was tastefully done and perfectly fitting with the story, and the rest of the series could play out as a mlw romance, if you were to replace one of the characters with a woman. Queer people deserve those romances, the ones that center around two people simply falling in love regardless of gender. Queer people have been asking for those stories for ages. There’s nothing wrong with the cliches, but the creativity shouldn’t stop there every time. A Tale of Thousand Stars was, at base level, just two people finding love in the mountains, and I’m so grateful for that. On top of that, the show also avoided so many toxic tropes (i.e., power differences, violent jealousy, romanticized SA). Add phenomenal acting, ridiculous chemistry, beautiful scenery, an interesting plot, and P’Aof to all of that and you have my favorite BL drama and one of my favorite general series to ever exist. Yes, I said it. (I add P’Aof because he’s an actual queer man who cares so much about portraying realistic and beautiful queer relationships, and I am so grateful to him for taking his talents and efforts into the BL industry. I think he is and will continue to be such a force for needed change. I appreciate that man so much and will be watching every series he creates.)

But then we have Lovely Writer, which I appreciate for somewhat similar but relatively different reasons. Sometimes I’m not even sure to what degree it’s all intentional, but the COMMENTARY on the BL industry is *chefs kiss.* I mean, the stark contrast between the gentleness of Nubsib and Gene’s real relationship versus the romanticized aggression of the fictional relationship within Gene’s novel is so important to me. I get so uncomfortable watching the scenes where they are filming the series because the comparison is so obvious and it’s mind boggling that so many people find the abusiveness so attractive and romantic. That’s such a huge issue in the BL industry, and I love how blatantly obvious they make it in the show. In addition, the series has highlighted the facade that is fan service, the fetishization and oversexualization of mlm relationships, and the issue of BL stories never being written by queer men. And most recently in episode 11, I think they really showed how the BL industry loves making money off of the queer community but doesn’t give a shit about queer people in real life. What I mean by that is, Gene is forced to write BL novels despite his own wishes, no matter how inauthentic they are to him as a writer, because the company believes they are marketable and profitable. But when Gene and Nubsib’s real life relationship comes to the surface, they are treated like dirt for the sake of the company and the show… for the money. There were other solutions to that issue, but the easiest in the company’s eyes was throwing them, actual queer people, to the side and telling them to essentially get over it. Sure, that’s just capitalism, but it really is a massive issue in the BL industry that needs changing. So to see that portrayed within the show is incredibly satisfying. They’re really bringing to light so many problematic aspects of the industry that have been hidden or downplayed for too long.

And then both of them are telling stories about actual queer people, which I love more than I can explain. And by that I mean characters who actually use words to say they are not straight. I’m so freaking tired of the blatant avoidance of the word “gay” or even the words “I like men” (plural men) in BL. And I’m especially tired of the “I don’t like men. I just like x” trope. I really, really appreciate both A Tale of Thousand Stars and Lovely Writer telling queer stories by making their characters actually queer. (And this isn’t at all about those who choose to not label their sexualities. That is absolutely valid, but unfortunately in the BL industry, the avoidance of any words indicating sexuality is generally done to separate the show from the actual community being profited off of, not to avoid labels for empowerment.)

I’ll stop rambling, but I just finished ep 11 of Lovely Writer and I had so many thoughts. 2021 has started off really well with both of these shows airing, but it also means my expectations are so high now… welp! Looking forward to the Lovely Writer finale next week. I’m really glad a show like this exists, and I hope it makes even just a few fans realize how they may be participating in toxicity or just a few creators realize they can have a successful series without romanticizing problematic behaviors.

Thank you to A Tale of Thousand Stars and Lovely Writer for restoring some of my faith. I’m grateful to you both.

[otonymous]

Kissed By The Baddest CEO (MLQC Victor x KBTBB - NSFW)

Description: Old flames and prospective lovers threaten to derail your budding romance with Victor before it even begins.  How will you extricate yourselves from a web of misunderstandings?

Warnings:

NSFW/18+: Explicit/graphic language — reader discretion is advised.  Potential Trigger Warnings: profanity, jealousy, angst, exes, mentions of alcohol, bone fetishes, rough sex, 69 sex position (oral sex), mirror sex, vaginal intercourse, swallowing, size kink

Mild spoilers for Victor’s family history (MLQC); slight bending of MLQC & KBTBB canon universes via creation of original side character

Word Count: ~10K words (please set aside a good chunk of time for some fluff, angst and smut 🤣)

Author’s Notes:

First of all, a GIANT thank you to the super gracious @lin-ful​ for commissioning this Victor piece from me.  You are an absolute joy to work with and I really appreciate the fact that you gave me carte blanche to basically do whatever I wanted 🤣  I really hope you enjoy the read!  (P.S. I would never be so sadistic as to ever make you choose between Victor and Eisuke, so please rest easy 😆)

This story is especially significant to me as a writer because it represents the culmination of a number of milestones: the first time I’ve created an original character, my first attempt at writing a crossover story, the first time I’ve written in both first- and second-person perspectives.  It is also the longest single piece I’ve ever written.  That being said, please note the warnings listed above and happy reading! 😊

Nb. This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Chapter 1: Hello Diana

“Really Vic, I thought you were beyond name calling by now.”  

Her voice is sultry and low, smooth in your ears like the whiskey in her tumbler.  Completely at ease in a couture Givenchy pantsuit that likely cost more than one of your production budgets, she sat with her legs elegantly crossed in a leather armchair, tipping her glass to vermillion lips.  And as the flames danced in the imposing marble fireplace of one of Shanghai’s oldest and most exclusive supper clubs, they reflected off an enormous ruby ring gracing her middle finger.

Victor scoffs, taking a sip of his own whisky and glancing at you as you follow suit with the virgin cocktail he ordered on your behalf while you were in the restroom.

He was so infuriating at times, but at least it wasn’t warmed milk.

“First of all, you weren’t meant to hear that.  Secondly, I hardly consider ‘dummy’ name calling.  Far worse exists when it comes to options, as I'm sure you can attest to, Diana. You’ve used quite a few in your day.”

Amusement spreads across her fine features as she throws her head back in laughter, the sound enticing even as it disrupts the low chatter in the room.  However, none of the men looking her way seemed to mind.  She was brimming with so much joie de vivre that even you weren’t immune to her charms, smiling despite the anxiety that sat heavy in your chest from the very moment Victor introduced you to Diana Shum that evening.

You didn’t quite know why you felt ill at ease, especially towards someone who was doing you a favour by brokering a major deal on behalf of your company.  Well, more like doing Victor a favour, since he was the one who made the request.  Perhaps this was how all men felt in the presence of such a woman: elegantly confident and unapologetically vivacious, drawing attention everywhere she went.

“Are you still dredging up stories from our Oxford days, Victor?  Not very gentlemanly of you.  How do you put up with him?”  Diana turns to wink at you and the spotlight of her attention makes you feel like the only other person in the room.  “Let me assure you those boys deserved every insult in the book; one-track minds and transparent to boot.  They should consider themselves lucky I even acknowledged their sad existence.”  

“Di, you made the Prime Minister’s son cry.  You should’ve seen those puffy eyes the next morning at the swim meet against Cambridge."  

Victor raises his brows, subtle amusement colouring his expression.  And simple though it was, the sight of his handsome face so transformed by the faint smile on his lips made your heart race.  

No, there’s no way.  It’s probably just the fatigue catching up to you.  The flight to Shanghai from Loveland City must’ve been more taxing than you initially thought, even though Victor had graciously offered to let you hitch a ride on his private jet.  You place a hand on your chest, trying to calm the frenzied rhythm of your heart.  The gesture goes unnoticed by Diana but Victor throws a worried glance in your direction.  You smile to ease his concerns.  He furrows his brows.

“Oh please, I should’ve ripped him a new one with the way he tried to get frisky on our date.  He’s lucky I didn’t call Soryu to deal with him and his wandering hands.”

A sudden change seeps into Victor’s eyes, dark irises softening as if focused on something miles away.  “Soryu.  How is your cousin doing, by the way?”

Diana leans back, taking another sip of her drink.  “You’ll see for yourself soon enough.  I take it you are accompanying this lovely producer to Tokyo to meet with Eisuke and wherever the Ichinomiya heir is, Soryu isn’t far behind.  In all honesty though, Vic, surely you would know better than I.  Weren’t the three of you thick as thieves during prep school?”

You perk up at the topic of Victor’s childhood.  It was a rare chance to learn about the formative years of this stone-faced man before he became the slave driver of Loveland Financial Group.  

“I was only there for a year and a half with Soryu and Eisuke before…before my mother passed.  My father sent for me shortly afterwards.  I haven't seen them since.”

Deep voice trailing off, Victor’s gaze shifts to the fireplace where it remains, as if hypnotized by the flicker of orange flames.  And as the silence stretches on, you become disconcerted to see him so uncharacteristically lost in his thoughts.  You reach out to touch him but Diana beats you to it, laying a delicate hand on top of his much larger one as it rests on the leather armrest.

The gesture is ridiculously small for how much it blindsides you — the sight of her hand on Victor’s dazzling like the light reflecting off her ruby ring.

He blinks at the touch, long lashes fluttering in the split-second it takes for him to compose himself and suddenly, the unflappable CEO is back again.  

“I’m sorry, it’s been a long day and we should probably call it a night.  But you have my thanks, Diana, for setting up this meeting with the Ichinomiya Group.”

It was Diana’s turn to scoff.  “Can we please dispense with the formalities, Victor?  Soryu mentioned Eisuke was having difficulty finding the right people to make this documentary on the anniversary of his Tres Spades Tokyo hotel, so it was serendipity that we bumped into each while on business in London.  It’s a win-win situation.  Meant to be.”

Meant to be.

There is a spark of something in Diana’s eyes when she makes that last statement.  It stays with you long after you part ways with Victor for the night, lying awake in your hotel room as you wondered whether the LFG CEO was already asleep in his.

Chapter 2: SOS

“You’re awfully quiet.  Should I take this to mean that you already know everything about Eisuke Ichinomiya and his chain of luxury hotels?"

Victor speaks without raising his head, leafing through the documents on his lap and stopping periodically to leave his signature with the same gold pen that marked up your reports. Its barrel glowed warm, reflecting the soft lights of the cabin of his private jet, en route to Tokyo from Shanghai.

Letting out a shaky breath, you try to steel yourself despite the rising heat in your cheeks.  Because after a night spent tossing and turning in your hotel room, you arrived at a conclusion so absurd it could only be true:  

You were in love with Victor Li.

Against all odds, the bane of your life had become your biggest ally and mentor.  All the pieces of the square puzzle that was the LFG CEO had fallen into place to form one coherent and beautiful picture:

His exacting demands transformed into standards of excellence, his workaholism a paragon of commitment and dedication.

And though you were loathe to admit it, each soft utterance of “dummy” leaving his lips made the corners of yours turn up in the goofiest of grins.

Oh god, how did it ever come to this?!  Where and when along the rocky path of your working relationship with the slave driver did you fall in love with him?  But that wasn’t even the worst of it.  If your intuition about the previous night’s events served you well, the beautiful Diana Shum was also enamoured of him.

You turn to Victor, meaning to inform him with utmost confidence that you had already conducted extensive research on the Ichinomiya Group’s charismatic CEO and his chain of casino hotels.  You even thought to throw in a snarky reminder that he himself had been marginally impressed with the presentation you gave on the topic back in Loveland City.

“Are you close to Diana Shum?”

Was NOT what had you meant to ask.  Especially in a voice that cracked like a 12 year old pubescent boy’s.  And if there was a way by which you could’ve drowned in a bottle of water, you would’ve gladly done so.  Instead, you settle for gulping it down, trying to keep your stupid mouth from spewing more nonsense in front of the man who was your de facto boss.

“Ahem.”  Victor clears his throat, long legs uncrossing as he shifts in his seat.  Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the muscles of that chiseled jaw settling firm.

“I-I’m so sorry.  It’s none of my business.  You don’t have to answer-"

“I’ve known her for a while, if that’s what you’re asking.  She’s a classmate from university and also a cousin of a friend of mine from prep school, as you’ve probably gathered from yesterday’s conversation.  Since graduation, she’s taken over her father’s role as CEO of Shum Property Developments and we’ve partnered periodically on various business ventures…”

He continues and you nod at the appropriate times, half listening as a million thoughts filtered through your head: your surprise at how unusually verbose Victor was being, the relief you felt to see that he was as determined to avoid your gaze as you were his.  Because the truth was that the longer he went on about Diana — so beautiful, polished and charming that you couldn’t find it in yourself to hate her even if you tried — the harder it was to keep the clouds from darkening your face.  And when Victor says,

“Not like it has any bearing on anything now, but we also dated for a short period of time…”

…It hurts to breathe.

Finally turning in your direction, Victor fixes you with a scrutinizing gaze.  “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, um, I just…wanted to know a bit more about the person who helped me and my company.  So I can better thank her later.”

You speak without meeting his eyes, hoping to placate him with a quick smile as you pretend to rummage through your purse.  Thankfully, he drops the topic, returning to his documents.  And though the rest of the plane ride is spent in near silence, the thoughts in your head have never been so loud.

Chapter 3: Sexy Bones [Victor]

She wore that dress today.  The same one she had on when she impudently stormed my office to insist that I give her company a final chance before pulling funding:

Fitted to conform to every curve, yet formal enough to be professional.  Beautifully sensual in her usual understated way.  My favourite shade of red.

“It’s my go-to outfit when I need a confidence boost,” she told me once in between bites of pudding at Souvenir.  “It makes me feel like a queen, like I can do no wrong.  Perfect for business meetings I just have to nail, you know?”

“Dummy,” I had said then, feigning dismissiveness so she wouldn’t pick up on the way my eyes kept drifting towards her lips, so soft and plush I couldn’t help but wonder if her kisses would carry a hint of caramel sweetness.

It was true that the girl could be incredibly dense at times, playing at being queen when she already ruled my heart.  Or how oblivious she was to the fact that the British doctor was completely smitten with her during today’s meeting at the Tres Spades Tokyo hotel.

Dr. Luke Foster.

Completely absorbed in reading through what looked to be like a stack of medical journals, Dr. Foster had largely ignored us while Eisuke and Soryu made quick work of introducing the eclectic mix of other associates in the room:

Ota Kisaki, the so-called “Angelic Artist” whose work I was well-acquainted with, having previously spent a small fortune on his painting, Koro of My Kokoro.

Baba Mitsunari, a charming man whose handsome features were made all the more striking by the black fedora and red suit he wore.  The girl pointed out that he bore an uncanny resemblance to the cashier we saw at a convenience store earlier that day and I had to agree.

They glossed over a man named Mamoru Kishi, apparently sound asleep in one corner of the room with his face covered by a newspaper and a full ashtray by his side.

Finally, they came to Luke Foster, a blond-haired man with the air of an English gentleman.  Eisuke explained that Dr. Foster was the hotel’s on-site physician as well as a fellow alumnus of our prep school, apparently having left for reasons no one wanted to articulate the year before I transferred in.

And when the doctor finally looked up at us from his readings, his eyes took on an almost maniacal quality to see the girl standing by my side.

“Those proportions, those angles….perfect…absolutely perfect!”  He exclaimed as if in a daze, standing up suddenly and causing the reading materials to spill from his lap in the process.

He looked completely unhinged, almost like a zombie as he reached out a pale hand towards her collarbones of all places.  I stepped in front of her on reflex, only to have the doctor fix me with a piercing gaze as if he had just become aware of my existence and found it thoroughly offensive.

“Annnnd there he goes again,” Ota’s tone was one of exasperation, but there was no mistaking the amusement in the smirk that spread wide across his face.

“Ooh, Lu’s got a new victim!  Maybe now he can finally stop staring at the Boss’s girl every time she comes in to clean the penthouse!”  Baba chimes in, fingers stroking at his chin as if hatching some mischievous plan.

