#and to say it has NOTHING to do with misogyny?? are you blind? must me.

[floralbuckleys]

I just want to mention before you slate anyone for hating on Gabriella Walsh; she's been called out a multitude of times for taking advantage of pretending to be Latinx and for profiteering off Latinx people and culture when she had no Latinx heritage or blood.

She's been asked repeatedly to stop appropriating Latinx culture, roles and appearances and she refuses to acknowledge it or understand that what she is doing is harmful.

It has absolutely nothing to do with misogyny or any ships and everything to do with racial/cultural appropriation.

Just in case you weren't aware or were confused!

Hello anon! I hope you're prepared for a read, because I have quite a few things to say in response to this. I am neither unaware nor confused, and nor by the way are other POC friends I ranted about your ask with.

So let’s get into it.

1) It's interesting this is literally the only thing you choose to address. Not the misogyny or malicious hatred Gabrielle and the other female actresses' on the show get, but simply this. Interesting.

Now, you should ask yourself, why when someone makes a post against malicious hatred and misogyny it is not your FIRST response to agree, but rather try to change the conversation against them.

2) Secondly, please understand that everything I am saying comes from my own experience and point of view as an afro mexican myself and honestly if you are white, I could care less what you think on the issue.

I find it interesting you're so comfortable attacking Gabrielle Walsh for these claims of "taking advantage", "pretending to be latinx", and "profiteering off latinx people."

Such big broad powerful statements to say, when in reality you should NOT be so comfortable attacking a mixed African American woman, or any person of color for Fox's CHOICE to cast Gabrielle Walsh in this ambiguous latinx role.

Why aren't you attacking FOX about their casting choices? Why aren’t you going against networks for choosing to do this, but POC?

Let’s not forget that we all know there are a few other actors you could bring this debate up against, but that doesn't really happen now does it? I wonder why.

3) Tell me, what do you know of the struggles of being a black woman in America or a black woman trying to pursue a career as an actress in America? Any race of color and so on? 

What do you know of what it's like to be a person of color going through a rigorous casting process, and potentially constantly only get casted as latinx because you are mixed and do not have the stereotypically features/attitude the casting wants?

You don't know.

Hell, I don't know either because I've never had to be in Gabrielle Walsh's shoes or any black women trying to get an acting job in America or anywhere in the world.

But, I do know that growing up as an Afro mexican myself in school with a Spanish name, but "ambiguous" features, people have literally sat around me and debated my race before I could speak up or clarify.

"You look black."

"No, you look mexican."

That is such an uncomfortable position to be, and I would imagine Gabrielle. Walsh has felt the same, because it's a feeling a lot of mixed POC can most likely relate to, constantly getting placed in a box by what race they are and what race they're perceived as. POC actors are constantly forced to deal with these issues, while it’s easy for people to attack us for them online.

I can only imagine how many times a white casting director has looked at her and thought, “Well, I know that you’re not latinx, but you certainly look at it, and that’s all we care about.”

Because at the end of the day what does white Hollywood really care about? Trying to get that diversity win.

4) In my opinion, a lot of the hate Gabrielle is even getting is because she's getting in the way of the fandom's favorite ship. Any female who gets in the way of the ship gets hate.

So, is it really your niche to constantly pinpoint POC actors or any actor really who gets cast to play a character of a race they are not? Ambiguous or otherwise. Is it your passion to speak on this issue?

What about sexuality? Straight actors who play LGBTQ+ roles and vice versa? What about religion as well? There are so many angles to look at this from.

Ask yourself seriously, if you are attacking Gabrielle. Walsh because you're genuinely THAT concerned that a mixed black woman is getting cast to play this ambiguous latinx role.. OR if you're just concerned for your ship.

5) Not to mention the amount of issues black and latina women themselves face in the industry and their experiences. Honestly POC actresses and actors are the most hated on in fandoms. People love coming for their necks over nothing and anything, and that’s how it’s been for a long ass time.

6) Now to speak on it from another point of view, I wish Casting Directors did not do this. I wish that people were cast to play the race they are, and that people of color didn’t have to deal with these types of issues.

I wish people of color weren’t placed into boxes by how they appear, and not what they are.

But no, I myself as a afro mexican am NOT offended that Gabrielle. Walsh is being cast to play these roles. Nor would I be offended if the roles were reversed, because you know what? There are so many more important things to be upset about when it comes to the injustice of POC.

People of color have had to fight so hard to even have their place in the entertainment industry and we constantly have to see famous white actors portrayed us our races.

Now, I’d be very interested to know what Gabrielle Walsh herself actually thinks about the issue and her experiences, and what she thinks about all the hate she has received from it.

It’s actually a very deep conversation to have that should be had, and probably because of fear of backlash, we will never see her speak on it.

And genuinely, if other latinx people have an issue with Gabrielle’s role, or any other similar issues to this, I respect their voices and I respect that conversation because we are valid. 

But I do not accept vilifying her for this, especially if it’s coming from a misguided place.

So nah, you ain't about to come into my inbox and try to make her seem like some money hungry culture stealing witch to me. Nah.

Honestly, there's a lot more I could say on this topic, but to summarize, I do not agree with your blind views, and I will not tolerate any hate against this actress on my blog.

Think whatever the heck you want about the character, I am indifferent, but this ain’t it for me.

So if any other Gabrielle haters want to try it, you're simply going to be blocked because I am not dealing with your bullshit.

EDIT: Someone asked my opinion on the interview Gabrielle did and I’ll be frank. I did not like her wording on it, but it is not an odd thing to hear a person of color say in my experience. I’ve heard POC people around me say similar things. Is it a problematic statement? Yes. Should she be informed of that? Yes. Do I think it came from a malicious place? No.

However, I don’t think she took that question very seriously, nor do I think the interviewer was really trying to get to the BOTTOM of her serious thoughts on it.

When I say I would be interested to hear her thoughts on the matter, I’m talking about a deep dive, another POC asking her the serious questions and getting to the root of her thoughts and others on the matter, there and now.

[saintodo]

I wanna be all up in Princess mikasas skirts 🙄 I get on my knees out of respect and for that pussy 🙄

♡ note: im trying to eat that kitty like it’s my last meal on earth 😁🙏🏽

♡ pairing: princess!mikasa ackerman x knight!gender neutral reader

♡ word count: 1.1k

♡ warnings: light misogyny (no misogyny kink), explicit content, pussy eating!, sorta public (oral) sex, not proof-read sorry lol

Even when nothing spectacular is going on, Mikasa is expected to dress like a proper lady at all hours. She, sort of, despises it- the way she’s fitted into gowns with so many layers that it takes the help of most of, if not all, her maids to take on and off. She’d much rather dress in something looser and breathable, but that would be heavily frowned upon in the royal court. 

Additionally, as Princess, Mikasa has so many royal duties to attend to that are, quite frankly, mind-numbing. She loves her people, but she doesn’t understand how sitting in on boring lessons about how to be lady-like will help with that. The only upside is that from her place by the windowsill, she’s granted a perfect view of you training in the courtyard. 

You and Mikasa are quite familiar with one another. As a young knight-in-training, you had been bestowed with the great honor of taking on the role of Mikasa’s personal guard. That meant whenever you were not practicing your swordsmanship, you were keeping the princess company and protecting her from any harm that may befall her. It’s been years since you’ve been bestowed with the title. 

When the news first broke, Mikasa originally thought she’d loathe you and your hovering. Just because she’s the crown princess that doesn’t mean she’s helpless. But she eventually grew accustomed to your presence and, surprisingly enough, grew to enjoy your company. 

You’ve never treated her like the others inhabiting the castle do. They either treat her with the utmost deference that’s usually insincere, or they regard her as some fragile thing that’s unable to think for herself. You still express respect, as Mikasa is your Princess, but you also speak to her casually like she’s a friend. 

Mikasa is not allowed to train since it’s improper of her as a lady, but sometimes, when it’s just the two of you, you allow her to wield your sword. Her skin prickles with goosebumps when you come up behind her, placing your calloused palms over the back of her hand to correct her technique.

She’s knocked out of her reverie by the clearing of her tutor’s throat. They furrow their brow and chastise Mikasa for her daydreaming before dismissing her for the day. Although minor irritation blooms in her chest, Mikasa calmly gets up. She curtsies and softly thanks her tutor for their time before escaping to her quarters. 

Lost in thought as she makes her way back to her bedroom, Mikasa gasps when she’s suddenly tugged into a side hallway.

“Shh, it’s just me, Princess,” you coo as you rub circles into Mikasa’s wrist, the one you abruptly grabbed. 

“You should exercise more caution,” Mikasa blankly says. The thought of the number of rumors that will abound if anyone were to witness you, her personal guard, pulling her into a secluded hallway is enough to hurt Mikasa’s head.

Her neutral expression almost crumbles at the blinding smile you give her. Going off of your garments, you must have just finished up training. A bead of sweat trails down your forehead, one that you absentmindedly wipe away with the back of your hand.

“My apologies, Princess.” Mikasa turns her face away, unsuccessful in her attempt to conceal the blush rising to her cheeks when you press a gentle kiss to the back of her hand. She can feel the outline of your smile against her skin. “I simply desired to see you as soon as I completed my training for the day.”

Mikasa’s face burns, threatening to be wholly engulfed by flames when you suddenly sink to your knees.

“What are you doing?” She quietly hisses. Her eyes dart around the hallway. There is nobody around as this is one of the quieter areas of the castle, but that doesn’t mean anybody can’t pass by at any moment to discover the compromising situation Mikasa finds herself in.

“I’ve worked up quite the appetite from training, Princess.” You bunch up the many layers of fabric comprising of Mikasa’s dress in your hands and duck your head beneath them. “Won’t you allow your dear knight a taste?”

Mikasa shivers at how your warm breath ghosts over her most intimate and sensitive parts. You gently outline her undergarments, pooling with increasing arousal, with the pad of your finger as you wait for her response.

“Make it quick,” she says, breathlessly.

“Whatever you desire, my Princess.”

She braces herself against the wall when you tug aside her undergarments. Mikasa clenches around nothing at the sudden exposure to the cool air before she’s consumed by warmth as you run the flat of your tongue over her dripping slit. A hand flies to her mouth to muffle the noises escaping her. She stifles her whimpers to the best of her ability- it wouldn’t do any good to get caught in such a scandalous position.

Arousal rushes to her core as you eat her out as if she is the sweetest thing you have ever tasted. Your tongue laps at the slick that drips from her cunt before you divert your attention to her clit. Mikasa presses her hand over her mouth hard when you lavish her clit in attention, swirling your tongue and sucking the hard nub as if you cannot get enough of her.

Her knees buckle, threatening to topple her weight over, but your arms tightly wound around her thighs hold her upright. 

“I am close,” Mikasa says, barely coherent with her hand clasped over her mouth. However, you seem to hear her perfectly clear given how you double down on your efforts to make her cum. Your fingers dig into the soft, supple flesh of her thighs as you suck hard on her clit, intent on making her cum on your tongue. 

Mikasa’s back arches against the wall and she bites down on a finger, hard enough to leave indentations, to quiet the moan that escapes her lips when she cums. Her vision nearly goes stark white as the pleasure overwhelms her. 

You maintain your hold on her, gently lapping up her cum as you guide her through her blinding orgasm.

“That’s enough,” she manages to say after her vision clears. Mikasa shivers when you pull her undergarments back to their proper place, the soft material rubbing against her over-sensitive folds.

Your appearance is utterly disheveled when you remove yourself from underneath Mikasa’s dress. The fluids, her fluids, shining on your lips have another deep flush rising to Mikasa’s face. You wipe them away with your sleeve before leaning in to capture Mikasa’s lips with your own.

She can taste herself on your tongue. It’s strange, but not as unpleasant as Mikasa found it the first time you two indulged in this sort of activity. You pull away with a large smile on your lips.

“Thank you for the meal, Princess.”

[bratdesire]

All Bark and No Bite

Pairing: Tsukishima Kei x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Noncon, lowkey incel Tsukki, yandere ( i think?), degrading language, knifeplay, misogyny, slut shaming, brat taming, slapping, belting, mentions of blood, choking, emotional manipulation, belly bulge, overstimulation, painful orgasm, unprotected sex, general meanness, time skip spoilers?

Genre: Smut (gross)

Author’s Note: This is mean, nasty Tsukki brain rot and I had no reason at all to write this. He’s a fucking beast in this and I apologize for nothing. Hopefully someone likes it tho. As always, thank you to my betas @sempiternal-amour​, @kidwine​, @india-katsuki​!!

Word count: 3.9k

Summary: Tsukishima teaches his roommate’s bratty girlfriend a lesson or two.

Please heed the warnings, it’s dark in here ;;;;

Tsukishima has hated you since he laid eyes on you. 

You personify everything that he despises, from your big bratty mouth, to your typical bitchy attitude, to your ridiculous wardrobe which must only consist of tiny crop tops and slutty skirts that barely cover your ass. 

Most of all, he hates that you never fail to give him a raging hard on anytime you’re around. But it’s really not his fault, not with the way you prance around his and Kuroo’s apartment in your tiny, indecent outfits and surely not with the sinful moans he hears you make through the thin wall between their bedrooms. He knows you know exactly what you’re doing.

You can’t not know.

He knows you’re trying to tempt him, test his resolve. He doesn’t miss the way you make sure he’s looking when you bend over in your too-short skirt, panties conveniently missing. You’re always mouthing off to him, trying to goad him into an argument, knowing Kuroo will always come to your defense.

You’re trying to push him until the thin, fraying thread that is his self-control snaps.

One day, it does.

You’re standing in the kitchen, boiling some pasta for dinner when Tsukishima unlocks the front door. Great, he thinks, he’s had a long day full of stressful negotiations for the museum and now you’re here to sour his mood even more. Usually Kuroo is there to smooth out any tension that develops between you, quickly defusing any arguments before you start full-on screaming at each other, so your conflicts have never risen above that threshold. 

But Kuroo’s not here, as Tsukishima learns from you in your annoyingly snarky tone, “Tetsu won’t be home until late tonight. He told me to tell you he said to fuck off if you bothered me.” You’re smirking, feeling superior in the belief that you’re safe from his wrath because you’re his roommate’s girlfriend and he wants so badly to wipe that smirk off your face, preferably by belting you until you bleed.

“I didn’t ask, brat,” Tsukishima sneers, narrowing his eyes at you as he passes on the way to his room. He’s trying to keep a calm, collected persona, but you just get under his skin in a way that no one else does. Usually he lets those types of comments go but he’s just so tired, so tense, and so fed up with your attitude that his bubbling anger threatens to break the surface and boil over. He breathes in, breathes out, breathes in, breathes out. He can tolerate your unruly behavior for at least a few hours until Kuroo gets home, he tells himself. He truthfully doesn’t care about his relationship with his roommate, Kuroo just offered him a cheap place to stay after high school graduation, but he knows that if he did hurt you he’d have to find a new place to live and that would just be a headache that he doesn’t want to deal with.

After changing out of his work clothes and putting on sweatpants and a t-shirt, he makes his way down the hall and back into the kitchen to make himself dinner because he sure as hell isn’t going to eat anything you make. Girls his age never know how to cook, only knowledgeable in spreading their legs for any alpha male that looks their way.

Much to Tsukishima’s irritation, you’re still in the kitchen piddling around like the clueless bitch you are, incapable of boiling a simple box of pasta without the water boiling over and making a mess of the stove. He lets out a groan of exasperation, walking over to where you’re standing in front of the stove to remove the pot from the burner.

“Can’t do anything without fucking it up can you, brat?” He growls at you, purposefully clipping your shoulder as he moves behind you to throw the ruined pasta away. He knows he’s baiting you into an argument and that you’ll take the bait, but the knowledge that Kuroo won’t be home for a while makes him want to see how far you’re willing to go without your boyfriend present.

“You’re such a fucking asshole, you know that? No wonder no one likes you,” you huff, leaning against the stove and crossing your arms. The action squishes your breasts together and he can see the faint outline of your areolas through the thin material of your shirt.

“As if I care about what a useless brat like you has to say about me.” Tsukishima scoffs and he can see your anger in the way your shoulders shake.

“You barely fucking know me, who are you to call me useless?” You push yourself off the stove and take a step closer to him.

“I know enough about you to know that you’re useless.” He can feel his resolve fraying more and more as each word leaves your bitchy mouth.

“Oh, I’m useless? Didn’t that little ginger boy you played volleyball with in high school get on the Japan National team while you work at a museum?” You’re smiling triumphantly as if you’ve won this battle of wits, but Tsukishima can rattle off insults in his sleep and this isn’t his first time putting someone in their place.

“You know Kuroo only keeps you around because you’re pretty and you’re a warm, wet hole waiting for him to fuck when he gets home.” He crosses his own arms this time, a satisfied grin spreading across his face. 

“So you think I’m pretty?” You’re snickering at the reddening of his face and the twisting of his delicate features and it fills him with so much rage that the thread... 

Just.

Snaps.

He’s on you so fast that you can’t even blink before he has you pinned to the countertop, one hand squeezing the back of your neck and the other twisting your arm painfully behind you. Tsukishima relishes in the little yelp of pain you make when he twists your arm back farther.

“Absolutely not. Your slutty cunt is the only good thing about you and even that has probably been stretched out by all the cocks you’ve taken.” His voice is calm, collected, as if he were discussing the weather and not verbally abusing you while he has you pressed into the countertop. Your fight-or-flight response triggers and you start kicking and screaming, thrashing against him in a blind attempt to wrench yourself from his grasp. 

“What the fuck are you doing? Fucking asshole get off of me and let me go!” The hand that’s holding your arm quickly grabs your other wrist while his other hand wrenches you upward by a painful grip in your hair. Your back is now pressed against Tsukishima’s chest, wrists restrained by his long fingers and head bent back so your eyes meet his. They’re cold, unfeeling and send a sickly chill down your spine that makes you still immediately.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll be quiet and calm down. It’ll be easier that way for the both of us.” The monotony of his voice is even more sinister in this moment where you’re completely at his mercy. Your eyes widen in horror as you feel his cock pressing against your ass and it causes you to start fighting him again, no coordination in the way your muscles move in your frantic movements. You’re screaming, just hoping somebody will hear you, somebody will come save you.

Your hopes are meaningless when you’re so small, so vulnerable. Tsukishima knows no one will come for you and he knows you’ll never be able to overpower him. You’re completely at his mercy, whether you choose to comply or not.

 “You know, even if nobody comes for me now, Tetsu will be home later and I’ll tell him everything you did to me.” You’re confident that the threat of your boyfriend will deter him from taking his abuse any further. You struggle in his grip to hold yourself a little higher so you’re more eye level with him. “He’ll kill you if he sees one hair out of place and I tell him it was you.” 

How cute, you still think you have control of this situation.

“I’ll just deny whatever you claim that I did or didn’t do. Who do you think Kuroo will believe? Me, his longtime friend from high school, or you, his whore girlfriend he met a year ago?” A smug smile tugs at his lips, knowing he’s planted a seed of doubt in your mind that Kuroo will believe you.

“Tetsu loves me! He’ll believe whatever I tell him.” He can’t tell if you’re trying to convince him or yourself.

“You really think Kuroo loves anything more than your tits,” he uses one hand to grope at your breasts, “or your ass,” the other hand sliding down to fondle at the supple flesh. The feeling of his long, thin fingers on your body causes you to start fighting again, but this time your arms are free so you start flailing them blindly, hoping to stun him long enough that’ll give you enough time to get away. You manage to twist around and smack him in the face and almost wriggle out of his grip but as luck would have it, you don’t get away. You won’t get away. 

Rage takes over his features, his muscles tensing and flexing. Tsukishima quickly raises his hand and brings it down across the left side of your face. It takes a moment for you to realize that he slapped you, confusion slowly morphing into an expression of sheer, unadulterated fear. The horror that dawns on you, overtaking your features, warms his heart.

“If you’re not going to behave and continue to be a brat, I’m going to treat you how a brat should be treated.” He drags you, kicking and screaming, down the hall to his bedroom. He wishes you’d shut the fuck up, but that’ll be taken care of soon enough.

Kuroo thinks you’re his sweet, innocent girlfriend but Tsukishima knows better, knows what you really are. You’re a mouthy, bratty whore who needs to learn her place and he’ll be the one to remind you what you are.

Once you’re in his bedroom he turns and uses one hand to lock the door. How pathetically weak you are that he only needs one hand to restrain you. He digs around with one arm underneath his bed, slowly getting frustrated before he finally grabs what he’s looking for.

Handcuffs.

He grabs your arm and fastens a cuff to your wrist, tightening them just enough so the cold, hard metal digs into your flesh. It only takes a few moments of your incessant struggling for redness to bloom across the skin of your wrists and Tsukishima can’t help but smile at the sight. 

“What kind of sick fuck just has a pair of handcuffs lying around?” You’re scared, he can hear it in the way your voice shakes, but you’re trying to act tough and he can’t help but roll his eyes.

Tsukishima hauls your body over to his bed, forcing you to follow him if you want to prevent fracturing your wrist. He forces you onto the mattress, body bouncing with the impact. With the other cuff in hand, he fastens it to his headboard.

“The kind that’s going to beat your bratty ass into submission before I fuck your stupid cunt.” He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your flimsy, tiny shorts and pulls them down your legs. You start thrashing harder, trying to slow the movements of his hands but your efforts are futile. 

“Stop! What the fuck do you think you’re doing a-asshole!?” You’re on the verge of tears, eyes welling up, bottom lip trembling. You shut your legs as tight as you can in an attempt to impede his quest to remove what’s left of your clothing, but you both know that won’t stop him.

Your entire body stills then seizes up when you see the glint of a box cutter blade in Tsukishima’s hand.

“W-What’re you planning on doing with that?” Your wide, terrified eyes are trained on the blade as he waves it around in the air.

“Stop your whining, I’m not going to cut you with it. It’s just to make removing your clothes easier.” He’s looking at you like a parent would look at a child that was throwing a fit, exasperated and tired of your nonsense. “Hold still and I’ll make this quick. I don’t want to get blood on my sheets just as much as you don’t want to get cut.”

You’re cowering from him, trying to scramble away from him despite the handcuffs anchoring you in place. You gasp when you feel the sharp edge of the blade against your hip, not daring to take another breath. Tsukishima slices through both sides of the little bits of string you call panties, revelling in the way your body trembles underneath him. Another long cut is made down the front of your shirt, the box cutter making quick work of the fabric, and his suspicions are confirmed that you’re not wearing a bra. Of course a whore like you wouldn’t be wearing one.

He admires the enticing curve of your breasts, the way your nipples are hardening in the cool air of his room. Your cheeks are wet with fresh, salty tears and you’re sniveling pathetically. He’s almost tempted to tell you that you’re beautiful like this, tied up and naked, crying, but you don’t deserve his praise. 

“Turn over, face down ass up. If I have to tell you a second time, I have no problems carving you up with this blade.” The threat has you scrambling onto your hands and knees, the action hindered by your restraints but you manage to turn over and present your ass to him.

Tsukishima unbuckles his belt, sliding it through the loops of his jeans. He takes it in his hand and folds it in half, inspecting its structural integrity to ensure he won’t destroy it as he whips you with it. The belt is real black leather, heavy in his palm and he knows it’ll make pretty welts on your skin.

“Now, it’s time to beat all of that sass and attitude out of you.” 

There’s no warning, no pretense before he starts viciously whipping you with his belt and you’re already screaming. If you hadn’t been so difficult, he might have warmed you up beforehand but he doesn’t mind. Your struggle was like foreplay, a little taste before the main course and it has his cock is straining against his pants. 

Every broken cry that leaves your throat sends arousal down his spine and he thinks he 

should’ve done this sooner. 

He would have if he had known how delicious your screams were.

The blonde is relentless, the impact of the belt never lessening, if anything, the smacks become even more ruthless. Your ass is an angry red and he can see some of the skin beginning to split, fresh, warm blood bubbling to the surface around your deeper wounds.

“P-Please stop, it hurts so much. I can’t take it anymore!” You’re fully sobbing now, tears and snot dripping down your face. “I’ll do a-anything,” you choke out between cries, your voice hoarse from overuse.

“Look at you, bawling hysterically from a few licks with my belt. You really are all bark and no bite. How pathetic,” he sneers.

“Tsukkiiiiii! Please, stop. I’ll do whatever you want as long as you stop hurting me.” The way you say his name is harsh and grating against his ears, but he overlooks it in favor of taking what you’ve been dangling in front of his face all this time.

The sound of Tsukishima’s pants hitting the ground makes you stiffen on the bed, slowly and apprehensively turning your head to look at him. Your eyes widen to the size of dinner plates when you see his cock: thick, hard, and leaking precum.

When you feel the dip of the bed underneath his weight, you start shaking and hyperventilating at the realization that this is really going to happen. “You… You’re really going to do this.” You sound so small, so defeated and his chest swells with pride because he did that—he smothered that blazing fire inside you with little more than a few flicks of his wrist.

“Yeah, and there’s nothing you can do about it so just lie there and take it,” he says as he lines himself up against your slit. When he notices the copious amounts of slick drooling out of your quivering pussy, the man can’t help but laugh at your expense. “Are you actually fucking wet from this? Does being fucked against your will turn you on this much?”

Your cheeks burn with shame and disgust because you are wet from Tsukishima’s abuse. It’s wrong, you know that, but your traitorous body doesn’t even feel like your own as it reacts to his touch. No matter how hard you try, you can’t stop the thrusting of your hips to try to catch the head of his cock each time it slots against the tight ring of muscle around your entrance.

“I always knew you were a cock hungry slut. You don't care whose cock is inside this filthy pussy as long as you’re getting fucked, do you?”

You don’t respond, tears welling up in your eyes and leaving watery trails down your cheeks. He’s right. You asked for this—if you hadn’t tempted him, you wouldn’t be handcuffed to Tsukishima’s bed, waiting for him to defile you. 

“I asked you a question,” Tsukishima snarls, fisting your hair in your hand and delivering a sharp spank to your ass. “Tell me how much of a disgusting whore you are.”

“I-I’m a—hiccup—dirty slut that loves t-to get fucked,” you stutter, the words like acid, foul and caustic on your tongue. “All I w-want is a cock inside me.”

“At least you know your place. Now let’s see if this slutty hole of yours is worth anything.” Tsukishima finally thrusts inside you, meeting some resistance from how unprepared you are, but he just pushes harder.

Your walls spasm and clench to try to adjust to his length, but you feel like you’re going to split in half. He’s much bigger than any other man you’ve slept with, stretching and filling you so full your stomach bulges where the tip of his cock is pressed against your cervix.

You scream and writhe on the bed in an attempt to get away from the hard, throbbing length painfully probing your delicate insides, but it’s futile with the handcuffs keeping you firmly shackled to the bed.

“Urgh, shit, for a used hole, you’re so fucking tight. I’m d-definitely going to cum from this.” The blonde takes a sharp breath through clenched teeth, sweat beading on his forehead. He doesn’t want to cum so soon. He can’t cum so soon when he’s waited for this for months.

“P-Please, not inside… I-I’m not on birth control,” you plead softly, hoping he’ll at least spare you the humiliation of having to clean his cum out from inside you.

“Tch, you think I give a shit about that? I’m gonna cum deep inside this pussy, ruin you for Kuroo and any man that’s sorry enough to want to fuck you.” He speaks low, muttering to himself but just loud enough for you to hear.

Despite the aching of your heart each time he speaks, you can feel your pussy begin to give as he fucks into you with abandon, his hips smacking loudly against yours. The sharp burning in your core slowly fades to pleasure as Tsukishima’s cock presses against that little spongy spot inside you that makes you cry out. You bite your lip so hard it bleeds to try to muffle the noise, but it’s no use. He heard you and it just gives him more reason to taunt you.

“Ah, I found it, did I?” the man asks as he hits the spot again and again, making you clench around him as the fluttering of your cunt tells him that you’re close to orgasm. “What a dumb slut you are, about to cream on my cock as I ravage your pussy.”

How utterly fucking humiliating. You’re going to cum on his cock and you didn’t even want this, not with him.

A particularly rough thrust into your g-spot sends electricity down your spine, down your body, and sends you careening over the edge, mouth open in a silent scream. Your sensitive cunt clamps down onto Tsukishima’s cock like a vice, but his ruthless pace doesn’t stop or slow as you shake and convulse underneath him. 

It isn’t like any typical orgasm you’ve had, which are usually blissful and warm, flooding your body with pleasure that makes your limbs heavy and your head fuzzy. No, this is almost painful, as if your orgasm was ripped out of you by force. 

All of your muscles contract as hard as they can and several seconds pass before they relax, your body shaking all the while. As it hits it feels as if a bucket of ice water was poured over your head, shocking and jarring, and you want to claw your way out of your own skin it's all so intense.

Once the last of the aftershocks leave you, you slump forward on the bed, boneless, chest heaving with every breath. You’re too exhausted to hold yourself up as Tsukishima keeps fucking into your overstimulated cunt, taking no regard for you or your body as he chases his own climax. 

You’re whining, gasping, hands fisted into the sheets to try to keep yourself grounded as electricity shoots through you with each thrust. 

“Too muuuch, ‘s too much,” you slur, but it only falls on deaf ears.  

The blonde pulls almost all the way out before shoving himself back inside the tight, wet heat of your cunt, and pushing against your cervix so hard you think he’s trying to fuck that hole too. You’re so fuck drunk that your eyes cross and your tongue lolls out of your mouth, strings of drool staining the mattress.

“Hey,” he calls out, yanking your hair backwards so you’re arched back towards him. “Don’t pass out; I’m gonna cum soon, so tighten up.”

You’re barely conscious by the time his thrusts become sloppy and uncoordinated, his own peak just on the horizon. His grip on your flesh is bruising, no doubt leaving purple marks in the shape of his fingers. The pistoning of his hips gets even faster, lewd squelching noises filling the room.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum inside this slutty little pussy and you’re going to take it all,” Tsukishima groans, digging his long fingers into your hips as he fucks into you.

All you can do is whine and mewl as he buries himself to the hilt, cursing and groaning as he shoots thick, warm spurts of cum into your sore, quivering womb. He leans forward, resting his forehead on your sweaty back as he catches his breath.

Some time passes before he withdraws and you twitch and gasp, the barest stimulation too much for your abused cunt. You try to curl in on yourself to go to sleep, but Tsukishima grabs your ankle and drags your limp body toward the edge of the bed.

“You really think we’re done here? Not even close. I’m not stopping until I’ve soiled every single one of your filthy holes.”

[the32ndbeat]

𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | 𝐣.𝐲𝐧 - [ 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟛 ]

pairing: stalker!jaehyun x fem!reader ( ft twice’s tzuyu, loona’s haseul )

word count: 2.4k

warnings: swearing, mentions of alcohol, alcohol consumption, mentions of sexual harassment, mature themes, mentions of drugs, smoking, extreme views, misogyny, yandere themes

a/n: unedited! it’s been forever since I updated this but also considering if I should turn this into a tbz series at my tbz writing blog so we’ll see how this goes.

taglist: I don’t have one yet and I’m seeing how this does since I’m thinking whether I should convert it into a tbz series. Please do lemme know if you guys want to see this continued!

disclaimer: everything written here is FICTIONAL and I am in no way saying that the mentioned characters act like that irl!

masterlist  

(inspired by netflix’s you and the book of the same name by caroline kepnes)

The first thing that registers in my mind is how fucking loud this place is. Seriously, what is it with college parties and their inherent need to blast music loud enough to wake the entire neighbourhood within a five mile radius? Before I even step within the premises or even make it to the front yard, the whole fraternity house seemed to shake from the loudness of the bass-boosted music when viewed from a distance away. I even had to squint as I approach, the strings of fluorescent party lights draped all over the place glowing so brightly it almost hurt to look straight.

A few drunk college frat boys stumble past me, their hair sticky and messy with sweat and their breaths reeking of cheap alcohol. Their steps are wobbly and I can even see drool and remnants of vomit hanging at the corner of their mouths. My heart clenches with pure disgust and I grit my teeth as I watch them laugh out loud over nothing, their brains a pink, unintelligent mush in their skulls, probably rotted by endless drinking and fucking. All part of the college frat experience.

I wonder if they enjoy being a complete waste of space while wasting mummy and daddy’s money to put them through college.

I look away and ignore the growing irritation in me. This is the sort of party your friends wanted you to go with them to? I thought your friends were bad influences but scratch that, they’re fucking horrible. They taint you, taint your innocence and put you at risk around such dangerous men who do not deserve to be even a mile within your presence. As I walk closer, the house looks even more hideous up close.

It’s decorated in the worst way I’ve seen a house decorated. It’s as if someone threw a bunch of random fairy lights bought in the brightest, blinding neon colours that simply do not go together over a sloppy looking house and the front yard is littered with empty, red plastic cups and is that a discarded bra I see over there?

I tiptoe over the trash laying around on the grass and try to avoid the gyrating bodies of college students who clearly have no sense of rhythm. My skin feels grimy within just a few minutes of being here and I can’t wait to leave but there is no way I’m leaving when I know that you will be here. The thought of you being surrounded by such vermins makes me sick to the stomach and I want to get you out of here. The only place you should rightfully be, is at my place where there are no revolting men who only love to drink cheap alcohol, party till sunrise, get high off smoking a blunt, yell ‘turn up!’ every few minutes as if it’s muscle memory in their tiny, almost non-existent brains and do anything but be a productive member of society.

As I push through the double doors, the nauseating smell containing a mixture of intoxicating alcohol, smoke and cheap cologne almost knocks me backwards. My hand grips tighter to the wooden door and I force myself in. Inside, the house is dim but bright at the same time with disco and laser lights. A massive boombox and a pair of equally large loudspeakers sit at the corner of the room and some hip hop tune is being played while people dance and drink and smoke to their hearts’ delight. You’d never believe these kids were supposed to be the future.

Oh, how disappointed their parents must be.

A girl in skimpy shorts and a tube top looks at me with unadulterated want and beckoning in her eyes while staring at the varsity jacket I’m wearing, no doubt replaying fantasies of fucking a college athlete in her mind and trying to guess which sport I supposedly play. I gaze blankly at them before turning away and I can see her shift from the corner of my eye, obviously bothered by the lack of attention. It’s like I can almost see the gears whirring in her brain. Did she not show enough cleavage? Is more skin needed to get my attention? Sometimes people are so predictable and readable that it’s almost pathetic.

Other times, I might have lowered my standards and settled for a casual fuck with someone like that but not today. Today, I’m a man on a mission. A mission to look out for you.

My eyes scan the room but it’s too dim to see anything within four feet in any direction. The flashing lights threaten to overwhelm me along with the stink of the place and booming music and I can feel my annoyance evolving into anger. I repress the urge to slap the shit out of a guy in a red bandana who screams ‘turn up’ all of sudden, practically effectively bursting my eardrums.

I almost bump into a couple eating each other’s faces out when someone yells out at me.

“Hey, you!”

The music is so loud that I almost don’t hear it. I whip around and sure enough, it’s tube top girl making her way over to me. You have got to be fucking kidding me. Not only do I have to find and save you from this sleazy place and have to squeeze in with a crowd of sweaty, brainless college kids who know nothing but party in a tiny, dirty, smelly frat house but now I also have tube top girl hot on my heels?

The things I do for you, y/n and we haven’t even properly gotten to know each other yet.

“Hey, how’s it going?” Tube top girl smiles and up close, I can see that her mascara is smudged and her hair is slicked back with an unholy amount of gel into a tight little bun which only makes her face look wider and her forehead exposed with a sheen of sweat covering it. Her lipstick is reapplied and I know for a fact that she has done it to impress me. Her top is also inched a little lower, as if that makes her anymore appealing.

I smile in a dismissive way, in a way that showed that I cared, but not really.

“Hey,” I reply flippantly.

“Crazy party huh?” She grins, satisfied that she’s got my attention now. Women.

I let my eyes drift to her breasts and look back up at her expectant, puppy dog eyes that are so eager to please it’s actually embarrassing.

“Yeah.”

“What’s your name? I’m Meg.”

“I’m Jaehyun.”

“You part of any sports team in school?” And just like that I know that tube top girl must have had fantasies of fucking a college athlete.

So predictable.

“Yeah, I’m on the swim team.” I say and her smile widens, a playfulness in her eyes as she leans her chest in closer in what was meant to be a sexy gesture.

“Oh, is that so? I’ve never really talked to a competitive swimmer before,” she replies in a sultry voice and I smirk.

“Well, here I am. Am I every bit of the guy you imagined a college swimmer to be?” I whisper in an equally sultry voice. Let her think she has me wrapped around her finger. It’s easier that way. Better for her to think I’m enthralled with her and her breasts than let her cling onto me the entire night.

“Mhm,” she says, “of course.”

I’m about to reply when something catches my eye. From the window, I see you and your friends stumbling and swaying down the sidewalk, away from the party. Internally, I feel my rage simmering again but not at anyone. At myself.

How was I so late that I didn’t manage to stop this from happening? How are you already drunk? How did this happen?

A million questions are racing through my mind and my vision almost blurs with white hot anger as I imagine a slimy frat guy placing his greasy hands on you while you sit there, drunk and uninhibited in that dress that seemed to accentuate your every single curve. You look simply gorgeous in that dress and I fucking hate to think that other guys in this whole house may have made a pass at you. Why was I so late? Would I have been just a little bit earlier if tube top Meg didn’t stop me? I should have left the moment she decided to strike up conversation. This is my karma for letting other temptations get in the way. I vow to myself that this will never happen again as I extricate myself away from Meg’s clutches (“Hey! Where are you going?” She calls out and I ignore her).

I shove people out of the way and do not care for their protests and yelps. Fuck them and fuck this entire shithole of a house. I scramble through the door and maintain my distance as I follow you and your friends down the pavement and past the buildings within the campus. I watch and cringe as you seem to crumple under the weight of your friends’ arm and quickly realise that you aren’t drunk. Your friends are. Stupidly drunk.

I feel my heart relax and my stomach unclench. Of course, you wouldn’t be. You are good. And smart. Too smart to get drunk in a place like that. You know what are the risks and you are above such parties. Your friends though, I couldn’t say the same. Which brings me back to why you need better friends but that’s besides the point. I can see a few guys hanging at the other side of the street who leer at the group of you, clearly getting their dick hard at the thought of a group of vulnerable girls roaming these empty streets at night.

It’s dangerous. But that’s what I’m here for. They see me next and they look away.

I will do what I can to protect you, y/n. Even if that means protecting your good for nothing friends in the process.

All of a sudden, I see you trip and it’s like everything is in slow motion. You fall forward and I take long strides over, my legs stretching out and rushing to help you. Before your knees can hit the rough ground, I have you in my arms, encircled around your waist as I hold you up. I have your other friend, Haseul upright with my other hand tugging at the collar of her jacket. Your friend Tzuyu is not so fortunate and falls flat but she barely notices it, smiling tipsily to herself instead.

You glance up at me with those large eyes and I could get lost in them right there and then. But as quickly as we have our moment, you move away and I see a hint of suspicion in your eyes. We separate and the moment you extract yourself from my arms, I already want you back. Your touch feels addictive already. What have you done to me?

“Thanks.” You say curtly and I admire the fact that you have boundaries, not like Meg. You are hard to get and that’s what makes you so appealing. You are to be earned and respected.

You help Tzuyu to her feet and as you turn to leave with your friends, I call out, “is there any way I can help?”

You regard me with caution and open your mouth to reject me but then suddenly, the tenseness in your eyes relax.

“Do I know you?”

You remember me. Halle-fucking-lujah! I want to wrap you in my arms again but I play it cool.

“I… don’t…?”

Your eyes grow wide and the recognition seeps in.

“Wait! You’re from that hardware store right? Jaehyun?”

I pretend to be surprised when I’m actually fucking overjoyed.

“Yeah, wait… You’re that girl with the rope right?”

You laugh and it’s the most melodious thing I’ve ever heard in forever.

“Yup, that’s me. Kind of mortified that’s how you remember me but sure,” you say and your eyes twinkle but then you continue with a more subdued tone, “what are you doing here?”

I pat my chest good-naturedly.

“Friend of mine is a student here. I just came over to visit and he gave me his varsity jacket so I could try feeling like a college student for once. Never been to college so… yeah. I thought I’d like to try it out for fun.” I reply and shoot you an awkward smile, the kind you do when you try to get someone to favour you and think of you as ‘adorable’.

It works and you smile gently.

“That’s pretty cool, you’ve got a good friend.”

And you haven’t, I think but don’t say.

I gesture towards you and your friends.

“Need any help?”

You look at your drunken friends and back at me and I sense you thinking. Finally, you decide that you do need my help and chuckle, “We live right at that block over there and I think I might die halfway there. I’m not fit enough to hold 2 people.”

That’s so like you. So compassionate over friends who clearly didn’t give a shit that you didn’t want to go to some god forsaken party, so caring over friends who get drunk and don’t take responsibility, so helpful to take care of friends who literally do not give a fuck about you. You are not beautiful on the outside but on the inside too and as I loop Tzuyu’s arm over my neck and hold her, I wish I was holding you instead.

We amble over to the front of your block and we part, you thank me and we say our goodbyes and it’s all too soon. I want to be with you for longer, I want us to talk and I want you to invite me to your room but reality is often much less exciting and more boring.

“I’ll see you!” You call out, smiling as I walk away and I wave back, my heart soaring.

Today is a good day, I think and as I round the corner to the next street, I slip the keycard out of my pocket and feel the hard plastic under my finger.

Wasn’t difficult honestly. Your friends should really learn to keep their valuables in safe places, not the back pocket of their jeans.

[yekistraight]

Hey, could you explain what being a feminist means? I’ve heard all these terms before, and there’s this huge stigma around it. So do you think there’s a way you could clarify at least what your beliefs are, and what you believe it to be? I’m simply trying to study stuff and see what it’s become or is. Thank you.

Sorry I wrote so much i just wanted to make it comprehensive:

General definition of feminist is someone who believes in the socio-economic equality of the sexes. In the beginning this was a straightforward ideology to follow. Women needed to be equal to men. It’s only fair, there’s no reason not to be. But sharing power is not something the ruling majority particularly enjoys so there’s been some bumps in the road. Decades and decades of bumps.

The feminists of the past started this push a long time ago with one message: “we want to be taken seriously, we are humans too and we need rights that benefit us and protect us from you[men]” and they were right. Sex based crimes against women were happening at an alarming rate. So much so that it had become part of some cultures and traditions, meaning it would be defended and men would be protected while women basically died, physically and socially. Women lived in fear and helplessness, being sold a dream of subservience promoted by religion and ego in exchange for protection from men. What about the women that still, despite the odds, wanted to choose a different path? Well, they were brave enough to step out of line and others followed. They exist throughout history, inspiring other women will their bravery and confidence, proving that it was possible to have the power and authority that men had. Now imagine giving every woman that access to power? They’d have everything right? Well feminism didn’t start like that (it was racially exclusive actually) but fortunately the ideologies spread out through cities, across oceans and into continents where women wanted, no, NEEDED such power; the power to change their destinies that had been set upon them by another mere human being.

So feminism is like a sisterhood, where we’re only related by a common goal to protect each other while trying to defeat our common enemy. Here’s where the simplistic ideology begins to mutate based on strategy and cultural progression.

Feminism is a sisterhood, but not a monolith. There’s been different waves (eras) of feminism where each sisterhood used different tactics to achieve their goals for equality. Its like making a new checklist after the old one gets checked off. However there’s been one item that still needs a lot of work before ticking off and that’s dismantling gender roles. Gender roles are the root cause of every.single.thing. Toxic masculinity, performative femininity. Gender roles were created to control humans and keep them in their place. For a feminist to push her way into male dominated spaces, she must first acknowledge that gender roles have been constructed to work against her and break through it. So take note, everything is the way it is because of gender roles.

In this era, the sisterhood has been split into two major groups, two warring tribes if you will: libfems and radfems.

Liberal Feminists accept everyone. They use the tactic of assimilation, where they water down feminist ideologies to make it inclusive for everyone. They follow the lead of oppressed minorities who reclaimed slurs and instead reclaim methods tused to oppress women that past waves of feminists fought to dismantle. Remember what I said about gender roles? These women are bringing it back and think they’re reclaiming it. How do you reclaim something that hasn’t been dismantled yet?The only power they’re concerned with is the feeling of superiority that comes from thinking bowing down to the patriarchy is their idea. Their feminism tackles issues like rape, victim blaming and misogyny, things that affect them personally, while taking on the burden of other marginalised groups as their own, pushing their own goals to the backseat while feeling a self-righteous high. Basically, they’re activists who have lost the plot but would keep pushing blindly than admit it. The second group was born from libfems that wanted more than a feel good pat on the back from the patriarchy for not being too interfering.

Radical feminists are still following the original objective of their predecessors. They still have their eyes open to sex-based oppression and are aware there’s still a lot of work to be done. They don’t put the opposite sex’s needs above their own or let other group’s ideologies influence theirs and because of this, other groups as well as libfems have dubbed them as enemies to progress. Ironic isn’t it? The group that still fights for sexual equality has been silenced by none other than their own. Of course hatred for this group of feminists didn’t come out of nowhere. Radfems and their female-only values are presumed to hurt trans women, as trans women are biologically male and don’t have the same sex based experiences as biological women. Trans activists took these as transphobic fighting words and ostracised radfems, silencing them and their ideologies, claiming that everything they fought for was an attack against the trans community. Conservative americans also share some radfem values, basically the one on keeping the movement focused on female only issues, and because the right is notoriously bigoted (ironic because conservatives are the ones who uphold the gender roles feminists fight against so a conservative feminist is paradoxical) this is enough to tell people that radfems can’t be trusted. That they’re all racist, transphobic white supremacists. Because all groups that share similar ideologies are bad. The public, not wanting to be on the Unpopular Opinion side of history, shifted away and further pushed radfems into the background while libfems and their blind acceptance values were hailed as the patron saints of feminism.

So what feminism was and what it is now are vastly different. It started as a movement in different countries with different goals, then it graduated and took on more serious topics. It was like a game where every level gets tougher to prepare you for that last boss, the one who holds all the power you need to physically change your reality.

Today in the year 2021, young girls are being told that it’s feminist to enjoy selling their bodies for money. That it’s the same as working in a mine (a common comparative statement). That it’s feminist to look as womanly as the gender roles men created dictate. That it’s feminist to watch porn and be happy your romantic partner watches it to; this means you’re sexually liberated. Grown women go to Tiktok full of minors in the style of pimps to show off stacks of money they’ve made from pleasing men. They say “i did it because i wanted to and so should you”. Minors are all over twitter trying to lure men with financial dominatrix tags. They can’t wait till they become legal to start selling their nude bodies to men. They were told it would make them feel powerful. People who are skeptical are shamed into silence, because the popular crowd is always in control and no one wants to be the odd one out.

Now compare that to women who spend time researching horrifying news of sexual violence still happening today. Women still having to sell themselves to survive in 2021 is a clear indicator that we’re still not taken seriously. Sex buying, pimping and displaying women as commodities is the reason little girls are being stolen off the streets and shipped off to a disgusting dreg who think he’s owed sexual satisfaction.

Radfems want to end child sex trafficking, sex slavery, wedding night virginity checks, honour killings, femicide, sewing up little girls vaginas to avoid them exploring their sexuality before their wedding night and bring attention to way more hardcore shit being run by top dogs who are cooperating with the old powers that influence the governments.

Whose side do you think the media will be on? Whose side is worth not risking ruffling feathers?

Feminism has become many things now. You can choose the one that reminds you of the cruelty of man or the one that creates a comfortable fantasy of false empowerment while women’s violence continues. Both get stigmatised anyway.

If it wasn’t obvious already, I’m a radical feminist.

I’m an autistic radfem living in a backwards country where the lgbt community can’t thrive so there’s no pride parades, no trans movement, nothing that can be publicised anyway. I can’t create a fantasy where everything works because nothing works. Women are dying around me everyday for being female, my best friend is trapped with an abusive father who hates her for being a female firstborn (something babies get killed for), I’m not worthy of basic respect without a husband, a poor woman from a muslim state gets death threats from her fellow muslims for wearing a backless top while a rich married one gets praised and women can’t apply for anything important without a man’s permission.

Now why on earth would i want to pamper the gender that made and uphold those laws? The battle here is still greatly a battle of the sexes. Despite this stale level of progress, our movement, like many others have allies. Male allies are great, allies are great, we need them to push buttons yes but also remember they can never fully understand what we feel. All they can do is try their best to help and in return we give them acknowledgement and support; so no we’re not supposed to be misandrists or transphobes. We just hate anyone who uplifts what we and our ancestors have been fighting to destroy.

That’s all

[filmista]

Shadow of a Doubt (1943)

“Money? How can you talk about money when I'm talking about souls? We eat and sleep and that's about all. We don't even have any real conversations. We just talk.”

Hitchcock was already on his sixth project in the US when he made Shadow of a Doubt in 1943 (six films in three years!), but reportedly he nevertheless regarded the film as his first real "American movie”. Which was true, in the sense that it was his first story in which the country as a setting was an irreplaceable part of the plot as well.

Where his war thrillers were still set in different countries and films like Rebecca and Suspicion simply took place back in England, Shadow of a Doubt is an American story par excellence, about sudden danger in a safe, all-American suburb and about traditional American values that cease to mean anything in the face of danger.

The story  takes place in Santa Rosa, California, it’s the kind of  town that looks eerily like Main Street in  Disneyland - houses with white fences around them, with nice, of course white nuclear families in them. The Newton family might be the whitest most representative family of all: father Joseph (Henry Travers) works in a bank, mother Emma (Patricia Collinge) stays at home, daughter Charlie (Teresa Wright) has hit puberty and regularly grumbles about the banality of her life, while the two younger children, Ann and Roger, are just kind of there. 

That boringness comes to an end when Emma's brother, Uncle Charlie (Joseph Cotton), comes to visit. He remains vague about his activities and the reason for his sudden visit. He often makes cynical remarks that they don't often hear at the Newton's and when a local newspaper wants to take a picture of him he must make a visible effort to keep from hitting the photographer in the face. Young Charlie initially finds it all very exciting that her uncle is coming to mess up the status quo in the house, but comes to suspect that uncle Charlie might be a murderer on the run. 

The contrast between the innocence of small-town America (that’s  probably laid on a bit too thick here with a few very naive ones opening scenes) and the corruption lurking in the form of Uncle Charlie, is the main theme of Shadow of a Doubt The Newtons live in a bright, innocent world, guided by blind faith in authority (“God bless the President of the United States ”, youngest daughter Ann prays at one point) and believe in the values of a simple life. Uncle Charlie on the other hand, makes uncomfortable comments about fraud at his brother in law’s bank (“We don’t joke about that here,” Joseph weakly protests), Goes on monologues about “greedy, fat women ”who live on their husbands' money and in general wants nothing to do with that normal, banal life.  

The interesting thing lies in the mentality Hitchcock assumes against this contradiction between innocence and nihilism. The Newtons are, of course, the nominal heroes of the story in the end, Hitchcock neatly extends a happy ending to his film and pays lip service to the conventions (the bad guys must of course be punished in the end). But in the meantime, Uncle Charlie is by far the most interesting character in the whole movie, that’s initially welcomed by his niece as a welcome change from the normally boring life in Santa Rosa, and he is also the only one in the film that appears to be completely living and willing and to live in reality. 

Everyone else shields themselves from reality: father Joseph fantasises about murder scenarios, mother Emma stares blindly at the past and seems to live more in her youth then in the here and now, and even youngest daughter Ann is constantly buried with her nose between the books. Everyone in Newton family actually seems to prefer to be somewhere else, somewhere in a less annoying version of reality, with the exception of daughter Charlie, who rebels, and youngest son Roger, who is hardly elaborated as a character. Uncle Charlie, on the other hand, is a smooth, charming guy who seems to know perfectly how the world works and doesn’t need fantasies to make his life bearable. 

He might be a murderer but damn it, he’s not boring. Hitchcock could - certainly not in 1943 - let the final victory be for anyone but the Newtons, but it’s clear that he finds Uncle Charlie endlessly more fascinating and amusing. The fact that the Uncle Charlie's nihilism manifests itself during a key monologue as misogyny (with “useless women proud of their money but nothing else ”), gave rise once again to the usual allegations of misogyny against the director, but that doesn't really seem to fit with the nuanced, ambiguous way in which Teresa Wright plays Charlie.

After all, the two Charlies are played out during the whole movie as two contrasting, aspects of the same character. Uncle Charlie is the darkness, young Charlie is the light, but they form a part of the same whole. Hitchcock is constantly playing with a twin theme in Shadow of a Doubt emphasising the similarities between them.

Beyond the fact that they have the same name, they are also both introduced in the same way in the story (we see them lying in bed in similar poses) an allusion to a psychic connection between them (“you believe in telepathy? ”) and Hitchcock constantly insists on their similar character (“I know you don't like people much says Uncle Charlie, but I sense somewhere deep inside you have a secret - just like me ”). 

The tension between them is almost sexual - the connection they feel at the beginning of the movie often looks like flirtation - and when Charlie finds out what her uncle really does for a living, she decides to keep quiet. With that decision to choose her uncle instead of law and order, she becomes an ambiguous character, whom we sense could maybe (just maybe) be able to  transition to what you would call in Star Wars terms the dark side just like her uncle. Charlie is one of Hitchcock's most interesting female characters, and one that you would probably never find in the film of a true misogynist. 

The film by today's standards, takes too much time to really get going and also suffers from an inconclusive romance between Charlie and the horribly boring cop Jack Graham (McDonald Carey) - It's vaguely interesting to imagine what kind of married life the two would have, probably one filled with long, boring evenings in separate twin beds. On the other hand is Hitchcock's distinctive visual style (note how Uncle Charlie is constantly associated with smoke) and excellent acting. Teresa Wright is one of Hitch's most captivating heroines, and Joseph Cotton plays against his sympathetic image with apparent gusto. 

As is often the case, the villain in Shadow of a Doubt is much more interesting than the good guys - this is a thriller about a disturbance in the tedious life of awfully normal people which doesn’t dare to openly say it, but does dare to suggest, that such interference isn’t necessarily a bad thing. To commit murder is perhaps not a nice thing, but it does wake one up. 

@purecinema @mad-prophet-of-the-airwaves @idasessions @missdubois @film-peaks @siobhanlovesfilm

[marvelous-tunes]

this netflix thing isn't actually that big of a deal. and what I'm assuming taylor must not realize is that because of her reach, she could sink that show. that will affect much more than just netflix and the show's writers. she can't take responsibility for the fans bullying the actors, obviously. but the whole thing just makes me feel icky. there are appropriate times to call out sexism & misogyny and unfortunately I don't think this was one of them.

Hi anon! You have some valid points. Taylor has a massive influence and it could certainly negatively impact the show. That being said, I don’t think that was Taylor’s intention and hopefully that came across in her tweet -- her anger wasn’t at the show necessarily, it was at the writer’s poor choice to make that comment about her dating life. Also, I don’t think the show would actually be canceled based on that - there have been poor jokes/plots in other shows that have survived.

I think it’s important to call out these things because if we don’t, it will never get better. So, in this case while Taylor’s influence could (and has) negatively affected the show, being silent would have been worse because it would essentially be her allowing misogynistic and sexist comments to go by unnoticed. And that needs to end. It’s hard sometimes, but I don’t think we can take her fame into consideration here because this goes beyond that. This is something that countless “normal” women face daily. To explicitly call it out is important in continuing the conversation about why it’s wrong. So, even though there may be side effects, ultimately we can’t just say “oh, she shouldn’t do that because x, y, z”.

As far as fans bullying, that absolutely sucks and I wish we were more mature than that. I hate that, and it’s part of fandom culture that I cannot get behind. We should never be so blind and defensive that we cause harm to others, especially cast members who had nothing to do with that joke.

Send me unpopular opinions

[minthysugamon]

Everybody wants to Rule the World. (Part 2)

Noble Assistant,Sergeant! Namjoon x Assassin! Reader.

1789! AU

Word Count: 2,111 (angel number go brrr again)

Warnings: Slight misogyny,beheading,blood,death...i think that's all.

(Credit for the Original Photo: @/athenaa. I only edited it a little bit. But all credit goes to the original artist who posted the photo first in it's original version)

(Painting: La liberté guidant le peuple by Eugène Delacroix)

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12 Août,1787. (Flashback)

After reading every word of Voltaire,Maximilien became more and more riled up by the thrill of the revolution. The adrenaline of change was getting the best of him,he had no time to care about his little sister,(Y/n) Robespierre,who would simply block him from getting in the city. The Robespierre family was more than just concerned about their eldest child,the Gem of their family. (Y/n) hated the injustice their father casted upon them. She wanted to learn,he wouldn't let her. Henriette tried to reason her but stubborn,like her brother,she went up in Paris,alone,in the quest of knowledge.

After arriving at Le Marais,her first goal was to find her brother. Nothing more,nothing less. And finding him,she did. But not in his expected state. "Maximilien,laissez moi entrer.¹" A groan was heard from the man but he got up to let his sistet in. "What are you doing here? I told you to stay at home,in Arras. Is it so hard to follow my or father's wishes?" He sighed and pulled a chair out for her. 'How chivalrous.' (Y/n) thought to herself. "Mon frère,i came here to ask you a favor." Her eyes,full of hope,heart racing,the negative answer from him already anticipated. "And what would that favor be? If it's to join some political club,it's a no. And i won't listen to any begging. No is-" "I know. No is no. I don't even want to join those. All i wanted to ask from you is to teach me the art of law."

Maximilien sighed. He knew she will never be accepted as a lawyer,as much as she wanted. In the end,(Y/n) was a woman. Not a male apprentice. But a simple woman. "So...? Will you please teach me...?" Her voice resonated through the small living room,a hint of hope and a dust of desperation sticking to it. "No. I can't. I already taught you everything you had to know. I can't teach you more." Maximilien simply sat down on a chair,looking at her. How could have his sister,a woman from such a delicate mother,turned out like a man? "Is it because i'm a woman?" "It's because you won't be accepted. I'm only doing you a favor here,if you haven't noticed. Ta demande est ridicule. Et tu le sais très bien.² I won't let a Robespierre be turned into laughing stock. Not only your honor depends on it,but our whole family's."

Objecting her brother was the worst thing she could ever do. The man was stubborn and always stuck to his own ideologies for the better or the worst. "But you know-" "STOP IT. NOW. I DON'T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT THAT ANYMORE. I SAID NO. AND NOTHING WILL CHANGE THAT. YOU ARE A WOMAN. KNOW YOUR PLACE FOR GOD'S SAKE." The heavy breathing coming from the eldest was enough to make the atmosphere heavy between them. (Y/n) stood up and put the chair back as if she was never on it. "Alright. Thank you for your time,Maître Robespierre. Je me tâcherai à ne plus vous contre-dire.³" Stepping out of the residence,(Y/n) let the door slam against it's frame. The silence was too heavy around Maximilien. He wanted to tell her he's sorry,but he knew it won't change anything. Her pride was too high for her own good. So he put his aside for once,as unwilling as he was. "Alright. Come back. If you want to learn. You will learn. From me. But don't tell anyone about this. Est-ce clair?⁴"

The young woman's eyes lit up. For the first time,she achieved to coerce something useful out of her brother,something that will be helpful for her future. "Crystal clear,Maximilien." She did a 180 and started walking towards the door of the small and stuffed place the elder was living in,passing right beside him. "So? When do we start? I wanna know everything." An innocent but playful smile spreading on her face as she spoke took Maximilien by surprise. "Quoi?⁵ Not even a simple thank you?" The tone in his voice was laced with fake-hurt. He was annoyed but somewhat proud of her sister's persuasion skills. If she was a man,she would've been a very good lawyer. Putting ultimatums where they belong,it requires skill.