“Will the lot of ya shaddup!?  I’m tryin’ to sleep over here…zzz…” The man with the papers over his head gave a muffled shout before promptly rolling over onto his side.

Soryu just sighed, running a hand over his face.  And just when I began to worry that the girl was scared out of her wits, having wandered into this strange den of wolves, she surprised me by chuckling under her breath.  

Did the dummy find this funny?

“Tch, ignore them, Victor.  Let’s just get on with the presentation,” Eisuke said as he took his seat at the head of a long table.  The girl straightened up and immediately got to work, transforming into the consummate professional she always was when it came down to business.  I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride as I watched her nail her pitch.

Taking a surreptitious glance around at her rapt audience, I stopped at Luke.  The intensity of the doctor's stare made me uneasy, the way those blue-grey eyes hovered above the scooped neckline of her red dress, tracing along her collarbones as if he were caressing them with his gaze alone.  I mentally berated myself for not putting my suit jacket over her shoulders before she got up there.

And though it was spoken under his breath, Dr. Foster’s murmur of “sexy bones” rang loud and clear in my ears.

Chapter 4: In A (Traffic) Jam [Victor]

“Victor, you won’t believe my luck!  Not only did we cinch the Ichinomiya account, I also found the perfect candidate to appear on our Mystery Finder show!”

The girl was practically breathless on the other end of the line, words jumbling together as they came a mile a minute.  And though her enthusiasm is as infectious as it is adorable, I remind myself to play it cool.  “Really.  And who might that be?”

“Dr. Foster!”

HONK!

I swerve back into my lane on reflex, narrowly avoiding an accident as the driver next to me flips me the bird before speeding away.  My heart raced, beating fiercely against the cage of my chest, but it had little to do with my near brush with death.

At this moment, I was more concerned with a man who looked like Death himself.

“Oh my god, Victor, what was that?  Are you okay?”  The concern in her voice is palpable and it makes me think of how kind and tenderhearted she is, of how easily someone could exploit that to their advantage.  “This is a bad time, isn’t it?  I’m so sorry, I’ll call you ba-”

“Don’t worry about it, just some idiot not paying attention on the road.  And what's this about, ahem, Dr. Foster?"  The name itself was unsavoury, sticking in my throat until I spat it out.  I hoped the vitriol escaped her notice.

“Okay Victor, get this: it’s like the man has X-ray vision!”

She whispers for dramatic effect, and my grip tightens on the steering wheel as I picture those slate grey eyes sweeping over the curves of her body, a lewd expression falling over the doctor’s features.  He was a handsome enough man, that much was true; intelligent and a first-rate surgeon according to Eisuke and Soryu.  Goldman confirmed as much when I had him dig up all available information on Luke Foster.  On that basis alone, many women would find him to be an extremely attractive suitor and ludicrous though it is, I can’t help but think the worst.  Luke had been quite open in his admiration of her, especially her collarbones.  What if she returned the sentiment?

In retrospect, it was a horrible idea to leave her to her work (and that wolf) in Tokyo while I returned to mine in Loveland City.  While she had the company of her coworkers, clearly none of them sensed the danger in Luke Foster that I did.  I no longer had the right to call her a dummy when I was obviously the idiot here.

“I’m telling you Victor, he can just look at somebody and tell you everything about their bone structure.  It’s too accurate to just be guesswork!  Apparently, he can remember anyone he's ever laid eyes on based on their bones.  It’s incredible.  I’d love for Professor Lucien to meet him.  If only he had the time to fly out to Tokyo…”

The girl continues and I catch sight of my furrowed brows in the rear-view mirror, deepening the longer she goes on and on about men who weren’t me.

“…He’s already agreed to be a guest on the show!  But…he did make a rather strange request."

For a moment, I can barely breathe.  The skin over my knuckles blanches as it stretches tight, my grip on the wheel growing harder as I brace for unwelcome news.  God knows what she would’ve agreed to in my absence.  Filled with a sense of dread, I had to know all the same.  “Which was?…”

She pauses, the hitch in her breath subtle but speaking volumes nonetheless.

“Just say it, dummy.”  I soften my tone in encouragement though my mind was already racing, thinking of all the ways my legal team could dissolve a contract should the girl have already signed papers.

“Well, he…he asked if he could examine my body in lieu of payment for appearing on the show.  You should’ve seen him!  He was so desperate he was practically begging and I…I just couldn't say no."  

MOTHERFUCK!

Chapter 5: Role Model

“STUPID VICTOR LI!”

You had meant to throw the rolled-up magazine in dramatic rock star fashion, sending it flying across your suite at the Tres Spades Tokyo hotel to give at least a resounding smack as it hits the wall.  Instead, it flutters to the carpeted floor, barely a few feet from where you lay sprawled out on a bed much too large for a single person.

And from the surface of that glossy cover, Victor’s handsome face — all sharp eyes and chiseled jaw - staring up at you from beneath a headline that read: "Man On Top: How Victor Li Conquered The Business World.”

Man on top.  What a tease if there ever was one — especially since you’ve developed the recent habit of falling asleep to the fantasy of having the broad expanse of Victor’s muscular chest hovering over you.

“The only thing he should be on top of is ME!”

Your voice echoes in the room, empty save for you.  Even still, your cheeks burned from embarrassment over the absurdity of your current situation.  Victor Li didn’t belong to you.  Not when he had someone like Diana in his life.

Victor and Diana.  Diana and Victor.  A perfect match regardless of how the pieces fit.  And for an instant, your anger flares to remember the nonchalance in Victor’s voice when he told you that their past history as lovers had no bearing on the present, as if they didn’t look like they belonged together when you saw them just now in the lobby of the hotel, moments after you purchased the magazine with Victor’s face gracing the cover from one of the shops.

Practically ecstatic in your surprise to see him there at the Tres Spades, you were just about to call out to him when his name died in your throat, choked by the sight of the woman at his side.  Victor was escorting Diana to a limo waiting just beyond the revolving doors.  And the last thing you saw before the chauffeur pulled away was the two of them slipping into the vehicle together.

He hadn’t even told you he was coming to Tokyo.

It was only after you became aware of the fact that you were blocking the entrance to the shop that you recovered from the shock, murmuring apologies as you pulled yourself together just enough to make your way back to the safety of your hotel room.

Rising up off the bed, your feet sink into the lush carpeting as you pad over to where the magazine lay.  You pick it up and smooth out the crinkles, fingers tracing the outline of Victor’s profile as you do — gentle, as if you were touching the man himself.  And when your nose begins to tingle, you know it won’t be long before you feel the familiar sting of tears behind your eyes.

“Think you could stop being so nice to me, Victor?  You’ll give a girl the wrong impression.”  

Heaving a sigh, you slip the magazine beneath a pillow on the bed.  A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table told you it was almost time for your dinner date with Dr. Foster.  Sitting around moping wasn’t an option, at least not tonight.  Lightly slapping your cheeks, you push the image of Victor and Diana out of your head and get ready to step into the shower.

Chapter 6: Hard To Swallow [Victor]

“I’m glad you remembered that you owe me a dinner, Victor Li.  And though I practically had to drag you to this restaurant, I guess the means don’t really matter if the end result is the same.  But still, what a lucky coincidence that we bumped into each other again at the Tres Spades of all places.  Now that’s something to drink to.”

Diana holds up her glass, Cabernet Sauvignon swirling as it meets mine with a delicate clink.  Under the table, the tip of her stiletto pushes against my oxfords before sliding past my ankle, inching its way up my leg.  I pull away, watching those red lips spread into a smile as I do.

“You might be the first man who’s ever been able to resist me.  Has anyone ever told you you’re one stubborn asshole?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She laughs at that, taking another sip of her wine before setting it down.  “So, tell me about her.”

“Her?”  I focus on cutting into my Kobe beef, already aware that Diana will see through my bluff.  She always did.

“Surely there must be another woman if you keep turning me down over and over again, Victor.  A girl has her pride too, you know.”

“We are not getting back together, Diana.”

“Tsk, you’re no fun, Vic.  All work and no play, all the time.  I’ll have to remind myself of that the next time I start entertaining thoughts of calling you up again.”

She pouts, but it isn’t long before her eyes take on that familiar spark of mischief as she continues.  

“But seriously, tell me about your cute little producer.  That is the girl you keep rejecting me for, I presume.  I need to know about the woman who’s finally managed to infiltrate the entirety of Victor Li’s notoriously impenetrable heart.  She must be quite the lover if she’s got you wrapped around her little finger like that, pulling strings with all your friends left, right and centre.”

It annoys me to no end that the mere mention of the girl is enough to reduce me to a swooning idiot.  I fight to keep the smile off my face.

“You’ve got the wrong idea.  She’s not my lover.”  

Diana begins to protest, but her words are lost on me because I’ve stopped listening.  In fact, the only thing I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears, propelled by the adrenaline racing through my veins to see him enter the restaurant.

Dr. Luke Foster.  

WITH MY DUMMY, NO LESS.

And my dummy looks…absolutely gorgeous.  Her hair is done up, leaving her graceful neck and collarbones exposed in a little black dress I’ve never seen her wear before, I realize with not an insignificant amount of jealousy.

But wait…collarbones?!

Sure enough, that surgeon is staring at her clavicle like some kind of pervert.  The sight alone incites the beginnings of a dull throbbing in my temples, no doubt exacerbated by the vice-like clench of my jaws.

I follow them with my gaze as they are led to a table for two; fixate on Luke’s face even as the sommelier arrives to make his recommendations to the pair.  The doctor stares at my girl like he couldn’t care less about the meal, as if the only thing he hungered for was precisely what I myself had desired for so long: the woman.  And she—

Just looked my way.

Surprise etches itself onto her beautiful features — the brows I had dreamt of one day lightly running a fingertip over while she sleeps lifting into a delicate arch.  And why shouldn’t she be surprised?  I had given her no indication that I had rushed over to Tokyo from Loveland City as soon as I heard what Luke had requested of her.  

But there is no nod of acknowledgement, no smile in greeting.  Just her, looking away as if she hadn’t seen me at all, her smile apologetic when she retrains her attention on the doctor.  And while it was only for a fraction of a second, I could have sworn her eyes carried a hint of sorrow.

Or perhaps I’m projecting.

Because her obvious avoidance feels like a rebuff, a sucker punch to the gut.  She’s never blatantly ignored me like that, no matter how wound up she was even during those times when I verbally tore her sub-par proposals to shreds.  The feeling of rejection sits heavy on my chest, the tie around my neck much too tight.

“Victor, are you all right?”

Diana’s voice cuts through my thoughts.  She is looking at me curiously.  I reach for my glass of wine, suddenly feeling like I was on the verge of choking.  “Of course, what could possibly be wrong?”

“ ‘What’s wrong’ is the fact that you haven’t listened to a single word I’ve said for the past ten minutes.  Even if there’s no chance we’ll ever get back together again as you so adamantly insist, the least you could do is pay attention to the person you’re sharing a meal with.”

I take a deep breath, more than a little disconcerted by the girl’s ability to affect me.  “Of course.  My apologies, you’re absolutely right.  Please, continue.”

Across the candlelit table, I look Diana in the eye, resolved to keep up at least the pretence of being interested in what she had to say when all I wanted to do was storm the table where Luke sat with my girl.  With each sideways glance in their direction, my grip tightened on my utensils to see them chatting, seemingly engrossed in the world’s most interesting conversation.

And when she hands over a manila envelope to the doctor, my heart skips a beat.

Could it be…marriage documents?!

One tiny corner of my brain berates me for how ridiculous I am being but when it comes to her, I simply can’t help it, and the fantasy in which I casually stroll over, flip the table onto Luke Foster and steal my girl away in a bridal carry becomes so vivid in my mind’s eye, it almost seems like a good idea.

Diana excuses herself to use the restroom and I pounce on the opportunity to send the dummy a text:

“MEET ME AT THE BAR IN THE TRES SPADES HOTEL IN AN HOUR.  DON’T BE LATE.”

Chapter 7: Choked Up

“Is there something wrong, Dr. Foster?  You haven’t touched your meal.”

You do your best to school your expression into one of polite neutrality as you take in the strange sight of the pale, blond-haired man shaking out an alarming number of pills onto the palm of his hand, tapping loudly on a bottle seemingly produced out of nowhere.  He pops them all into his mouth at once and you pray you won’t have to perform the Heimlich maneuver as he chases them down with a few gulps of water.

A smile spreads across the doctor’s lips as his eyes fall upon your collarbones once more.  You were used to feeling like a third wheel by now, even when alone with Luke Foster, given his penchant for carrying on conversations while staring intently at your bones.  But you took no offence at his behaviour, especially after Baba’s attempts to give you insight into Luke’s peculiar mannerisms:

“Try not to take it personal, Miss.  Lu will look at anyone who’s got beautiful collarbones.  It’s a well-known fact that he’s obsessed with the boss’s - he's even framed the X-ray films of Eisuke’s bones.  He likely just wants yours to add to his collection.”

Strange though it was, the request that Luke be allowed to have X-rays films of your collarbones in exchange for appearing on Miracle Finder was innocent enough.  Certainly nothing that warranted the stony silence you received on the other end of the line when you called Victor the other day to tell him that Dr. Foster wanted to examine you.  After a brusque “I have to go,” he had hung up.  No goodbyes, not even a mutter of “dummy.”  

But Luke Foster had been nothing short of a perfect gentleman, never once laying a hand on you.  Moreover, he even insisted on paying for tonight’s meal despite the fact that you had invited him as thanks for appearing on the show.  

“Please, just call me Luke.  Vitamins and water are all I need to survive.  I only ordered because Eisuke said it might be awkward if you seemed to be the only one dining.”

“I-I see.”  You smile, taking another bite of wagyu.  And for a moment, you are too wrapped up in the blissful way it seemed to melt on your tongue to be disconcerted by the strange events of the evening.

You weren’t, however, too distracted to continue throwing surreptitious glances in Victor’s direction, fighting to keep composed each time Diana’s laughter carried over to your table.  What were the chances that you’d find yourselves at the same restaurant in all of Tokyo?  You know that he knows you are here; even Chik couldn’t put on a performance convincing enough for the LFG CEO to believe for a second that you didn’t see him.

With your dismal acting skills, you definitely didn’t stand a chance.

“You’re in love with him.”

COUGH, COUGH!

You clear the steak lodged in the back of your throat with a few hacking coughs, half of your face hidden behind your napkin as you tried to be as discreet as possible, the words “Death by Wagyu” flashing through your mind.  After soothing your throat with a sip of wine, you ask:

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re in love with that man sitting just over there with the woman dressed in red.  That Victor fellow who accompanied you to that first meeting with Eisuke.”

For someone who seemed to pay very little attention to matters that didn’t concern bones, Luke Foster was surprisingly perceptive.  Or maybe you weren’t as discrete as you thought you were and it was obvious to all but yourself that you were staring at the golden couple.

“I…how did you...what makes you—”

“Please pass this message on to him for me.  If he doesn’t treat your collarbones with the respect they deserve, he can’t blame me for swooping in to take his place.”

Then, for the very first time that night, Luke Foster looks you in the eye, the intensity in blue-grey irises making your breath hitch when he says: “Until then, I hope you find happiness with him, Sexy Bones — especially since he also seems to be exceedingly fond of you.  Quite the annoyance, really.”

And for the very first time that night, you smile freely, naturally, at Luke, blushing hard as you contemplate his words.  Suddenly bashful, you drop your gaze only to catch sight of the manila envelope you brought with you.  You pass it across the table to him.

“Here.  Your payment for agreeing to appear on Miracle Finder.”

The expression on Luke’s face can best be described as euphoric when he takes the films from you, momentarily excusing himself from the table as he murmurs something about requiring brighter lighting to examine them.

That is when you hear the buzz of your phone from inside your purse.  And when you finally fish it out, you see a single text from Victor, commanding as always:

“MEET ME AT THE BAR IN THE TRES SPADES HOTEL IN AN HOUR.  DON’T BE LATE.”

Chapter 8: Green-Eyed Monsters [Victor]

“Another whiskey on the rocks for you, Sir?”

I nod to the bartender, watching as he chips away at a block of ice to produce a perfect crystalline sphere — still spinning in the glass when he pours the amber spirit over it like a libation.  It almost takes my mind off the fact that the girl is late.  By exactly ten minutes, according to my watch.  And for a moment, I’m gripped by a sense of panic when I consider the possibility that she might not come.

She never did answer my text though I knew she saw it — having witnessed her reaching into her purse to pull out her phone seconds after I sent the message.  And while the logical part of my brain is telling me I’m being an absolute idiot, worst-case scenarios are already running through my head: the girl is side-swiped by a car while crossing the street, or somehow managed to fall into an open manhole and is currently standing knee-deep in sewage.

Or maybe she is pinned to the wall in a dark corner somewhere, hemmed in on either side by the gifted hands of a world-class surgeon by the name of Luke Foster.

I lift the glass to my lips, too impatient to even savour the smooth burn of the drink as I reach for my phone to send her another text.  That is when I see her:

Cheeks flushed and chest gently heaving as if she had rushed to get here.  An errant lock of hair falling from her up-do, framing that beautiful face like I had dreamt so many times of doing with the palm of my hand.

She makes her way towards me in that dimly lit bar, and though I’m aware of the faint ticking of the second hand of my watch, time may as well have stood still.  Because I could have lived in that moment forever, gazing upon the light in her eyes as if they held every last star in the sky, as if those heavenly bodies had fallen just for her in precisely the same way I had: deeply, irrevocably.

And I know there is no turning back.

“Victor, sorry I’m late!  What are you doing here in Tok—”  

“Why did you ignore me?”  My voice comes out stern, even to my ears, and I curse myself for losing my cool around her yet again.  The girl furrows her brows, eyes dropping from my face to the half-empty glass of whiskey sitting on the counter.  And when she looks up again, something in her countenance has changed — soft surprise giving way to a hardened expression.

“If it’s the text you’re referring to, I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

She looks away, refusing to meet my gaze as she perches on the stool beside me.  “Surely you wouldn’t have wanted me to interrupt your dinner date, especially when you and Ms. Shum seemed so intimate.”

Intimate?

The bartender approaches, interrupting our conversation before I get the chance to formulate a reply.  “What can I get for you, Miss?”

“She’ll have a glass of warmed milk—”

“Whiskey.  On the rocks, please.”

She speaks over me, turning slightly in my direction as she does.  I ignore the murmur of “Ladies’ choice” from the bartender as well as the smirk on his face as he begins preparing her drink.  The thinly veiled challenge in the girl’s expression — elbow propped up on the counter with her chin resting atop a loose fist — only serves to highlight how incredibly alluring it is when she pushes back.

“Hmm.  Bold.  Since when did you start drinking whiskey?  I don’t think you need me to remind you of your non-existent alcohol tolerance.  Besides, didn’t you already have enough to drink at dinner?”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, Victor Li,” she says, reaching for the glass the bartender sets down before her.  She takes a moment, staring at the rich, golden hues before finally taking a sip.  I fight to keep the smile off my face when hers pulls into a grimace from the sting of the alcohol she clearly wasn’t familiar with.  Dummy.

“I’m surprised you even noticed me at all, not with the lovely Diana there.  But I guess old wounds really do have difficulty closing, no matter how much we say they’ve healed.”

“You’d have to ask for the expert opinion of your overly friendly doctor about that.”

“Excuse me?”  She sets her drink down a bit harder than likely intended, sending the liquid sloshing about the glass to kiss the pink of her lipstick imprinted on its edge.  

I don’t like where this conversation is going, the ill-disguised barbs only serving to increase the tension between us.  It was foolish to have what should’ve been a very private discussion in a public space but, as always, the thought of her and Luke together is enough to make me forget my place and position, throwing caution to the wind and behaving with reckless abandon.

And still, the heat beneath my collar goads me on.

“Luke Foster.  The one you’re so enthralled with that your manners seem to have been completely swept from memory.  I presume that’s the reason why you didn’t acknowledge my existence when you saw me in the restaurant.”

Her eyes widen in disbelief as she leans in close, voice dripping with sarcasm: “Just like how you didn’t remember to tell me you were coming to Tokyo?  Or maybe you weren’t planning on telling me at all, since it clearly looked like you weren’t here on business.  But then again, I guess your business is none of mine.”

I don’t know whether I want to push back or kiss her senseless.

Instead, I settle for a deep breath, trying to keep my frustration in check.  Having a heated argument with her was not how I had intended my evening to go.  In fact, my entire day had not proceeded as planned, and if I hadn’t been accosted by Diana as soon as I stepped foot in the Tres Spades hotel, I would have been having dinner with the woman who occupied all my thoughts, all the time.  At the very least, I could’ve saved her from the clutches of a pervert doctor.

I glance in her direction, study the beautiful melancholy of her silent profile as she watches the ball of ice slowly melt into her drink.  Then I take another sip of mine, steeling myself for reparations I desperately needed to make.

“I am only going to say this once, so listen closely.  Diana Shum and I dated shortly after graduation for all of two months before we decided to part ways on amicable terms.  We make for much better business partners than we ever did romantically, and while she has expressed occasional interest in rekindling our relationship, I have never been of the same mind.  I can assure you this will never change.

“The reason I came to Tokyo is not because of her — professional or otherwise — but because I was in a rush to prevent a certain dummy from doing anything she’d regret later on.  But…”

I knock back the rest of my whiskey, emptying the glass.

“…I’m afraid I’m too late.”

She looks at me now, eyes wide as if she were still processing the words.  Her next question comes on a whisper: “Why would you be too late?”

And it is my turn to look away.  

“Well, you seemed to be pretty intimate yourself with Dr. Foster during your dinner date.  I can only presume that…”

The girl moves closer and I can’t help the way my eyes are drawn to her mouth — the tremble of her lower lip, full and pink and lush.  Without thought, I allow my gaze to trace along the graceful column of her neck, settling at the delicate notch between her collarbones and in that instant, I come to a visceral understanding of the extent of Luke Foster’s obsession, for mine was magnified a million times over:

I yearned for the entirety of this woman before me — needed her for myself, now and forever.

“Presume what?”  Her voice is low, shaking.

“I can only presume that you’ve already allowed him to…examine your body.”

There is a moment of silence — each torturous second seeming to stretch into eternity to smother the last embers of hope.

“I have…”

Oh god.

“…given him X-ray films of my collarbones as he requested.  That is all.  He’s never touched me, not even once.  I took him out to dinner tonight so I could give them to him as thanks for appearing on the show.”

Petty.  Sheepish.  I felt all these things, but none so powerful as the staggering sense of relief that washes over me to hear her say these words.  Closing my eyes, I let the revelation sink in, finally feeling like I can breathe for the very first time that night.

Chapter 9: The Big Bang

You don’t quite know what made you do it.  

The ambience of the bar, perhaps: sultry jazz and flickering candles purposefully placed to create just enough shadows for a veil of privacy.

Or maybe it was the crestfallen uncertainty that painted the handsome features of Victor Li’s face, his sudden display of vulnerability both novel and endearing.

Most likely however, it was the way in which his downcast expression morphed into one of ecstatic relief when you told him that Luke Foster had not laid a single finger on you.

Because when Victor tilts his head back, eyes closed and sighing deeply as if some unfathomable burden had been lifted, you cannot help but bring your lips to the Adam’s apple bobbing along the length of that strong, thick neck.

Cedar wood and pine.  

The notes of his cologne are so familiar you didn’t realize how much you missed his scent until you literally came face to face with it.  Victor is warm, so very warm beneath the skin of your lips.  And under your touch, you become vaguely aware of the fact that the rise and fall of his chest has stilled.

At any other time, you would’ve questioned your sanity for how boldly you were behaving, especially towards someone who was your boss.  You had never been one to put yourself out there when it came to matters of the heart.  Something about the moment however, about Victor, made you feel like the one thing you could not do was let this chance pass you by.

So when you hear that shuddering breath, feel the faint scratch of his five o’clock shadow when he nuzzles against you in return, you know you’ve made the right gamble.  Being with Victor Li feels right.  And the surreal sense of belonging you find within the embrace of his muscular arms gives you the courage to say, “You must really believe I’m a dummy if you think I’d let any man other than you touch me.”

He slides a finger beneath your chin, gently lifting until all you can see are those jet black eyes, swimming with heat and emotion.  The sudden silence of your surroundings sinks in: no more music, no idle chatter.  Not even the rustle of limbs moving about in the dimly lit bar.  And there, in the strange privacy of suspended time…

...Victor kisses you.

                        *                                     *                                      *

“Are you sure…this is…what you want?”

The deep timbre of Victor’s voice sends a thrill vibrating along the surface of your skin as he questions you between kisses — laid on your mouth, the line of your jaw, the pulse of your neck.  His firm body presses you into a corner of the elevator, empty save for the two of you writhing in unison against a mirrored wall.

Each movement of his soft lips against yours is purposeful, imbued with meaning: longing in the gentle teeth that nibbled on your lower lip before drawing it into his mouth, in the sensual slide of the tongue that sought yours.  Affection obvious in the hands that rose to cup your face, thumbs tracing circles on the apples of reddened cheeks to tell you in no uncertain terms that Victor Li belonged to you as much as you yearned to belong to him.

So you had no qualms about answering in the affirmative, nodding your head because the press of Victor’s muscular thigh between your legs already left you breathless and wondering whether he could feel your wet heat seeping through your panties.

And all he really did was kiss you.

Ding.

The elevator stops at your floor and even before the doors slide open, Victor has hoisted you up, wrapping your legs tightly about his tapered waist and whispering into your ear, “Which room?”

You knew Victor was fit, had seen him move fast and effortlessly through the waters of his Olympic-sized swimming pool that one time he had you deliver a report to his mansion on a Sunday.  And yet, you could not help but admire the sheer perfection of his physique — the bulk of his biceps, flexed beneath strained layers of clothing; the ease with which he carries you all the way to your suite.

And when he sits you down upon the king-sized bed, you wonder if it is, in fact, too small for all the things you cared to do with him.

The LFG CEO shrugs off his suit jacket, loosening his tie just enough to pull it over his head before dropping to kneel at your feet.  You watch him reach for you, shiver when he caresses the sensitive skin behind your knee with a light graze of gentle fingertips.  Large hands trail down your calf — touch barely there and teasing — until his palm finally cups the heel of your stiletto to slide it off your foot.

He looks up at you then, the intensity in ebony irises rendering you still and mute as you patiently await his next move despite the frenzied pounding in your chest.  There is a stroke of something almost feral in the dark depths of the gaze that falls heavy upon you — searching your eyes, lingering on your lips…tracing the neckline of your dress.

“I’ve never seen you wear this dress before.”  Victor says, taking the same amount of care to remove the shoe from your other foot.

And if you were able to think straight under the influence of his touch — the hands that pushed back the hem of your dress as they roamed higher and higher up your thighs towards your heat — you might have found it strange that Victor was choosing now, of all times, to comment on your wardrobe choices.  As it was, you answered without second thought: “It’s new.  I bought it especially for tonight’s dinner.”

Victor stills and when he speaks again, there is a faint tremble in that voice, as if fighting to contain some unfathomable emotion.  

“The doctor couldn’t stop staring at you.  I know because I was the same way.  I couldn’t look away from the moment you stepped foot in that restaurant.”

The revelation leaves you silent, waiting with bated breath for Victor to continue.

“Forgive me…”

Fingers entwine with fabric, gripping tight.

“…but I can’t stand the thought of you looking so beautiful for anyone else.”

RRRIIIIPPPP!

You fall back, wincing at the sound even as you feel your body respond to the sudden shock of having your dress torn right down the middle.  Victor’s display of brute strength was so at odds with the façade of composure he was synonymous with and yet, there was no denying that you were incredibly aroused by this show of power — by the fact that he was now straddling you on all fours like some wild beast, tearing away the rest of your undergarments to leave you completely bare.

You’ve never been so desperate to feel him inside you, deep and rough and untamed.  The thought throws you into a frenzy of lust.

Digging your fingers into the front of his dress shirt, you yank it open to send buttons flying in haphazard directions, but the only thing that concerned you was the sight of that broad chest and muscular torso, so impressive it actually elicits a moan from your lips and a smile from his in return.

Propping yourself up onto your knees, you press against him, flesh to flesh — one hand running over the burning surface of his skin even as the other tugs at the buckle of his leather belt, impatiently moving to palm him when his dress pants fall and gasping to finally see and feel the full extent of the LFG CEO:

Victor Li is rock hard and intimidatingly large.

And the sight makes your mouth water.

Sinking onto your heels, you trail your lips along Victor’s chiseled body, tongue teasing at his nipples as you do and relishing the catch of his breath in his throat.

But just as you begin to lay kisses along the deep V of his abdomen with the intent of tracing lower and lower, Victor stops you, puling you up for a kiss before laying back on the bed and positioning you above him…

…with his face between your legs.

“This way,” he says, voice muffled, and you might have commented on his inability to relinquish control even in the bedroom were it not for the sensation of his flattened tongue sweeping hot and wet along the seam of your already dripping pussy, teasing from end to end.

The sensation is so intense it’s almost unbearable.  You throw your head back, mouth dropping in a silent scream as you sink onto Victor’s face, fighting the instinct to grinder lower onto that talented tongue despite the encouraging grip of Victor’s hands, strong on your hips and thighs.

“I’ve wanted to taste you…for so long,” he murmurs, sucking the swell of your clit into his mouth and humming in approval against moist flesh to hear you moan above him.  “Your flavour is absolutely exquisite.”

Gathering your wits, you fold forward — intent on giving just as much pleasure as you were receiving.  Victor twitches once within your grip, not quite contained by the circumference of your palm and fingers, running up and down the sizeable length of his cock, hot in your hand like his breath on your slit.  And after placing a few wet kisses on the smooth, hard head, you open your mouth to taste him.

The tepid salt of his arousal.  The groans originating from deep within Victor’s chest each time your lip brushed past the tender underside of his cock.  The subtle rhythm of his pelvis, lifting in time to your mouth swallowing more of that solid shaft, quickly becoming slick with your saliva.

And then you catch sight of your reflection in the mirrored closet.  See the bulge of Victor’s bicep as he grips your hip, the flex in the muscles of his neck when he lifts to bury his face deeper into your folds.  See yourself: hair disheveled and eyes half-lidded, drunk on sex.  Observe the messy smear of your lipstick as your mouth stretches to accommodate more and more of your boss’s cock.  And when the tip of Victor’s tongue begins its relentless tease of your clit, you watch as a most debauched expression falls over your features, the tension in your body breaking as you find release on his lips.

You are still shaking when he enters you, sensitized by an orgasm that left tiny sparks of electricity running along every nerve, priming you for second helpings.  A true paragon of patience, Victor Li takes his time, deliberately slow as he pushes — savouring the sensation of drenched, swollen flesh parting just for him.

It was almost unfathomable that you could experience such extreme pleasure, each powerful swing of Victor’s hips driving him deeper into your body — hitting just the right angles until your very senses were extracted along with your second release of the night, running slick between your legs to ease the slippery slide of your bodies.

It draws out Victor’s own, your lover moving to pull out moments before you surprise him by taking him once more into your mouth — gaze locked onto those dark eyes from below as you taste him on your tongue, euphoric to see him bite his lips when your lick yours to swallow every last drop.

Chapter 10: Pillow Talk

Beep Beep Beep Beep.

You roll over, eyes still closed as you reach out to hit the snooze button on the alarm clock.