14 Juillet,1789.

After getting some powder,Namjoon was finally recharging his gun,the fact he owed his life to a revolutionist still had him shocked. 'Why?' wasn't his only question though,he wanted to know more about that woman. "COUPEZ-LUI LA TÊTE!⁶" the chant of the crowd grew louder and louder as his foster father was escorted by some peasants. While the sergeant of the troop was laying dead jn the hallway,the squad's organisation itself was frantic,none of them had endured such debauchery before.

"Sir,what should we do? We can't let the colonel down." One of the soldiers finally spoke up after a long moment of silence. His ears were ringing. The loud gun noises made him lose all auditory senses,but he still spoke up despite not being able to think clearly and having no military experience. "Wait here. If i signal the path is cleared,you follow. Divide in two divisions. We can't sacrifice anyone. If anything,i prefer sacrificing myself if there's a chance to lead you into safety. May God be with all of you."

Namjoon had no idea what came over him and moreover had no idea how to command,but he strong leadership De Launay has showed during his younger years may have stuck with him. One thing is sure,he won't commit the error of turning his troops against himself. Maybe getting killed was his destiny after all,but he would do everything in his power to not have the one who raised him killed. After hiding behind a pillar,the man signaled to the first troop to come and hide behind the chariot. The chariot the battle was going on for,the precious gun powder those uncultured men couldn't use. Hell,even him,he was new to the battle but the situation couldn't degrade more.

"Here's what we're going to do. We have to use up all the powder while the second troop can finally get to safety. Negociating with these savages already failed,we have to act." The youngest soldier, Nathanaël du Rhône, looked him in awe, their leader, Kim Namjoon, the man who was once a Stranger, was more worried about their safety than his. The newly appointed Staff Sergeant pointed to Nathanaël. "You. Signal to the others that they can come,then hide and leave. You have more than just a fight to live. The others,you come with me. Hide,aim and charge. I'll signal you when to shoot." De Launay has noticed his son due to his inattention,his hat was in the wrong direction. He simply smiled at the determination of the young chief then mouthed a simple 'You'll be alright son." in his direction while the three man were still escorting him out to the court of the prison.

"Wait....Now. Shoot." And the men acted as Namjoon said,including himself. They fired the shots,simultaneously touching the three who were holding the Colonel. Recharge,aim shoot again all the people who were flocking in the court. Once they had no other choice and were blocked,the hiding spot was discovered too. But he won't let his men down easily,he wasn't raised to do so. "Gather the explosives. We must light them and decimate the crowd or else this hell will never end."

After throwing one of the smoke torches in the crowd,he started running towards his elder, successfully stabbing one of the new detainers in the throat with the bayonette of his shotgun. "Père.⁷You must come. I beg you." De Launay simply nodded a no and smiled "My destiny was to die protecting the king and the prison. Now go before they get you too. You're too young to die." Namjoon wanted to do another round before he saw the head of the Colonel falling,in addition thhe man's blood splattered over his face as he wasn't more than 3 meters away. "Chef. Ils nous ont encerclé⁸. We must go." A new smoke torch was thrown by the youngest soldier on the ground,blinding the revolutionists as he held back his chief from going rampage over the ones who killed the one he called father. "NO I CAN'T. I CAN'T LET HIM DIE." Namjoon screamed frantically as Nathanaël was pulling him by the arm, at the same time asking for help from his troop mates. Two other men came to hold the new and young Sergeant down,escorting him to a hiding place,not wanting to lose their only commandant in this butchery.

15 Juillet,1789.

After staying up all night,the sun was rising. 'Finally', (Y/N) thought to herself. The night was long enough already when she simply had woken up from night terrors and waited for the light of the day to reassure her,but now that she had to wait for her brother, it seemed like an eternity. Sitting on the roof of the house Maître Robespierre lived in,she had the privilege to eat something that many couldn't, an apple. The thought of saving that guy in the early afternoon was prancing around her mind, not fully understanding why she did what she did. 'I should've killed him. Now he's one of my countless problems.' Her inner monologue was eating her up,much like she was munching on the green fruit. Due to the bad harvests of the previous years,it was as sour as her mood.

After finishing the apple,eating the core,even if it was more than just acidic and putting the seeds into a small pocket of her leather pants,she knew she should get down the roof and change back into her normal attire to hide her activity. As long as Maximilien didn't know about anything,she was safe. He wouldn't condone her actions even if she was killing the noblemen he oh so strongly opposed. As murderous as his desires were, the thought of a woman being better than him made his skin crawl. The crowd had finally died down too,people went back to their residences or the small shelter they were at to sleep,it was around two in the morning that the chants started to become more and more quiet and at three,not a single soul was seen wandering the streets. It was although now five in the morning and she knew,her brother would soon come back from the whorehouse he went to. After finally getting into her dress,she went out the door to finally get some bread. 'Oh to be a man and not give a piece of mind about the opinions of others.' she thought as she entered the local bakery.

"Bien le bonjour, mademoiselle⁹ ,early today,i see! Let me guess,the usual or are we changing it up today?" The baker, Jean-Hugues Lefèvre, was known for his kindness towards his costumers although since bread was a missing article nowadays,he always managed to sneak some to the poorest families,giving up his rations to save others. The baker had already started packing the two loaves,as usual until his actions were interrupted by (Y/n)'s voice.  "Just one loaf will be enough,thank you. I'm only buying for my brother,i am going back home today." As he was choosing the best loaf,he raised an eyebrow. "Oh? So soon? It hasn't been two months thought,as you said ten days ago." She smiled awkwardly,not knowing how to engage in the small talk,making herself feel smaller. "Well...i guess the Parisian air made me feel a little bit exthau-" her phrase couldn't be finished as somebody barged into the shop.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Lefèvre." The intruder was a tall man,smelling like gunpowder and cologne "Bonjour, Sergent Kim. Congratulations on your rank. You fought well. I am sorry about what happened with the Colonel. What can i serve you with?" Jean-Hugues gave (Y/N) the loaf as he told her the price and the  another man looked at her. "Three loaves please..." Thoughtful was the only way to describe him once he caught a look of the eyes of the woman,and (Y/N) had a suspicion why,so she ushered herself out of the bakery. "Wait a minute." The man called out. So she turned around "Yes?" Trying to seem confident out of the cape and mask that hid her face yesterday was harder to do than to say. "Haven't we met somewhere?" A genuine curiosity was displayed on his face. As much as she knew the right answer,the lie was necessary. "I don't think so. Have a nice day,Monsieur Lefèvre." And the girl started heading to the Robespierre residence.

Left dumbfounded and with three loaves for his 10 men, Namjoon was thinking about where he had seen those eyes before. "The girl from yesterday."

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Translations

¹ Let me enter

² Your request is ridiculous. And you know that well.

³ I'll make sure to never argue with you again.

⁴ Is it clear?

⁵ What?

⁶ Chop his head off!

⁷ Father.

⁸Chief,they have surrounded us.

⁹Well good morning there,Miss.

A/N: Hello there. There will be probably a part 3,but i don't know when. I don't promise it will be before april but i'll try to write it before. Please note that i try to stay as close to history as possible but as this is an AU,there are some modifications here and there. This is pure fiction please do not take this for something real. Thank you. (Only saying because i've gotten some hateful DMs bc of the first part).

[thefeministherald]

Scott Morrison has declared Parliament "must get this house in order" after a month of disturbing reports of alleged rapes and sexual misconduct which have rocked Canberra.

It's uncomfortable to watch the leader of your country break down in tears as he discusses allegations of sexual assault and violence sweeping the nation.

Not because it invokes sympathy as he acknowledges the mistakes of the past, present and possible future, but because his face mirrored the many men and people who have failed to eradicate the culture of misogyny that still exists in Australia.

Prime Minister Scott Morrison made a speech today calling out the "environment we have allowed to be created" – one where many women feel terror as a natural response to the threat of acts of harassment and violence, in places stretching from the highest rungs of parliament to the most remote, dimly-lit streets.

An emotional Prime Minister Scott Morrison during his press conference today.

An emotional Prime Minister Scott Morrison during his press conference today. (Getty)

He acknowledged we've been holding our keys between our knuckles; feeling too afraid of calling out abysmal behaviour; being diminished, being objectified, feeling invaluable.

While responding to the stories of sexual assault emerging across the country, Morrison repeated the words: "That is not ok".

He attributed the culture that's been brewing in "our country as great as Australia" for decades to "unconscious deafness and blindness" or worse, "willful malevolence."

Yet today's speech misses the mark and, more importantly, the action we've demanded.

RELATED: Women's March 4 Justice sweeps Australia: 'Our freedom should not be included in the cost of living'

Today's speech misses the mark and, more importantly, the action we've demanded. (Getty)

In the weeks since discussions of sexual assault reignited in the public arena, I have spoken to survivors of various ages. Their stories have been harrowing and unique, but all unified by the uncomfortable reality that nothing seems to change.

The interviews I've done with influential voices in the field – from Australian of the Year Grace Tame to Chanel Contos, who is spearheading a movement for improving consent education, to conversations with participants in the March 4 Justice — all have touched on constructive plans of action and moves that could inspire a better society.

When our Prime Minister spoke, there was no mention of action.

Prime Minister Scott Morrison during a press conference at Parliament House in Canberra

"Criticise me if you like for speaking about my daughters, but they are the centre of my life." (Nine)

There was no mention of an inquiry occurring in parliament, no tangible measures taken to stamp out the culture; just a curated speech in front of the deafening shutters of cameras.

Tears have been shed by women in the emotional days leading up to this speech, and they've been shed over the decades that preceded it.

Our Prime Minister's tears over the "vested interest" he has in the women in his life do little to quell the pain that continues to fester in Australia.

"Criticise me if you like for speaking about my daughters, but they are the centre of my life," he said.

"My wife is the centre of my life. My mother, my widowed mother is the centre of my life. They motivate me every day on this issue. They have motivated me my entire life."

We can understand how our Prime Minister conducts himself as a father, and the love he extends to his family. But it's an emotion I hoped would've fueled action much earlier than a speech delivered months after Brittany Higgins first came forward with her allegation.

We've wasted enough breath criticising our nation's leader on the way he chooses to empathise with the plight endured by more than half of the population.

What warrants criticism is how much it took for our leaders to listen and respond in the first place – and that while we may have seen the first element of retribution and acknowledgement in a long time, we still see no action.

Changing the culture of sexual assault, violence, harassment and misogyny, Morrison said, "is all our job."

"It is my job, it is my ministers' jobs, it is my members' and senators' jobs, it is your job."

Australian of the Year for 2021, Grace Tame, says the definition of consent must be established federally in order to provide more effective education around the subject to students.

It should not have taken several former parliamentary staffers to share one of the most traumatic experiences they have allegedly been subjected to in order to get our leaders to do their job.

It should not have taken thousands of former high school students to courageously detail their experiences of abuse at the hands of their peers to get our leaders to do their job.

It should not have taken hundreds of thousands of people to march nationwide to get our leaders to do their job.

A country fails when we place the burden of change on those who have been subject to extreme injustice, and an insidious culture remains when we do not match publicised empathy with measurable action.

There has been a chorus of sexual assault stories shared in the past month, all of which displaying the bravery, strength and horrifying familiarity of existing as a woman in Australia.

It's been the conversations with strangers on the street and activists on the phone that have made me come to terms with the reality of my own experiences.

The shame and fear once associated with striving towards equal treatment, regardless of our gender, has been drowned out by demands for being given the bare minimum of the respect we're entitled to.

Today's speech marks not a hope that our leader will follow through on the words he delivered, but an expectation.

Contact bfarmakis@nine.com.au

If you, or anyone you know is struggling, please contact: Lifeline 13 11 14; beyondblue 1300 224 636; Domestic Violence Line 1800 65 64 63; 1800-RESPECT 1800 737 732

[lucastheunlucky]

sense of touch| noah&lucas

Summary: Noah comes over Luke’s. The two talk werewolf abilities, the intensity of their senses, and Luke still thinks Noah & Winn are a bunch of idiots. It’s nice having friends for the werewolf though, and the two veg out and relax. Triggers: drug use (marijuana) @noah-kalani

Standing there 6 pack tucked under his arm Noah wrapped the knuckles of his good hand against Luke’s door, hoping it was loud enough. He never quite knew how hard he should knock, but then again Luke was a werewolf so he probably already knew Noah was there anyway. He hadn’t exactly wanted to do this at first, their whole ‘last time we messaged I was so angry we talked in circles at each other’ a bit cringe worthy. But after, well almost drowning (again) and then reuniting with Winn, Noah knew he needed to at least rekindle something with the other boy. Luke had had a valid point after all, even if Noah was loath to admit it at the time. Plus Luke has said the B word in his last text message, which was intriguing to say the least. Because Noah didn’t really know many bisexuals, least of all ones who played football.

Luke had the uncanny ability to let shit bothering him go when he needed it to not ruin a night. He was pretty private anyway about most stuff, and he’s not even told anyone about what happened with Salva and Gotch. Which, he knew he’d probably get yelled at about that, but he couldn’t think about it. This one text erased his mind of it. Willing to throw his phone in the loft, and make sure he actually did have something in the fridge to drink (he did). The moment he heard the other, Luke quickly swung the door open and reached out quickly for Noah’s shirt to yank him in. Hoping to scare him a little-- because Luke was ridiculously playful and loved the chance to be silly. “Noah,” Luke stuck his tongue out playfully. “You got here in 16 minutes, speeding much?” 

The last thing Noah expected from this night was to be forcibly yanked into Lukes apartment. But then again, here he was, being forcibly yanked into Luke’s apartment. Things were already off to a great start. “I'm sorry officer,” Noah started holding up his good hand “I must have a lead foot.” Smiling wide he jabbed Luke playfully in the side, the bro-ish comradery code demanding he up ‘minor bodily harm’ ante. It was funny just how much Noah missed this playful roughhousing with the “boys” mentality that was so prevalent in football culture. And ok yes their locker room talk and general passive misogyny left much to be desired, but there were still moments that Noah wouldn’t trade for the world, and he was glad that Luke understood all of these antics. 

“Or, you are just bad at guessing timing,” Lucas locked the door, and latched it out of safety when he received the jab. Everything in him wanted to turn and tackle the other, but he noticed his hand right away-- even the smell on him faintly off to bring his attention to it. The wolves were filled with injury this week. He playfully snapped his teeth, and wrapped his arm heavily over his shoulder to lead him into the small, modest apartment. “What, brings you to see lil o’l me? Did you get in trouble? Did you want us to look each other in the eye and apologize for being losers over text? Cause--” He waved it off, and stepped into the kitchen. “We can have a difference of opinion. All’s good.” 

Letting Luke lead him further into the apartment Noah rolled his eyes playful at the other. Well until Luke pinpointed exactly why Noah was here. Setting down the 6 pack Noah reached for a bottle handing one to the other man  “It’s partly that. But its also partly” Noah paused trying to figure out how to phrase what he was going to say next. He didn’t think this part of the meeting was going to happen till he was at least a beer and half in so the script he’d had in his head was definitely all outta whack “Ok so I’ve had to do a lot of emotional heavy lifting and like refocusing this week so I figured I might as well address this too while I’m at it.” He continued before taking his own beer from the package  “Cuz you know like I know we can have a difference of opinion, but part of growth is being open to listen to other’s points of view.” Fishing out his keyes from his pocket he popped the top off of his own beer before handing them to Luke “So I guess what I am here to say is. I’ve seen Winn, I’m not angry anymore, I am simply here to listen. If you want to talk, we can, if you don’t we can just drink beer and blow shit up on Call of Duty or something. Your call.” Noah shrugged. 

Lucas accepted the beer and leaned on the counter while Noah spoke. He could see the wheels turning in the other, and he made his way over to the living room with a gesture so they were at least comfortable. Plopping on the couch, his feet bare, Luke dressed in a cotton shirt and workout sweats looked quite at home and comfortable, his arm not bandaged, but the wound had been aggravated open from the fight. “Ah, we don’t have to linger on it if you feel okay about everything. Growing up with three other siblings and being in the middle has given me a lot of training in forgiving people, and also in saying sorry, so I am-- sorry,” Luke said easily. “I do, really have to ask you.” He lifted his brow a little, smile blinding in his cheeky tone. “You and Winn-- still a bro relationship? Or… you know, finally upgrading?”

Noah shrugged slightly as he made himself comfortable on the couch. “I mean the fact you even feel the need to say sorry is something I think we should probably talk about” he started taking another swig of his beer. “But I will follow your lead” Because if Lucas truly didn’t want to talk about it then he wasn’t going to force the other boy. But of course, that was before Lucas decided to play dirty. If Noah had been in the middle of drinking he’d have spat it all out on the couch, the older man insinuating that he an Winn were together  “Oh we’re not like-” Noah quickly corrected, nervous words now flowing freely from his mouth “I-I mean I’m like all for the cause and everything but I’m just not-” Oh no Noah stop. “Ok let me start over. Winn and I-” He stopped trying to figure out how to phrase his relationship with Winn. Friendship didn’t quite cover everything that Noah wanted it to but he was definitely not. Upgrading. Like he was not, totally not, 100 percent not pursuing a relationship with Winn alright. Like he might have thought about letting Winn kiss him that one time, and then cried in his arms, and generally didn’t want to live without him, but that was normal right? “Winn and I are just friends” Noah finished. Yea there was something about that word that didn't sit right, but he didn't have the mental capacity to deal with it now, much less in front of Lucas. 

Oh man. Okay. That was a harmless tease-- in that Luke really enjoyed pushing buttons and being a total butt sometimes, however, Noah’s reaction was actually pretty surprising. His eyes were wide as he rambled off, and Luke was stunned just a little bit in silence (which was really hard to do), his mouth open comically and holding his beer an inch from it. “Oh, bro-- it’s chill,” he actually giggled, and hid it with a deep swig from his beer. “I was just teasing. You know-- you argue then make up-- you know, then have-- nevermind.” He laughed a little, shaking his head with a wide smile and waved his beer between them as if to brush it off. “You are funny, man. Don’t have a panic.” Lord. Shit. Do these two shit heads even get it? Luke wasn’t sure if he wanted to be in the middle of this, but also felt like he totally wanted to be in the middle of this. He quieted, and inhaled to try to clear his shipping thoughts. “So, alright. We need to start over,” his smile was wide, still welcoming and not combative. “You smoke? I’ll roll us one. If you don’t like it, we can put it out.” He reached over towards the side table and pulled over a small marble box into his lap. Bringing his legs up to criss cross them, he got comfortable situating everything on his thighs, opening the box with a waft of marijuana. He hummed, rolling out a joint. “Tell me, in all seriousness-- just so I can understand better. Why is the concept of hiding or running away so bad for you?”

Downing the rest of his beer, Noah tried not to let the blood rise to his cheeks. Because of course Luke was just teasing. Because of course there was nothing going on between him and Winn whatsoever. Shrugging it all off though for a better subject he shook his head when Luke asked if he smoked. “Not religiously. Football had a pretty strict drug testing policy. Which of course was hilarious to me considering my performance enhancer of choice was a werewolf kidney” He grinned. But the grin slowly turned back to somberness as the older boy started asking the real questions.  “It's a bit hard to explain,” Noah started with a sigh. Because again, there was his tragic backstory, rearing its ugly head. Looking over at the casual way that Luke was rolling the joint though Noah figured that maybe now was time to rip off the bandaid “So I lost my mom, my dad, and my little brother in a boating accident when I was 13. And before you begin, you don’t have to apologize. Life happened, I’ve dealt with it, still actively healing the whole shebang” Noah waved off the other man, not really wanting a repeat of the emotional evening he had with Simon. “But i guess to actually answer your question, running bothers me because yea it seems like an easy choice to make at the moment, but it hurts so many people that care about you. Like my family didn't even leave me on purpose, but I’ve had to deal with so many ramifications of that. So I guess-” Noah paused cocking his head a little staring down into his beer bottle “Like if the shoe was on the other foot, and I had a choice. I still would choose to stay, mostly because I know what it feels like to be left.” 

Lucas didn’t need to be told to interrupt, but the wave between them spoke volumes to how this subject was approached by others, or the very act was Noah putting up a wall between them without realizing it. He licked the paper, sealing the edges with practiced motions, and set the stuff on the table to pull out a lighter. Luke felt terrible about the tale, and could definitely understand a lot more why such a thing was difficult for Noah. He, however, was on the other side of it. The one who left, the one who always leaves, hides, or keeps away. He never did hear from Miles on how it felt-- Miles seemed so relieved to have him back that it honestly never came up. Luke struck the lighter and lit the end until it caught, drawing the smoke in and passed it to Noah. With a careful release, the burn, pleasant and familiar, “thanks for sharing that man.” Lucas said honestly, “I’m still sorry you suffered, but I do get it. I think most people who leave don’t always want to leave. It was lonely for me, and I felt awful the entire time, but it also felt like the only path in front of me or the only one I could see. It’s hard to explain.” 

Taking the joint from Luke, Noah took a long inhale, letting the smoke sit in his lungs for a few moments before exhaling. He knew what Luke was trying to say but….. “But that's the thing, it's not the only path.” Noah replied, passing the joint back to Luke and setting his beer down on the coffee table.“I mean I don't claim to know anything about your situation. But from what I know about Winn’s and well running in general” Noah shook his head. He wanted to figure out how to put everything he wanted to say delicately but it didn't seem like there really wasn’t a way to do that so he just came out and said it.  “It's not the only path. It's just more often than not the easiest one.” Because to Noah’s eyes it was. Running was easy. Staying was harder. 

Lucas slid down in the couch, and relaxed. It was already late anyway and he was in clothes he could sleep in, so the mood was comfortable. He took the joint back, and huffed a laugh at the word easy. “Exactly, it’s not. In that moment though, it’s like the only one illuminated,” Lucas enjoyed the smoke for a few seconds, pondering the best way to put it. It really was difficult to explain, and when he thought about how he convinced Winston all those years ago he’d not even sure if it would make sense to him now. “Easy-- isn’t the word I’d use for me, at least. I was recovering from three bullet wounds laced with silver. Shit fucked up my organs, my brain-- crawling from a damn grave by myself. I didn’t even exist for a couple months. I don’t remember healing or how I did, or who was always there. All I knew,” he passed the joint, voice deeper as he spoke from it, and swirled his beer giving Noah all the attention. “All I knew was that this person existed and had me murdered and watched it. So my reasoning was-- well I’ll stay dead then, so he can’t hurt me anymore. Then shit, years went by so fast. I regret it though. Now-- I regret being alone.”

“I dunno about that.” Noah shook his head before grabbing a pillow and placing it casually on his lap legs sprawling out a bit between them. It was too early to feel the effects of the joint but he was prepared for his body to loosen nevertheless. “I think, and maybe this is just my brain, but like. I’d rather take a second and assess my options before I just blindly choose one. That way I know it's a decision I won't regret” He shrugged out taking the joint back from the other man. “I do get it though.” Noah started after another drag. Because he did in some way. Healing from his kidney procedure and the aftermath of well everything had put him in a very weird headspace that was hard to get out of. “Like not all of it obviously, but yea. Shits not fair. And I know from experience that this really doesn't help but, sorry you had to go through that.” He nudged Luke gently with his foot hoping the other took the touch as sincere and heartfelt. 

Luke hummed in response. He’s promised himself after the last attack, the glaring one up his arm and scarred over, that he would make sure the people around him had a version of Luke that wasn’t like his past self. When he was in his twenties, it was different. He was selfish, he partied, and got into trouble to hide from the fact what was happening to him was happening at all. Everything Gotch has instilled in him had to be unraveled, unlearned, and it had to start with him listening a little more carefully. “Thanks-- before I met you all, I considered just leaving with him. But that was just because he was in my head, still is mind you-- but it’s getting better.” Lucas’ hand rested on his legs, fingers easily toying with the skin just above Noah’s shoe. “Well, I’m not going anywhere. If Gotch wants me, he has to kill me cause I won’t go without a serious fight.” Lucas wanted that fight more than anything, even if he probably couldn’t handle it mentally yet. “Hrmm, come here-- you are too far away.” Lucas pouted just a little bit, but it was with a smile as he tucked his head back on the couch and drank his beer. “What do you want from family Noah? What does that look like for you?” 

Noah nodded solemnly as he handed the joint back to Luke “Glad you didn’t” Lukes touch on his foot was nice, Noah wouldn’t deny it. “Too far away for what?” Noah asked playfully poking Luke again with his toe before repositioning so he was fully on the couch now, legs folded underneath him. There was still a good few inches between the boys but Noah was closer than before. “Cuz If you lure me in with a hug just to kidney punch me Imma be mad bro.” He didn't think that's really what Luke was going to do but he had to jest any way, especially as Lucas hit him with the family question. “Oh god, thats a loaded question” Noah ran a hand through his hair as he thought “I guess i really just want loyalty, and love, and people who care”  

“I won’t punch you,” he laughed, “I might be bigger, but your arms are no joke.” Lucas knew he was asking a lot of personal shit, but he really did want to know. Family was important for anyone, and he hoped Noah hadn’t forgotten that feeling after losing his. Lucas slid down on the couch, all six foot two of him taking over most of the thing, forcing his legs and feet around Noah’s criss crossed position so he didn’t kick him off. The joint played easily on his lips, taking soft inhales and holding it near his mouth when Noah explained further. “It’s not that loaded,” he let a low swirl of smoke. “I was curious-- I want to see you find that. I’m a sap though, totally sensitive, it’s why--” He stopped himself from saying it, that's why he’s always the one fucked up by people who take advantage of him. The high rolled pleasantly in a way that made his mind linger in thought a little deeper. “Alright, ask me anything. No matter how crazy or invasive, I’ll answer it honestly.” Luke looked at the joint almost gone, handing the very last bit to Noah to finish. 

“Bruh you are a literal werewolf. You could knock me out easily” Noah huffed simply accepting his fate between Lucas’ outstretched legs. In any other situation he’d be panicking, mostly because positions like this were reserved for the boys and the boys only, not people he barely knew. But he was relaxed enough right now that he kinda didn’t care. Which was new. But ultimately nice. “No problem with being sensitive bro,” Noah clucked as Luke stopped mid sentence patting the other’s leg gently.   “You’re a born wolf right?” Noah scrunched his eyebrow slightly trying to remember what he’d been told as he took the last hit off the joint “So is touching like a wolf thing? I know Winn likes to touch me a lot, and then there’s this” He motioned to Lucas’ legs around his middle, blowing out the last bit of smoke out of his lungs “To which I don’t mind or anything, but just thought I’d ask, for like reference you know”

“I am,” he confirmed, sipping his beer and closing his eyes to let his high roll into something relaxing and not paranoid. “Touching is just nice. Men never let themselves experience it so easily-- thinks it's taking shit too far with their friends, but being a wolf trait? Hmmmm, probably. The last guy I was with for a night-- his scent, that smallest touch. God. I still think about him, want him.” He huffed a laugh-- his mind didn’t need to linger in kissing Otto right now even though his fingers lingered on his lips. “Maybe touch is too, all our senses are heightened, hearing, smell, taste, sight, so it might be.” Lucas shrugged, glancing down at his position and grinned cheekily. “Ah, that’s probably more me. I can move if you don’t like it, but since I’m being honest. You seem very snuggable, do people hold you enough? It’s ‘probably’ why Winn hangs all over you. You have that vibe, my dude.”

The last guy. Noah made a mental note of the gender. Not that it mattered to him, he was fine with Lucas being bisexual after all, but still that was interesting. “I agree about the men thing” Noah nodded with a sigh “My best friends and I are pretty touchy, but it took a long time to get to that point. Or at least it did for me. Being the weird new kid in their group and all” Noah shrugged looking down at lucas’ leg. He was tempted to poke it again, but stopped when the conversation turned to about him being touched and snuggled. “No, they don’t” It was out of his mouth before he could stop himself, the mixture of weed and the alcohol lowering his brain to mouth filter. “I mean, I’m just usually the one doing the emotional support snuggling, not the one being snuggled I guess. Goes with the vibe” Noah shrugged out, hoping that wasn’t too much of a noticeable backtrack, though he could already feel the red tinge to his cheeks. He knew he shouldn’t be embarrassed to admit he wanted to be touched and held, but it still was hard. Noah wasn’t exactly the type to ask for what he needed after all. “You’re good though, like with me and touching and things.” He was rambling now, and probably really needed to stop talking, but hey, in for a penny in for a pound. “Like I’ll for sure tell you if you cross a line” 

Lucas frowned a little, surprised people didn’t bother giving Noah something so simple. Luke didn’t overly think about werewolf traits, but those around him now that were either bitten, or in a special case like Noah, they kept reminding him that he might take it all for granted. “I’ll leave this out there for you, but if you ever need to just cuddle up and not even talk about shit, just hit me up, man. Everyone needs to feel comfort, and I really don’t always need an explanation.” He pulled out his phone, and started ordering them cheesesteak subs and fries from a nearby place. “You don’t mind? Good-- its free real estate then,” he chuckled at himself, “I’m glad you told me the stuff about your family.” The sensitive side of Luke always surfaced while he drank and smoked, “I think I get you a little more. I’m sure I’ll piss you off again, but at least you know you totally come fight me and you won’t hurt me too much-- weakling--” He winked in tease. “I ordered us food.” 