Except your palm comes down on warm flesh with a resounding smack, echoing throughout your hotel room and accompanied by a deep voice that says, “Are you finally awake, Dummy?”

Your eyes shoot open to see Victor lying naked in bed next to you, a splotch of red blooming on his chest where he had been attacked.  He sets his phone down to hand you a glass of water from the bedside table, and even though memories of the previous night come rushing back to burn your cheeks, you cannot help but notice how glorious he looks bathed in morning light.  You hope he doesn’t see the way your hand shakes when you accept the glass from him with a meek “Thanks.”

Victor clears his throat, waiting for you to finish drinking before he says, “That was the fourth time you slept through the alarm.  I’ve already informed your colleagues you’ll be taking the day off.  We didn’t get much sleep last night and I think you’ll need some time to…recover.”

You bite your lip, turning sideways to feign a sudden interest in the curtains so he wouldn’t see the giant smile spreading onto your face.  It was almost surreal that Victor Li was your lover, and if it weren’t for the exquisite soreness you felt between your legs, you would’ve been hard pressed to believe it for yourself.

The sheets rustle and before you know it, Victor has his chest pressed up against your bare back, laying a soft kiss on your shoulder before he rests his chin on it.

“How are you feeling?”  He asks.

“Okay.  Pretty good, actually.”  It was too early in the game to tell him you were already doing cartwheels in your mind.

“Good.  I’m glad to hear that because I found this under your pillow…”

He places something in your hands.  Your eyes widen when you recognize the magazine with his face on the cover.

“…And this ‘man on top’ wants to know what it feels like to have this woman on top of him for the rest of the day.”

You’ve made it to the end! 🤩 Thank you so much for reading!  Check out more of my work here! 📚 

[nancylou444]

I tried to be nice

Replies to this post:

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Became this:

THEM:  hi! thanks for the answers I really appreciate the discussion. normally if someone ships something I don’t like or something like that, I’ll just leave them alone but.. just to be clear I completely respect all of your opinions, even agree with some of them, even if we might disagree on the incest and Castiel haha. So I don’t mean any disrespect with this at all, please let me know if I’m out of line though!  

 But... I saw some things you said, and they come across to me in a way that I don’t think you intended? I feel really awkward sending this haha, you’re very nice and I don’t think you said anything on purpose, but I just.. wanted to let you know that some of the things regarding your opinion on certain characters come across not very well? I don’t think it’s intentional or anything, and I don’t mean to call you out at all which is why I didn’t want to point it out in the replies y’know?  

 Don’t get me wrong though, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with not liking castiel or destiel. I’ve been watching the show for a while with my dad, and he isn’t a huge fan either, I don’t think that’s a problem :) 

I’d continue without waiting for a response but I don’t want to say something you’ve already been told, or continue without knowing if I’ve said something out of line already 😅

ME:  I'm kind of distracted dealing with my Mom's rehab center. But you can keep going.

THEM: Alright! I’ve tried rephrasing this a million times but I don’t know how to make it seem not antagonistic. I promise I don’t mean that you’re doing it intentionally, it’s just, uh a lot of your criticism of spn feels like it could be read as homophobic? Again I don’t think YOU are I just wanted you to know it kind of reads that way!

That sounded so confrontational. I really don’t mean it that way 😭

ME: HOMOPHOBIC? Really? A lot of the 'proof' your fellow shippers use border on stereotypes but you think I'M homophobic? Considering my top two ships are Wincest and Malec. Yeah, sounds confrontational.

THEM:  I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I guess there’s no other way to say it, but I understand why you feel accused. What do you mean by proof..?

Also I don’t really think having gay ships means you can’t be homophobic. *I* used to be homophobic years ago, and I’m a gay person!

ME:  How old are you? https://nancylou444.tumblr.com/post/154098904136/a-guide-to-dean-winchesters-imaginary-bisexuality

THEM:  yeah this is starting to get frustrating. I’m gonna be real with you, why does it matter if people think dean is bisexual? like, bottom line, that is my question for you

and your answer will determine if your veracity is homophobic. why does it matter that some people think dean is bisexual. not the fans or actors or writers or anything. why does it matter that some viewers will watch, and they will think dean is bisexual?

ME:  My problem isn't that some people think he is bi IN FANON, my problem is that they want CONFIRMATION OF A FANON SHIP. And that some people DENY how the show ended. These same people think that fake weddings are more canon than the FINAL EPISODE.

THEM:  I get what you mean, but how is it a fanon ship when it’s confirmed romantic from one side, and interpretable as mutually reciprocated in Latin America? (I’m going to disregard the bit about the wedding, because I’m a firm believer in Neil Gaiman variety death of the author. Also that’s just people having fun with fanon, who cares?)

ME:  Confirmed romantic?By whom MISHA, who wanted to sell necklaces? Have you never said 'i love you' to a FRIEND or FAMILY member? The dub is not canon, so don't even try using that as proof. Death of the author is just another way of saying MY VIEW OF THE SHOW IS SUPERIOR TO HOW THE CREATOR WANTS TO SEE IT. Jensen has said many times that the ship isn't canon and that Dean is straight. But it's better to believe what Misha says because he agrees with you. You think somebody is bi because of how they sit or the color clothes they wear? That would make YOU homophobe.

THEM:  LOL You know what? I change my answer. I looked through your blog and you ACTIVELY and viscously hate Cas, Charlie, Claire, Kaia and the implication that Jack may not be straight. You’ve said Cas coming out as gay and in love with dean makes the rest of his actions predatory, compared him to a teenage girl, called him creepy, and openly rejoiced in your idea that dean looked ‘disgusted with him’. You said that Claire is awful, that Kaia is a wooden plank, that they ‘shoved them together’ for ‘woke points’ and said that Jody saying Claire was IN LOVE WITH Kaia ‘doesnt count’ and called it ‘lip service’. And it doesn’t end there! After all this, you said that you preferred the old better s4 Claire. Is it because she was ostensibly straight? Are you uncomfortable with queer women? And then you have the audacity to use these characters (Claire and Kaia and Charlie) as reasons to epicly own the Hellers and claim they already have represention. You are a completely disingenuous bitch and I don’t care to be nice to you anymore! I don’t feel AT ALL charitable toward you anymore, and I don’t care if you have gay ships. Gay people aren’t here for you to fetishize! You CONSTANTLY mock and ridicule jokes made by queer people regarding deans bisexuality or Cas being gay or any number of things. You constantly reaffirm that Dean is straight and call people who think otherwise delusional and disgusting, while you think dean is in romantic sexual love with his male sibling. You are openly hostile to the idea of non-binary jack and were pissed that Alcal endorsed that. You devalue Jack’s value and relationship to Cas who is, textually, his father figure. I have NO reason not to think that you are homophobic. I don’t care anymore! You’re a huge bitch and, judging by your prior responses and posts, a genuine dialogue regarding queerness in spn is impossible. You regard any instance of canonically queer moments ‘lip service’ and so regard it. You actively hate every canonically gay character and degrade them using traditionally homophobic tropes and stereotypes.

Feel free to explain how you aren’t homophobic. I’m so sorry if I got the wrong impression.

ME: Wow I see your true colors have come out HELLER.

THEM:  Idc if you think I’m mean. Go ahead and make a post about me lol, have fun with it. Give me a moment to respond to your paragraph it’s... a lot to dissect.

I’ll touch on your comments about the dub and the Spanish language in a moment. First though

I ’m gonna be real with you, I don’t think you know what death of the author is. Neil Gaiman’s variety of the dead author principal is that once canon ends, the story belongs to those that consume and engage with it. That’s... also literally the theme of supernaturals final season. Anyway I really recommend you read up on death of the author and Neil Gaiman’s takes on fanon. It’s a fun way to consume your media, and in the end that’s what I’m here for.

I don’t care what Misha says, and I don’t care what Jensen says! I think they are both queer because I have eyes and watched the show. I think it’s a lovely narrative that is supported by canon, and it’s fine if you disagree with that

On your last sentence there... lol. It’s a common joke in queer circles that gays can’t sit properly, specifically bisexuals. Same thing with the clothing, it’s a SUPER common joke for example that lesbians wear flannel. Maybe you need to go outside and talk to some normal, non-incest shipping queer people. But what do I know!

And finally... ‘the Spanish dub isnt canon’

I am literally cuban. My first language is SPANISH. my entire household speaks Spanish, and my family past 1st cousins don’t speak any English. My Boricua cousins have watched supernatural in full for years, and they watch it in Spanish. Do you think America is the center of the universe? Do you think our media is somehow less than yours, that our interpretations of English language media isn’t valid? What, do you think we are idiots who don’t know how to analyze literature and media? Do you think the people who work at Telemundo, people employed as dubbers and translators, you think they do a worse job than the American crew?

Why, because they aren’t American or don’t speak English? ‘Te amo’ said to a non family member is, in 99% of any instance, ROMANTIC. it’s something you say to your spouse in serious situations like weddings!! Even MARRIED people don’t normally say te amo, everyone uses te quiero unless it is very serious or romantic in context.

All of my family who are Spanish language, they heard dean say ‘y a yo ti, cas’ and think that they were in romantic love. Sorry dude! The United States might be the center of your universe, but Latin America is HUGE. Spanish is one of the most spoken languages in the WORLD. In fact, more people speak Spanish than English. Sorry that you seem to hate gay characters SO MUCH you have to say an entire language somehow isn’t valid to consume media in!

ME: 

Obviously this heller is batshit crazy. 

Some of those things she thinks I said just show she has no idea how to follow a tumblr thread. 

You are a completely disingenuous bitch and I don’t care to be nice to you anymore! I don’t feel AT ALL charitable toward you anymore, and I don’t care if you have gay ships. Gay people aren’t here for you to fetishize! You CONSTANTLY mock and ridicule jokes made by queer people regarding deans bisexuality or Cas being gay or any number of things. You constantly reaffirm that Dean is straight and call people who think otherwise delusional and disgusting, while you think dean is in romantic sexual love with his male sibling.

Wow. 

I have NO reason not to think that you are homophobic. I don’t care anymore! You’re a huge bitch and, judging by your prior responses and posts, a genuine dialogue regarding queerness in spn is impossible. You regard any instance of canonically queer moments ‘lip service’ and so regard it. You actively hate every canonically gay character and degrade them using traditionally homophobic tropes and stereotypes.

Where have I hated canon gay characters and degraded them using tropes and stereotypes? The bitch has me confused with HER FELLOW SHIPPERS. 

Gotta love how she is defending the Spanish dub. Hit a nerve did I? 

It’s a common joke in queer circles that gays can’t sit properly, specifically bisexuals. Same thing with the clothing, it’s a SUPER common joke for example that lesbians wear flannel. Maybe you need to go outside and talk to some normal, non-incest shipping queer people.

Now who is using stereotypes? 

[bootlegsymphony]

Being Hopeful [a *personal* Komahina writeup]

*major Danganronpa 2/2.5/3 spoilers ahead*

Someone told me to gather my thoughts into a post so here it is.

Note: Unless you’re up for a challenge to potentially reshape your opinions towards certain ships, if you think Komahina is by default a toxic ship in anyway shape or form, or if you firmly believe that Hinanami is “bestest Hinata ship OTP owo”, it’s not in your best interest to read this post. I’m not suggesting you are invalid or wrong, but you’re likely not the group of people I’m looking forward to having a constructive and evoking conversation with.

First off, I might have been recognized as an avid Komahina shipper, and my opinions towards Hinanami could be generally summarized as ambivalent/mixed/minorly favourable. I was able to acknowledge Hina/Nami’s relationship as of roughly equivalent significance in regard to DR2’s theme.

But it was impossible for me to consider the two relationships narratively equal, I was able to notice that Koma/Hina was a “meant to be” endgame relationship right of the bat, yet Hina/Nami reads as this transitory experience of an obscure puppy love, or “yeah that happened” that’s melancholic and beautiful. Evidently, the narrative strongly favoured Koma/Hina in terms of screentime, development, complexity, compatibility, and endgame potentials.

I wasn’t too confident about why Komahina screams an ultimate destination of a Hinata relationship to me, yet Hina/Nami never convey a remotely similar message. In many aspects, I didn’t ship Komahina in the past for the sake of “I want Komaeda to savour happiness” but placed more emphasis on “it would be wise for Hinata if he could ascertain that his future is with Komaeda”. However I couldn’t elucidate why I thought so.

But due to some unexpected changes in my personal life, it was so effortless for me to reach an epiphany why Hinanami couldn’t quite be the same Hinata-OTP as Komahina. And now I’m kicking myself for not being able to be more adamant about it earlier.

In short, I had a brief taste of how “true bond” or “true connection” functions. It was an estranged, uncharted experience to me prior to that “sudden change”. And in retrospect it’s unimaginable how I survived that bitter life of pure bleakness without it. But since I was able to discern the characteristics of a “true bond”, Koma/Hina, while being excruciatingly complicated and bitter in canon timeline, had a great foundation for that nonetheless, while Hina/Nami was, fundamentally “deficient” in this specific department.

Hina/Nami, either the DR2 or DR3 iteration, doesn’t go beyond being a fine relationship. It’s not bad, as adolescent crushes are typically not bad. It’s functional and somewhat sweet if Hinata was just some normal shy boy who at some point met a nice caring pretty girl. But a great, monumental relationship doesn’t come from being just fine, and Hinata is much more messy than a such-and-such average joe as what a part of the fandom preferred to project him as.

But Hinata wasn’t an adequate rival and foil for Komaeda, that ridiculously multilayered character likely in all fictions for nothing.

For starter, Hinata committed Izuru Kamakura and countless war crimes, for fuck’s sake.

I had this pessimistic outlook that humans aren’t truly designated at birth to understand each other unless they are. Real life Nanami being the talented, worthy Ultimate Gamer she was, even if she could acknowledge and validate Hinata’s struggles as a talentless person, and brought him some temporary comfort and solace, she could not understand the full spectrum of complications the struggle itself entails. Being the kind and somewhat compassionate person she was, she’d try to understand Hinata if he ever decided to open up, but she’d likely just go “yeah talent doesn’t really matter you should just be confident in yourself” as long as she’s not some Ultimate Empath like Makoto (or Junko) all at the same time. To her, Hinata’s decision to Izuru-fy is unfavorable, but not particularly tangible.

It’s somewhat similar to a moderately affluent person not knowing what an impoverished/economically-challenged life entails, they could never understand why it’s necessary for anyone to opt for crimes and prostitution and shit, if you could just “yeah money doesn’t matter you should be happy” your way out of it. Why is it necessary to choose a life path of crimes and prostitution? Why is it necessary to Izuru-fy oneself? It’s the perpetual predicament of mutual understanding in humankind. No matter how sweet and wholesome on the surface that ship appeared, Nanami would hardly ever reach Hinata’s soul beyond skin-deep, if the talent/worth debate, the rigorous societal expectations, the everlasting emotional quagmire of being under-loved and under-appreciated...everything which gradually carved out Hinata’s pivotal character (that we know of) from his embryo, was a non-issue to Nanami at core.

If there was a portion of Hinata yearning for true connection in an intimate relationship (which I doubt he didn’t), his relationship with Nanami would eventually turn insufficient or dissatisfactory, despite feeling nice on the exterior.

Normally, people don’t realize they’re empty until they’re fulfilled.

But who else struggled immensely with the entanglement between talent and worth throughout their life? Who else once resolved to obliterate their own precious being in pursuit of an almost delusional ideal of hope as Hinata did, so that they could potentially speak to Hinata on the deepest, hidden stratum of his soul?

Komaeda.

It always pains me to read Komaeda’s first FTE where he suggested Hinata’s ultimate talent could be “Ultimate Serenity” because Hinata granted him some inner peace “just by being there”. Knowing Komaeda’s mind it’s a nearly impossible feat to make him feel peaceful. Komaeda likely didn’t even consider that a legitimate talent, he inwardly viewed Hinata “being there” as inherently valuable but he couldn’t even tell. Yet Hinata failed to just, be there, be existent.