“You say that noooow,” Noah drawlled “but in 6 months when me and my dog are always here, wrapped around you like spaghetti noodles, I have a feeling you’re gonna regret it.” He grinned at the other boy. It was reassuring to know that Luke would do that for him, even if part of Noah knew he probably would hesitate before seriously taking him up on it. Or maybe he wouldn’t. He was here after all, already settled in a comfortable and weed induced pretzel. Nodding along gently to the other Noah settled back further into the couch pulling lucas’s legs into a little bit more comfortable position. “Oh yea Catch me a couple days before a full moon asshole and we’ll see who's weakling” Noah started with a playful huff flicking the other man’s leg with a grin. It was safe to say Noah had really missed this kind of close brotherly ‘I’m gonna love you but first I’m going to threaten to hurt you’ vibe he’d had with his football team, as well as his own brother. “Good.” Noah’s ears perked up at the mention of food “I was about to die of absolute starvation. What did you get us?”

“Cheesesteaks, fries, and brownies,” Lucas snorted in amusement, for whatever reason that was funny to him, and tossed his phone on the coffee table rougher than he should have. “I’d take you on--” Luke challenged, but with his dopey grin and relaxed body it really wasn’t threatening. His mind wandered easily while he was high, and he couldn’t help but find himself happy right now. Just staring at Noah, and finding it just so damn nice. He’s almost had everyone over now, a few more people in his life needed to come over. This place-- he refused to let it be touched by Gotch, or anything negative. Even with the ghost attached to his soul, feeding on what was so easily bright and happy in a world that played him bad hands. He rolled up in an impressive crunch and grabbed Noah into a wrestling hold, kicking the pillows everywhere, even the cushions. He laughed loud, comfortable-- happy. 

“Nicceeeeeee” Noah breathed out with a happy grin, easing into his mellow. Yelping slightly as the other boy grabbed him though Noah couldn’t help but feel this surge of belonging, even as the cushions went flying, and laughter filled the room. They hadn’t known each other for long but yet wrestling with Luke on the couch just felt so normal, and so right. While they didn’t always see eye to eye Luke was becoming a brother figure he hadn’t had in a long time, and Noah wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

[sanguinarius-archive]

im not that familiar with treatsforbeats i watched like. a few videos but other than that i know nothing! but i would be glad to hear you info dump!

there is SO MUCH..... im gonna put a read more below because this turned out to be way longer than i expected. but you asked for me to infodump so here goes

okay so. treatsforbeasts, i dont know what the whole meaning behind the channel is. i cant specifically say what the goal of the channel’s content is because its all in my interpretation. but i do know that there are meanings behind each video as silly as it may seem and im just gonna list them off here (note that not all videos will be included since i may not be able to interpret every one, also this is going from earliest to most recent)

1. men with small hands carry very little treats to give to little girls with the sharpest little teethinterpretation of this video is csa/child sex trafficking. “little treats” refers to pills or some form of drug (small, makes u trip). however the “sharpest little teeth” could represent the little girl fighting back.

2. mom ordered ants for my birthdaychild abuse. mother forces son to watch and/or possibly engage in inappropriate activity with her husband.

3. i love jesusobviously a dark parody of christianity/catholicism. shows how blindly some fanatical christians/catholics will follow their beliefs, to the point where they no longer truly “follow” it as theyve warped the message to fit their own morbid desires (using christianity/the bible to excuse hatred and judgment upon others).

4. i me you love godanother dark parody of christianity/catholicism. i believe it mocks how fanatical christians/catholics focus only on the negative aspects of the bible instead of learning the true messages, as many of the words used are from the bible and are negative words.

5. behdsPROBABLY just a silly video but, i think it represents how people let negativity embed itself into their lives and complain about it even though it’s so easy to just let go of it.

6. jaffreymocking some sitcoms for how dumb and repetitive they can be.

7. kiss papa’s mustachepossibly child abuse, again.

8. storytimereferences/implies child abuse. storytime is also the name of one of treatsforbeasts’ songs on his Sanguinarius - Sin Nomine album.

9. hymns for him (1 + 2)just total parody albums of christian rock. vocals make you feel like youre dying but its actually kinda good to listen to in some parts

10. i screaming inside my headRoii (the character)’s first appearance. also probably symbolizes how depressing some kinds of music are

11. felines have nine livesnot sure but i feel like this is a warrior cats reference, in complete and total honesty (dont watch it if you dont like c/at d/eath though, its fictional but. yeah)

12. beastsreflection of society as a whole

then there’s. the two short films and sin nomine. so i’m gonna delve into that now and be warned, it’s fuckin long

treatsforbeasts is the self-titled short film and the first longest video on the treatsforbeasts channel. basically what i get from this is that treatsforbeasts, the channel itself, symbolizes an actual channel that chauncy (the child character in the short film, who is portrayed as a literal oral fleshlight with a body) watches. he consumes these concepts, such as internalizing misogyny (claw-paw skit), toxic masculinity (can i like balloons skit) and being exposed to a normalization of christianity (heaven and hell skit). there’s also a skit in which a spider binge eats and then proceeds to throw it up, which chauncy actually mimicks when his father brings him food.his father very much disapproves of these messages being shown on tv. he tells chauncy in regards to the claw-paw skit, when chauncy belittles the female character, “that’s not very nice, now is it”, and says “you can like ballons, you can love balloons if you want to”. his father goes on long tangents about how many institutions have normalized and inherited the concepts of christianity, and that it is one of the contributing factors of violence in the world. he references colonization, the holocaust, and in general mentions minorities.we learn that the father actually ended up being a father to chauncy in the first place due to (nsfw tw) masturbating in a sock to a picture of robert smith, and 9 months later chauncy was born. so technically there is no mother. the father talks about the meaning of life, and how everyone on the inside is a little bit of a freak, but there’s only two real ways you can accept that: 1) realize that your freakishness gives you a special lense through with you see the world and aid it in the ways the sane and happy ones probably cant, and 2) realize that real way number 1 is just lying to itself and that youre still a somewhat integral part of the lives of those you care for so deeply. he says that choosing which way to live really reverts back to the meaning of life, that you cannot live day by day believing there’s no reason to. “but whatever reason you give yourself to live, [...] you do it, because it is correct to live.”

sin nomine comes after the first short film, but i’ll delve into that after because really it touches on many many of the points and interpretations here.

the second short film, the beast is dead, was released just this year on valentines day! i think the main focus of the short film ranges from relationships to just once again a mockery of christianity/catholicism. once again it starts off with a father and his son. there is no mother figure present though she’s said to have left, due to the father watching too much “birdies”, a show, which i think is a metaphor for porn addiction. the father is implied to being prone to neglecting the son’s wants and not really caring for him, being disappointed in him, etc. etc..something important about the beast is dead is that it uses masks to portray those who are “followers” and those who are not. the father, interestingly enough, does not wear a mask. he seems to acknowledge what his son is saying when he goes on philosophical rants as well, but disregards them as nonsense and ends up leaving after bonking him with the stupid spike (metaphor for how parents will shut their children up by giving them a phone or toy to play with).the three other characters who don’t use masks in the beast is dead are Roii, Tom, and Doctor Zoughth (pronounced Zoth). Roii makes a comeback, finally! but this time he’s singing a song called “i love the sound of screaming babies”. it symbolizes how men will impregnate women and then run off, whether or not because they fantasize about pregnant women. it could also be a want of seeing a hurt child (hence the line “i know that all of you watching must think i’m insane, for loving when something so innocent is in so much pain”).however another interesting factor is that, the characters who don’t have masks, aside from Tom and the father, have red eyes at some point. this is a metaphor for how they’ve lost their humanity. Roii, at some point in the music video scene, only has one red eye whereas his other is normal. this hints at how part of him has lost his humanity while the other is still in tact.the other character that has red eyes is Dr Zoughth, but instead of him having only one red eye, both his eyes are red. this doesnt show until later though when he’s taken Tom away from the masked characters (followers). Dr Zoughth is very much self-aware. he is not blind, but simply has lost his humanity. Tom tries to reach out to him, to get him to think differently, that maybe resorting to coping with emotional struggles by worshipping something simple like flesh or something more higher than himself and forgetting his own mortality isn’t the healthiest way to live. but Dr Zoughth, having been long gone already, does not accept this and executes Tom.his own personal disciples grow tired of his tyranny and kill him and perform a ritual of some kind, disposing of his body (in the river i think, not sure). this entire ending of the film is basically the title, the beast is dead. but, i believe the beast is not dead, personally, because someone like Zoughth will always live on in other people, other beasts.there’s also a scene called grandma hespar and i think it implies how little people focus on sexual abuse towards men (when it’s from women).

anyways, with that being said, it’s time for sin nomine.

so now that i’ve explained pretty much all of treatsforbeasts to you, and whoever else is reading, it’s clear that the person behind this has issues with christianity (or catholicism), and child abuse. the person behind treatsforbeasts is Jordan Diniz, as he is also the person behind sanguinarius.

sin nomine is a very personal reflection of jordan’s life from what i gather. it depicts his struggles with how he views the world around him, whether that be due to personal experiences or not. at first i interpreted most of sin nomine to be the story of someone who is lgbt, but with jordan himself coming to me and telling me he is straight (POLITELY), it’s clear that is not the case.

so it most likely has to do with trauma. either religious or not, or both. it even says in the song storytime (remember i mentioned it earlier?), “fast hand, white hot trauma, reverberates inside the skull. innocence and intellect raped, reveals a view of a darker world. flesh on flesh, the bonds of affection - confused for the bonds of submission and fear. self-hatred and mistrust repel all beauty that comes near.” i don’t like to say that this solidifies a personal experience, but it’s highly possible.

a lot of sin nomine kind of goes over the same points in different ways, but it makes you think. i definitely feel like something happened to jordan at some point in his life but that is his story and it’s not my place to truly tell, since i don’t know him personally.

there’s also the other channel, adrianturcher. it has videos with seemingly no real purpose except for there being two videos with the same names of two songs on sin nomine, “nex memoria” and “a fetish for psychos”. nex memoria is just a compilation of clips that seem to symbolize the process of death (nex memoria is a latin phrase which very roughly translates to “memory’s death”). a fetish for psychos is a bunch of old clips from parties and shows that possibly jordan himself attended. they’re from 2002 judging by the date in the video. the lyrics in the song “a fetish for psychos” also seem to hint at these events, so it’s possibly that it’s like looking back on happy memories that make you feel sad instead or something. the song also might possibly reference a mother at the beginning.

sanguinarius also has its own channel simply called sanguinarius. there’s the music video for divine comedy (one of the songs on sin nomine) and a cover of because you’re young by david bowie, posted on his birthday a year after his death.

anyway, that’s. pretty much all i have to say. jordan diniz is a fuckin’ mastermind, he’s really good and cool and he’s very kind from my experience talking with him a couple times. he supports the gays as well!

sooooo, treatsforbeasts does have some very creepy/unsettling moments in its content but its EXTREMELY good and i recommend getting into it if you can. 100/10

[izanyas]

Blind Eye

Sully glowtoads won the prompt game by asking me for female Nie Huaisang from Nie Mingjue’s POV....... so here it is

Rating: T Words: 3,400 Warnings: misogyny, spoilers, yadda yadda

Blind Eye

Her footing was wrong.

It was rare enough that Lan Qiren's lectures turned to practice, Nie Mingjue knew. He had enough memories of his own time in Gusu over ten years ago, when he had kneeled and sat in silence in the cool air of the ancestral hall of the Lan clan, to remember as much. His father had beat enough propriety into him by then that Mingjue had not complained of his boredom, but he had felt it all the same. Only twice during the half-year he spent in the Cloud Recesses had Lan Qiren allowed for sword practice, and then again only under close supervision.

No sparring. No moving an inch off of the postures and moves taught to them by the then-not-so-old man. Postures meant more for control than fight, simple to remember and easy to recreate. At the time, Lan Xichen had been but a junior disciple, standing by and watching while Nie Mingjue trained. Lan Wangji had been a little boy by his side, sitting as still and silent as a porcelain doll.

The sword moves inculcated by Lan Qiren were not complicated, only difficult to maintain over the hours. By all means, any disciple with enough brain to walk should be able to mimic them adequately on the second or third try at most.

Huaisang's footing was wrong.

"She is not the worst of them," Lan Xichen murmured after the third time Nie Mingjue bared his teeth in frustration.

Leave it to the older Jade of Lan to find reason to defend Nie Mingjue's incompetent sister. Nie Mingjue did not reply only because he had no wish to spend his frustration on a man he respected.

"Nie Huaisang!" Lan Qiren's voice boomed over the open field. Huaisang's lazy, haphazard footwork faltered even more; the heavy saber in her hand shook and touched ground. "Is this how you plan to represent your clan name?"

Nie Mingjue did not look around to see the other sect leaders' reactions. He already knew that Lan Xichen would show none but sympathy, Jiang Fengmian none at all, and the peacock Jin Guangshan much too open a smile.

It did not help, he thought irately, that Huaisang picked the two boys from Yunmeng as an entourage for the duration of practice. Her weakness may have been overlooked, had she chosen to stand with the rows of mediocre students in plain robes whose cultivation level was low. Instead she swayed and fumbled with the serious Jiang boy at her right and the sharp Wei Wuxian to her left.

That Lan Wangji's almost poetic swordsmanship was at play half the field over was very small consolation.

Nie Mingjue did not stay to watch Lan Qiren go through the ranks a few minutes later, correcting his students in sharp words. He heard Jin Guangshan's faint hum as Huaisang's turn came to be criticized from up close and rose to his feet instead, clutching the pommel of his own weapon in one hand and thin air in the other.

Lan Xichen rose with him. Nie Mingjue avoided his eyes as well, contenting himself with directing disgust at Jin Guangshan—whom he caught in the middle of a leer no doubt directed to the girl being scolded now.

Jin Guangshan paled and looked away.

It only made Mingjue angrier at Huaisang.

He said nothing at all as Xichen led him through the quiet halls of Gusu. Meng Yao followed after him after a quick nod his way, careful to keep his own face blank of any feeling, though Mingjue knew how well the man took care of Huaisang and how much he had pleaded in her favor to allow her to study here.

Only when they reached Xichen's study did Mingjue allow himself to comment upon it. "You have it now, Meng Yao," he said spitefully. "Three months wasted and nothing to show for it but mediocrity. Huaisang shall have to apologize to you in person."

Meng Yao bowed his head and replied, placating, "I did not expect the lectures of Gusu to be so difficult. Please forgive me."

"Difficult? You saw that sorry spectacle out there." Nie Mingjue's knees cracked loudly as he sat, so tense with frustration was he. He set his heavy saber down onto the wooden floor loudly. "If Jiang Fengmian's servant boy can achieve this level of cultivation at fifteen, what excuse does my heir have?"

"Perhaps," Lan Xichen murmured, "as a young woman… Few women attend my uncle's lectures, and fewer of them the practicals. It may be that young master Meng is right, and the level is too high for her."

He had come around to recuperate tea from a boy of twelve or so who had brought it into the room. He served it now with elegance dripping from him more surely than air, than livelihood; from having met he and his brother enough times through the years, Mingjue knew that Wangji was just as talented.

His fingers dug deeply into the cup he received. "She was the one who wanted to learn," he replied, while in front of him Xichen served Meng Yao, who took his own cup in near-comical reverence. "She swindled Meng Yao into agreeing with her, begging me for months to allow her to attend the lectures." He laughed, and took a sip of scalding tea. "Do you know what her letters have been about since she arrived? Boys."

He spat the word out with enough venom to embitter the whole room.

Lan Xichen stayed elegantly silent at that. He drank from his own tea, sculpted stone in motion, while Meng Yao on his other side did nothing more than finger the rim of his cup.

"Boys," Nie Mingjue muttered again. "Jiang Wanyin and Wei Wuxian, even Jin Guangshan's son and his herd of servants. Even your brother, Xichen, has been the subject of at least a paragraph or two."

Xichen smiled weakly. "She is at that age, I suppose," he said. After a thoughtful pause, he added: "They all are."

Mingjue scoffed, "I shall like to see the day Wangji starts losing his focus over a pretty face."

Lan Xichen's smile shook slightly.

"The young lady has different worries than you," Meng Yao said softly. He bent toward Nie Mingjue as he spoke, his tea still untouched, his hand still wrapped around the cup as if afraid to let go. "Forgive me for saying—perhaps she simply needs guidance of a different kind. Female guidance."

Nie Mingjue clenched his teeth and said nothing.

It was more often than not, nowadays, that he found himself agreeing with Meng Yao's words in spite of himself. But he knew that he was right; he knew just how cold the walls of the Unclean Realm must be for Huaisang since their mother had died when she was just a little girl. She had tutors, of course, to teach her the ways of a woman. She had Meng Yao too, whose talents included knowledge of the fairer sex that most men were not privy to, thanks to his upbringing.

Mingjue felt only some mild embarrassment at thinking of the man this way. Meng Yao had been a gift to his household since his coming two years prior, and he would make use of him in every way he could, including this one.

He saw no reason to hide it either. "It's a shame your father didn't recognize you," he told Meng Yao. "I should have liked to betrothe you to Huaisang, strengthen your bond to our clan."

Meng Yao marked a still pause, his cup in hand and his face caught in the midst of a shaking smile. His eyes swept over Nie Mingjue, Lan Xichen, and then Mingjue again.

"You honor me too much, sect leader," he said stiffly, finally letting go of his tea in order to bow. "I fear the young lady would want for a better match than me, however—"

"Nonsense," Mingjue cut in. "If you had the status, what could Huaisang complain about? I fear it would be too much of a burden to ask you to care for her as a husband."

Meng Yao's still, still smile did not move.

"Jin Guangshan can't recognize talent or worth," Nie Mingjue continued heedlessly. "It's why his clan suckers the wealth off of Wen Ruohan rather than make its own accomplishments. This Jin Zixuan looks every bit the peacock that his father is."

The conversation flowed easier after that, away from the topic of the sister that Nie Mingjue never knew what to do with and onto surer political territory. Lan Xichen remained polite and clever in that quiet way of his, tempering Nie Mingjue's accusations with wisdom, listening with a creased brow to his reports of near-corpses discovered round Qinghe with red scars over their necks. Meng Yao meshed well with him too, and the both of them together coaxed the frustration out of Mingjue until his mind was clear once more, the humiliation of seeing Huaisang so mediocre among her peers long forgotten.

"What about those Wens who came to study?" he asked after Meng Yao had gone to fetch Huaisang.

The short afternoon hours were gone, the sky outside dipped in blue. Lan Xichen never looked more elegant than he did at this time of year and at this time of night, with the torchglow upon his pristine clothes, with his face caught between light and shadow.

"They caused disturbances, didn't they?"

"They are rather quiet," Xichen replied mildly. "The young lady walks around the mountain a lot. Her younger brother is sickly, I understand, so he mostly stays inside."

"Sniffing around like dogs," Mingjue added. "They were there during that incident with the waterborne abyss, weren't they."

Lan Xichen frowned and nodded wordlessly.

There was more to it than simply Wen Ruohan's need to assert dominance. Nie Mingjue had known the man next to him for a very, very long time. He had fought by his side already, studied with him and competed against him. He and Lan Xichen had struck something as close to friendship as Mingjue had ever gotten out of anyone before. He knew without needing to ask that Lan Xichen's composed face hid more than it told him.

But it was late, after all, and his sister would be waiting. He was to go back to Qinghe in the morning now that practice observation was over. Nie Mingjue still bore enough healthy respect for Lan Qiren not to wish to impose for longer than a day upon his prized lectures.

"I heard Wangji did brilliantly during that hunt," he still offered, almost in apology.

Lan Xichen smiled that smile reserved for the topic of his brother only. "I think the true heroes that day were the boys from Yunmeng. Young master Wei, especially, showed himself to be very clever and talented."

Nie Mingjue laughed. "Made an impression on your brother, did he? That's good, that's good. Boys that age need some rivalry to keep their blood pumping."

"Yes," Lan Xichen admitted, looking sad, "Wei Wuxian certainly made an impression."

They bowed and said their farewells in good humor. Although Nie Mingjue could never grow to love a place as much as he did the Unclean Realm in Qinghe, he could admit to the beauty and peace of Gusu's Cloud Recesses. His mood maintained itself as he traversed the inner dormitories where the Lan clan disciples slept, then those of the outer disciples, before reaching the guest houses. He stepped over streams and quiet, starlit paths. He wetted the hem of his robes with the arrival of dew.

His mood plummeted when he arrived to the rooms that Huaisang occupied and found her talking inanely to Meng Yao, who surely had more important things to do than pay attention to her babbling.

She quieted when she saw him. Her plain face fell, and she rose awkwardly. Meng Yao hurried to bow and leave the room.

Nie Mingjue set down his weapon on a table. He asked her, "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Huaisang opened one of her handpainted fans to hide behind. "Those exercises are too hard, brother," she complained. "It's only been three months—"

"Silence!"

He already knew what she would say. He could see the words before his eyes as he saw them in her letters—which he had stopped reading and ordered a servant to summarize for him.

It is too hard. It is too much. The rules are too many, the schedule too difficult, the distractions abundant. Her saber was heavier than the other disciples' swords. She oft felt too sick to train. Her head ached with the air of the mountains, preventing her from studying.

And then so many more strokes of ink to relate just how quick-witted Wei Wuxian was, just how rich Jin Zixuan, just how ethereal Lan Wangji. Tales and rumors of Jiang Yanli's strained relationship to her betrothed, opinionated observations of Jiang Wanyin's discussions with the Wen woman whose beauty Huaisang was jealous of.

Nie Mingjue looked at his sister, truly looked at her, for the first time in years.

She had grown, he knew, in the years he had left her to her devices. No longer was she the noisy little child that their mother carried in her frail arms, or the gangly teenager that their father used to ignore. She was almost a woman now, he supposed, and weren't those things as women ought to be? Flimsy and slow-minded, uninterested in cultivation. He had seen only three other girls in the rows of disciples that day: Jiang Yanli and Wen Qing and a round-faced envoy of Lanling whom Jin Guangshan had spent most of his time looking at.

None of them except Huaisang had participated in the practical exercises. Jiang Yanli had sat them out by her father's side, straight-backed and more poised than Huaisang could ever hope to be. Wen Qing, he guessed, had quite the mind for cultivation, but no wish to show her talent so openly. And the Jin sect girl had remained with the group of servants who had accompanied Jin Zixuan to Gusu.

"Tell me," Nie Mingjue said curtly, "did you intend to embarrass yourself like this in front of all the sect leaders?"

He couldn't see her face behind that blasted fan, only her eyes looking from one side of the room to the other and never directly at him. "No," Huaisang muttered.

"I can't hear you."

She breathed out. "No, brother," she repeated.

Then why, Mingjue wanted to ask, did you make a spectacle of yourself with those boys? Did you just intent to look like a brainless flirt? Did you think at all?

He had never known how to talk to Huaisang before. Their exchanges in Qinghe were limited to overdinner words, hardly even pleasantries, and not much else. Sometimes Mingjue saw her fool around and felt the need to give her a harsh word. Sometimes, he simply clenched his teeth and walked away.

If only you'd been born a boy, he wished, not for the first time. If only I had a brother.

If Huaisang had been born a brother of his, someone like Lan Xichen or Meng Yao, or even one of those boys she so liked to write about; perhaps then Nie Mingjue would have known how to talk to her.

Perhaps, like Jiang Fengmian, he should find himself a stray to love above his own kin.

If was with some sort of grief on his heart that he told her, "Do not humiliate me again, Huaisang."

He left without waiting for an answer.

--

Jin Guangyao covered in blood was almost a forbidden sight.

Oh, it was not the first time Nie Huaisang saw him like this. He had been gravely injured when her brother had thrown him out of the Realm all those years ago, bleeding from a stab wound to the chest. Still, he had bowed at the time with the utmost propriety. He had not rejected or begged to change his sentence for betrayal. She had his blood on her hands then quite literally, after she had helped him walk to the inner chamber where Nie Mingjue had requested to meet him. She had been panicked, at the time, not only for having gone from the Realm for so long in company of Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji, but also because Meng Yao had always been one of those she relied so preciously on.

This memory seemed so far away now. Huaisang could not remember if, in the end, her brother had scolded her for running away from home. No doubt he had known then that Lan Wangji's presence would act as a deterrent to her flirtatious ways; the boy might as well be made of stone, and wish for others to be the same.

Of course, that turned out to be quite untrue. Untrue then and untrue now. Jin Guangyao had been quick to understand and make use of that weakness.

But Nie Mingjue, injured and grieving the loss of Meng Yao—the loss of a brother—had not scolded her, she thought.

Now the Meng Yao who had fed the need for company in her when she was a teenager bled far more than ever before. It had been Lan Xichen who had dealt the last blow, an outcome none of them could have predicted and which saddened Huaisang.

Truly, she had wished Wei Wuxian would take care of it all, or at least Lan Wangji. She had no wish to see Lan Xichen hurt.

That was perhaps the only thing she and Meng Yao had in common.

He bled now, almost emptied of life already, and—

He was looking at her.

Huaisang hid behind her fan. The sight of him was grotesque, flesh and limbs cut off to expose his innards, the silk gone from his hair, his golden robes caked with dirt. It was quite unbearable to witness, and Huaisang spared a thought for the boy Jin Ling who had already lost so much, for Lan Xichen by Meng Yao's side who always looked at her with grief wedged into his eyes.

A second ago Meng Yao had been dying. Now he looked at her with a hint of understanding—with the same light in his eyes as one would get after pouring over a text for hours, looking for something and not finding it, realizing too late that it was under their eyes all along.

She lowered the fan to her neck. Behind Lan Xichen's back, she smiled at him.

It was only hours later that she found the occasion to talk to Wei Wuxian, and only then because Jiang Cheng had gone away, because Lan Wangji was with his brother and not standing by Wei Wuxian's side, looking at him like a man drunk on relief.

"It's all over now," she sighed at him, shifting from foot to foot. "Master Wei, you could've told me who you were before. I would have believed you. Thankfully now the world will learn the truth, that it was all Lianfang-Zun's doing..."

He gave her half a smile. He was even more handsome now than he had been when they were young and Huaisang had debated which of her classmates to secure a future with. Huaisang had not realized just how synonymous with safety his presence was until she had seen him emerge, bruised all over, from the Mo family house.

Looking at him and Lan Wangji now, she still felt their love to be quite a shame.

Still, she supposed, she could let him have that. Mo Xuanyu had her to thank for the spell he had used to bring the Yiling Patriarch back, but she had worked Wei Wuxian hard over the past few months. It couldn't have been easy for him.

She folded her fan back. Her fingers shook over the handle slightly. There was a tiny speck of blood in a corner of the hand-painted motif, one tiny ruby dot which would brown over in time.

Now then, she thought over the trembling of her limbs.

The path in front of her led nowhere anymore. Little by little the shackles over her broke and fell, invisible to all, leaving marks on her skin that she alone would ever see.

The steps she took down the mountain path were as light as air.

[vankoya]

The Devil Skates on Thin Ice, 2.

Genre | Hockey Player / Figure Skater Rivalry AU.

Pairing | Min Yoongi / Feminine Reader.

Words | 26,491 words.

Conspectus | The number one rule of Korea National Sport University is to never allow their elite figure skater and the captain of the ice hockey team be in the same room. Or in their case, on the same ice rink. They are infamously known for riling each other up in any way possible, and for having a mysterious history that even their closest friends know nothing about.

But when their coaches decide it is finally time to put an end to their five year rivalry, the pair of them certainly have very conflicting views about it.

Warnings | Heavy swearing and insulting. Some good ol’ pining. Alcohol and mentions of drugs. Angst. Uh, mayhaps a smidgen of smexual tension. A tad of misogyny. A very small moment of violence. Apologies to Yugyeom for making his character such a dick.

Parts | One • Two • Three (Finale)

The ‘read more’ function does not work for some mobile app users. We are still waiting on Tumblr to fix this issue, so please message them about it and not me, as I have definitely put a ‘read more’ break beneath this note!

To say you do not remember a single thing about last night is greater than an understatement.

It feels, quite literally, as though a spell of amnesia has been cast over the past multitude of hours, wearing off at about six in the evening when your first Caipiroska was poured by Minah. Everything between then and now rests beneath a thick fog of uncertainty—you could have met the bloody Queen of England, for all you knew. The scattered memories are all the more difficult to grasp as a result of the throbbing headache that pounds fiercely between your temples, encouraging you to keep your eyes tightly closed so as not to allow even a sliver of sunlight through.

A thick film coats your tongue, tasting of stale alcohol and, oh god, probably vomit. When you part your lips, your voice creaks like an old door that has been closed for years. The rusty hinges croak in a groan directed at Past You for not taking Future You, which is now officially Present You, into consideration when the soju bombs were handed out in fives.

“Fuck you, ___,” you grumble into your pillow, shoving your face deeper into the feathery plush as though you can bury your migraine in the fabric. “You insensitive, alcohol-mixing bitch. Never drink vodka and beer in the same hour. How could you forget that? It’s the golden fucking rule. Stupid girl. Silly bloody idiot.”

In the midst of aspersing yourself, there is a raucous clatter from outside of the bedroom, sounding like a lightning strike within the apartment as it shatters through the walls. More so, it is the familiar sound of heavy cutlery clanging against pots and pans within a stainless steel sink, metal-on-metal that slams straight through your skull and pierces the centre-point of your headache with a swift blow. The clanging continues in a cacophonous symphony that appears to be boundless in its protraction.