And, I always considered Komaeda sustaining himself being alive to be a monument on its own, yet 2-5 happened, for Hope, I believed.

I once had a mentally stimulating talk about how emotional and intellectual transparency lead to a solid foundation of “true love” among people with someone before. They even expressed, months ago, that if Hinata could just speak up about his problems with Nanami he wouldn’t have necessarily Izuru-fied himself.

Yet even being the aloof and reserved fucker he was, Hinata wouldn’t camouflage himself in front of Komaeda. Komaeda saw through him even if he was having a hard time deciding on how he should have felt himself. He voiced, various times throughout DR2, that “we have similar scents” “I thought you would understand me” “we’re both miserable bystanders” “I couldn’t see you as completely separate from me”. On the surface it seemed like Komaeda was being cryptic and dragging Hinata to his level, but given how we knew Hinata took even more drastic measures as escapism, were they even that different?

It was why exactly Komahina dynamic was so embittered and resentful in the canon timeline. It was not hatred, but involuntary intimacy. Hinata was emotionally stripped naked (sorry, not to evoke any erotic visualizations, just a convenient metaphor) when it’s not even Komaeda’s intention, and Komaeda’s always emotionally naked. It didn’t turn out well not because it was a fundamentally dysfunctional dynamic, but they simply met each other in the worst, most despairful and unluckiest timeline possible. With continuous manslaughters ongoing, it’s only palpable that baring your soul to someone as dangerous as Komaeda would be intimidating, but it still had that mesmerizingly entrancing aura, especially in Komaeda’s last FTE.

They had no choice of not knowing each other well.

Unless either of them died, which they both did. But an ultimate future was born and they were granted a second chance to finally reach the destination they deserved.

In a post-HPA scenario, Komahina was not only somewhat contextually implied as Hinata’s endgame, but it was deliberately set up as a generally hopeful relationship as well. Kodaka once suggested in an interview that post-HPA Hajizuru inherited Hinata’s emotions, so that he was able to sort out his considerably complex feelings for Komaeda as it left off; meanwhile with Izuru’s analytical skills and insights into human psychology, it would likely become not as cumbersome. With Hinata’s determination and persistence it would hopefully not only cure Komaeda’s terminal illnesses, but also “heal” Komaeda from his hope fetish and other cruddy coping mechanisms, with all the support and dedication Hinata could provide. Hinata, being emotionally identical to his past self, would likely occasionally experience insecurity and low self-esteem as well, and it could require Komaeda’s weird little method of presenting challenges/creating minor inconveniences for Hinata in order to help him build up self-agency and develop infallible self-assurance.

It’s kind of the Ultimate Love that survived all the trials and tribulations, and to think of that the Ultimate Tragedy gave birth to the Ultimate Love, huh, seems about right for our two Ultimate Lucks.

[kontextmaschine]

Folk understandings of sexuality my experience of turning bi awkwardly accords with

So, this spring, as the apparent culmination of some personality changes I had noticed setting in after I heimliched myself the previous year crossed with what seemed to be an increasingly irregular bipolar cycle, I was mentally unstable for a few weeks and when I rebalanced afterwards it was with a slightly different set of basic drives – anxiety and inhibition were appreciably reduced, and though long straight I was now bisexual.

This was, basically, ridiculous, I had written off those "your sexuality may change over the course of life" lines as excuses for the shy to come out after long covering, but if it was happening I might at least harvest the insight of having seen things from different angles. And on reflection, a lot of it fits with a kind of folk mechanics of sexuality I had maybe been dismissing as too vulgar, but well let's think about that

Bisexuality as "Anything That Walks" low standards

I can't help but notice that the same personality change strongly limited my anxiety and muted my inhibition, making me more outgoing and chatty and simultaneously expanding the boundaries of women I'd consider as sexual/romantic partners, both body- and -personality-wise. Being open to more sex partners is, in fact, related to being open to more sex partners. Probably related to how everyone's bisexual on enough cocaine (the definition of "enough" cocaine)

Autogynephilia/MTF as extreme heterosexuality

I identified as female for part of adolescence. That's long stopped, I'm a boy, but part of what I'm struck by so much in coming to sexually appreciate men and male sexuality is that includes my own, which even aside from direct coming-to-orgasm matters just makes my maleness so much more satisfying to inhabit. And I do wonder how much womanhood being the only thing to appeal to me accounted for wanting to see myself in those terms as a way to recognize and enjoy myself as valid.

Homosexual desire as narcissistic

I guess this is the flip side of that "I can now appreciate things in my male self" thing above. One of the ways I've been putting it is I don't have to jerk off about anything anymore, because "a man's hand jacking me to orgasm", "a hard dick in my hand" and "the idea of a guy masturbating" are all hot to me in their own right.

And being into my own body means it's more rewarding to develop it so I can admire it. For one this makes Ancient Greece suddenly click much harder, for two gay gym culture, and I can see how that gets ridiculous if all your social circle is hot boys who do that, see each other, and then update their sense of normal accordingly. Hopefully the connection with women will keep me from such extreme vicious circles as those guys who were so into Tom of Finland they killed a few of themselves injecting fillers into their balls.

Bisexuals as untrustworthy

For one, shortly into the change I thought about those old "religious right" patriarchs fulminating against homosexuality who turned out to have male lovers, and we'd laugh about repressed homosexuality. But "upright-preaching man has side piece" is dog bites man, and "married man who valorizes male-female coupling as the foundation of society enjoys sex with men" honestly makes more sense as bisexual.

And maybe not so dramatic, but like, I spent several decades expecting my personal and social life to be tied up with relationships with women, with an upbringing that had stronger expectations (and a self-understanding this was a relaxation of stronger expectations still). I'm honestly fine with that – for someone who might be counted as part of some queer coalition I am quite comfortable with quite a bit of heteronormativity, and honestly feel more at home there than in many queerer scenes.

For two, going back to the first point above, this came as part of a package deal of becoming less inhibited and more social, which included talking my way into bed with girls when I didn't even realize that's what was going on, more instinctively operating to an "emotional" register of talking where the content is a meaningless substrate for evoking, reflecting, and amplifying sensibilities to make a connection, with a "gift of the gab" that doesn't know where it's going until it comes out of my mouth

And I haven't been in a relationship since this happened, and I think I've got a bit better handle on it now using the habits of mind I developed over several more neurotic decades, but I'm just saying there may be a type of person that's more likely to unthinkingly seduce random people they come across independent of any logical calculation such as "is this in conflict with my exclusive relationship with someone else" and bisexuality may be an indicator.

Bisexuality/pansexuality distinction

I'm told this is a big Discourse but it's all worthless so I've never bothered to see what it's about but I'll guess, knowing that if I misrepresent them they don't matter. When I was straight I was prepared to politely aver that no thanks, I had a cis fetish. In that trans women did not particularly do it for me

(I mean 4chan-type "traps" were defined by appealing to straight male sensibilities, but that wasn't particularly my thing and the things that were featured chicks without dicks)

and maybe trans men but I doubt I'd be appreciating them as men. Which given the ubiquity of the "fuck my pussy like a girl" thing might even work I suppose (which you can account for as a fujoshi-on-T fantasy without bringing gender into it, on the other "pretend I'm a girl and give me your str8 load" is a pretty classic gay guy pitch)…

By now, I mean I'm sure someone's constructed a gender identity that definitionally doesn't appeal to me, or at least they will now that I've tempted them, but it's not so much a thing. I do think of myself as "bi" over "pan" part simply because I established my sense of what sexuality is in the 90s. But part it's I suspect I'm not valuing the luvvies as they're identifying but as some varying admixtures of boy and girl which work for me in any proportion. It's just not terribly important to me what someone really is anymore because I don't have a major personality feature keying off that

Heterosexuality is really like that

…but I am intimately aware from memory that many people do. Originally I thought of this as "bisexuality is really like that" like, all of a sudden men were not just eligible for sexual ideation but heartwarmingly imagining relationships with. But to flip it around, yeah, until then it was only women that worked with and men were just blank.

Like when I was younger I tried to bihack myself, and I think dismissed any sort of distaste with the idea, and thought I was at least Kinsey 2 (I wasn't) and even tried hooking up with some guy. I felt his tongue and I'm sure the guy knew his way around a dick but there was no spark to it, other way around it wasn't degrading but just an unrewarding bother, like giving someone a massage with your mouth while they choke you. So I realized that the fact I never fantasized about men was a good sign I was straight.

So, uh, cut straights the same slack as everyone else, it's not like they have bad ideas they're just like that. Gays and lesbians too. including that the boundaries of their attraction won't necessarily be where you want to carve gender up for your own reasons. Not bad ideas, they're just like that.

[cherry3point14]

One Helluva Car

Pairing: Dean x Reader Warnings: Minor car fetish, one paragraph of blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smut, a little jealous!Dean, this is crack babes’, I can’t stress this enough: car fetish Word Count: 3,500. Summary: Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world and then one day she sees Baby... A/N: @alexwinchester23​ hit me up a THOUSAND years ago with the prompt: dean x reader where she is more “in love” with deans car and it makes him a little jelly lol. And I was like, ha ha ha sure I’ll write it. It’s been half written ever since. So, I finished it. Someone please be proud of me for finishing. (Not like that you animals.)  This also fills Driving In The Impala for @spndeanbingo​

It’s Monday lunchtime when you see it. Her? It looks like a her. The best cars are ‘hers’ and even from a distance, she has curves that only a good woman could possess.

You’ve had a morning of shitty, old trucks that have been run hard for too long, and new cars that you plug into the computer to diagnose, which takes all the fun out of life. It’s easy to see a mile off that she isn’t shitty or bogged down with modern tech. She’s a well looked after classic. A thing of beauty. A freaking masterpiece. She’s polished enough that the sun bounces off of her black surface like she’s made of glass.

If only your arms weren’t laden with brown paper bags of food you’d take a detour to get a closer look. You could ghost your hand over her hood and take a look at the interior. You bet it’s the softest fucking leather your ass would ever hope to feel.

You’d generally drool over her without actually drooling because God knows spit is not good for the paintwork. Unfortunately, you do have bags filled with hot, meaty subs intended to feed your workforce. And you’re wise enough to know that making a garage of hungry mechanics wait for their lunch is not a good move. It’ll only result in some sort of unnecessary disaster this afternoon that you, their boss, will have to fix or pay for. Or both.

The only thing you can do is take one last look at her, memorize that beautiful shape while you heft the bags closer to your chest and carry on walking. It’s not like you’ve never seen a good old fashion American muscle car before, you have your own ‘70 Mustang at home.

It’s just… this is a Chevvy Impala, arguably the first car to flex its muscles. You don’t see one of those every day.

Your hobby is like a much cooler version of birdwatching. You have an appreciation for cars, classics in particular. The craftsmanship, the design, and the sounds they make as they tear through the world like moving time capsules. Nothing generated by a low emission engine compares.

That’s how you spot her for the second time, on Wednesday.

Well, you hear her first.

You’re closing up for the night. Everyone goes home early on Wednesdays, the shop closes at three, except for you. There’s always paperwork that needs to be done and you hate the idea of taking it home if you can help it. Taking a car home you’re always happy to do, but paperwork? You refuse to dirty your private space like that.

It’s just before six when you’re locking the doors and thunder screams in the distance. At least you think it’s thunder, you wonder where the clouds are until it moves too fast to be a weather condition.

The closer it gets the more the sound transforms into pure, uncut horsepower. It’s the deep rumble of an engine that demands to be heard. It tears your attention to it whether you like it or not. An announcement of the coming vehicle before it arrives.

Then she glides around the corner of Maple and Third before peeling down the street past you. It’s her again, she’s still in town. You know it’s the same car, she isn’t a vehicle made for stealth and your little ol’ town isn’t exactly heaving with beauties like her.

You know she’s not a local, it must be a flying visit, you’re lucky enough to have seen her again before she left. Not just seen her though, heard her. Heard her engine and the screech of her tires on the tarmac. Experiencing her in action is breathtaking enough that you gawp at her like an idiot as she zooms away.

It’s not a fetish or anything. You don’t exactly cuddle an exhaust pipe in bed. You appreciate cars more than your job requires you to, simple. It’s a respect that was drilled into you from a young age. Your dad owns a franchise of shops across the state and never had the boy he always wanted. He didn’t mope about it, he taught you to fix an engine instead. To appreciate every individual piece like an unsolved puzzle. And because your dad is a big ol’ softie he taught you that classic cars can’t be beaten, he favors Camaros in particular. He gave you a garage to work in until you’d labored enough to earn it for keeps and manage it as your own. Your dad raised you to bleed motor oil and sweat gasoline.

Cars are your life. Ok, maybe you’re a bit of a gearhead is all. You can’t help it if that Impala is a fine wine you want to uncork.

You watch the street lights make a hazy path for her to follow, another corner and she’s gone.

At home, you curl up on your sofa and scroll through your usual sites to see how much your own Impala would cost. In good condition, you’d have to sell one of the two cars you already have but there’s this smashed up ‘68 in New Jersey that might be worth the drive for the price. It would basically be a new car by the time you rebuild it but that doesn’t matter. All you needed were the bones of the thing and you never shy away from a project that involves weeks of hunting down original parts, that’s half the fun. For tonight at least it gets bookmarked. The decision left for another day, if it still seems like a good idea in the morning then you’ll make the call.

Hell, maybe tomorrow you’ll see something else and forget all about her. Maybe.

Good looking guys come through town from time to time but Dean is a rare treat. He’s the picture next to ‘handsome’ in the dictionary. He’s got these full lips that you’ve stared at, without an ounce of shame, while he sucks on a beer bottle. A jawline covered in scruff that you’ve already imagined between your thighs. And then there are those hands of his. It could be your line of work but you always loved a man with hands like his. Broad hands and thick fingers. Mechanic hands you’d call them, you half wish they were covered in oil and grease.

He was tapping away on the bar for a while, drumming aimlessly while you drank, but now he’s toppled in your direction. He’s standing between his barstool and yours, while you're still seated, which makes you the perfect height for him to slip an arm around you. His thumb has settled in on tracing the edge of your jeans while he talks to you, tickling your back where your tank had ridden up.

Honestly? He doesn’t even need to be a good lay to be worth the trip to bed.

“I know you said you’re in town with your brother…”

He winces at the start of your sentence, “with the things I’m thinking about doing to you honey, you can’t go mentioning Sammy at the same time.”

Underneath the stained overalls, you’re still a woman and you’re not sure if there’s anyone alive who could resist Dean’s charms. When you laugh at his ridiculous propositioning, you don’t even try to fight when it tails off into a giggle.

“I was going to ask if you had your own room? Or are we going back to my place?”

You’d almost think he’d been playing it cool up until this point. Everything had been measured and smooth. But you ask him that and he finally cracks, urgency slips through that charm offensive. He tilts his head forward as his face hardens into something intense, eyes hooded under the light of the bar. His hand slides up underneath your top enough that his whole palm skates against your skin. “How about a compromise? My car, your place?”

You lean in until you’re almost touching his lips, your tongue peeks out to wet them and flicks against his, taunting. “Deal."

He doesn’t need to know that you walked here and needed a ride home anyway. That's irrelevant.

Stumbling out of the bar is messy. Not because of the alcohol, neither of you have drunk that much, it’s his hands on your waist. They’re possessive and so there.

Maybe he’s not so bad in bed. Maybe he’s actually, pretty good in…

Oh fuck. It’s her.

You’re stopped in your tracks by the sight of your very own white whale. Well, black and shiny Impala but the metaphor stands.

You stop and Dean bumps into you, not expecting it so soon. For a brief moment, you’re frozen in awe, reverence. Even in the dark, she’s perfect. Street lights bouncing off of her smooth exterior. The night is chilly and there’s a hint of condensation creeping around the edges of the windshield which only serves to make her sparkle.