So, burying yourself into the nest of sheets with a whine, as if the thin cotton can even manage to smother the noise in the slightest, you curl your fingers into the mattress. Bracing yourself against the torture with taut shoulders, and barely withholding a distressed sob while you wallow in your agony.

You wonder what delusional, potentially still drunken state Minah must currently be in to be unleashing such torturous hell on a Saturday morning. Or why she is even awake before midday after a night out, for that matter. On any other occasion, Minah is a corpse until the late afternoon, and only when the sun is nearly perched upon the horizon to make way for the moon is she rising from the dead to inhale two litres of water and a microwave meal before she returns to her grave until practice begins at seven the next morning.

There is a vicious shout of, “Shut the fuck up, would you!” and the disturbance ceases to absolute silence. But the peace remains for the scarcest of moments until another voice is roaring back with hardly suppressed outrage, spitting, “It’s not my fault you haven’t done the fucking dishes in a week, you selfish prick! Some people like to eat, Yoongi!” followed by a punctuating, singular clang. Then, the quiet returns.

The sudden tranquillity is a soothing balm on your raging temples. You release the breath you were holding tight in your lungs while you had braced yourself against the vociferation. The exhalation gently lulls your tired limbs into a state of–

What.

When your eyes snap open, the sunlight is immediately striking; a searing burn on the sensitive film that coats your bloodshot gaze. You hardly need to adjust your focus in order to know the sole fact that settles in a heavy stone of dread within the pit of your stomach.

This is not your room.

The space is minimal, though the floor is filthy; littered with laundry and hockey gear and discarded balls of paper. A broad desk that is surprisingly neat and paired with a sleek, black swivel chair is pushed in the corner opposite to the bed, which is positioned under the window where the blinds are marginally open above you, allowing slats of sunlight to filter through and torment your throbbing headache. Next to the double doors of the closet is a free-standing mirror, and your reflection is unseen from the angle that you lay startled within. The top half is draped in a terribly familiar jersey of red and black.

The number 31 is salient in large, bold white lettering at the centre of the material. Though it is most certainly not as prominent as the MIN that stands out inches above it. The three letters set off screeching alarm bells within your mind, and you bolt upright on the mattress in a state of suffocating panic, cracking your elbow against the sill of the window in the process.

“Shit!” you yelp, cringing from the sharp pain that shoots up your arm, cradling it to your chest as you keel over your knees and dramatically collapse back onto the bed like the world just could not help but dig your hell-hole of a situation all the deeper.

You are in Yoongi’s room. Of all the fucking people it could have been, it had to be him.

Amidst the anguish, a succession of thumping footsteps steadily becomes apparent as they grow louder, nearer, almost as though they are jogging. Then, the door is histrionically thrown open and a wide-eyed, flustered Yoongi comes into view, panting a little like he had ran from the other side of the apartment at the voicing of your distress. Honestly, you surprise yourself by holding back the lurching urge to hurl up the contents of last night at the sheer sight of him.

“Oh, you’re awake,” he impassively states, hand slipping from the doorknob as the veil of concern that thinly manipulated his features is composed into one of nonchalance. “Thought you might’ve died overnight. I was hoping, at least.”

“No, I’m just sleeping with my goddamn eyes open. Of course I’m fucking awake, what does it look like?!” you shrill, squinting at him as the migraine spikes especially acute, fingertips abandoning your bruising elbow and coming to your temples to gingerly massage the thrumming flesh. “And to be frank, death sounds like a much more favourable option than waking up in your room. What am I doing here, Yoongi?”

He merely shrugs, not giving anything away. “I’d like to ask you the same thing.”

“Don’t start,” you mutter bitterly, slowly lifting yourself out of the—admittedly, exceptionally comfortable—bed at a steady pace in order to not throw your pounding head into another death spiral of agony.

As you do so, you notice an unfamiliar weight that sags over your figure. Glancing down at your body, you come to realise that your attire from last night is drowned beneath a thick, maroon sweater, the hem brushing at the middle of your thighs. The aroma that drifts from it is oaky; a damp forest on a misty morning combined with underlying tones of cinnamon. A familiar and refined scent that is so potently Yoongi, making it evident that the clothing is his. An involuntary shiver crawls up your spine.

Though before you can claw Yoongi down to the bone for answers, Minah’s voice reverberates through your hammering skull in a long-lost conversation, filed somewhere in the pages of under a year ago.

A man is no gentleman if he doesn’t let you wear his sweaters after sex! It’s just a part of the common courtesy code!

Desperately, you stifle the urge to screech as a burning sensation climbs your throat, flushing your cheeks with a heat of sheer horror while Yoongi watches on, utterly oblivious.

“We didn’t–” You emphasise with wide eyes and a swaying gesture of your hand– “Uh, you know?”

Yoongi, for a second, looks wholly alarmed by your assumption before he eases into amusement, barking out a sharp laugh. “While you were drunk out of your mind? Hell no. Do I look like some crazy sicko to you?”

The both of you stare one another down in a cursory silence, broken by your voice as you start to wrestle the sweater over your head, senses drenched in his cologne, “I’m not going to answer that.”

“Once we got back, I left you to your own devices, thank you very much.” Offence lays thick in his tone. His arms fold indignantly over his chest, and you blatantly ignore the way that the lean muscles of his biceps peek out of the navy sleeves of his shirt. “I slept on the tacky leather couch, which is like laying on an ironing board made of granite, I’ll have you know. So yeah, thank you Yoongi for sacrificing your bed to my drunk ass for the night,” Yoongi mimics in a pitched voice that is nowhere near similar to your own, proceeding to jab an accusing finger at your face. “I hope that hangover feels like a bitch for the rest of today, you ungrateful brat.”

“Well, thank you for manhandling my ass into your apartment, pervert,” you hiss with conviction, ditching the sweater to the sea of trash that comprises his bedroom floor, cringing at the mess. “And christ, into this pigsty! What the hell, do you still not do laundry? And dishes either, by the sounds of Jimin’s aneurysm.”

Still. You bite your tongue, wincing, hoping Yoongi did not notice. When you glance at him, his exaggerated smirk appears as though it is fighting to mask a twinge of something much softer. Shit.

Despite this, he sends you a slow, deliberate wink. “What can I say, the ladies love it when I’m dirty.”

“No, fuck no. I refuse to throw up right now. Shut your goddamn mouth.” Clutching at your woozy stomach, you hastily scan the room for any sign of your cellphone or purse—anything that draws significance as your own belongings amidst everything that is so entirely and unbearably Yoongi. “Where–”

“This?” Yoongi cuts in and your gaze darts back to him, noticing with a wave of relief that the familiar case of your mobile is held gingerly in his grasp. Like a magnet drawn to an opposite pole, you speedily pick your way through the colossal clutter until you stand a good metre away from Yoongi, hand outstretched.

“Thank you,” you barely manage to say as a way of inclining him to hand over the device. The expression of gratitude tastes sour on your tongue, and it ferments all the more when he merely grins wider and makes no move to give it back. Barely containing your rage, you close your eyes and exhale loudly through your nose. “Please, Yoongi. Give it to me.”

“Well, isn’t that just a little suggestive.”

As simple as flicking a switch, the restrained anger that you were genuinely doing so well to keep at bay ignites all the greater, eyes snapping back open to discover Yoongi still wickedly grinning. “I swear to–”

The starting notes of your Until the End of Time ringtone startles the both of you; Yoongi nearly drops the vibrating device while you jump with a parrotlike squawk. The shock sparsely settles before you take the opportunity of his momentary vulnerability to lunge towards his hand, reaching for your mobile. But his sportsman reflexes are too sharp, underestimated in your desperate efforts. Yoongi lifts the cellphone high above his head, a victorious blaze flaring in his eyes as you create a strangled sound of annoyance and firmly plant a palm on his shoulder so that you have some leverage to push yourself up when you jump. All the while, Justin Timberlake continues to sing above your heads and Yoongi-come-Satan laughs heartily at your meagre attempts to grab the phone.

“Yoongi! Give it here!” you shout directly in his face, mid-jump, and he cringes at the dusting of spit that sprays from your mouth onto his cheeks.

“Ugh, the fuck–”

“The call is going to end, stop it!”

Once you are stationary on the ground, preparing to leap again, Yoongi takes the advantage and yanks you down into a headlock, hunching over your torso and nestling your face against his stomach as you squeal out of surprise. Among your exasperated thrashing, the ringtone ceases and you believe, for a sparing moment, that it is due to the call having rung through to voicemail. But that credence is only fleeting when you hear Yoongi begin to speak.

“Hey Minah, yeah it’s Yoongi again,” the Devil converses casually as if he does not currently have you wrestled into submission. “Uh-huh, yeah ___’s awake now, she’s just– Oof–!” A firm elbow knocks into his side, which you come to realise is the one that you previously smacked against the window, and you both groan in unison. Even so, his hold does not let up. “She’s beating the absolute shit out of me. Agh, um yeah, sooner is better than later because we have to practice. Bring some clothes for her if you can. ‘kay, bye!”

At long last, your bind is released and you scamper to grab your phone that he now willingly offers to you. The both of you are mildly panting after such exertion this early in the morning, and most especially in the wake of your hangovers. Before you can lift the phone to your ear to catch Minah before she hangs up, you realise that the call has already been disconnected. The locked screen displays an array of notifications that you swipe through—unanswered texts and missed calls from both Hoseok and Minah. Your brow furrows when you realise they have completely ceased by about 11PM.

“What’s wrong, doll?” Yoongi teases, though his expression remains blank, leaning against the doorframe as the old nickname shoots through your heart in a kryptonite bullet. You frown all the more in an attempt to guise the pain of the fragments shattering amongst your ribs; a metal firework of old memories that you wish he would stop trying to resurface.

“Looks like my friends are a lot shittier than I first assumed,” you mutter, staring at the screen. You ignore how the fluttering vessel in your chest continues to bleed among the damage, exceptionally so as you truly begin to register how close you are to the Devil himself, right now. “They stopped the missing-persons search before midnight, which is unheard of since nobody goes home until it’s known that everyone is safe. But they clearly broke the pal code by the fact that I stayed the night with you, and they haven’t even bothered to make contact until the damage has already been done.”

The corners of Yoongi’s lips twitch, as if he does not know whether he wants to smirk at your ignorant insolence or smile at the fact that you have hardly changed. “They tried, y’know. You caused them a fair amount of trouble last night.”

Flicking your gaze up from the phone, you glare daggers at him. “What do you mean?”

“Well, let’s just say that you were really drunk and you ran off on them at the start of the party,” Yoongi pushes himself off the doorframe and shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, staring right into your eyes to convey his honesty. “And then I, also quite drunk, found you out on the roof. We had, uh, a conversation, I suppose, before the police arrived to shut the place down. You kind of passed out, I had to carry you most of the way outside and both Minah and Hoseok were waiting for you, worried as all hell. They were insisting they take you back to your dorm with Minah, but you were coherent enough to say that you weren’t um–” Despite himself, a flush blossoms on Yoongi’s cheeks, which has your own beginning to burn with sheer embarrassment and a growing concern as to what you possibly could have said– “Leaving me. You wanted to stay with me–”

“No fucking way.”

“So, with their permission and after an exchange of phone numbers, we came back to my place–”

“No fucking way.”

“Yes way. I dropped you into my bed and then I went to sleep on the couch once I had made sure Jimin and Taehyung got home without missing any limbs or teeth,” Yoongi, as though he cannot help but rev the engine for the guilt trip, narrows his gaze at you like a disappointed guardian scolding their child. “If anything, I’d say you were the shitty friend for putting Hoseok and Minah through all of that. You basically ruined their night, since they spent most of it looking for you.”

A sea of mortification submerges you. The water fills your lungs and you feel yourself suffocating, unable to believe the truth that Yoongi bleeds out on you, though no surface makes itself apparent to break through and breathe once again like this is a punishment that you are deserving of for cussing out your friends when you were the one who was the burden in the first place. Still, you manage to find your voice buried in the back of your throat, meekly making its way past your lips.

“You’re lying.”

Yoongi’s frown deepens, creasing the smooth skin between his eyebrows. “No, I’m not.”

“Not about the last part, I’m sure that’s true,” you raggedly inhale, trying to hide the way your fingers shake around the device you clutch by dropping your hands to your sides, gaining the confidence to stare him directly in the eyes again so you can gauge the slightest shift in his reaction. “But there is no way that you would have just put me to bed like nothing happened. That’s not your style. You don’t leave people alone when they’re in need.”

It is barely there. The glint of vulnerability that is quick to be guised by a stone cold facade. Yoongi watches you guardedly, lacing his words with enough venom to conceal the dishonesty when he mutters, “Funny, somebody made me change that about five years ago.”

You cannot help but flinch as if he has physically inflicted you; the words are carved into your chest by the tip of a knife held by his own hand. It is ridiculous, utterly stupid to be so hurt by such sentiments when you were the one to enforce him to despise you this way by being the instigator of such a tragic rivalry. Standing there, staring into his unchanging expression that has done nothing but grow sharper and more handsome over the past five years, the pearly scars prickle and itch like a reminder as to why you must stand your ground and never hold up the white flag of surrender.

But a smothered voice at the back of your mind starts to question whether such determination to be spiteful is even worth it anymore.

The blare of a horn outside of the apartment startles the both of you silly, and a strange sense of comfort settles in your chest when you realise that you are not the only one who is feeling so high-strung around the other. A balancing act where, eventually, one of you is bound to fall, and it is up to the other whether they have the courage to face the drop with them.

You let your eyes fall to the sensation of your phone vibrating once against your palm, not bothering to check the screen. “That’s Minah,” you mumble, combing your free hand through your knotty hair and shaking it out as if doing so will rid you of the anxiety. You briefly wonder what on Earth the rest of your make-up-smeared appearance must look like when your knuckles snag on the tangled strands. “I’m leaving.”

A streak of something that resembles mild panic darts through Yoongi’s eyes, though you are already pushing past him to concern yourself with what it may have truly been. As you go, he mutters underneath his breath, and that, you do catch onto. The words send a chill beneath your skin that has not a thing to do with the cool air of the bedroom.

Just like you did the first time things got hard, huh?

The apartment layout is precisely the same as your own, allowing you to easily navigate down the hallway of mostly closed doors to enter the shared living room and kitchen. Immediately, your nose is hit by the mouth-watering aroma of eggs and butter in a frying pan that is manned by none other than Park Jimin in a pair of boxer shorts. And praise all the holy things, it is clearly not a myth that he has the thickest thighs on campus, evident in the defined muscles that curve the golden skin of his legs; flexed in unadulterated display with the way that his weight rests upon his right leg while he works. Your phone vibrates once more in your hand, and you cannot help but quietly chuckle to yourself at the thought of sneakily snapping a picture for Minah to salivate over. Though that plan is quick to be corrupted when Jimin whips his head around at the sound.

“Oh, hey Ice– ___,” Jimin says from the breakfast bar as if it is the most natural occurrence in the world to see you walking out of Yoongi’s bedroom on a Saturday morning. His gaze slips southward from your face, eyes widening as he, suddenly flustered, stammers out, “C-Cute outfit you got there.”

“What?” All mirth is eradicated as you exclaim the single word, overwhelmed by alarm and you glance down and realise that, oh god, you completely forgot how utterly flimsy, thin, and terribly short the white dress that you wore last night is. Your entire body burns with the might of the sun. “No. Shit. I’m so sorry, I–”

“Is he terrorising you, sweet pea?”

The deep, anonymous voice floats right beside your ear and you jump in surprise, covering your mouth to conceal the shriek. The speaker of the question manoeuvres around you in a silky red kimono, his peculiarly gorgeous face inches from your own. Amidst your heart palpitations, you assume him to be Kim Taehyung—a man you have only ever heard stories about and never actually seen in the flesh.

His large, almond eyes regard you with keen interest. A broad, tan palm gently rests upon your bare shoulder and sends an unusually tantalising shiver up your spine. “Hm, I see why Yoongi is so enthralled by–”

“I thought you were leaving.”

At that, all heads turn to the second intruder of the conversation. Yoongi stands behind you, appearing both mortified and infuriated. His eyes zero in on your face, vaguely fleeting to Taehyung’s hand that gingerly touches your exposed skin before coming back to stare at you with a greater volume of seething darkening his eyes. A bud of spiteful glee buds within your chest.

“That’s no way to introduce me, Yoongi,” Taehyung purrs before directing his gaze to you, and you have to admit that you are slightly blown away by the boxy grin that he gives you, absolutely dazzling at this proximity. “I’m Taehyung, sweet thing. No need to tell me who you are, I know all about you. It is a pleasure to finally meet the one and only heartbreaker of Min–”

It occurs all at once. Yoongi charges at Taehyung. Jimin hastily drops the dirtied pan in the sink to prevent the oncoming slaughter between his two flatmates, and the loud clatter slices through your migraine like it had no more than twenty minutes ago. Lastly, an angry fist pounds heavily against the front door, and at that final sound, all movement ceases to a complete standstill. Yoongi is in the process of getting Taehyung into a headlock, and Jimin already has an arm wedged between their bodies, wielding a wooden spoon dotted with the morsels of his scrambled eggs.

You stand before them, astonished by the bizarre scene. Clearing your throat, you slowly begin to shuffle around the spectacle, and the three boys shift their gazes from the entranceway across the room to you.

“M-Minah’s here so, uh, bye,” you stammer, picking up your pace and zipping away to the front door with your phone clutched tightly to your chest. You release an exhale of relief the second you are around the wall and out of their line of sight.

But the repose is short-lived, for when you open the door, you come face to face with the epitome of sheer vexation.

“Well well, if it isn’t the goods that I came for,” Minah, hands on her hips, says with bitter impatience. Her gaze slides down your attire in a manner that is similar to the way Jimin’s had. Unsurprisingly, the judgement in her eyes is tenfold. “I see why Yoongi told us to bring clothes. Vaginas are great and all, but whipping them out willy-nilly can be a little confronting.”

“You,” is hissed as you grab the hem of the dress and pull it down, cheeks burning brighter, “were the one who told me to wear this! And what do you mean us?”

Minah throws a thumb over her shoulder. “Hobi is in the car. We both came to the agreement that we’re going to get coffee and sit you down for a nice, long chat about everything that has happened over the past 24-hours. Prepare yourself for the interrogation.”

Peering past her, you notice that Hoseok is most definitely sitting in the passenger seat with his eyes closed and the side of his face smushed against the glass of the window. You glance back at her, raising an eyebrow. “He’s looking one-hundred-and-ten percent dead right now.”

“Hence why we’re doing this over coffee.”

“Hm, understandable.”

“Hey Minah, thanks for picking ____ up,” is cheerfully voiced from down the entranceway, growing nearer with his footsteps. You briefly close your eyes in all of your chagrin just as Minah flicks her own above your head, looking at Yoongi. You can practically hear the grin in his tone, unbearably close, as he continues to say, “I’m sorry she caused you so much trouble last night. It seems like she hasn’t changed much since the old days.”

Your entire body suddenly feels as though you have been dunked into the Arctic Ocean. What the fuck is he doing?!

“The old days,” Minah echoes with a tight grin while you attempt to telepathically send a giant fuck you to the pea-sized brain of the bane of your existence. You hesitantly look at Minah, who has now averted her gaze to you, eyes filled with accusation and the potential threat of first-degree murder. “Sorry Yoongi, but do you mind elaborating on what exactly you mean by that?”

“Oh, ___ hasn’t told you about us at all?” Yoongi’s faux bewilderment sounds more intrigued than anything to your own hearing. The curiosity that underlies it is undeniable, especially paired with the prickle of the small hairs at the nape of your neck when you feel the flicker of his pupils resting there. For a fearful second, you are absolutely certain he is going to reveal the history that you have smothered so well from your present life right on his front doorstep. That he will unlace the taut stitches to expose the ugly scars beneath for Minah to witness—to finally see the truths you have masked for the past five years.

Yet, you are unsure if you should consider it a blessing when Yoongi curls his arm around your frame and lightly jostles you. His bare skin is desirably warm—comforting—against your own, when he instead says, “Well, I’m sure she’ll fill you in. We were very close back then, I’ll have you know.” At that, his palm that cups your shoulder lifts, and the weight of his presence momentarily alleviates, only to return with his hand against your spine, swiftly shoving you forward and out of the house, almost barrelling you into Minah. “Enjoy your coffee date!” he calls, sugary sweet, and then the door slams with a loud bang that drives another nail into your pulsing headache.

Of course, only Min Yoongi—Satan himself wearing the flesh of a human—could possibly save your ass whilst simultaneously serving it on a silver platter to be slaughtered by none other than your best friend in the terrifyingly near future.

Speaking of the aforementioned, she would appear almost comical if it were not for the fact that she looks about ready to skin you alive. With Yoongi having pushed you out of the house, you stand nearly nose-to-nose with Minah. Her brows are raised to the skies; her eyeballs are bulging with barely suppressed rage; her fingers are digging deep into her hips as though she is tightly gripping onto the final shreds of her sanity.

Your mouth opens and then snaps close. You repeat this in your state of stupefaction as your brain tries to process everything that has occurred over the past hour, concurrently attempting to conjure an explanation before Minah makes you her next taxidermy project.

But some deity must be looking over your sorry self, for your best friend wordlessly turns on her heel and storms towards the car. Then again, you are not entirely certain this is a more positive outcome than her screaming bloody murder in your face for the entire residence to hear.

Awkwardly, you skitter after Minah as she charges towards the car pulled up on the curb, still opening and closing your mouth like a complete idiot. Yoongi has only cracked the gateway to the past open. Allowing you the choice of either filling that gap with yet another layer of deceit, or to swing the door wide open and let all that you have kept secured under lock-and-key to come flooding through. But you know that you owe it to both Minah and Hoseok after all this time of keeping quiet.

Perhaps, not the entirety of the truth. But at least enough of a glimpse to tide them over until the next time Yoongi so abruptly thrusts his hands into your history and yanks the unwanted memories right into your field of vision.

Before you climb into the backseat, you notice your reflection in the window. To say you look hungover is a grand understatement. Your silver eyeshadow has broken apart and is scattered in glittery specks over the spotty foundation on your cheeks; mascara rims your eye bags and emphasises the purple crescent moons embedded there; your lipstick only remains to be a dodgy line that outlines your mouth. You look like absolute shit. And not in the I-just-had-the-best-one-night-stand-of-my-life way, but in the my-brain-feels-like-it-is-going-to-explode-because-I-slept-in-the-bed-of-my-number-one-enemy kind of way.

When Minah slams the driver’s door, the entire car trembles on its wheels. The sound wakes up Hoseok with an annoyed garble of insults, and slices another dagger of agony through your skull. You shut your own with a soft click, behaving like a mouse in the presence of a cat. Not wishing to make any moves that may disturb your best friend and make her pounce.

Yet, staring at the haggard reflection of yourself in the review mirror over Minah’s shoulder, you finally sigh and say, “Can I at least go home and shower first?”

“No, you need to suffer a while longer,” Minah firmly denies you as she jams the keys in the ignition. The engine revs before the squeal of the tyres skidding out on the road silences whatever protest you were attempting to muster.

A small voice in the back of your mind agrees with her, whispering that you deserve this. You have deserved it all since the first moment you told Min Yoongi you never wanted to see his face again.

During the drive to the cafe, you change in the backseat into a simple black sweater, blue jeans, and your battered white sneakers. The familiar clothing is an immediate comfort, yet you continue to avoid looking at your deathlike face and dishevelled hair in any kind of reflective surface. As the promise of a hot beverage becomes ever closer, both you and Hoseok slowly gain more life. Yet the car remains to be swamped by an unpleasant lack of conversation, which is unusual for your gossipy trio. The radio is blaring so loudly that none of you would be able to hear each other if you tried, anyway.

It is not until the three of you have arrived at the cafe, ordered, and received those aforementioned orders that the silence finally begins to crack. A sigh passing through your lips acts as the key to the gateway of conversation.

“Look, I’m really sorry–”

“Apology accepted. We all make mistakes. Now,” Minah immediately cuts you off, her interests clearly residing elsewhere. Nonetheless, your mouth hangs open and she reaches across the table to lift your chin and shut it. “If you could be so kind as to tell me what one, fine Min Yoongi meant when he said the old days…?”

You nearly choke on your sip of iced Americano at the question. Hoseok, looking at least ten times more alive than he was in the car now that he has half of a latte in his stomach, jerks back in surprise. His eyes bore into Minah.

“What?” Hoseok says, completely aghast. His eyes slide over to you, bulging out of their sockets. “What? Excuse me. What the fuck happened while I was teetering on the cusp of death?”

With your knuckles digging into your eyes, you mutter, “Min fucking Yoongi, that bastard–”

“Yes, that bastard,” Minah helpfully coaxes you, leaning across the table to stick her face in your own, behaving like an interrogator trying to get a criminal to confess. “What old days did you have with that beautiful bastard?”

“We were…” you trail off, feeling years worth of bile rising in your throat, clogging up your airway. You close your eyes and bury your face further into your palms, elbows propping you up against the table, lips pressing against the heels so that both Minah and Hoseok have to lean further in to catch your mumble of, “Befthfnriens.”

There is a moment of confused silence. Then, Hoseok tersely says, “What?”

Swallowing the bitter taste that now touches the back of your tongue, you push yourself away from your cage of skin and knuckles and instead wrap them around the disposable cup. There, exposed, you finally open your eyes and let them burn holes into your drink. Anywhere but the faces of your two friends when you whisper, “Best friends.”

Minah nearly shrieks, “You and Min Yoongi were what?”

The café bustles too loudly, and you wish that you were the block of ice in your cold Americano. Blending into the surroundings; melting away into nothingness. You prod the cube with the end of your straw, gradually putting more force behind the blows until the ice is shooting down to the bottom of the plastic cup and then dejectedly floating back to the surface. Minah snaps her fingers, and you lethargically look up, feeling well and truly dead inside in comparison to the animated, wide-eyed expressions that she and Hoseok currently sport.

The big hand ticks into the third minute since the inquisition began. A sigh heaves from your lungs, and you return to murdering the ice cube.

“Do I really have to repeat myself? Again?”

Minah does not even blink. “Yes, and this time, a thorough, essay-worthy argument to support your thesis is required. Because what the fuck.”

You take a sip from the iced coffee, feel the chill slip down the walls of your throat. Although you wish you could physically project your being into any other location than here, you say, “Up until the end of high school, Yoongi and I were–” A cringe, not because of the title, but the fact that it is half a lie when you spit out– “Best friends.” Another sigh; another gulp of ice cold. “Our dad’s knew each other before we were born, so we grew up together. As kids, we shared a lot of interests, and our friendship developed from there. But once we started high school, we just drifted apart because we were both busy with our sports. The hatred grew with the natural rivalry between figure skaters and ice hockey players, I guess.”

You wonder if you cannot outright tell them that Yoongi ruined your chance at becoming a star because you are not so sure if you believe such a sentiment anymore.

“Sounds like bullshit, but okay,” Hoseok deadpans, and you automatically recoil. Minah, on the other hand, socks him in the shoulder, to which he yelps so loudly that the guy at the cashier glares at him.

“How does that sound like bullshit?” she says in your defence, crossing her arms and scowling. “It sounds completely reasonable to me.”

“I don’t know. I mean, it feels like there’s something missing,” Hoseok winces, dramatically cradling his wounded shoulder. He averts his gaze from his attacker to you, eyes narrowing a fraction. “To be best friends and then hate each other so much over a ‘natural rivalry’ sounds too fishy. Was there like, a fight or something?”

“Well, yeah,” you sigh, flicking the tip of your straw with your nail. Technically, it is the truth, even if the fall-out was over something completely different to what you say. “But it was the rivalry that caused the fight. We had a huge argument over not being able to hang out because of training, which then lead to insulting each others’ sports, among other things. It was petty and stupid. But we were only teenagers at the time, and we were already under loads of pressure with our intense training, and with getting good grades to graduate high school. So the fight was the last straw, y’know. We didn’t talk again after that, nor forgave each other, and it’s stayed that way ever since.”

Sometimes, you terrify yourself with how effortlessly you can craft a lie when put on the spot. An awful habit that nobody should be proud of.

Hoseok watches you for a moment longer before nodding slowly and leaning back in his chair, seemingly satisfied with your explanation. “Alright, fair enough.”

“Ugh, you can be such an ass sometimes. Why would you make ___ relive such a sad period of her life? Do you feel validated now?” Minah huffs after knocking back the last of her mango smoothie. Immediately, she and Hoseok launch into a round of pointless bickering, and you safely return to your silent sipping.

The topic of Yoongi ceases to be brought up again. For that, you are more grateful than the two of them could ever comprehend. But when you finally get back to the apartment and turn the shower on steaming hot, letting it scald your skin, you cannot help but think. You angle your face up at the shower head, let the mascara dissolve and stream down your cheeks, feel the day-old lipstick becomes chalky, and think.

Min Yoongi. The boy you used to know who still smells like candle wax and cinnamon. The intimate look in his eyes before he said he did not help you, did not do anything at all, last night.

Lying may not be a talent to be proud of. But at least you are not the only one who has refined it.

The atmosphere of his bedroom is discomposed. The sunlight that filters inside the stuffy space outlines the shape of her body where it has been carved out by the creases on the mattress. The sheets incline and decline like a small mountain range—an imprint of her presence. Yoongi stands at the centre of the room, slowly suffocating on his own breath, eyes boring into the lingering remnant of her existence that haunts him like a restless spirit. The hills and slopes in his bed. Her, entirely.

Yoongi did not dare to tell her that, last night, he carried her limp form across the grassy accommodation courtyard once the taxi had pulled up to the curb. Tucked safely into his chest, murmuring nonsensical sentences against his collarbone. He refused to let her know that he held her chin as he tipped nearly a litre of water past her lips over a span of three glassfuls; that he rubbed between her shoulder blades and gingerly held back her hair while she vomited in the bathroom sink; that he gave her the sweater to change into. And most definitely, he never hinted that she stumbled quietly into the living room while he was draping the couch-come-makeshift-bed in a quilt, clutching at his wrist and entreating him to stay by her side while she fell asleep.

An utter fool, he had obliged without question. Perched on the edge of the mattress, he drew soothing patterns over the back of her hand for the scarce minutes that it took her to drift off. Even then, he had remained much longer than necessary to gaze at the soft pout of her lips, the delicate feathering of her splayed eyelashes, the moonlight accentuating the youthful innocence that only sleep can ever conjure.

No, she did not deserve that kind of knowledge. That glorious victory hanging over his head in an upper-hand that she could use against him in the future.

Now, his knees tremble and he feels pathetic. An utterly despicable excuse for a human being with the sweater of his that she was wearing bunched up in his fists and clutched to his chest like a lifeline. Their smells kiss with tongues in the maroon threads; the colour of her blood. Yoongi knows this because he has seen it with his own two eyes against frozen white. Tinted silvery blue by the shadows of midnight draped across the sky, studded at the centre by the full moon in all of its might.

The thin film coating Yoongi’s unblinking eyes dries into a delicate crust. He knows why she would not have told her friends about the two of them, and yet, he cannot help but wonder. Is she really so terrified of her own vulnerability? Of being cracked open like a fault line splitting the earth, allowing those standing by to peek at the gory innards? Perhaps, it is because she already understands how it feels; the sensation of flesh slicing open, of cells pulling apart to allow the bone to cut through and be exposed to the still, icy air. She has known such pain all too well, so she folds it like origami until it can fit in the thin crack between her fibula and talus, and she lives as though she was never once hurt.

Yoongi watches the dust motes glacially glide through the sunlight, basking in the warm honey of it and landing upon the mountains that she rose amongst his bed sheets. There, with the blood-soaked sweater pressed against his thrumming heartbeat, with her tone of malice remaining to be a sticky syrup in his ear, the realisation surrounds and embraces him. He had believed he understood this entire time, and yet, he had always been beyond far off the mark. He knows this now because of the ghost of her figure atop his mattress. He understands why she pushes him away with all her might; with all the breath in her lungs. He understands why her body folds inward, smaller, like origami to hide in the spaces between bones, when she sees his face.

Yoongi has cracked her open once, and he is not afraid to do it twice. This time, for the right reasons. This time, with his eyes wide open.

Yoongi begins appearing wherever you go. Like the black plague.

Despite the hostility he had exuded before you departed his apartment after that evening, the guy has been nothing but a picture of perfect juxtaposition over the following two weeks. He wears a grin that is neither snarky, nor cocky, and it haunts your every move. Whether you are standing in line at the campus cafeteria, or rushing down the hallways to make it to training after one of your classes, or shopping at the nearby supermarket that is frequented by all of the campus residents for snacks. No matter the location, the bane of your existence has managed to announce his passing presence through a peripheral glimpse of a peculiar curve of lips. A smile that is so fleeting, so sincere, that you find yourself wondering for hours afterwards if you had merely imagined it, or even falsely fantasised that he was there in the first place.

So really, at this point, you are reasonably terrified that you might wake up in the middle of the night due to the demands of your bladder, and find Min Yoongi standing beside your bed, grinning down at you like an ultimately more horrifying remake of Paranormal Activity.

But although he has been popping in and out of existence like a spectre, and your guard is now automatically activated the instant you leave your flat, you foolishly allow yourself a moment of relaxation in a situation deemed high risk. That is, in public, as you tiredly stroll from one of your classes to the stadium.

Night-time has begun to stretch across the sky in a pink and orange sunset, looking like smears of bleeding watercolour. A threat of clouds dwells in the distant horizon, opposite to the direction that you walk, hinting at a late-night storm that crackles with lightning and draws goosebumps along your arms. Not many students are out. Those who are seem to be heading home from their training, or speedily rushing along to their evening lectures. At this time of day on a Friday, the chances of the rink being empty and you being able to get in without a booking slip tends to be high, and so you decided to save time by skipping out on stopping by the office to collect one altogether.

After a strenuous afternoon of classes, you are too exhausted to second-guess the nearing tap-tap of sneakers against the pavement. It sounds similar to a light jog, as though the person is warming down from their afternoon exercise, or perhaps heating themselves up to evade the chilly air. They are quick to gain on you with the slow trudge that you currently enact, and you mentally anticipate the mild shock that will fizzle through your blood at the sudden intrusion of a being in your periphery; the slight breeze that will come with their passing by…

Except they never do.

“Hey, ___!”

A shriek of surprise involuntarily escapes your lungs, and you are certain that your soul has been startled out of your body. “What the fuck?!”

“Normally, people say hello back,” Yoongi, who has materialised beside you, sniffs wetly. His breath comes out slightly ragged, concluding that he is the mystery jogger, much to your utter displeasure. “Or how are you?”

You purposefully take a step to the side, putting distance between your parka-bundled, sports-bag-loaded bodies, and venomously bite back with, “No, I genuinely mean what the fuck. Were you hoping for me to have a heart attack?!” With that said, you continue to walk ahead, taking deep breaths to calm yourself down. Yoongi, like a puppy waiting for a scratch behind its ear, eagerly follows. You whip your head to the side and glare at him. “Stop. Why are you walking with me? Go away.”

He sniffs again, ignoring your demand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. Besides, I’m not walking with you. I just happen to be walking beside you since we’re both going in the same direction.”

“You literally jogged to catch up to me,” you deadpan, quickening your pace and praying that he gets the message loud and clear. But Yoongi, as always, is not one to accept defeat so easily.

“Actually, I was getting my blood circulation going to keep warm, but whatever you want to think,” he says with the sly smirk of a liar, and your entire body boils with barely suppressed rage. “So… how’s life treating you?”

You stop dead in your tracks, and wish to beat the sense out of whatever it is that briefly flutters in your chest at his soft, casual tone. “Yoongi, don’t act like you care. Do you want me to apologise for that night at the party? Is that why you’ve been acting like Casper the Friendly Ghost for the past two weeks?”

Yoongi, having trailed a few steps ahead after your abrupt halt, twists on his heel to face you. His expression, despite its playful facade, is otherwise unreadable. “Hey, no. I don’t care about that. I’m only doing this for the sake of our coaches who want to dick each other.” His brow furrows. “They have a point, you know. Time heals all wounds.”

“But I’ve got the scar to prove it,” you snap, taking off again, and Yoongi visibly flinches as if you slapped him. Although you are the inflicter, you cannot help the cold sliver of guilt that slides down your spine at the remark. There is a poisonous taste on the tip of your tongue, even after the words have dissipated with a cloud of mist at your lips.

But it seems that even words in the shape of a blade cannot cut through his thick skin, nor deter him from any semblance of hope. Long used to years of your bitterness. Yoongi’s resilience remains as stable as a wall of iron, and is further proven when you can hear feet catching up with you again. His voice, right beside you once more, casually asks, “Are you mean all the time, or is that anger only directed at me?”

You press your lips into a firm line to prevent the small smile that threatens to curl them. “You’re certainly a catalyst.” The cold skin of your face heats up when you quickly glance out the side of your eye and notice that Yoongi’s gaze is fixed on you, hardly paying attention to where he steps. “Anyway, how in the world is walking together doing it for their sake? They’re not around to see us.”

“Maybe, but word spreads fast. Our rivalry is infamous on this campus, after all. Check it out,” Yoongi says, and you look up, but not without a brief side-eye at him in order to see where his stare is directed.

Following his gaze, it lands upon two girls walking on the opposite side of the thin trees that separate the massive path, brazenly watching the unlikely pair across from them. No, more so, they stare as though they have come upon a sight so rare and astounding that they can hardly tear their eyes from it—like you and Yoongi are aliens walking without their disguises. When the both of them realise that the two of you have taken notice of their observations, they make a fuss of panicked screeches and grab each other to tailwind it out of there.

A small missile of unease and insecurity implodes within your stomach, causing you to scowl. You are not entirely sure what creates the twist. Perhaps, being observed like an exotic zoo animal by strangers who know no better. Perhaps, walking so closely alongside the bane of your existence that your senses are tantalised by the cinnamon whiff of his cologne. Perhaps, agreeing with his sentiment. Wounds, no matter how ugly, can heal.

What you are certain about is that you need to get away from him before the foreign, virulent twinge in your chest blooms into something dangerous. Something unmanageable.

“Cool, and now they’ve seen us, so you can go,” you firmly state, curling your fingers tightly around your bag strap and picking up the pace again. “I have more important things to do than deal with your headache-inducing presence.” The arena, your escape, now resides no more than thirty metres away, and you determinedly stride towards it.

Yoongi, for what must be the third time, effortlessly catches up with you. Damn his longer legs to Satan’s fiery den. “Do you, now? Where are you headed?”

“The stadium.”

“Oh, me too. For what?”

Apparently, a lot of mental energy is required to will him the fuck away. “Practice,” you growl.

“Me–” The tail end of Yoongi’s sentence is completely severed by his mouth snapping shut. Right there, the realisation swiftly dawns as you both come to a standstill, staring roundly at each other in the middle of the pathway. “Do you have a booking slip?”

The moment of hesitation is infinitesimal. Then, the both of you are charging at the speed of two wild and voracious cheetahs in the direction of the arena.

“No! Don’t – you – dare!” you screech, arms pumping at your sides and sneakers smacking hard against the pavement, desperately attempting to catch up to Yoongi, who managed to take off a half-second before you. “I need to practice, asshole!”

Yoongi, almost at the stadium stairs, barks a sharp laugh. “We all have to practice!” he shouts back in a high-pitched voice. Immediately, you realise he is mimicking you from the time you dismissed his missing booking slip, and your blood reaches boiling point. “Cry to somebody who cares!”

An exasperated scream rips out of your chest, driving you to push your legs harder and finally reach Yoongi’s side, just as he is about to take to the first step. But before you can even reach for the collar of his parka to yank him behind you, Yoongi is whirling on his heel and, at a frightening speed, wrapping his arm around your waist and effortlessly lifting you from the ground. There is hardly a second for your brain to process what is occurring and ultimately conjure a shriek, because as quickly as the Devil sweeps you and your sports bag up, he is ungraciously depositing you in the shrubbery that lines the pathway before taking off again.

“First in, first served. Suck it, doll!” Yoongi crows from halfway up the stairs, all the while you spit profanities and struggle to wriggle your way out of the bush. By the time you have found your feet, the bastard is grinning and giving you two middle-finger salutes from the top of the stairs. Then, he is slipping through the sliding doors of the stadium entrance. Shit, shit, shit!

“You’re an idiot, ___,” you loudly curse yourself, partially out of breath as you hastily scale the steps, and not giving a single damn if anyone can hear you. “Who cares if you have to waste an extra ten minutes and walk to the other side of campus! Always get a slip, dumbass!”

Once you pass through the doors and realise that Yoongi has already crossed the foyer and entered the ice rink, you slow down your pace, despaired. Frankly, you feel more irritated at yourself for being too lazy to get a booking slip, which has clearly made you pay the price and lost you a bonus three hours of evening training. The fact that the extra time was missed out on because of Yoongi, of all people, has you inwardly brewing a storm, no matter that you already did your required five hours per day this morning.

Well, that is until he comes bursting out of the double-doors that lead to the arena, causing your heart to stutter in its otherwise fluid pattern of beating. For a fleeting moment, you wonder if the weird kindness he has been exhibiting to you lately has caused him to turn over a new leaf of consideration, and he has come out to let you have the slot. But that peculiar sense of hope fades once you realise his features appear utterly disgruntled.

Thus, with the bitchiest smirk that you can humanly muster in your deathly exhausted state, you ask, “What? Did somebody beat you to the punch?”

Yoongi comes to a halt a few feet before you, and the wicked curve of your mouth involuntarily shrinks. His sharp, dark eyebrows are narrowed in a scowl, and you stupidly have to force your stare at the linoleum in order to stop yourself from gulping at the fierce, stomach-sinking sight.

“The Zamboni broke down in the middle of the rink,” he says, evidently annoyed. “By the look of things, they won’t be able to resurface the ice or get the shitty thing off it until tomorrow.”

Not one to directly trust the words of Satan himself without blatant evidence, you navigate around him and head towards the double-doors. Sure enough, when you peek through them, it is to see a motionless Zamboni near the centre of the half-resurfaced ice rink. Two maintenance men skate around the vehicle, seemingly trying to figure out why it has broken down, and how on Earth to fix it.

Letting the doors swing shut, you state a disinterested, “That sucks.” Then, without sparing a glance at Yoongi as a safety precaution for your double-crossing heart, you brush past him and head back towards the stadium entrance. Because if you were not going to be training on the ice tonight, then you were most definitely rescheduling your date with your plush, cosy bed to approximately 15 minutes from now.

“Hey, wait.”

Your feet turn to stone, anchoring you in place. In that instant, if the manner in which it bounds at the sound of his soft tone is anything to go by, you confirm that your heart is a traitor.

Not expecting you to twist around, Yoongi, instead, comes up to your side and roots himself between you and the exit. A terrible sincerity is laced around those two words, and they bring forth a deluge of similar instances where they have left his lips. From across a sun-warmed playground as a shaved ice van pulled into the parking lot; to racing after the bus on the first day back at middle school; to underneath a streetlight with a hand curled securely around your wrist, Yoongi hesitantly leaning in.

The Min Yoongi who stands before you now is so different, and yet entirely the same. It nearly breaks your heart all over again.

“Let’s go to a pojangmacha,” he insists, rubbing the back of his hand against his wet nose. An old habit that vaguely soothes your inner conflict and your surface irritation. “There’s one close to campus that does the best tteokbokki–”

“I can’t– I don’t want to,” you sigh, anxiously chewing the inside of your cheek at the slip-up. You shift your gaze away from Yoongi’s eyes, absently staring at the empty kiosk across the foyer instead. “I have nationals coming up. I’m on a strict diet.”

“Well, isn’t that the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” Yoongi says, surprisingly genuine. I can think of one thing sadder, skims your tongue, but does not escape. Before you can part your lips to reply, Yoongi continues to say, “One night won’t hurt though, right? For Seokjin and Namjoon, of course, to prove to them that we can be civil. That’s it.”

Your gaze drags back to Yoongi, and you can feel your pulse thumping in your ears. His mussed, midnight hair is windswept from the frantic running, fringe in a slightly pushed-back disarray. The peaks of his cheeks are still flushed in a soft, rosy shade that makes him glow underneath the fluorescent lighting. His expression borders on being somewhat tender, vividly akin to the one that he used to save for nobody but you, yet not quite. It is guarded by glass walls; allowing you to observe, though protecting him from your touch.

But your fists have been known to shatter.

“Fine,” you huff, your stare unwavering. “For the coaches. But you’re buying.”

When Yoongi breaks out into a grin, looking like everything you have tried so hard to forget, you ignore the voice at the back of your mind that begs to differ.

Yoongi knows he should despise how utterly excited he feels. Yet there he is, feeling the kind of descending-rollercoaster-rush of exhilaration that he gets in his gut when the game is tied with 30 seconds left on the clock.

The entire 15-minute walk to the pojangmacha is submerged in a dense silence, though he hardly minds. Knowing that she is keeping up to pace beside him—despite the scowl that appears permanently etched into her features—is enough to satisfy his urge to be near her for the time being. Even so, he keeps glancing out the side of his eye to make sure that she is still there. To be absolutely positive that she is not some incredibly lucid figment of his imagination which, given the circumstances, would been highly concerning.

In fact, Yoongi is still struggling to believe that she even agreed to such an absurd offer of a stir-fried dinner on a chilly Friday evening. With him. Especially since she is on a diet for a figure-skating competition, which is something that she takes very seriously. Always, when it comes down to anything that involves her sport. Her future Olympic career.

What he really cannot fathom is that she accepted on the basis of such a flimsy excuse. Given their recent history, it was wholly unnatural on her part. She must have been able to see right through the “for the coaches” facade and caught wind of his genuine desire to sit down and talk civilly with her. Because surely, there must have been better options for her to schedule into her agenda. Like burrito-ing herself with bed blankets, cramming a bland salad down her throat, and bingeing on Netflix.

So, is this a subtle sign of peace? Or is she merely hoping that if she sacrifices the next handful of hours to his overly eager grasp, he may, perhaps, cease annoying her to the end of her wits?

Yoongi, as per usual, is as clueless as a fucking goldfish. Yet knowing that he will have the chance tonight to speak at least two sensible words to her—ones that are not founded on a pointless argument or a five-year rivalry—has him trying to compose that rollercoaster sensation all over again.

Once they turn the final street corner, the orange tent comes into existence through its bustling appearance and mouth-watering aromas. She, with her lips still clamped shut, strides right ahead and through the open flaps of the entrance. Yoongi, teeth grinding to powder, is tempted to fling an insult at her for her blatant rudeness. Instead, he channels that negative energy into propelling his legs forward, following her.

Determinedly, she weaves through the busy stall and picks a table in the far corner without so much as a glance back at Yoongi. So obviously attempting to project her lack of care for him and this entire situation. Without warning, a hopeless grin itches at Yoongi’s lips.

“Hungry, are we?” he says once he is back within her proximity, dropping his sports bag beside his seat and shrugging off his parka as she does with her own. Underneath, she wears a black, form-fitting long-sleeve. He hastily casts his gaze elsewhere before she tries to call out the pink flush on his cheeks for him being perverted.

“Yes, but I also want to get this over and done with as swiftly as possible,” she grouses, tossing her jacket over the stool and then plunking herself atop it.

Yoongi proceeds in doing the same, but not without retrieving his soon-to-be-withered wallet from the parka pocket. “If you eat too fast, you’ll get stomach cramps.”

“I’ve mastered the art of speed-eating, I’ve got this,” she sneers, leaning towards the makeshift kitchen to better penetrate the constant, chattering hum of the other patrons with her calling voice. “Can I please get one serve of tteokbokki and two bottles of soju?” Without turning to face him, her eyes slide to the side, meeting his own. “That’s only for me, by the way.”

Swiftly as possible. Right.

“I thought you were on a diet.”

“Yeah, I’m actually ‘Min Yoongi intolerant’ and the diet’s been working until, well, right now.”

“Ha! She says to the Min Yoongi who is paying for her meal,” he bites back sarcastically, though the words lack any poison.

At that, her mouth slowly seals shut, eyes narrowing at him in barely accepted defeat. Triumphantly, Yoongi smirks, and then calls out the same order to the little old lady. Within minutes, the steaming hot food and bottles of alcohol are being served to them, and Yoongi is reluctantly saying goodbye to the very few bills in his wallet. He takes a healthy swig of bitter soju to numb the pain.

“Calm down, cowboy. I don’t want to be dragging you back to campus,” she comments, skewering a piece of tteokbokki and blowing away the steam. Her pursed, plush lips glisten as they nibble at the stir-fried food. Yoongi takes another swig to spite her and to distract himself from the tantalising view.

“The fact that you wouldn’t just leave me here to fend for myself is commendable,” he says, raising an eyebrow. He similarly picks at the food, while she realises what she has said with mild horror. “Besides, you were the one who ordered two bottles first. Who’s to say that I won’t be dragging your ass back to campus?”

“I’ve come to terms with the fact that I can somewhat stomach your presence when I’m tipsy,” she clarifies. “And that’s as far as I’ll be going tonight. The last time I got drunk, I woke up in your bed without a single memory of what happened the night before. Pervert.”

Yoongi blinks, completely ignoring her last comment. “You can drink two whole bottles of soju and only be tipsy?” He ungraciously shoves two pieces of steaming tteokbokki into his mouth, stuffing them into his cheeks so he can continue speaking. “I always thought you’d be a lightweight. Yet here you are, proving me wrong.”

“And I always thought you’d grow out of being a pain in my ass, yet here you are,” she sighs, taking a swig of alcohol to try and conceal the tender smile that crawls at the corners of her lips. But Yoongi is too hyperaware of every slight shift in her expression to miss it.

“Admit it, I’m a pain that you can’t live without,” Yoongi says, staring right at her. He can see in her curious eyes that she senses the underlying venom. Yet, instead of acting on it, she rests the rim of her already refilled glass against her lower lip.

“I’m not giving you that glory, Min Yoongi,” she says, though it is practically an admission in itself. She knocks back the soju, and Yoongi follows in suit. Two souls numbing an agony that is still too unbearable to even whisper.

Their voices momentarily subdue and they focus on eating their servings of tteokbokki. Yoongi feels a little ridiculous to be so thrilled about doing something as mundane as eating with her, especially now that the conversation has dialled down to nothing more than chewing and sipping. Every so often, he will glance up at her as he mindlessly brings his chopsticks to his lips with more food pinched between them. Behind her, the orange canvas trembles with each caress of the wind outside. The buttery glow of the tent lights, the eye-watering haze from the food cooking in an enclosed space—they smear the outline of her, turning her into a nebulous, dreamlike being that slowly, silently eats.

Maybe the alcohol is contributing to the warming of his insides and the softening of his muscles like sun-touched clay, but he knows deep in his gut that it is mainly because of her. This sensation is no foreign entity; it never has been. It is as familiar as her eyes, watching him with misplaced contempt.

Yoongi, in a somewhat morbid sense, finds it ironic that the one thing they loved the most—the ice—ended up wrenching them apart, like the strength of a current upon a ship in savage seas.

With the ice on his mind, Yoongi cuts through the silence with a question. Akin to her, he is on his second bottle of soju, and so his words slip from his tongue like liquid. “Are you nervous for your competition?”

Her own voice drizzles honey-like from her lips. “I mean, of course. Who isn’t nervous about them?” She leans her elbow on the table and rests her cheek against her palm, blinking slowly. Brave eyes are set on his face. A hopeless war stirs chaos inside of his heart. “But I’m confident and free-skating is my forte, so I know I’ll do good, at the very least. My only issue is that Seokjin wants me to execute a quad-Salchow, which has only ever been done by Miki Ando in like, 2002. It’s a guaranteed ticket to the 2022 Winter Olympics. But if I fuck it up, I probably won’t get the spot. I don’t know why he’s insisting I do such a risky move, even though I’m coming pretty close to landing it, now.”

Yoongi’s brow pinches. “Four rotations? Wasn’t that Seokjin’s gold medal move?”

Her brows raise in bewilderment as she grabs for her soju bottle. “How did you know that?”

“Namjoon, of course,” Yoongi grins, and she hastily looks away, suddenly focusing on pouring her nth glass of alcohol. He decides to not call her out on it; the idea of her being flustered over his smile is something he wants to savour. “Anyways, I’m sure you’ll land it and the crowd will go fucking crazy because you’re the second woman to complete the move. You’ll do it again in 2022 for the whole world to see, and then you’ll become an icon in the history of figure-skating.”

Carefully, she sips from her glass, gaze focused on the wet ring of condensation that the cold bottle has left on the plastic-covered table. “Do you really mean that?”

“Well, you’re not called the Ice Princess just because you’re an asshole.”

She does not say thank you. But her glassy eyes, in the fleeting second that they meet his own before she tips the last of the liquid down her throat, are brimming with foreign appreciation.

After making a satisfied exhalation and wiping her mouth against the back of her hand, she says, “When’s your semi-final game? And before you ask how I know, it’s because your team never shuts up about in the cafeteria. I hope you realise I had to sit through five team chants while eating my beans this week, which made them taste even more awful than they already are.”

Yoongi gets sheepish about that, rubbing his thighs with his palms. “Yeah, they like to amp themselves up when a game is near. It’s tomorrow afternoon.”

The way her eyes bulge is comical, and Yoongi has to bite his tongue to stop himself from laughing. “What?! Shouldn’t you be practicing?! And you’re even drinking, what the hell!”

He shrugs. “I don’t like the other rinks on campus. That’s why I looked pissed off about the broken-down Zamboni, if you noticed.” He knows she noticed—he had clearly seen the victorious smirk on her lips when he had stormed out of the rink. “Namjoon always advises against practicing the night before a game, anyway. There’s nothing worse than having to deal with last-minute injuries, especially for any of the prelim rounds. As for drinking–” He polishes off his soju for emphasis, sealing it with a grin– “I wasn’t about to let you outshine my alcohol tolerance. If we lose tomorrow because of my shitty performance, I can at least blame it on you.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” she deadpans, though the corner of her mouth trembles with barely suppressed humour. Blaming each other for their own mistakes is something they have always done best.

Yet Yoongi, strung in this limbo between tipsy and drunk, wants to lean across the table and taste her swallowed laughter on his own lips. To be fair, she would probably slap him. Surely, she would.

Right?

Yoongi chews his desire and gulps it down. Instead of taking her face between his palms and kissing her until his tongue knows the precise shape of her lips again, he says, “You should come watch us play.”

“Don’t push your luck, Yoongi,” she says, and he smothers the small flame of hope that had unknowingly lit up inside of him. After checking the hour on her horribly cracked phone screen, she sighs. “Are you done eating? It’s getting late.”

“Yeah, let’s go.” Though as she begins to stand up from her seat, Yoongi stops her, eyes still lingering on the shattered glass that is lightning-like. “Wait, I just had an idea. To prove to the coaches that we hung out…”

When she endearingly tilts her head to the side like a curious puppy, Yoongi forces himself to not jump across the table and connect their mouths. He points at her phone on the table and continues on. “We could… take a selfie?”

He knows he sounds ridiculously unsure, but it is only because he is certain she will shut him down as quick as she did with the game-watching offer. So Yoongi is more than surprised when, after a silent pause of her chewing her lip and frowning at her phone, she shrugs. Though her nose is wrinkled with what appears to be mild displeasure.

“Uh– Yeah. Okay. Fine, yeah,” she rambles, sitting back down and pushing her hair away from her face. “But we’ll have to take it on your phone. My front-facing camera has a crack through it and it distorts the photos.”

“Oh, so that’s why you haven’t been posting any selfies to Instagram lately,” Yoongi mutters under his breath as he grabs his own phone and stands up.

“What?”

“What? Scoot over.”

Grudgingly, she obliges, pushing her seat back from the table to make room. Yoongi pulls the third, unused stool out from underneath the table, places it next to her own and sits on it. This close, her floral-scented deodorant lingers lightly in the air, and Yoongi subconsciously takes a deep inhale as he opens up the Snow camera app.

“Can’t we do it without a filter?” she says with a tinge of vexation, peering at his unblemished screen as he swipes through the different face-filters. “Hurry up.”

“Do you really think you look pretty without filters?” Yoongi lies through his teeth, and she socks him hard in the bicep for it. Her fist might be small, but her knuckles manage to dig into a weak point of his muscle, making him groan.

Knowing him, he will dote on the bruise she has made until it turns yellow as a durian.

“Fucking hell, ___,” he still grunts, finally deciding on a filter with a press of his thumb. He lifts his hand before their faces. “Here we– Hey, you’re going to have to lean in so the filter recognises you.”

“What even is the–” She cuts herself off mid-sentence when she leans a little closer and the filter attaches itself to her face, matching Yoongi. He is full-blown grinning by this stage, juxtaposing the way she frowns and presses her lips together, as if she is trying to not laugh. “Fucking heart crowns? Are you serious?”

“We’ve got to be convincing,” Yoongi says with an air of nonchalance. He cannot stop staring at her through the screen, nor will his mouth cease curving at the cartoonish pink hearts that dance around her head. “Don’t you want to make it worth it?”

“Oh my god, shut up and take the damn photo.”

“Calm your ass down. Annnd… smile!”

She absolutely does not smile. Her death glare pierces through the camera lens with an intent to murder, yet it is terrifyingly cute when paired with the little crown of hearts and the soft, rosy tinge of the filter. Yoongi nudges her elbow with his own as a means of firm encouragement, though all he can manage to weasel out of her is a half-hearted tilt of her lips.

Still, he grins wide and genuine and presses the little white circle once, and then a few more times for good measure. The shutter sound rings above the sizzling of fried food and the continuous drone of chatter within the tent. Satisfied, Yoongi drops his hand and bends his head over the phone, entering the photo album and clicking the last of the six-or-so identical images. When the preview image expands to fill the screen, air becomes locked in his throat.

“Hey, let me see,” she mumbles, her silk-like voice nearing as she leans closer to view the device. Yoongi, without peeling his eyes away from the photo, tips the phone in her direction.

He hears the air suck between her teeth; a blackhole inhaling the stars. He knows that she sees it, and he wonders if it crushes her ribs like the blows of swinging fists.

While she does not smile at her utmost potential in the photo, the mirth lingers on her mouth and lightens her soju-sparkled eyes. Her head is tilted closer than Yoongi first realised—almost close enough to be pressed against his own; close enough that their individual heart crowns overlap. In the past, they had taken hundreds of photos in this precise position. The only difference is that there would be arms curled affectionately around necks, and their cheeks would be unabashedly flush against each other.

But staring at this image of them now, it is like a brutal documentation of their reality. It reminds him of everything they lost—of what they could of been, had that incident never occurred. Although  the image depicts her hovering close by, the blatant evasion of any physical contact is stark—a black smudge on an otherwise perfectly white canvas.

A deep, unsuspecting crack on the surface of an otherwise perfectly frozen lake.

Yoongi’s throat suddenly feels bruised and swollen.

“Can you send it to me?” she quietly asks, breaking the tension that has been steadily hardening in their chests. Newfound velvet wraps around her tone, softening the syllables. “S-So I can send it to Seokjin–”

She stops when Yoongi drags his eyes away from the photo for the first time since opening it, only to look at her and realise how near their faces have become to one another.