“Wow, she’s-”

“Mine?” Dean finishes, a wry grin on his face and keys dangling from those fingers you’d been drooling over moments ago. Fuck him and his fingers now.

“Shit, Dean. I’ve been seeing this car all week. She’s beautiful.” You walk towards her, carefully, in case you spook her. She’s an old soul, probably jumpy. Your hand reaches out but doesn’t touch her yet because you’re being respectful.

You’d have thought Dean might have appreciated your care. Instead, he laughs and it catches you off guard. You whip your head back around to glare at him and he encourages you, “she won't bite.”

When you finally make contact she’s cool and glossy under your touch, but even so, you don’t run your hand over her like you want to. You can feel the waxed surface that you don’t want to ruin. You know how much effort goes into a good wax job like this. Instead, you trade your whole hand for your fingertips and trace her edges as if trying to remember her shape for when you rebuild your own.

“Ahem.” In the distance, Dean clears his throat. Sucks for him. You’ve got a new love interest.

“Sweetheart?” He asks again, stepping up closer to you as if you didn’t hear him. He sounds needy like he wants you, but it’s edged with this vulnerable envy. You already noticed his bright green eyes in the bar, now you're wondering if there’s a different green-eyed monster at play.

He needs to understand, you saw the car first. She’s held your heart all week, Dean piqued the interest of your lady parts about half an hour ago. You might say age before beauty but this Impala has Dean beat on both fronts, older and more beautiful.

“Where’d you get these rims, if I didn’t know better I’d almost say they’re original,” you spare him a glance over your shoulder. “But I do know better.”

He looks like he’s struggling with not having your full attention, you’d almost say he’s pouting. Then he sticks out his bottom lip and he's definitely pouting. He shuffles from foot to foot and steels his jaw. It makes it even more difficult for him then when you ask questions that he wants to answer. You can see the cogs turning where he’s trying to work out if he should encourage your interest or not. As much as he wants sex, in the end, the gearhead wins out.

“Fixed her up a lot over the years, found those in a junkyard if you believe it.” He steps up next to you now with a proud smile.

“I can believe it. I’ve seen the stuff people throw away. They’re perfect. Can I?” You slide out your phone and wave it at him.

He nods, although a little dumbstruck.

You bend down and snap a picture, explaining. “I was looking at a sixty-eight to rebuild, maybe. Actually, yours gave me the idea, saw her and couldn’t get her out of my head. I have a friend who might be able to help me out with these.”

“You wanna build one?” He sounds interested but not enough to get him off track. The track being you.

“Yeah. I told you I’m a mechanic. Building these things is in my blood.”

The air is cool and you start to feel it, not having intended being outside this long. He sees you shiver and steps behind you running his hands up and down your arms. “Sixty-eight ain’t a sixty-seven though, is it?” He asks, voice dripping with cocky arrogance about his car.

Oh, fuck. He’s figured out the way to your heart. He’s got you all turned around and leaning against her. Back pressed against her metal and glass enough that you’ll be feeling her for weeks.

“No, it’s not…”

“Wanna ride my Baby?” Dean presses his lips to the corner of your mouth with the question, leaving enough space for you to let out an almost inaudible gasp.

You’d be inclined to say men name their cars the dumbest shit sometimes but ‘Baby’ fits somehow. It’s perfect. She’s Baby.

“Yeah,” you nod. Right now, it's all you’ve ever wanted.

He walks you to the passenger’s side door and opens it’s for you. It’s not even romantic, it’s a fucking turn on.

Maybe you do have a car fetish. You should probably figure that out, like, another day.

In the time it takes Dean to strut to the other side you have sunk into the leather and just as you imagined, it’s soft. Worn and loved, like everything else about this beauty. This is what’s makes her special and that’s why you would have to love your own extra hard. To make up the years of neglect.

“Ready to go?”

He’s looking at you, smirking in your peripheral, and you’re looking at his fingers on the keys. You know what’s going to happen when he turns them. You’re still not prepared.

“Let’s do it.” A grin slides onto your face.

She rumbles to life beneath you. The vibrations from her engine shudder through the seat straight to your core. From there you swear the horsepower zips to every nerve ending in your body like electricity powering a city. And the sound could strike you down. She somehow purrs and roars at the same time. Each rev is a scream but her engine sings between each turn.

“Two eighty-three?” You ask, bottom lip caught behind your teeth.

“Get out of here with that two eighty-three crap. She’s a three twenty-seven.” He snaps, but not really, pressing his foot on the gas again just to see you quiver. Another rotation of the engine, her power, rolls through you.

He pulls out onto the road, leaving the dive behind, and drifts a little as he does, the back of her floating into the road. You slide over the seat an inch and he’s half focused on you, half focused on driving, so you're not even sure if he planned it. You scoot closer to him and he weighs his arm, the one not currently steering, around your shoulders. You’re becoming increasingly aware that the car smells like him, or he smells like her. Leather, sweet and spicy, musky. It’s a complicated mix where you’re not sure whether it's more her or him. You want to wrap yourself up in it all the same but Baby can’t wrap you up, Dean can.

“Dean I… Next left… I really, really love this car.”

He licks his lips as he looks down at you, his pupils wide, probably has a clear view of your chest, “yeah? How much, sweetheart?”

“A lot.” You pant in his ear, teeth grazing his lobe. “Second right, then it’s the third house on the left.”

A growl comes out of him. Determined. And you’re not so sure you care about fucking Dean anymore but each time you work him up a little higher, he revs that gorgeous engine and you get to feel that thunder. It’s the best circle jerk you could imagine, everyone is truly happy.

He pulls up in front of your house in record time because Baby is gunning 285 horsepower, so she’s not exactly going to be beat.

The problem, that you hadn’t really planned on, is arriving at your destination. As soon as he cuts the engine you puncture. Missing the everything about her straight away and wishing you’d kept driving for hours. Still, you have the scent of leather everywhere, burdening your senses with the smell of a bygone era. You hike a leg over Dean and sit in his lap. A knee either side of his thighs, denting her seats and Baby’s steering wheel holding the curve of your ass. Your hands skip Deans’ shoulders in favor of the seat behind him, the cushioned bench under the pads of your fingers, as you attach your mouth to his. Sandwiched between Baby and Dean, and you never want to leave the spot.

Your tongue curls into his mouth at the same time that he presses his fingers into your hips so tight you’re sure there’ll be bruises. You’ve never worried about a tight grip on you before but he starts pulling you towards him and away from where you’re wedged on Baby. The more you lean your body into Dean, the less you feel his car.

“Baby.” You murmur into him. Dean must mistake it to be a pet name you’re borrowing, calling him, because he pulls you again. Actually you’re telling him where you want to be, to stay.

Here. With Baby.

“This is a nice neighborhood.” He hums in this tone that’s deep but it doesn’t go through you like the sound of a turbo V-8. “We should take this inside.”

He’s right. Carl from the damn neighborhood watch is probably already doing just that, watching. The pervert.

“Right, sure.” You agree despite the way your stomach drops at the thought of leaving her.

You’re all untangling limbs getting out and he kisses you once more against Baby before you allow him to drag you away. It already feels different, normal, boring.

Dean’s fine, he’s good, he’s handy. Like you’d thought he would be.

You wrap your mouth around his dick because you’ve always liked looking up through your lashes and seeing the way a guy goes breathless on your tongue. He works you open on his thick fucking fingers until the pressure in your stomach snaps with his thumb circling your clit. He pushes into you and the stretch, the burn, is perfect. Dean is better in bed than you’d expected him to be.

And yet, it’s empty. Dulled. It doesn’t scratch the itch like good sex used to. The whole experience dampened compared to what you’d felt sitting in the front seat of his 1967 Chevy Impala.

You slip on some oversized shirt from your floordrobe to walk him out when he leaves. Neither of you under any impression that he’s staying the night. He’s got this satisfied grin on his face that he hasn’t been able to wipe off since the first time he came. He stops at your doorstep, “thanks, sweetheart. This was fun.”

“Sure was,” you agree, not giving him the full story. Standing at your doorway you’re looking at Baby instead of Dean, again. “Let me know if you’re still in town tomorrow, I’d love to go for another ride.”

He nods and backs away a few steps until he’s in your line of sight along with his car, “will do, baby.”

He must think you mean sex. You wouldn't be opposed to it but you mean a drive. A real drive with wide roads, and opening the taps. You can break that to him tomorrow if he does give you that call. If he doesn't then there's only one thing you need to say before he leaves. One thing you can't let her leave without saying.

“One helluva car you got there, Dean.”

Second A/N: Look, this didn’t start out as a full on car fetish but I was writing it and SOMETIMES I HAVE NO CONTROL. Sometimes these characters they say, “fuck you!” and do what they want. I was going to write a nice little jealousy thing. Dean wants some attention. That’s all. You only have yourselves to blame readers!

5eva tags: @divadinag @darthdeziewok @fluentinfiction @witch-of-letters @supernatural-teamfreewill-blog @magnitude101999 @alexwinchester23 @jesseswartzwelder Dean babes: @thewinchesterchronicles @akshi8278 @bloodydaydreamer @iamabeautifulperson18 @erins-culinary-service

[forkanna]

[AO3 LINK]

CHAPTER WARNINGS: roleplay, making out, ass grabbing, trampling, high heel fetish, through-the-clothes orgasm.

                       CHAPTER THREE

Now that they had established a new game was beginning, the excitable ginger was tearing through her closet to create an 80s look with what she had. Which was plenty; it was her favourite decade, after all – even moreso now that she had visited it in person. She had a black faux-leather miniskirt that she seldom wore, and found a tight red top that went with it fairly well. There were fishnets from some Halloween or other she could add.

As she hastily undid her braids and put her hair up in a side ponytail, she thought about how different Elsa seemed now. A good-different; she was completely at peace with their relationship being unconventional, whereas she never had been before. That was great, right? Now she just needed to figure out why – but she wasn't going to let that spoil tonight. All in due time. For the moment, she focused on laying on make-up so thick that it made her look a little like a 'pro'. But that was the look back in the 80s, right? Really paint it on like you were trying to create a whole new face.

A Tori-face.

The shoes were still in Elsa's closet, but when she pushed open the door to fetch them she discovered her mother had been kind enough to leave them outside Anna's door. So thoughtful. It meant that when Anna saw Elsa for the first time, standing in the living room, they were both completely made up to resemble how they had first met as potential lovers, not as family.

And wow she looked different. A good different. A different that had heat and memories shooting through her because Elsa was dressed to the fucking nines. Not only did the cutoffs and pink crop top still look spectacular on her figure, but her hair was fluffed up, styled as it had been during the dance. It wasn't permed, and it wouldn't last, but as a temporary measure it was perfect. And that was without the bright red lipstick and heavy mascara. She looked really…

Hot. The word was "hot" – of the smoking variety.

It seemed that Anna had given her the same reaction, too. Elsa sat on the couch, arms limp at her side as she stared, wide-eyed. Her eyes roved up and down, lingering just a little longer than considered proper at Anna's chest.

"Hey, Baines," Anna tried, knowing it probably sounded ridiculous. But she wanted to try this for Elsa's sake; put her at ease. All aspects of their relationship staying to their own lanes. Not that she would keep pushing to go past kissing if Elsa stopped her cold, but who knew? Maybe this would let her get there all on her own.

"Hey, Tori," Elsa replied, pursing her lips to prevent her smile from turning into a shyly bemused grin. "You look rad."

"And you look totally awesome." Her eyes zoomed to Elsa's thighs again, which were a little thicker than in 1985 but she found that didn't bother her in the slightest. In fact, she was a little into it. "Like my shoes?"

Biting one of her painted lips, Elsa gazed down Anna's calves to the hot pink heels. A sound like a strangled whine made it through her throat, but she cut it off as quickly as she could.

"Really? Wow, that's one reaction to have, I guess." The teasing kind of came naturally to her now that she was in another skin. Now she was Tori, and not just herself, not her mother's daughter for the night. "Want me to step on you with these?"

There came a brief gagging noise of shock. Then Elsa pretended to scoff. "No way, barf me out! D-don't be so freaky."

"Okay, fine," Anna giggled, leaving that one alone for now as she sat next to Elsa. "Do you want some… dinner? Maybe a pizza? I think I can get my mom to loan us money for it."

"Nah I'm not really hungry," came the reply. Anna pursed her lips, leaning forward. "That's cool though. Your mom sounds amazing."

"You have no idea," Anna murmured, watching with delight as Elsa's breath came a little shallower and her face heated up. "But it's too bad you're not hungry."

"O-oh? Why's that?"

The question made Anna's smirk turn positively lecherous. "Because I'm famished."

And then she swung a leg over Elsa's lap, seating herself firmly before kissing her with as much strength as she could muster. Elsa threw herself into he contact, and Anna almost had to pull back because it was so much. Apparently, this had been all it would take to unleash Elsa's inner sexual beast. She wasn't out of control, but she was finally pressing her hands into Anna's back as they made out, giving herself over to the tastes and sensations. Imagining herself back in 1985, with the first girl she'd ever loved. Maybe the only girl.

After a while, when they had been grinding and kissing and resisting anything more, Elsa pulled back and gazed up into her eyes. "You… are either some kind of siren, or a devil. I'm not really sure."

"What's that, Elsa?" she teased. "You sounded like an old person just now."

"What I meant was… Tori, you skank," she laughed, and they both grinned and pressed their foreheads together. "Mmm… how did I get so lucky to have the raddest, baddest girl in Dell Valley on my lap?"

Anna resisted the temptation to say 'You made me' and instead whispered, "Fate intervened. We might have been separated by time and space if it didn't. But look: we get to hang out with each other."

"We do." A light kiss on her lips. "Mm, so sweet… but what about your girl back home?" It was an honest question, slipped in with the playing.

"Well… we talked about it, and I think she's okay with me exploring a little." She felt slightly guilty; she needed to discuss this with Punz again, and explain it was still happening. But at least they hadn't not talked about it. "As long as I always come back to her, that is. Not thrilled about it but she gets that it's not anything against her, or me trying to say she's less important."

"If you're sure…" Elsa hesitated. There was no such hesitation in Anna's voice or her face when she responded, leaning down to nuzzle against Elsa.

"Absolutely. We had to discuss… y'know, stuff. And while this wasn't a for sure thing, it was pretty high up the list… now, do you wanna talk, or do you wanna smooch?"

Without further preamble, she kissed Elsa again – and this time, Elsa kissed back. Not just with her lips. Now she allowed herself to run her hands through Anna's hair, too. To press back. To give. Anna wasn't complaining. Quite the opposite. She was enjoying it, far more than she ever thought she would. Of course, she remembered how it felt when Elsa pleasured her. She even remembered how it felt when Elsa kissed her that morning a few weeks back. But she was still unprepared for how it would feel when she was in control.

And, by the way Elsa was squirming beneath her, humming into her mouth, it was pretty obvious that she felt similarly. "You're so… bad," Elsa finally gasped out. Anna chuckled.

"Good-bad or bad-bad?" she asked, despite not needing clarification. It was pretty obvious which one she was. Still, it was fun to tease, so she leaned forward so their lips why just barely touching. "Hmm? Which one is it?"

"Good! You're so good, Tori!"

Oh God. Elsa probably didn't mean to make that sound as hot as she did, but the intention changed little. Anna let out a throaty groan, eyes squeezing shut as she ground her hips into Elsa's already-rolling ones. They should stop. They should really stop. Barely ten minutes and it was getting out of hand.

"You're good, too," Anna breathed a minute later, when their mouths broke apart. "Mmm… and you look good. Do you know how much I like your ass in these shorts?"

That did seem to surprise her a little. Elsa drew back, blinking up at her daughter and smiling very faintly. "You do? I mean… I was kidding when I said you… well."