Yoongi knows that his expression must be twisted into one of remembrance—of pure tragedy. The photo unlocked a gate that he has kept under tight security ever since that day, and he feels each of those memories anew. A scarred wound that has opened again, riper than ever. This close, her sad eyes are swallowed with pity and spite and something else that he refuses to cultivate hope for.

It was only two weeks ago that he was this close to her, hidden between the shadows, sweetness on his tongue, red and blue lights dancing in a taunt on the walls. Yet, even now in a soberer state, he cannot decide where to rest his eyes—choosing to let them flicker between her nose, eyes, and the small opening of her parted lips. Not knowing when he will get to be this close to her again.

I’ve missed you, he remembers her whispering while she was dressed like an angel, submerged beneath a sea of intoxication. I’ve really missed you so much, Yoongi.

Yoongi’s eyes settle, at last, on her mouth. The flesh glimmers, plump and begging. He has no idea how many years it has been since he felt it melt into his own, all innocent and empathetic with young love. He can sense her testing him in the way that she does not move away—how the tip of her tongue snakes between her lips, wetting them in tantalising preparation.

But I can’t apologise, no matter how unbearable this has been.

Yoongi, in an effort more strenuous than he lets on, looks away. Though he cannot ignore the cold blade that carves her initials into his heart.

“Yeah. What’s your number?” Yoongi says the question as though he did not confess his undying love for her, solely through the look in his eyes. As though he was not about to kiss her with freshly harvested apologies and offer the bouquets of repentance with his tongue, tied at the thorn-ridden stems with urgent forgiveness.

Quieter than she had first asked, she rattles off the numbers and he presses at the keyboard with shaky fingertips. All the while, a tiny voice in the back of his mind makes him realise that he now has her phone number—something he has not had stored in his contacts since his old phone was wiped at least three years ago. He clicks the ‘send’ button, and her phone proceeds to vibrate in two quick pulses on the table. By the time she is reaching for the device to open the message and save the photo, Yoongi is standing and gathering up his parka, sliding his arms through the sleeves.

“Come on,” he says with a sigh, wedging his phone into his sweatpants pocket and slinging the strap of his sports bag over his shoulder. She, having been staring at her phone screen since he moved, suddenly snaps out of her silent daze and gathers her belongings.

The walk home, much alike to the walk there, is silent. Though rather than it being weighed down by her indignation and his stifled amusement, it is suffocated by unspoken confessions and dithering apologies. Yoongi cannot get the sight of her lips out of his mind, and he is somewhat glad that he no longer faces her, for the temptation of them being right before him like a forbidden fruit dangling from a low-hanging branch is too much.

He knew that cracking her open and digging through her bones for his vindication would not be a clean task. He knew that he would be up to his wrists in blood and the gore would tuck itself beneath his nails. He just never realised how completely in love with her he still is—that this vying for first place on who can hate the other the most was never about hate at all.

The part that eats at him the most is whether the feelings are requited. But, as always, she hides herself well behind her mask of ice.

After becoming used to the rhythm of their sneakers against the pavement, her shaky exhalation is like an air horn violating his hearing. Yoongi’s head snaps to the side, initially thinking that she is crying. Though when he sees that no silver stains her cheeks and her jaw quivers uncontrollably, he recognises the signs. A welcome familiarity amidst the foreign, yet oh-so familiar feelings they traverse.

“Your teeth are chattering.” Yoongi says, and she glances at him with a surprised jump of her shoulders. “Are you still prone to the cold?”

“N-No, I’m fine,” she bluntly insists, averting her eyes and continuing to stride ahead.

But Yoongi is faster, grabbing at her elbow and twirling her freezing—and now flustered—self around to face him again. “Nope. This won’t do.”

“D-Don’t be ridiculous,” she sputters, but Yoongi is not having it. He drops his bag to the sidewalk with a heavy clunk, shucks off his parka, and wraps it around her already padded shoulders and the sports bag at her hip. While he ties the sleeves at her chest to keep it in place, she keeps her conflicted glare on the ground.

“Warmer?” Yoongi asks with a forced, lopsided smile. The cold relentlessly attacks him through his thin sweater, digging its nails into his ribs and squeezing tight as he picks up his bag.

She wrinkles her nose and returns to her initial stride, though her teeth have stopped rattling like a loose doorknob. Yoongi, following after her, knows it is the only expression of thanks that he will receive. But he cannot find it in himself to mind, anymore.

By the time they have reached the campus accommodation, Yoongi’s muscles are frigid and his skin feels permanently raised in goosebumps. The silence between them has eased in its tension, yet he struggles to grasp the right words with his tongue when they reach the walkway in front of her dorm. Because really, what do you say after a night like this? It was never a date—a compromise, at best. He cannot kiss her on the cheek and wish her a good night. He cannot book another moment of meeting, as if there is something even close to friendship strung between them. He cannot tell her he will call her for coffee next weekend.

Thankfully, she saves him from his internal war-waging. Her hands come up to the tied sleeves, about to untangle them. “You can have this back,” she starts, but the words are lurching up Yoongi’s throat before he can stop them.

“Keep it,” he insists, fists clenching at his sides in an attempt to suppress the embarrassment that suddenly washes over his body. She stills, staring with uncertainty at him, especially now that he is slowly stepping backwards. “I… I mean return it, of course. When I see you next, yeah?”

Her brows are slashed downwards. “I don’t plan on–”

“Too bad!” Yoongi shrugs, now grinning like a thoroughbred lunatic at her utterly perplexed expression. Then, before he can fully comprehend the actions of his own body, he is turning on his heel and jogging down the path, calling over his shoulder, “See ya!”

If she says anything more, Yoongi does not hear it over the adrenaline rushing through his ears, the slapping of his sneakers against the pavement, and the rattling of his bag as it bounces against his ass. With his sudden spurt of energy, he runs from her dorm to the other side of the village, which, had he been walking, would have taken ten minutes. Though he finds himself slowing at the walkway to his own apartment within a record-breaking five minutes. His muscles burn with an aching heat, and the humiliation over his blatant corniness flares like a long-forgotten mosquito bite that he accidentally scratched.

“Oh my god,” Yoongi groans to himself, yanking open the already unlocked front door. His over-exerted limbs scream at him, and he knows that the prelim game tomorrow is going to be the epitome of Hell for his body. “I’m a whole fucking idiot. What the fuck.”

“I don’t need to know the context because I completely agree with you, nonetheless,” comes Taehyung’s voice from the opposite end of the entranceway. Yoongi looks up from kicking off his sneakers to find his housemate peering around the wall. There is a sly grin on his face, and the whites of his eyes are evidently stained with red, spidery webs.

Unsurprisingly, he is as high as the Lotte World Tower.

“Piss off,” Yoongi mutters, trudging past Taehyung and entering the living space. Jimin is nowhere to be seen, which is definitely a good thing. Dealing with one of his housemates is like trying to control five toddlers, as it is. “I don’t need your shit right now.”

“Ooh, somebody’s had their kimchi dipped in ghost pepper sauce,” Taehyung cackles, trailing after him in that tattered excuse for a kimono. Yoongi makes an immediate bee-line for his bedroom. “Why’re you lookin’ so flustered, huh? You smell like fast-food and alcohol. Weren’t you supposed to be training–”

Yoongi slams the door in Taehyung’s face and locks it. In the darkness of his room, he drags his feet across the small space, lets the strap of his bag slip off his shoulder and to the carpet, and then collapses with an agonised sigh on his bed. His muscles just about cry with relief. Though as quickly as they begin to unwind, they seize up at the memory of his random outburst—his sudden escape, leaving her with the sole means of having to see him again.

“What is my damn problem,” Yoongi mutters into his pillow, body deflating like a hot air balloon. “I practically forced it on her. She was going to refuse. Now she has to come and see me to give it back. God. What the hell. I hope she leaves it on our doorstep without knocking. I hope she gives it to Hoseok and he gives it to Jimin. Fuck.”

Yoongi slowly submerges himself into his own cesspool of self-loathing. Though the thoughts gradually mould into ones of observation, the subject unchanged. His mind, as always, remains to revolve around her like a moon orbiting its planet.

After tonight, Yoongi has realised that she is not the shell of a memory he has clung to for so long. He saw her in there, although she was hidden beneath layers upon layers. She peeked out every now and then in familiar mannerisms or ways of speech that alluded to long-forgotten fondness. Maybe, she did not realise the small slip-ups she made throughout the night; her tipsy carelessness let the layers peel back and fall to her feet like a rose wilting its petals. But the knowledge that not all is lost is enough to comfort Yoongi for the time being. It holds enough importance for him to linger.

Because he knows that he saw the hint of forgiveness in her eyes—still struggling to make it to her lips.

Perhaps, he thinks sleepily, eyes drooping closed, we’ll make it there one day.

You have been awake for a whole two hours, though you have not yet detached yourself from your bed. Despite it is nearing 1PM, you have remained cocooned in your doona the entire 120 minutes (give or take), reclined on your back with your head dangling off the edge of the mattress. You are certain that all of your blood has drained from your limbs and pooled within your skull, if the prickle-like, pins-and-needles sensation across your forehead and scalp is anything to go by. Nevertheless, you lay like a corpse and unwaveringly stare across the room at the foreign item within your quarters.

Yoongi’s parka.

The black swathe of puffy material is slung over the back of your desk chair, unsuspecting as a vase of flowers. In spite of its seemingly ordinary presence, you watch it from your upside-down position like an owl eyeing off its prey, as if the piece of clothing is a mouse that is going to flee if you dare look away. All the while, you continue to mentally flick through the scrapbook of your memories from last night; meticulously reading through the pages, all smudged by the lingering effects of two soju bottles.

(Okay, so maybe you were slightly lying when you said that two soju bottles only got you tipsy. By the time you had left the pojangmacha, you were certainly sitting more on the one-more-drink-and-I’m-dead-fucking-drunk end of the spectrum.)

But you keep finding yourself stuck on a particular scene, repetitively turning back to inspect the finer details of it. In the image, the Devil’s tragic face is a breath away from your own and his molten eyes are drinking up your features like cold water on a searing summer’s day. And while your sight was softly smeared like gouache at the borders, you are certain that his midnight gaze lingered longer than appropriate on the shape of your lips. You are absolutely sure that he was restraining himself; double-checking the titanium locks on his desire to ensure it would not break free—that he would not dive into your mouth with his own and remind you that he tastes like blackcurrants and first loves.

“Jesus on a Razor scooter,” you exhale, eyes still on the parka. Your face burns like a pot on a stove, and something small and deep inside of you whispers that it is not because of your body’s blood supply gathering in your head. “What am I doing? Why am I even thinking about him? I… I hate him. Yeah. I hate him.”

That little something—in a place within you that you refuse to reach—laughs with lungs full of incredulity, as if to say: Silly girl!

It is then that your intimate staring contest with the jacket is cleaved by Minah suddenly barging through the door. She looks as though she has just woken up herself, if the struck-by-lightning hairstyle is anything to go by. “Rise and sh– Oh, you’re… What the hell are you doing? Your forehead veins are bulging like John Cena trying to piss with a urethra infection.”

“That’s… a very unique way of putting it,” you say from your position, rather perplexed. “John Cena? Of all people?”

“Haven’t you seen his forehead veins when he wrestles?”

“I– No? Have I ever exhibited any interest in John-goddamn-Cena over the past three years of our friendship?”

Something flits across her face; a flash of discomfort that is not founded on the fact that you do not keep up to date with professional wrestlers. Something that screams: Well, I know less about you than I first thought. Who knows what other secrets you harbour.

But it dissolves quicker than medicine in water. Like a bandaid on a bleeding scratch, Minah plasters a grin on her lips and seats herself beside you. “Touché. Anyways, where were you last night? I woke up to the sound of you emitting a continuous, soft scream and slamming all the doors in the flat, so I have a feeling you weren’t at the stadium.”

“Oh, shit, sorry. I thought you were staying at Hobi’s place,” you feebly apologise, lethargically rolling onto your stomach and taking your precious time to sit up. Your body feels light as a meringue as all the blood rushes out of your head and back into your limbs. “But yes, I was… out. At a pojangmacha.”

“Drinking without me? Rude,” Minah says, tugging at a corner of the doona after she notices you struggling to be freed from its confines. You mutter a small thanks when it effectively loosens the material’s bind on your body. “Since you didn’t rat me out to Seokjin after my Shark Week binge, I’ll be merciful to you and your alcohol-abused liver.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” you bite with every inch of sarcasm you can muster.

“Damn right I’m your Queen,” Minah asserts, and you roll your eyes. A sly smirk inches its way onto her lips and she jabs her thumb at your desk. “So, I’m guessing you went out with whoever owns that parka?”

You freeze mid-stretch. A thousand and one excuses charge through your head like an off-course train—your usual knee-jerk reaction to lie. And while your gut screams at you to oil the hinges of your defence and heave that bulletproof gate shut on the truth, your heart urges you to reconsider. After all, Minah is your best friend. She deserves a Royal wedding buffet over the stale breadcrumbs you have always thrown her to keep her hunger at the bare minimum of satisfied.

You can feel her eyes on your skin as you slide your own back to the jacket. The face of its owner—bright and mischievously determined—looms at the forefront of your mind when you bluntly state around a mouthful of thorns, “It belongs to Min Yoongi.”

Silence hangs like a fog over your bedroom. You do not dare to sever your gaze with the jacket and meet Minah’s stare. A year ago, you would have said it was because you wanted to upkeep your meticulously cared-for facade of strength. Yet now, you not straying your eyes to your best friend is completely and utterly due to you being terrified of witnessing her reaction up close—the range of emotions that must be stretching and shaping her dainty features like dough.

For this reason, your heart lurches in surprise when Minah grabs your shoulders, forcing you to face her near-manic grin as she giddily shrieks, “Are you pulling my dick right now, ___?! Because I swear to our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, I will shatter each of your knuckles with a hammer while you’re sleeping if you’re lying to me!”

Dumbfounded, you blink at her. “N-No, I'm serious! Please don't do that, what the fuck–"

"Oh my god. What. This is... insane! The two of you have hardly spoken since we started at KNSU a whole three years ago. Yet, in the past fortnight alone, you've slept over at his goddamn dorm and skipped training to go on a drinking date with him?!"

"Would you just calm down for a sec–"

"Are you sure you're the real ___?" Minah urgently asks, hands coming to your cheeks and squishing them like putty. Her eyes are round as dinner plates. "Has a ghost possessed you? Am I going to have to take you to a shaman? You know, like in that Jo Jungsuk K-drama where he's a chef–"

"I'm not possessed, Minah!" you finally snap, recovering from the shock that her unexpected reaction thrust upon your body. You bat her palms away from your face. "Christ, you jump to conclusions like you jump on dicks."

"Hey, don't shit on my enthusiasm," she snickers, hands falling to her lap. "Seriously, though. What's gotten into you? Has Yoongi black-mailed you into becoming friends again? Do I have to kick his succulent, Channing Tatum replica ass?”

You sigh, picking sleep-crust out of the corner of your eye. “Well, not exactly… it’s complicated. The coaches want us to move on from the past, but it’s not that easy.”

From there, you explain the incident with the Zamboni and you striking a deal with the Devil in order to get back into Seokjin’s good graces. You let the information flow out of you in a stream of truth, only retaining the part where your faces were separated by an exhalation and Yoongi’s eyes were sinkholes, set on consuming you. Nevertheless, your stomach feels less congested by the time you have finished speaking, and Minah seems pleased enough with what you have shared, if her bemused yet thrilled expression is anything to appraise.

“This is fucking wild,” Minah oh-so eloquently summarises. “Hey, can I see the photo?”

“Must you?” you groan, reaching for your phone on the bedside table nonetheless. A low-battery signal pops up when you unlock it, and you silently admonish Past You for prioritising a low-key panic attack over remembering to put the device on charge last night. “The lighting was pretty bad in the tent, so you can’t see much,” you pitch as a final attempt to get Minah to lose interest in the photo, though you know it is hopeless. She snatches your phone once you open up the message in which Yoongi sent it.

“Oh my god, the filter,” she immediately giggles, pinching at the screen and zooming in. Your cheeks are uncomfortably warm, sleepy features screwed up like a cat just passed gas on your lap. “Wow, you look like you’re one more photo away from giving him a vasectomy.”

“I was,” you partly bluff, chewing at the inside of your cheek and leaning closer to see the screen without the light of your window reflecting on it. Minah zooms the image out again so that the entire thing is visible, and a soft, heart-shaped lump wriggles up your throat.

“Dare I risk you snapping off the blades of my skates when I say this,” Minah begins, her gaze adhesive as glue on the device. “But you guys actually look… kind of cute together?”

You snort, ignoring the way your face feels as though it has been dunked in boiling water. “If you think so, why’re you saying it like a question?”

“Because the skates weren’t cheap, and thus, suggesting an element of uncertainty with my own statement might give them a chance at surviving your wrath.”

“Am I really such a heartless monster in your eyes?” you say with a pointed glare, seizing your phone from her grasp. Minah now stares directly at you, and the humorous quiver of her lip is unmistakable.

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

You smack her over the back of her head with your pillow, to which she yells in protest.

“Oh, you bitch!” she cries, though it is said through a cheek-splitting grin. She leaps off the bed to evade your second sweep with the pillow, which narrowly misses her side. From a safe distance, she says, “Wait, since Yoongi texted you that pic, that means you’ve got his number now! Are you going to message him so you can meet up and give his jacket back?”

To be honest, you did not even think of that—the fact that you now have a means of directly contacting your nemesis. “Uh, no. I think you’re forgetting that I still hate his guts,” you claim, though the words sting like nettle leaves on the tip of your tongue. “If he wants it, he can come and get it.”

Minah smirks like an evil witch. “He can come and get it, huh? Are you talking about the parka or are you talking about yourself now–” She, with the reflexes of a jaguar, catches the flung pillow before it can strike her face. She hugs it to her chest and laughs while you glower at her with faux loathing. “Well, hear me out on this,” she starts, raising her finger in a gesture of silence when you go to speak again. Mildly disgruntled, you bite down on your tongue. “I’m going to be driving to the off-campus stadium in approximately two hours to pick up Hobi. If you want, you can join me. Yoongi will be there for the prelim game and it should be over, if not close to that by the time we get there, so you can give his parka back. The match starts at 2PM.”

As much as you would love to spend the rest of your afternoon becoming a single organism with your bed, Minah undoubtedly presents a prime opportunity for you to be rid of the jacket. You make a contemplative hum, flipping your phone over and over in your hand as you chew on the offer, even though you are certain from the get-go that you are going to accept it. Your hesitation is more due to you knowing that your best friend will give you a whole lot of shit for the next handful of hours if you are to accept without a hint of regard.

“I know you’re stalling because you think I’ll give you shit,” Minah—apparently a fucking mind-reader—interjects, tossing your pillow back onto the bed and making her way to the door.

You cease fiddling with your phone and gaze impassively at her. “What makes you think that?”

She turns and leans against the doorjamb, arms crossed. “___, I’m your best friend, which basically means I’m your mother. I know everything about you, your mannerisms, and your expressions.” Then, her final comment is spoken with a raise of her brow, “Also, you’re wearing the kind of dumb smile that one does when they think about Labrador puppies. Be ready in 40 minutes, okay?”

Immediately, as Minah departs with a wicked cackle, you smack your hand against your mouth, realising that yes, indeed, your lips are goofily curved in a stupid smile. Groaning into your palm, you tip backwards onto the mattress and gather yourself into the foetal position. God, what is getting into me? Now I’m subconsciously smiling at the thought of Yoongi? What the ever-lasting fuck.

“He must be Voldemort,” you reason, giving the stink-eye to the guiltless parka and hoping that it somehow channels through to its satanic owner. “He must’ve cursed me as a method of torture. That’s the only reasonable excuse.”

If Minah had of heard you, she would have sighed and said: Really? The only reasonable excuse? Are you that blind to your own feelings? But Minah did not hear you, and thus, your totally unreasonable justification as to why you are experiencing even the thinnest sliver of pleasantness towards Min Yoongi is safe with you and his jacket.

Once you have surpassed your dramatic moment and put your phone on charge, you shower the remaining listlessness from your skin and throw on a dark grey hoodie and black skinny jeans. Assessing your attire in the mirror, you definitely look like the reincarnation of your 13-year-old emo phase, but that is exactly what you are wanting—to look as inconspicuous at the stadium as you can humanly muster. With the jacket under your arm, you meet Minah—who is still unnecessarily enthusiastic about the entire situation—in the living room and head out to the car.

And while Justin Timberlake has always lifted your spirits, you find that throughout the 20 minute drive to the stadium, you cannot even bring yourself to sing along to SexyBack. Instead, you cling to the parka on your lap as if it is the only thing keeping you rooted in place, and internally blame the way that your stomach swirls like a blended milkshake on a peculiar case of car sickness.

“Have you even breathed in the past half hour?” Minah questions once you have reached the location, striding into the stadium’s foyer. A hint of genuine concern turns her lips down. “Really, you look like you’re about to pass out. Do you want me to give the jacket to him?”

“N-No,” you stammer, instantly feeling heat gather at the nape of your neck over the way your voice trembles like a harp string. You cough, clearing your throat. “I think I might be a little hungover from last night, is all.”

“Okay.” Minah draws the word out, her tone blatantly conveying that she is unconvinced. Before she can say anything further, her phone pings and she slows her walk to a standstill, checking the notification. “Hobi says the game finished ten minutes ago, but he’s with Jimin and Wonwoo in front of the change rooms. Let’s head there.”

Although she does not say it aloud, the mischievous twitch of her near-smirking lips says, Yoongi should be there, too, loud and clear as a billboard promoting a sex shop. A little reluctantly, akin to the feeling you have right before you rip off a bandaid even though you know it is not going to hurt as bad as you think, you nod and follow her. Dodging around the crowd that is slowly spilling out of the arena exits.

By the look of some familiar KNSU faces and the exuberant commotion that they make, the KNSU team must be the ones going to the finals. A small sense of pride blossoms in your chest. Not for Yoongi’s sake, but for the representation of your university at a game that will put them up as potential contenders for the next Winter Olympics. If they are successful in the final and get the placement for 2022, they will become South Korea’s youngest ice hockey team in the country’s entire Winter Olympics history. They will be renown by the future generations for decades. It is difficult to not feel thrilled for them, as much as they annoy you in the cafeteria.

Yet, betraying your initial thought, a tiny space within your chest fills with warmth over Yoongi’s triumph in particular. He is a defenseman, so you know he would not have scored the winning goal or anything of the like. But as the captain of the team, having a large role in assisting his coach with planning the gameplay techniques, you can imagine how exhilarated he must be at the moment—chanting the KNSU anthem with his teammates; a tad breathless from being squashed beneath the pile of their bodies on the rink in a typical ice-hockey-style victory hug; still charged from the adrenaline of the game. He is probably calling his parents in the locker rooms right now to let them know of the successful game. Wait, oh shit, unless–

“___, is that you?” announces a perplexed voice, simultaneous with a hand tentatively resting on your shoulder, halting your forward motion.

In an instant, it feels like all of the blood has been sucked out of your body, and you are now no more than a sagging sack of meat with weak, jiggling knees. When you lift your head, it is to see a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair. His skin is wrinkled around the corners of his hesitantly smiling mouth.

A spitting image of Yoongi in 20 years time, except a head-and-a-half taller.

Sweet fucking Mary riding a mechanical bull.

“Mr. Min,” you almost gasp, hand reflexively tightening around the smooth fabric of the parka. “Hello! Sorry, you startled me! I should’ve guessed you would’ve been here for Yoongi’s preliminary game–”

“And what exactly are you doing here?”

The nasally, sneering voice comes from around Mr. Min’s elbow, belonging to the side of the family that Yoongi gets his shorter stature from. His mother’s crow-like, narrowed eyes peer at you with an obvious glint of contempt. Even when you and Yoongi were friends, she was never necessarily fond of you. Mrs. Min tolerated you, if you must call it anything. She thought you were nothing more than an unneeded distraction for Yoongi, and he scorned her for it, which certainly did not assist her skewed perception of you.

To her, the accident must have been a blessing in disguise.

“Honey, she’s here to support her university’s team. You know that.” Mr. Min casts a firm glance at his wife, who merely sniffs and continues to critically dissect your perturbed features. Then, with a smile that has a softer curve to it, he says, “Look at you; you’re all grown up! I almost didn’t recognise you, but your outfit is identical to the one that you would always wear during the, er, teenage phase that you went through with Yoongi.” He laughs and tenderly shakes his head, all the while you curse Emo Phase Past You for essentially getting you in this predicament.

Unsure of how to behave—especially with Mrs. Min glowering at you like you are the bird shit that just landed on her blouse—you settle with a deferential, thin-lipped tilt of your lips. “It’s been a few years, yes.”

You hope that the Min’s sense the vibes of discomfort rolling off your being, taper the conversation there, and go on their merry way. But Mr. Min, always the courteous man, continues to ask, “How are your parents? I haven’t managed to see them since the summertime.”

It is then that Minah politely clears her throat, prompting you to remember that she was leading the way to the change rooms, which are now no more than a few metres down the nearby corridor. You give her a small, reassuring smile with a look of firm insistence, to which she immediately catches on and, with a nod and a raise of her eyebrows, continues to walk away without you. Squaring your shoulders, you return your attention to the Min’s and say, “My parents are well, thank you. I wasn’t aware you were still in touch?”

You bite your lip to refrain from adding on: Since after the incident.

“Well, your father and I try to catch up for a drink every few months.” Mr. Min chuckles good-naturedly. Mrs. Min remains silent, wearing an expression of one who has just caught a whiff of expired canned tuna. “We’ve know each other since we were studying, after all.”

“Exactly, how else would you’ve met our darling son?” Mrs. Min bitterly mutters, not quite underneath her breath; intentionally loud enough for you to hear. The urge to scream at her rises high in your throat, and the smile on Mr. Min’s face slips away like water on a plate. He inhales deeply through his nose, turning to berate his wife.

“___? You came?”

The baffled exclamation of your name comes from your left, and you immediately whip your head to the side to face its owner. Yoongi is still in his red-and-black hockey gear; the safety pads underneath his jersey fill out his shoulders and chest, narrowing down at his waist like an arrowhead; the battered helmet is held by the cage with his gloveless fingers, allowing you to experience the full-force of his post-game appearance. His onyx hair is mussed and sticking up with sweat; his eyes are wide and bright, the pupils still slightly dilated with adrenaline; his skin glows a faint shade of salmon from the freezing rink and his exertion; his cold-cracked lips are creamy and plump, liberally coated in lip-balm.

Yoongi looks more a sportsman in this moment than he ever has.

Yoongi looks… fuck.

“I-I just got here,” you stutter, and it is only when your brain restarts in order to formulate a sensical sentence that you notice the bewilderment that traces his features—the panic that steadily fills his eyes. He looks down at your hand which clutches his jacket, lips slowly parting in realisation.

But Mrs. Min is suddenly bursting forth, beaming and reaching for him, nearly knocking you aside in the process. “Yoongi, sweetie! Congratulations–”

“Excuse us a second,” Yoongi bluntly cuts her off, grabbing your elbow and practically dragging you and your stumbling feet to the floor-to-ceiling windows of the foyer. You are too dumbfounded by the entire situation to shake his hand off or fire a few insults at him over his manhandling, though his hand ceases contact the moment he finds a spot that is not swamped by departing spectators.

At a loss for words, all you can do is stand and stare at him, quietly uttering, “Um.”

“Are… are you okay?” Yoongi tentatively questions, still looking a little shell-shocked. His eyes momentarily flit over your shoulder, in the direction of his parents, before they return to your painfully astounded expression.

Yoongi asking about your wellbeing makes something viciously blossom around your heart, and you grit your teeth as though the roots are situated between your molars and you have a chance at ceasing their growth. You shift your gaze to his nose when the genuine look of benevolence in his eyes only fertilises the feeling.

“Yeah. I’m fine.” You almost say: I see your mother is still a nasty bitch, though you work the affronting statement into, “I didn’t expect to see your parents here.”

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Yoongi comments with a raise of his brow, and you cannot help but quirk your lips at that. His gaze strays to his parka, still bunched up in your grasp. “If you only just got here, did you come to drop this off? I mean, thanks, but–”

“Do you really think I’d go out of my way to give your jacket back?” you snark, but the words come out a whole lot less savage than you were intending. Nevertheless, you pass it to Yoongi and let your hand fall to your side, fingers aching a fraction from how tightly you were clinging to the material. “Minah was coming here to collect Hoseok; it was nothing more than a convenient opportunity. After all, I didn’t think you’d come and get it yourself after you literally ran away from me last night. Do you do that after your dates, too?”

Yoongi, looking like you just lifted your hoodie and flashed him your bra, coughs. “Uh, I don’t date.”

“Unsurprising. I don’t know anyone who’d want to,” you tease with a teaspoonful of salt in your tone, but you only realise what you have said when Yoongi’s eyes flash like lightning. Your heart just about punches right through your ribcage as the horror dawns on you like a summer storm—out of the blue, yet in an instant.

“You did, remember?” Yoongi taunts, wearing a grin coloured by melancholy.

You want to wipe it off his face. With your hand; with your mouth—you cannot decide. After everything that has occurred over the past day, chipping away at you like a hammer and chisel on marble, you have been reduced to a state of vulnerability that you have not experienced in years. You have become a knight stripped of his armour and sword in the middle of the fight, with nothing but his fists and his willpower left to protect him.

But you cannot find the strength within you to throw a punch.