"What? Never realised you had one of the hottest asses imaginable? Come on." But when Elsa only blinked at her more, she reached down and gripped those cheeks as hard as she could, two huge fistfuls of flesh. "This is like, the raddest."

A loud gasp of desire flowed up from her as the fingertips dug into denim-covered muscles. "Tori! Nnhhh… oh, you're so bad…" Then she licked her lips and gazed up into her eyes. "You really like this that much?"

"Oooh, yeah. That okay?"

"Yeah, Tori. Is it okay that I don't mind you doing that as much as I thought I would?"

"Fine with me," Anna giggled as she leaned down to kiss her neck. "In fact… can I get a good look?"

At this point, Elsa did balk. "Well… I don't think that falls under the category of 'just kissing', you know."

"Not a nude look, Elsa. Just want to enjoy the view. See those shorts work for you."

"I still think this is stretching it."

But then she got up from the couch and paced away, purposefully moving her hips as much as possible. Giving Anna a little more of a show than she did in the clothing store. There was a groan of pure appreciation from the couch, and when she turned around, Anna's eyes followed as she bit her lip.

"Like what you see?" she said, the words coming out as no more than a shy murmur. Anna's eyes found hers, and she gave a slow nod.

"You have no idea what you do to me, Elsa," she said earnestly. There was still heat in her words but it was different. The love she obviously felt had infected her tone, and there was no getting around it.

"Did you want to… touch?" Elsa asked. She couldn't hold Anna's gaze, and it was obvious this was stretching the limits of her comfort zone. Anna noticed; of course she did.

"I would love to, but I can think of a couple of better things to do. That is, if you wanna wiggle that gorgeous ass back on over here."

Suddenly, Elsa's brief bout of nervousness vanished, and she let out a little squeak. Before, of course, doing exactly what Anna had asked. She didn't have a chance to sit down before Anna had moved, though. Lifting one dainty foot, she pressed it just below Elsa's stomach. She gasped, and Anna gave a wicked little grin.

"You know…" she said, "my mom always hated when I put shoes on the couch. Can't get in trouble now, can we?" She leaned forward a little, still grinning. "Kinda fun to take a walk on the wild side, huh?"

For a moment, Elsa didn't seem to be sure of what to say. Then she purred, "I thought you were just going to step on me with those hot pink heels of yours. The way you threatened to do."

That intrigued Anna. Maybe Elsa was just playing, or maybe she really wanted to try that. So for a moment, she ground the heel down a little harder against the union of her shorts, prompting a loud moan. Clearly, this was doing a lot for her, even if it was only because of the stimulation itself.

"I think," she began to whisper as she noticed Elsa bucking against the heel, "that you wanted me to threaten you with this."

"Ohhhh, Tori," she began to pant as they both worked on Elsa's orgasm together. Because it seemed that would be happening soon: if one of them didn't call a halt to everything that was transpiring, it wouldn't take all that long. And Elsa was the most likely to do that.

But she didn't. A minute slipped by, and still they were working the sole of the pink heel up and down against the shorts. Something was so scandalous about this that Anna felt herself flushing, even beyond how turned on it was making her to watch her mother come undone this way. She wanted more: she wanted to tear her clothes off, devour every inch of her. Let Elsa do the same when she was done. But for now, this was incredible and glorious.

One of the little "AH!" noises clued her in that the end was near. She was tempted to switch up her tactic… see what else she could do for Elsa. But this was already far beyond what they had agreed upon, and she felt guilty enough as it was.

So instead she just pushed a little harder, and said, "You look so fucking hot."

Elsa whimpered, her hands holding Anna's foot against her. Her eyes had slipped shut and she seemed completely unaware of the world.

It gave Anna an idea, and as surreptitiously as she could, she began taking off the other shoe. Was it her foot? Or the shoe, and the memories associated with it? Either way, Anna was starting to feel quite grateful that Elsa had kept these, even though they had been used to corner her initially. It took her a little longer to remove the shoe than she hoped, mostly because Elsa's movements were becoming more erratic, and her gasping was very distracting.

But finally it was free and caressing up and down Elsa's leg. The eyes that had been shut widened immediately, and they even looked a little fearful. Elsa was too far gone to do anything about it, especially when the shoeless foot joined the one being ridden.

"Ngh!" Elsa said, hands coming to hold Anna's bare sole. Anna almost couldn't keep the grin from her face – though the heat in her own center made it a little easier than it otherwise would have been.

"You like that?" she asked softly. Elsa didn't seem able to speak because all she gave was a shaky nod and another moan. It still spurred Anna on. "C'mon, baby, you can let it happen. Let my sexy feet take you there."

Well that sounded awkward. She wasn't used to dirty talk – if this could even be considered that dirty. She had never tried on Jennifer, and never needed it with Elsa in the past. But it seemed like the thing to be doing to help her finish.

"Tori… ohhhh, yes… AH!" It didn't take much longer. Seemed that using her lower extremities instead of lips or hands was just the kind of loophole that Elsa needed to feel a little less ashamed of their encounter. Either that, or she really did have a thing and this pushed her past her reservations.

At that point, they came to the same conclusion. The climax was spectacular, and Anna had never seen anything more erotic. Except perhaps for Jennifer doing the same; that was pretty on par. Over and over, she bucked into the hard sole of the shoe as she rode it out, panting hard and relinquishing all hope of keeping her voice down or pretending this wasn't something she had been waiting for over the past thirty years.

Once weak and lying down on the couch, sucking in breath after breath, Anna turned and crouched over her, pressing her lips into a hot chin, a bottom lip. Elsa leaned up for her, and they met for a brief few seconds. Then Anna pulled back to smile down at her.

"Somebody likes those shoes a LOT."

"Ohhh, Tori," she whispered again. Then she chuckled. "Well… maybe I do. But it wasn't the shoes as much as it was the woman in them." Another brief kiss. "I'll probably feel awful about this in the morning, but right now? I'm happy."

"Me, too, Elsa." Another kiss. Then she smirked and wriggled backward until she was hovering over Elsa's hips. "Mmm… something smells delicious down here."

Anna laid little kisses on Elsa's stomach, but she didn't stray any closer to the source of the scent. Elsa seemed to be too tired to protest… or perhaps she just didn't care anymore. That bore investigation.

But Elsa reached down for Anna's face when it seemed she would try and move lower down. She didn't need to speak to remind her daughter of the rules they had put in place. Anna just rolled her eyes and returned to nuzzle Elsa's belly.

"Above the waist," she said, kissing deep red marks into the pale skin. "I know."

"Are- are you sure Jen- your girlfriend is okay with this?" Elsa asked. It seemed she'd given up trying to completely stop Anna's persistent advances.

"Pinky swear," Anna grinned. "Or… pinky-toe swear…?"

Elsa groaned, throwing her head back. Anna took it as a sign to get back to work. "Anna… what we just did is not normal. You know that, right?"

"Though we were calling me 'Tori' tonight?" But she knew it was true, and that Elsa had a point. So she crawled up to settle their bodies against each other. "Alright. Is this a little better? Just this?"

Nodding, she reached up to run her fingers through Anna's side-ponytail with a vague smile. "Sorry. I know… you're probably a little disappointed at how this turned out. But I'm not."

"Why would I be disappointed? I finally got to pay you back for how good you made me feel thirty years ago. And I've wanted to. Even then, I would have if some big idiot hadn't interrupted us."

"Well… I'm tempted to say that would have been better, because we were on even standings. But I think… if you paid me back for it, I would never have been able to let myself marry Kristoff. Or bear his children. I would have done everything I could to hunt you down."

At that, Anna's grin finally turned a little shy again, for the first time in nearly an hour. "Really?"

"Yes." Then she nuzzled up into Anna's neck. "But… for now, Tori, I'm just happy we both turned out as well as we did, considering. So… thank you."

"Thank me? For going back in time and fucking everything up?"

"For doing everything you could with what you knew. It was… an admirable effort? That sounds like I'm saying you failed, but I don't mean that; I just mean that I'm happy with my life, and I think that's because of how much you showed you cared about me back then. Nobody else ever had. My parents tried, but they could never seem to listen to me, and… and it sounds like I continued that trend in the other timeline. Can you possibly forgive me?"

"Oh…" Anna's whimper was sweet and full of affection. She leaned down to better cuddle into Elsa, just enjoying their shared body heat. "In my eyes, you've never done anything that needed forgiving, Elsa. But, like… if it's something you need, then of course I forgive you!"

Elsa's returning snuggle was grateful, full of love and appreciation. Anna didn't want their 'special night' to come to a close on a down-note. If she only had one night to spend like this in the foreseeable future, then she wanted to appreciate all of it. All of Elsa.

"Hey, why don't I order a pizza or something? And you could grab a shower, or… or whatever, and we can just chill?"

But, to Anna's surprise, Elsa shook her head. "Can we just stay like this?" she asked, and… well, that honestly sounded like something Anna would say. Perhaps it was the orgasm, or perhaps Elsa had come to the same conclusion as Anna. Either way, Anna wasn't about to complain. Instead she just smiled, and embraced Elsa tighter.

"Love you," she breathed quietly.

"Love you, too." Lips pressed into her cheek, and she smiled wider. "Can't believe you got me off with your shoe."

"Hey, you were into it! And I can't, either… I mean, it was fun, but I was kinda hoping to go down on you. Bring it full circle or whatever."

"Sorry," Elsa chuckled good-naturedly. "Really don't know what came over you."

"Came over ME?! You're the one who got off to it!"

Tutting loudly, she pushed Anna back to shoot her a 'disapproving mother' look that made Anna snort. "Really? You can't believe that you stroking me through my shorts with any body part, let alone with something Tori wore to the dance, would make me extremely hot? Hmm, normally you're sharper than that."

Anna grinned toothily. "Oh I know," she said. "I just wanted to hear you say it."

"You just- Hey!" Elsa gave Anna's shoulder a light slap. But there was a smile on her face that matched Anna's, and it wasn't long before they were both cuddling each other once more.

They lay there together for some time – it was impossible to keep track. It was nice. It was incredibly comfortable. Anna never wanted to leave because, even if she ignored all the sexual stuff, there had been a really long period in her life where the only thing she wanted was a mother to hold her. Then Elsa spoke and Anna couldn't help groaning in lament at losing this sacred moment.

"Okay now I really do need to go take a shower," she said, laughing when Anna made a noise and pressed her face in further.

"Noooo…." she whined. "Don't wanna move…."

"Cmon, Tori," she chided. "You want me to be comfortable, don't you? It's like a swamp down there." Anna stilled for a moment, before mumbling something. Once more Elsa chuckled, stroking her hair. "What was that?"

Looking up, Anna cleared her throat. "I um…I could clean you up," she offered, face burning.

There was a pause. Not a brief one, either; it was apparent that Elsa was truly mulling over the idea. Then she finally leaned up to kiss her cheek very tenderly.

"No, Anna. That does sound… wonderful, but I already feel a bit guilty for just what we've done so far. But I guarantee you that I'll never forget you offering."

"Aww," Anna pouted, though she remained on top of Elsa. "But it smells so good…" Still, she finished up with, "Can we at least cuddle a little longer before you go shower off?"

Rolling her eyes, Elsa sighed, "Fine, fine. I have to admit I don't much feel like moving either. Ten more minutes."

"Good. I can do ten minutes."

                                          ~ o ~

So they did. Anna stayed laying on top of her mother for another ten, which turned into fifteen before they agreed to get up and do something else. Reluctant as she was to let Elsa go, fearing that they would never get this chance again – or at least not for several months – she was at least glad she could do that one thing for her.

Then Elsa went for a shower. Anna tried the doorknob, thinking she would be sneaky and tease her through the curtain a little, but it was locked; she even heard Elsa call out "Ah, ah, ah!" at the sound of the knob rattling, and felt faintly embarrassed that she got caught.

After that, Anna had her shower. In turn, she left the door unlocked intentionally to see if Elsa would try the same, and was unreasonably disheartened when she refrained. That feeling completely vanished when she stepped into the kitchen, wearing her threadbare pyjamas and still tousling her hair, and spied Elsa.

Or, the creature Elsa had turned into.

Honestly, Anna hadn't thought she spent too long in the shower. Twenty minutes, give or take. Those twenty minutes were more than enough for Elsa to give herself a complete makeover. She wore a dress Anna had never seen before, fancy and sophisticated. It fit her so well it was like Elsa was half the age she was.

Although, that could have been the hair and makeup, too. Instead of the faux-perm, Elsa had tamed her hair, likely using a curling iron to create gentle waves. It framed her face and rolled over her shoulders. It lightened up her whole face, which was coated in a conservative amount of makeup. Enough to remove the harshest of lines; a rouge to colour her cheeks and a dazzling blue eyeshadow reminiscent of the 80s without being as all-in 'Baines' as before.

"Well?" Elsa asked with a smirk. "Are you getting dressed? Can't go out looking like that."

"Go… out?" Anna echoed numbly.

"Of course! A nice meal to end a nice day?"

"Oh… I thought we were just going to bed early or something," Anna admitted with a slight blush. "You know, after the whole… like… turning down pizza…"

At that, her mother laughed a little and patted Anna's side. "You're right, I should have said something. And… I know we can't exactly go as 'dates', since everyone knows us in Dell Valley. But I still want to take you out."

"Well… sure, yeah! I just… well, I feel silly dressed like this when you're dressed like that. But it won't take me long! Be right back!"

So Anna went tearing back to her room and changed out of her PJs and into a nice blouse and a skirt in record time; she didn't have many actual 'dresses' as such, so it was the best she could do. She was just looking at her damp hair when Elsa appeared.

"Want me to do your braids? Or something special?"

"Just braids are cool," she said. After all, she would be putting them in braids when she went to bed, anyway – and anything else would take too long.

They seated themselves on the bed and Elsa brushed through her hair before she began to braid it in a French braid; a little different than she had first insinuated. "Always did think you had such lovely hair… first as Tori, and then you when you were little. Then both of you, when I realised you were the same person."

"I had to have gotten it from somewhere," Anna said, smiling even though Elsa couldn't see it. Hopefully she could hear it instead. "Though I can't believe I got the ginger gene when no one else seems to have it at all. You sure I don't have some mystery sperm donor dad?"

"Stop! No!"

"Well… okay, but I'll hold you to that."

They were both quiet for a moment. "I think it suits you perfectly," Elsa said eventually as her nimble fingers made quick work of Anna's hair, and soon she was finished. Still, they sat there for a little while longer.

"I kinda wish I didn't have so many freckles, though," Anna admitted. "The hair's okay, but when the colour invades my face…"

"Aww, sweetheart," Elsa began, circling her arms around Anna and pulling her back against her for an improvised embrace. Anna relished in the feel of Elsa's soft breasts at her back. "I wouldn't change a single thing about you. Never."

Honestly, Anna could have stayed in her arms like that forever. But, they had plans – if not an actual reservation – so reluctantly, she pulled herself away.

"We better go," she said, twisting around to face Elsa as she got to her feet. "Otherwise we'll miss dinner. Although…" She bit her bottom lip as Elsa slid to the edge of the bed. One delicate eyebrow raised in the direction of the redhead, and Anna shrugged her shoulders. "I mean, I might miss dinner, but I got all the dessert I need right here."

It was pretty obvious to what she was referring, and a blush steadily grew on Elsa's cheeks. "You… are… impossible to deal with. Impossible!"

It made Anna laugh, before leaning forward to grab her mother's hands and tug her up. "C'mon! Let's go show you off to the world!"

                                          To Be Continued…

[aku-jumbi]

YOUR ART IS INCREDIBLE YOU’RE HONESTLY SO INSANELY TALENTED I AM HONESTLY IN AWE WHENEVER I SEE ONE OF YOUR ART PIECES, THEY’RE ALWAYS SO BEAUTIFUL!!! And pls ignore those haters they’re absolute idiots who seem to think asians only have certain features apparently and can’t seem to realise that there’s something called creative liberty😐

So many capital letters haha ^^ thank you a lot for your appreciation. *bow 😀 I gonna take your comment as opportunity to write down some thoughts I had on this topic.

Of course I am not painting isolated, I love to browse art from other artists, sometimes getting inspiration or just to get more stimulated. And for sure I stumble sometimes over art which technically is maybe not as refined but somehow hits me, then I stumble over art which is technically extremely good but well... I feel nothing but I still awe the beauty and there is even art which slightly disturbs me and fetishizes something I don't really am into... but dammit it's really well painted and I can just accept that the artist did a great job and I don't need to be in the fetish.

Then, there is also art which is technically undeveloped, due to the painters inexperience for example but I appreciate the try since ik myself, painting is work.

I caught myself a couple of times being about technically extremely versatile artists more critical and then thought.. who am I to judge, went into some introspection and realised: that was pure jealousy. Oh yeah, jealousy, nothing more, that yellow eyed monster within me trying to lower down others just to feel better myself. But... I never released that monster officially of course. In fact, before I leave a critical comment, I think twice and when I comment I just comment on the technical side. If the picture isn't violating any real persons or depicting very, very, very controversial topics like religion or politics to ridicule opinions of other people I basically don't care. Let people paint what they want, I don't need uniformity.

If someone wants to paint the earth is flat, just go ahead! First, idk if the person really thinks the earth is flat... or, is it maybe just some fantasy? Is it just for fun, did the artist just try out how the earth would look flat or is it easier for him to paint the earth kind of flat. Is the painter of that pic maybe someone who had no education and just painted what he sees and tries to imagine how it might look like. Or is the artist just painting something that came into his mind without a lot of thinking and it's now me interpreting something in his flat earth picture which he didn't even think of. But the most important thing: the earth won't get flatter just with that one flat earth painting.

Even with 1000 of that flat earth paintings, it won't. Being an individuum that is able to controle my emotions and to recognise what's important and what not I wouldn't even think to rent about that flat earth artist. Let him paint the flat earth, I can mildly smirk about him or shake my head and move on to the round earth painting I like most. There are more important things than to explode about a flat earth painting.

Now... I am not painting reality, I don't believe in my paintings showing reality or anything remotely close to reality. It's impossible that any character I paint is real. And I clearly distinguish between real people I see on the street or documentaries (I don't say media in general cuz... we only see the most beautiful people in movies or social media with all the filter and photoshop and it gives a contorted view on "reality") and painted anime charas. Recently I saw (oh I got actually an education by one of my "critics" in how I should paint!) a lot of realistic anime character fanarts which clearly just were repaints from given photographies of random prototype Asian models... the technical side was extremely good, forgetting the fact that it still was a repaint and repaint is always a bit easier since u don't need to think about the facial features anymore yourself... but the charas... they looked so realistic, so much like real people that again I wasn't able to see the anime chara anymore. For me it was just the random prototype Asian model (perfect as they are, because, well... model) from the photography with slightly changed hair and... blue eyes.

But! And now that's the big difference, I look at that kind of very realistic fanart and although it doesn't even remotely remind me of that anime chara and I feel nothing for it than some portrait photography repaint, it would never, never come into my mind commenting with (insert the vomit emoji here, cuz that's what happened to my art) a disgracing and hurtful comment just because I think my vision, my very private believe of what is a good fanart stands above anything else and I have the right and privilege to lower the artist in any kind of way. Who am I to feel superior?... exactly, I don't have that right, especially on something very subjective as looks of anime charas in fanart.

I realised by a couple of conversations with people who have no issues with my art that a lot of the hate roots from wanting to feel moral-wise superior. It's like a trend to stomp over everything, doesn't even need to be very important or influential, that doesn't meet the standard of what is moralistic acceptable in one owns subjective believe. Some call it being sensitive about what art should show and I guess the haters would call themselves even very sensitive and caring for over people... but want to be frank here, it's not sensitivity, it's being bored by their own lives and having no creative potential themselves. So.. what are we gonna do today? Complaining, cancelling, hating, yeah, that's a good hobby!

Sorry to inform you that your "sensitivity" is hurting me a lot.

I don't aim to call out specifically with my art to a particular group of people or disgracing them, there is clearly no hate inside or anything, I certainly don't try to portrait reality... dammit it's Anime charas! They aren't real in the first place! Gargh... If someone has an issue with the facial looks of how I paint, I am very very fine with a comment like: "hey you know, somehow I see in my mind Miya Osamu looking more like Toshirou Mifune... but, you know, it's ok, you aren't a mind reader. :) I would like to share my fanart of Osamu with u, too then u can see what I have in mind." That's a respectful, a very constructive and even inviting and mature comment. If I sounded a bit rude in the past towards haters it wasn't because I am rude but I got a couple of very humiliating comments that my only way to answer was to give them the same medicine back they forced me to swallow.

Hfff... so long... sorry.

Idk if haters or immature people who come across my paintings are going to read this and understand what I want to say so just for repeat: I don't have anything bad in mind with my art, I don't try to colonialize Asia, I don't see my art as absolute truth and its not a perfect replication of the original anime character. It's fan-ta-sy. If u don't like the style and aesthetic, move on, paint your own interpretation, that's the best way to put my art aside if u want to put it aside.

And for the people who like my art, you are my heroes, not because u are flattering me with comments (yeah also that tho lol) but because u let me see that there are rational thinking people out there, not oversensitive and in constant alarm to sniff around like blood dogs finding another topic to rent about but just enjoying fanart at what it is: fanart. It's you who enjoy their lives and I am enjoying it, too.

Thank you! :)

[animetrashlord-007]

The Sacrifice

Word Count;; 2k

Genre;; Smut

Pairing;; Kuroo x Akaashi

Published;; 2017-07-28

My Masterlist

KurooAka Weekend Masterpost

[Part 1]

[Part 2]

   “Yes, timeout indeed!” Akaashi’s father bellowed, his face turning beet red.

   “You two are so cute, you have our blessing!” His mother smiled, wiping away a tear from the corner of her eye.

   “You can't just give them our blessing, dear! This is unacceptable! What about an heir?”

   “Listen here, dear, but this is the first time I've seen Keiji in a relationship and if he wants to marry a man then he damn well can. They can just adopt a child when they're good and ready,” she snapped, slapping her husband across the arm, “After all, it's not blood that makes a family but the emotional bonds we form with each other. If you're happy, Keiji, then we're happy!”

   “I, uh, thanks?” Akaashi stammered, shooting a glare at Kuroo who was snickering.

   “But he's a criminal! How will that reflect on-”

   “Are you willing to sacrifice our son’s happiness for your own foolish legacy? Let me tell you one thing - it isn't your bloodline that is royal and respected, it's the acts you committed while on the throne. I won't hear any more on the subject. If Akaashi accepts this man’s proposal, then I will welcome him into our family with open arms. I suggest you do the same or else we'll be continuing this discussion in private.”

   The King’s face drained of colour at his wife’s threat. She wasn't a woman to be trifled with. They had met during a war when they were both much younger and she had saved his life on many occasions. The golden rule of the court was to follow her orders without question for her authority was absolute. Even the king followed this philosophy. Waving his hands in defeat, he put on a forced smile as he looked at his son and Kuroo. Akaashi rolled his eyes.

   “Well if you both are okay with it, then I have no reason to say no,” Akaashi sighed.

   Kuroo frowned and rubbed the back of his neck. After a considerable pause, he spoke up, “That was terrible.”

   “Seriously, Keiji?” The Queen shook her head in disappointment.

   “What? Don't give me that look! He didn't put any effort into his proposal, why should I?”

   “He had the courage to propose in front of us, the King and Queen! In our home!”

   “It was a pretty ballsy move,” the King whispered, nodding in agreement.

   “Yeah, Keiji, I’m courageous.”

   “Shut up, Kuroo!” Akaashi snapped, “I said yes so it's final, we're getting married. Let's all move on.”

   The entire room was filled with nobility and the upper class, all of whom had their eyes set on the four people bickering in the corner of the grand hall. A few excited squeals broke out around the room at the acceptance of Kuroo’s proposal, as well as a generous amount of clapping. They rose their glasses in a toast to the couple, to which Kuroo smirked and Akaashi blushed a bright shade of red. He hadn't realised they were all listening and embarrassment flushed over him. He had no qualms with marrying Kuroo and he was pretty sure he loved the idiot, but he didn't want the whole city to know either.

   “Congratulations, Keij! It's about damn time you came out!” A man cheered before chugging his glass of champagne.

   “Everyone knew, Keiji, it was pretty obvious,” the Queen murmured, already sensing the question on Akaashi’s mind. “Except your father, but he's an idiot.”

   “Honey, please!”

   Akaashi ignored his parents as they started to bicker back and forth. Grabbing Kuroo’s arm, he began to pull him up the stairs with an irritable huff, “Let’s go. We have a wedding to plan.”

   They spent a little over a year organising the wedding. It would be an autumn event, just as the leaves changed colour and the temperatures began to lower. It was also one of the few times they knew Kuroo would be at shore. The Queen spared no expense on the decorations and food, providing an extravagant feast alongside the most beautiful flowers and sculptures. Akaashi thought it all to be a little too much but Kuroo loved it, and anything Kuroo enjoyed, the Queen enjoyed. Akaashi didn't understand why his mother liked Kuroo so much but he appreciated her friendliness. Even his father came around after a few months. All in all, things were going swell.

   Akaashi frowned as he examined the three sets of cufflinks on his table. Their big day had arrived and while he was prepared for it, he couldn't stop his heart from pounding within his chest. He had nothing to be nervous of but his anxiety made him think otherwise. It didn't help that he could feel Kuroo watching him, hiding in the shadows in the corner of his room. Akaashi sighed, turning to face his fiancé.

   “Why are you lurking back there?”

   “It's bad luck to see the bride on the wedding day.”

   “First of all, you would be the bride. Secondly, it's seeing them in the dress. Third, you've been staring at me for the past thirty minutes. If that were the case, then you've cursed us.”

   Kuroo chuckled, “My apologies, m’lord.”

   “I'm pretty sure you just say that because you get off on it, like some weird royalty fetish.”

   “You figured me out,” Kuroo hummed, crossing the room to stand in front of Akaashi. “You know, it's not too late to say no and cancel this whole thing.”

   “We're getting married in a few hours. If I did want to cancel this, I'd say it's a bit late. Guests have arrived already,” Akaashi said with a roll of his eyes.

   “That doesn't matter. Your happiness is all that counts.”

   “For fuck sakes, Tetsurou! How many years have we been together?”

   “Quite a few.”

   “Quite a bloody few! Would I have stayed that long if I didn't want to be with you? No! You know I would've left years ago. I wouldn't have even given you a chance after what was meant to be a one night stand! I could have easily turned down your puppy dog eyes and your sweet pleas and your ridiculous bouquet. Those were weeds, you know, not flowers. You're so hopeless at times, it's embarrassing.”

   “I'm aware.”

   “So why can't you just accept that I want to marry you? Since your proposal I've dealt with this, with your doubt. I'm tired of it. Perhaps it is you that wants to back out?”

   “What? No! I just don't want you making a mistake that you'll end up regretting.”

   “Are you implying you're a mistake? It's understandable. You are a criminal, after all.”

   “I'm a respectable businessman!”

   “And my fiancé and I love you, even though you're shady at times and your sex drive is somehow higher than mine,” Akaashi sighed. “I'll be honest, when you proposed I wasn't completely sure about us. I said yes because it felt right and because I loved the idea of us.

   “It wasn't until this past year that I realised just how deep my feelings are for you. I care about you, Tetsurou. I love you.”

   “I love you, too.”

   “No, Tetsurou, I love you. With all my heart and body and soul. You're apart of my life now and I never want to let you go. I want to marry you and I want to live the rest of my days with you and I want to go to the next life with you. I understand this now and I don't ever want to be separated from you. So please stop questioning my devotion. Without a doubt, I am yours and you are mine.”

   “I didn't think you had it in you to be sappy,” Kuroo jeered, wiping the corner of his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.

   “I learned it from you. The good parts, at least. I still don't understand how you can transition any conversation to sex.”

   “Oh? Let me show you how the master does it, baby,” Kuroo grinned, picking Akaashi up within his arms.

   With a skip in his step, he pranced over to the bed. Laying Akaashi down, he took extra time to unbutton his clothes. Akaashi followed his lead, both men being careful not to tear or otherwise mangle the clothes they would be wearing to the ceremony in just a few hours. Taking the clothes, Kuroo hung them up in the closet before returning to his fiancé. Akaashi had his legs spread wide open, his body fully exposed and waiting. With his signature smirk, Kuroo pounced on him. He bit down on Akaashi’s shoulder, grinding their dicks against each other. Akaashi moaned and it sounded like music to Kuroo’s ears.

   “Tell me what you want, Keiji.”

   “I want you to fuck me, Tetsurou,” Akaashi purred.

   Kuroo blushed as he peered down at his lover. Raising his fingers to Akaashi’s mouth, Kuroo bit back his own moan when his fiancé started to suck on them. Once they were wet and dripping with saliva, he began to spread Akaashi. He ran a circle around his hole before sliding one finger in. Kuroo would never get over how Akaashi groans and presses himself into his hand every single time. He was so predictable. Kuroo added another finger and then another, each earning a louder moan and small pants.

   Akaashi’s steel-blue eyes quivered and sweat accumulated on his brow. Cupping Kuroo’s cheek, he whined, “Hurry up, I want you inside me already.”

   “Trust me, I'm going as fast as I can.”

   “I feel fine, just fuck me, Tetsurou.”

   Sitting back, Kuroo pulled Akaashi into his lap and whispered into his ear, “Ride me, Keiji.”

   Grabbing Kuroo’s erection, Akaashi lined his entrance up with his fiancé’s throbbing manhood. Without hesitation, Akaashi sat down and fully sheathed his cock within him. A strangled gasp escaped Kuroo’s lips as he wrapped his arms around Akaashi. He licked his lips before catching Akaashi in a passionate kiss. Tongues battled for dominance and teeth clattered against each other while they waited for Akaashi to get comfortable. Breaking the kiss for air, Akaashi began to lift himself up before falling straight back down. He repeated this several times, setting a smooth and slow speed. Kuroo hadn't been prepared for such a calm and gentle pace and his automatic reaction was to thrust upward whenever the smaller male rose. Adding his usual intensity and passion into every movement, Kuroo clamped down on Akaashi’s shoulder in an attempt to regain dominance.

   “You're like putty in my hands, Kuroo,” Akaashi panted out between bounces, brushing aside the bite. To showcase his control, he slowed his pace and took all of Kuroo’s impressive length with each descent.

   Emphasising his point, Akaashi pinched Kuroo’s nipples while pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. Kuroo jerked beneath him, struggling to hold back his climax until Akaashi had come as well. He would never hear the end of it if Akaashi didn't orgasm on his wedding day. He glowered at his lover, earning a swift kiss from the petite male.

   Kuroo pushed Akaashi down onto the bed, picking up the speed and slamming into Akaashi from his new vantage point. Stroking Akaashi’s cock with the same fervent haste he put into each of his thrusts, it didn't take long for them each to reach their peak. Kuroo smirked down at his flushed partner. Akaashi looked angelic, gasping as his high tore through his flushed body that glimmered with a sheen of sweat.

   Kuroo pulled out and sighed in relief, toppling onto the bed next to Akaashi, “That felt great!”

   “I'm a mess. There's cum all over me.”

   “Do you want me to get you a towel?”

   “What the hell is a towel supposed to do for me, Kuroo?” Akaashi snapped, his eyes narrowing as he glared at his lover. “I need to wash up. Run me a bath… and pick out which set of cufflinks I should wear while I’m cleaning up.”

   “As bossy as ever!”

   “Will you just shut up and get moving? We can't be late to our own wedding.”

   “Your wish is my command, m’lord.”

   “Cut that out!”