Yoongi seems to notice this when you do not immediately fire back with a scathing remark. The curve of his mouth straightens and he quickly backtracks. “Sorry, that was out of line,” he says, and you are stunned that he even apologised for the jibe. “Anyways, thanks for bringing this along. I should, uh, get back to my parents. But before I go, the usual frat will be hosting a party for the team’s win tonight. You should come.”

Grateful that the subject has shifted before it could fully develop, you fiddle with the strings of your hoodie, a hint of amusement tinting your expression. “They were that confident you guys would win?”

Yoongi’s grin returns. His eyes crinkle like his father’s. “Oh no, it was either going to be a winner’s celebration or a pity party. All we knew was that getting drunk was going to be on tonight’s schedule, no matter the outcome.”

“Well, if that isn’t the spirit of KNSU in a nutshell,” you chuckle. His grin grows impossibly wider and your heart does the ridiculous punch-through-muscle-and-bone thud again. A fierce urge to slap your chest in order to scold the traitorous vessel momentarily overcomes you. “Is it cool if I bring Minah and Hoseok?”

The smile falters. “Uh, only Hoseok.”

“Wow. I can’t believe everyone thinks that our rivalry is bad.”

“I’m kidding. She only hates me because you do,” Yoongi shrugs as he begins to circle around you. “I have to go. But I’ll maybe see you tonight?”

“Keyword: maybe,” you state with a smirk, rotating on the spot to watch him go. Yoongi nods and lifts the hand that holds his parka in a half-hearted salute, heading towards his parents. Though he only manages a few paces before you are realising what you have not said, which imminently leads to you clenching your fists and calling out, “Hey!”

Yoongi stops and turns back around, quizzically observing the immediate regret that contorts your features. Especially since—to your complete horror—a few KNSU students have come to notice the interaction occurring between you and Yoongi. The infamous foes who would once not dare be seen in the same room together. Heat spills into your cheeks, and despite the small audience, you inhale deep enough to consciously sense your lungs shrivelling up like dried grapes before they are expanding once more, releasing your voice.

“Congratulations on the win,” you say at a much lower notch than your initial shout—loud enough for him to hear you, though not at a volume where the distant spectators can precisely make out the words. “Your team has done KNSU proud.”

Yoongi’s expression shifts. The thinly veiled amusement melts into something akin to when one has an epiphany; a cocktail of sincerity and fulfilment, garnished with the shimmer of elation that softens his eyes. Although it must last no more than a few seconds, it seems as though the moment has been taken hold of at its ends and stretched out like taffy. Yoongi stares at you like the past five years never occurred and you, with your hummingbird heart, wonder what that could possibly mean. And in this prolonged time where your enemy exudes forgiveness in tidal waves, you are almost tempted to let the current sweep you under, too.

But a fist of ignorance keeps you standing by the fingers it curls around your throat, and Yoongi must see the bruise marks it leaves on your flesh. Because then, without a word, he twists around and continues to walk away.

Anger does not strike a match on your bones and light up your insides. Rather, your spine is stroked by a warm hand of serenity, and the strength to bat it away evades you. Leached from your limbs like a receding shoreline, as if Yoongi’s physical being is drawing the vigour out of your soul with every step that he takes.

From the corner of your eye, you see Minah and Hoseok approaching with quick strides. As they near, they glance between you and Yoongi, who has now returned to his parents. Once she is close enough, your best friend slings her arm around your shoulders in a manner that is more colluding than consoling, and turns you to face the windows instead of the thinning crowd.

“Were they Yoongi’s parents?” Minah hisses, looking over her shoulder to where the Min family is standing. “Oh, they’re already gone. His mum sounded like she had her head up her own ass.”

“What? What’s going on?” Hoseok asks, leaning close, hands on his hips with his brows pinched. “Why are you two always hogging the tea from me?”

You sigh, though it comes out as more of a groan. Your limbs still feel filled with air after the way that Yoongi looked at you, like he was one bad decision away from gathering you in his arms. “Yes, they were. And no, we’re not, Hobi. There’s nothing to discuss, alright?”

“I don’t believe you, you’re being shady as hell lately,” Hoseok says with a nonchalant shrug. The tips of your ears burn like smelting ores, extracting the irritation from a small nook within you and igniting it into a vivid sensation. “First, you stay at Yoongi’s overnight. Then, not even a few minutes ago, I saw you have a whole conversation with not only his parents, but with him, with my own two eyes!”

In your periphery, Minah bites her lip. Clearly torn about whether she should keep your confidences locked behind her teeth, or cease holding back the truth from Hoseok. But this is not her issue to deal with; it is your own. Thus, you shift her arm off your shoulders and breathe in, ready to exhale your defence.

“You’re overthinking it, Hoseok. I already told you that Yoongi and I used to be best friends, which is why I talked with his parents. Yoongi was merely putting up a good front for them when he talked with me; they still don’t know about the severity our fight. They think that we’re still friends.” Now that you have hastily dressed the wound, you cover it with protective plaster by steering the topic towards something more favourable. “Anyways, all he said was to tell you two that you’re invited to the celebration tonight. The frat is throwing a winner’s party for them. And no, he didn’t invite me, but I’m still coming, of-fucking-course.”

“A party?! Aw shit,” Minah excitedly exclaims, leaping on the new subject like a determined puppy, and you are beyond grateful. She looks to the ceiling, hands held up in prayer against her chest. “Coach Kim, I’m sorry that I’m going to break the rules of my diet. But it’s for a good cause, I promise.”

“As long as we can still fit into our dresses, he won’t notice a thing,” you laugh, linking your arm through her own. The both of you stray your eyes to Hoseok, who has remained silent and is still vaguely looking like his cereal has been pissed in. Your grin of encouragement slowly widens. “Are you going to come, Hobi?”

“It’s not like he has a choice,” Minah pitches in, matching the size of your smile and innocently batting her lashes at him. Hoseok’s expression does not budge an inch. Well, until she adds, “After all, didn’t your fuckbu– I mean, very good friend Wonwoo already invite you?”

Suffice to say, Hoseok’s cheeks ripen into a shade of fresh cherries and you, oblivious to this budding romance, amiably accuse him of withholding information from you, too. From there, it only takes you and Minah teasingly getting up in his face about Wonwoo—a combination of poking at his ribs while making offensive, lewd sounds—for his lips to finally split into a bashful beam, the details of his recent hook-ups with Wonwoo imminently gushing out. The three of you leave the stadium and head to a salad bar for a late lunch in good spirits, and you are finally distracted enough to put your torn emotions about Yoongi on the back-burner of your befuddled thoughts.

Until the evening, that is.

Normally, your drunken selves are more than happy to take the half-hour walk to the frat house a little ways off the campus. But now that the winter is truly beginning to settle in on this side of the hemisphere, your trio makes the wise choice of splurging on a luxurious method of transportation for once—an Uber. This not only gets you there 20 minutes faster, but it comes with a solid heater system that fogs up the car windows like morning mist on a river.

Not that the three of you notice, of course. You and Hoseok are too busy dealing with Minah, seated between you, who perhaps took this night of free-rein a tad too far, considering she consumed almost half a bottle of Russian Standard at the pregame in your dorm.

“Swallow it, you little shit!” you desperately urge, hand wrapped around the lower half of Minah’s face. While you are certainly not as drunk as she, your vowels have attained a noticeably slurred quality. “We’re turning down the street now! Only a few more seconds ’til we’re there!”

“If she throws up in this fucking Uber, I’m going to throw up,” Hoseok warns, nearly just as drunk after losing a game of beer pong against you. He holds Minah’s handbag open underneath her chin, in case you forcing her to keep her vomit down happens to fail. “I’m serious, ___. I’ll paint the fucking car with my power-puke.”

Minah tries to speak, but her voice is muffled against your palm, which impulsively presses tighter on her mouth. You glare daggers at Hoseok from across the backseat. Yet, considering that you can hardly see his paling expression in the dimness of the Uber, you are positive that he cannot see you looking at him like he has a death wish.

“Pull yourself together, Hobi!” you snap, having no desire to pay for a clean-up fee, and knowing that neither of your broke-as-hell-student-life friends can afford it, either. It is then that, to your immense relief, you feel the car slow to a stop, and the Uber driver, perceptibly panic-sweating, announces that you are at the destination. “Oh thank god. And thank you for the ride, kind sir. Minah? I’m letting go to open the door, but I promise I will throw your $300 Lush collection into the trash if you projectile spew before I can get you out.”

With that said, and with what sounds like an affirmative grunt from Minah, you use your free hand to unbuckle the both of you. (Hoseok, the unhelpful asshole, departed the car the instant the driver put it into neutral.) Then, you are hastily snatching away the hand on her mouth and grabbing the handle, yanking the car door open and stumbling out into the street with your best friend—thankfully—close on your heels, handbag under her arm. Immediately, she staggers across the pathway and bends over the frat’s neighbouring front lawn.

“At least you’ll still fit into your competition dress because you’re throwing up lunch, dinner and pregame,” you call out to her as you slam the Uber door shut, giving the driver a jolly wave as he speeds out of the street, probably signing off for the night after that traumatising experience. You turn to face the drunken mess and, luckily for her, you are the only two out on the street. Hoseok left the scene so fast that he most likely has Wonwoo’s dick down his throat already. “Are you really gonna let Jimin see you like this?”

“Shut uuup,” Minah whines, and you are empathetic enough to walk over and hold her hair away from her face. She would do it for you, if the roles were reversed. Minah takes a series of loud, deep breaths, though not even a glob of spit comes out onto the grass. She stays in her hands-on-knees position for an instant longer before she is standing, nonchalantly shrugging and looping her handbag strap over her shoulder. “Nah, I’m good. Told you guys that I get motion sickness.”

Your eye twitches. “I could kill you in your sleep, y’know?” you threaten with a smile, sharp as a sword’s edge. Minah simply gives you a knowing look, which directly translates into: Try me, bitch. “No, really, I could. Especially since I had to change after you spilled the Kremlin’s drink-of-choice all over my first outfit.”

“That was merely a misfortunate event, my sweet pal,” Minah hums, patting the top of your head like you are a misunderstanding preschooler. “But this outfit is cuter, so who cares.”

“I’m wearing a turtleneck sweater to a frat party,” you deadpan, pinching the coffee-coloured collar for emphasis and narrowing your eyes at her infinitely more party-appropriate silver, silky camisole.

“But it’s cropped, and you’re wearing your Ass Jeans,” Minah giggles and begins to walk towards the party, winking and planting a firm smack on your behind as she goes, which is admittedly shaped magnificently by the black denim. “I wouldn’t lie to you. All the better to seduce Yoongi, amiright.”

Like an elbow to the gut, the remembrance of Yoongi being no more than a handful of metres away from you—of him being the one to even invite you in the first place—forces the air out of your chest in a rush. Your stomach flutters like it is filled with moth wings and your palms grow damp as stones on a lake’s edge. The sheer knowledge of all this is enough to keep you from feeling the chill of the air—eager heat licks at your body like flames consuming kindling, burning up your skin from the inside and boiling away your intoxication. The sweater and jeans suddenly feel too hot; you are suddenly too conscious of the situation to deal with this.

“Oh come one, I was only joking. Wait, woah, you okay?” Minah, back at your side, rests her hand on your bicep. She looks as though she wants to ask something else, but instead, she says, “Have you come down with something? You look like you did at the stadium today. We can go home if you want–”

“No no, I’m fine,” you insist, coercing an assured smile onto your lips. “Just had a wave of nausea. Probably from all that vomit-talk in the Uber. Alternatively, it could’ve been you just putting the disgustingly vivid image of seducing the Devil in my head.”

“Or it could’ve been the five Pineapple Malibus that you drank at home,” Minah suggests, smirking and raising her eyebrows. You huff and roll your eyes, to which she laughs and wraps her arm around your waist. “Come on, pumpkin. Let’s get smashed and regret it in the morning.”

Shoving your nerves into a box and storing it in the back of your mind, you exhale the jitters and grin at your best friend. “God, Coach is going to break our ankles for this,” you say, stretching your arm out to rest your hand on her hip and beginning to walk towards the party.

Minah whoops with delight. “Onwards to our shattered bones!”

The house is trembling with energy as the pair of you approach. Trap music spills from the open windows into the front yard, where only a smattering of sobering partygoers wait for their Ubers or flatmates to pick them up. The front door lays open like an arm swept out in welcome, and the steam of the celebrating, clustered bodies within the purple-and-green-lit frat house immediately sticks to your skin upon entering.

Minah and yourself huddle into a corner by the stairs, and you survey the crowd for the missing member of your trio while she rapidly taps away at her phone. Neither Hoseok nor Wonwoo are in sight. In fact, you cannot see Jimin, his strange flatmate Taehyung, or any of the other ice hockey team members in the thrumming living space. Peculiar, considering this party is for them and you assumed they would all be dancing the night away.

I wonder where Yoongi is, you quietly muse to yourself, though you hurriedly bury the thought and reprimand your treacherous mind. Shut up, idiot. Stop thinking about him.

Then, Minah is leaning into your ear, yelling loud enough to nearly pop your eardrum. “I’m going to go pee! But Jimin just texted to say he’s in the backyard, if you wanna go hang with him for a moment!”

“Cool, I’ll get us drinks and text you where I’m at!” you shout with a thumbs-up and she nods, planting a sticky, raspberry lipgloss kiss on your cheek before scampering away to the bathroom.

You begin to weave through the crowd, still buzzed enough on your last few drinks to sway your hips to the beat and pause to dance with some of your classmates as you go. By the time you have passed through the mass, you are grinning like a fool and feeling slightly sweatier than you were before, but the endorphins charging through your brain like a happiness drug have you feeling too high to give a damn. Ahead, the fluorescent white light of the kitchen entryway spills into the low, pearly illumination of the living-space-come-dance-floor, and your tread towards it becomes steadfast, knowing that a treasure trove of alcohol and mixers awaits you within.

But what you do not expect is to find Yoongi in there, too.

You do not see him straight away; the transition from darkness to blinding light makes you flinch, eyes squinting in an effort to adjust. It definitely does not help that your vision is still somewhat hazy from your earlier Pineapple Malibus consumption, either. Though the blurred, watery edges of the kitchen gradually come to form solid shapes. At first, your gaze zones in on the island bench, overwhelmed by a plethora of glinting liquor bottles and red cups. But it is only once your eyes focus on what you were searching for that you finally notice the movement in the background—the girl cornering the boy into the counter, her supple, tangerine lips pressed in a feverish caress against the rosiness of his own.

The rosiness that you used to kiss.

“I…” you unconsciously say aloud, only realising when the girl jumps back from Yoongi as if his lips are suddenly buzzing with static electricity. His half-lidded, confused stare drags from the girl to the interruption, and when he realises it is none other than you, his cloudy eyes seem to clear, growing wide as moons. The connection of his gaze with your own is what seems to kickstart your heart, and your frozen tongue follows in its stead. “Woah. Didn’t mean to… Woah. Bye.”

It feels as though your soul detaches from your being when you quickly walk out of the kitchen, observing from above as your numbed body pushes its way back through the crowd. Calmly to begin with, though increasing in its haste once the front door becomes visible. You watch yourself charge into the front yard, and it is not until you have reached the walkway, separating the lawn from the road, that your soul seems to catapult back into your chest, bringing a torrent of emotions with it.

Yoongi was kissing another girl. But that is fine. That is completely okay. I hate Yoongi. I utterly despise him for what he did to me—for ruining my chances at a younger start as an Olympian. He destroyed everything I worked so hard for. I hate him. I hate him. I… do I?

You are halfway down the street when you hear your name be called out from the shadows. And while you know deep down that you should keep walking without looking back, the soles of your feet disobey, cementing you to the ground. It is as if you have become a marionette and a higher being is controlling your movements, pulling at your strings to turn you around and be faced with the last person you wish to see.

Slowing his jog to a walk, Yoongi looks like he did out the front of the stadium on the night you went to the pojangmacha. Windswept, red-cheeked, breathing hard. Except his mischievous eyes have been replaced with ones of deep-rooted sorrow and the cheeky smile is weighed down at the corners. Now, standing no more than a stride away, you can see that an apology is perched on the bow of his swollen lip, trembling and unsure.

But… an apology for what? He has done many things wrong. Yet, on this evening that took a wrong turn somewhere down the road, he did nothing that requires him to express remorse. You hold no claim over Yoongi, and neither does he with you. Yoongi looks like he knows this, and perhaps this is why the repentance clings to his mouth and refuses to be shaped into words. He did nothing wrong.

So why do your cheeks feel kissed by the cold, streaked wet and filling the corners of your lips with the taste of the ocean?

“Don’t go,” Yoongi finally murmurs, hand hovering next to your elbow as though he wishes to grab it—to keep you by his side. But the world is suddenly cracking beneath your feet and dropping you into a dark pit, sucking you back into the past.

“Don’t go!” Yoongi calls out, voice thick with desperation. Since you are physically incapable of escaping fast enough, he circles around your frame with ease and blocks your path. His expression is wild; a storm of rage and love and urgency. “Please, ___. I’m so sorry. Please. We can still be friends, can’t we? I’m–”

“Get out of my way, Yoongi,” you mutter from between your gritted teeth, staring over his shoulder and at the end of the empty high school hallway. But he continues to gripe, eyes glowing and frantic, the pleas falling like pennies from his lips. It is only when he goes to grab at your shoulders that you shriek, “Don’t fucking touch me!”

Everything is sucked from his expression in that instant, as though a higher being has plucked his soul right out of his body. He stares at you with a look of terrifying blankness, like he does not know you—like he never knew you.

And you are fine with that. It is exactly the way you want it to be. You want Yoongi to forget all about you, because you have already erased everything about him from your heart.

Yoongi seems to recognise something in your expression, for his hand drops limply to his side. And as grateful as you are that he is not burdening you with his insistence, you almost wish that he would grab your wrists and pull you close and tell you that what you saw was nothing.

That the two of you, after all these years of competing against each other in this game of spite, could still be something.

Yet, with your chest aching for the wrong reasons, you give him a final, regretful look before you turn on your heel and continue down the pathway. Yoongi does not follow you with desperation defining his tread. Yoongi does not scream out your name and beg for you to come back as if it is the last time he will ever see you. The cold night is all that grabs at your skin with its icy teeth and whistles in your ear with its freezing wind.

Deep down, tucked within a crevice of your heart that you are reluctantly—at long last—admitting exists, you wish the winter evening that embraces you as you stride further away from the party was Yoongi instead.

When Yoongi wakes up on Monday, a shadow-like something lurks at the back of his mind. A dark smudge that exudes discomposure, as if it is anticipating a horrible thing to occur. And while he savours his final moments in bed before he must get ready, it gradually creeps into his stomach and stirs the sleep-heavy contents with its inky fists, making Yoongi feel woozy and uncertain.

Foolishly, he passes it off as an after-effect of drinking twice over the weekend and the fact that it is a Monday, which is always the hardest day of training. Now that the KNSU team is in the final, Namjoon is bound to make it ten times as gruelling. Though, in hindsight, Yoongi should have known better to seize the tenebrous warning by its tail, made up a half-assed excuse to his coach, and stayed home. But did he? Absolutely not.

Yoongi knows bad things happen in threes. Monday delivers the first bad thing in the locker rooms, and the second right on his doorstep.

Number one happens after the 8AM training session, though Yoongi feels it bubbling thick and pungent like tar throughout the whole four hours. While the strenuous training grates his resilience like a block of cheese until it is nothing more than a weary nub, his uncertainty grows like a poisonous weed from Kim Yugyeom. They have never been on good terms. But there is something about the way in which the younger player watches him the entire time they are on the ice, like a prowling panther, that puts Yoongi on edge.

Thus, once the training finally comes to its end near midday, Yoongi is grateful. Not only because he can now go home and melt his muscles beneath a hot stream of water, but also since he no longer has to deal with Yugyeom eating him alive through his intense stare.

When he enters the lockers, the first thing he notices is that the men’s speed skating team is already in there, preparing to use the rink. Then, he realises that half of them are gathered around a grinning Yugyeom, cackling amongst themselves and leaning in to get a better look at whatever he holds up on his phone. Walking straight to his locker, taking out his sports bag and placing his skates inside, Yoongi decides to not engage with their little party, especially after the nasty smirks that his teammate was sending him throughout training. But the universe has apparently put a bounty on him, offering a million-dollar reward to whoever can get him to snap the quickest.

“Oi, Min!” Yugyeom vociferates, which causes the surrounding speed skaters to snicker. Yoongi clenches his teeth and ignores them, yanking away his jersey and protective gear, shoving them into the bag. But Yugyeom refuses to let up. “I know you’re listening, Min Yoongi. Now, tell us, how’s her pussy?”

Yoongi freezes for an infinitesimal moment, as if spontaneously paralysed, and then he reaches into the locker, pulling out his hoodie. No, there is no way he would be talking about her. He would not be so dumb to talk shit about her after last time. It must be about that girl from the luge team.

Attempting to appear as unfazed as possible, he pulls the soft material over his head and says, “No idea what you’re talking about.”

“Aw c’mon, I know you do, Min!” Yugyeom jibes in a honey-coated tone. Yoongi does not turn to face him as he packs away the rest of his belongings, though his hyperaware senses can pinpoint the exact movements of Yugyeom’s casual approach. “I can’t believe you two hid it from us for so long. Pretending to hate each other when you were secretly getting it on behind our backs. Look, is this when you had a little lovers’ spat?”

Yoongi knows he should let Yugyeom’s sneering fall on deaf ears and walk away. There is no use in fuelling this fire because it will only serve to burn him down. Yet, despite his internal negation, Yoongi’s perfidious eyes twitch to the side to see the phone screen that Yugyeom holds out towards him. And there, in effulgent LED, Yoongi sees a zoomed photo of a girl—of her—standing in a doorway, taken through one of the kitchen windows at the frat house.

Her expression is twisted into one of desolation; eyebrows bent like longbows; eyes glassy with tears; mouth hanging open in a soulless shape. The sight strikes Yoongi like it did when he saw it in the flesh, slicing right through his chest and hunting for his heart.

The whole locker room is silent.

Yugyeom takes Yoongi’s seething silence as some sort of sick permission to continue. “So, does our Ice Princess like it gentle or rough? I bet it’s like hate-fucking. All wild and kinky and shit. Does she cry like this and call you ‘daddy’ when you stick it in her, too–”

“I would shut the fuck up right now, if I were you,” Yoongi mutters, turning his head enough to murderously glare at a still grinning Yugyeom through his bangs.

“Ooh, what’cha gonna do, big guy?” Yugyeom barks a sharp, nasty laugh and straightens his spine. He towers a head taller than Yoongi, not that it will make any difference if he continues to talk shit. “Are you gonna slap me like you slap her ass while she’s snivelling about how much she loves you on your tiny cock–”

Yoongi has never punched a person, but he would consider his first to not be so bad. The second lands much better against Yugyeom’s cheekbone, and Yoongi cannot tell if it is his own knuckles or his teammate’s bones that crunch. By the third swing, he feels like he is getting the hang of it, and he distantly finds it somewhat amusing that Yugyeom, for all the bullshit he was just spouting, is practically a bag of flour beneath Yoongi’s fist. But before he can manage a fourth, there are short but strong arms curling under his armpits and yanking him back, off of Yugyeom who now slides down the side of the lockers with a crimson-soaked mouth.

Then, the blood rushing through his ears ceases to impair his hearing, and the enraged shouting booms against his ear drums at full volume. “That’s enough!” Namjoon roars, standing between Yoongi and Yugyeom. While Yoongi does not fight the arms that keep him locked down, they do not lessen the strength of their hold. He only realises it is Jimin when the familiar voice of his flatmate mutters into his ear, telling him to settle down.

“You’re both fucking lucky that I can’t afford to bench either of you for the final,” Namjoon barks, staring hard between Yoongi and Yugyeom. Almost everyone flinches at the threat—it only serves to hit home how furious he is over the situation. Then, Namjoon’s eyes settle on Yoongi, and Yoongi truly understands the phrase if looks could kill in this moment. “Go home. Don’t come back tomorrow.”

Jimin, after a brief second of hesitation, drops his arms. Without a word and with his eyes on the ground, Yoongi calmly slings the strap of his sports bag over his shoulder, leaves the change rooms without an utterance of defence, and runs back to the dorm. It is not until he is reaching for the front door’s handle that he notices the vibrant red caked on his swelling fist, and he winces and hisses as his knuckles scream in protest at the way he curls them around the metal. He figures that he can tend to his wounds later, and instead heads straight for the shower, set on scalding his skin of the anger still clogging his pores and the abuse that Yugyeom spewed all over him.

It is late in the afternoon by the time that the second bad thing materialises at the front door in three loud thumps, as if the person is knocking with their closed fist.

His own has now been sanitised and bandaged by Taehyung, who soon after left the dorm in a bright purple tracksuit. Yoongi, as always, did not question it. Jimin has not yet come home, and Yoongi is somewhat glad, considering he needs at least another hour of downtime before he has to exhaust an explanation about why what happened, happened. Though Yoongi wonders if it is, in fact, Jimin at the door. He could have forgotten to take his house-key to training, and Taehyung could have possibly locked the door behind him as he left, which would be a first. It is definitely more common to find the door unlocked than locked—he is genuinely shocked that their flat has not yet been raided by thieves; it would be an easy entry and an even more effortless escape.

So when Yoongi opens the door with an expectation of seeing Jimin, or potentially, a delivery man, the air is knocked out of him when he is faced with her. She wears an expression that is carefully sculpted to be as smooth as a still sea, and he cannot tell for the life of him whether she is here on good or bad terms.

Nonetheless, Yoongi blinks, surprised, and says, “Hey, what’s up–”

“What the hell are you doing?”

Although her features barely shift, her tone strikes like a cobra, sinking its fangs deep. Yoongi’s eyebrows raise underneath his fringe as her venom bleeds into his veins. While he knows deep down what warrants her sudden visit, he is shocked that she would come all the way to his doorstep about it instead of blatantly ignoring him, as usual.

“Is this about the night at the frat?” he says, crossing his arms and flinching when his bruised knuckles tuck into his elbow. “Look, I don’t know what you want me to–”

“Are you really that fucking idiotic, Yoongi?” she snaps, expression cracking with a fracture of scarcely composed rage. Yoongi is suddenly taken aback, and he truly thinks that he must be what she claims he is when she lifts her hand and points at his bandaged fist. “This is about that and the fact that you beat half the shit out of Yugyeom because of me.”

Yoongi’s mouth hangs slack, stunned speechless. He cannot comprehend why she is so outraged over him defending her, and that is all he can think to say. “I– I don’t understand why you’re going off like this when I was literally defending you because that bastard was making those disgusting comments!”

“That’s exactly it, Yoongi. When did I ever ask you to start standing up for me, considering you’ve hated me until the past month?” she bites, eyes flashing like a lightning storm. “Why the hell are you doing this? Why are you acting like we’re suddenly… something when that’s clearly not in your interests?”

“Not in my interests?” Yoongi scoffs, the candlelight of anger within him steadily growing. “You know that I’ve wanted to move on and heal all this time when you’ve been the one stuck in the damn past, not allowing that to happen! I should be the one saying that us being anything is not in your interests because it certainly hasn’t been until recently, too. Don’t be so fucking hypocritical!”

Now, the indignation is painted as clear as blue skies on her face. “Oh piss off, asshole. You’re the one playing cat-and-mouse with me!” she yells, fists clenching at her sides, taking a step closer so she can stare right up into his face and he can see the finer details of her fury. “For the fucking coaches, is that really what this was? You actually wanted to be friends again? And yet you were sucking face with that girl on Saturday night after inviting me to the party?”

Yoongi cannot help the vicious grin that rips at his cheeks over her statement. He knows he is being nasty, but really, she fell into the trap with such grace. “Oh, and since when do friends kiss, doll? Huh?”

If Yoongi had of blinked, he would have missed the way that the anger washed out of her face for a split second, replaced by a look of genuine confoundedness. But he sees that gleaming surprise flicker in all of its momentary agony before the hostility returns with renewed strength.

“That’s– Don’t twist my words! What I’m trying to get through your stupid, marble-sized brain is that one minute you’re kissing other girls and saying that this thing between us is only to keep our coaches happy, and the next, you’re out there acting like you’re my fucking boyfriend! Like… like you think you have some kind of right to put your career on the line over me because of who, fucking Yugyeom of all people? Yugyeom, who we all know talks shit and has always done his very best to get on your last nerve? So don’t you dare turn this around on me when you’ve not only been the one trying to kiss my ass and pretend that I hold some kind of importance to you, but you’ve then been turning around and using that as an excuse to fuck with your future!”

Yoongi knows she has a point, that her words come from a place of honesty within her. But he has years of anger festering around his lungs, finally rupturing and oozing into his every word like a disease. Unstoppable. He latches his teeth onto the only bit of meat that she has left tender enough to shred apart.

“What I do with my future is my decision! Why do you even care if I fuck it up for myself? I thought you would be happy to see me come crashing down after what happened. Eye for an eye; tooth for a tooth, right?”

She visibly bristles—shoulders hunching up to her ears; spine curling. He cannot tell if it is due to his accusations or because he blatantly ignored the tougher parts of what she initially said. The portions that he refused to chew. “I don’t care. I just can’t live peacefully because you’re constantly wriggling your way into my life in one way or another—this is merely a prime example! And now it’s come to a point where you’re sending me mixed signals and fucking around with my feelings like it’s some kind of sick game! What did I ever do to you, other than despise you, to deserve this, Yoongi? Really, what did I fucking do to you?”

“Are you really that thick in the head that you think your feelings for me are returning because I’ve somehow manipulated you into liking me again?!” Yoongi is roaring, but he could not care. He wants the clouds in the sky to hear him and compress his words into a storm, drowning her in the torrential rain. “Does it really kill you so much to admit that hey, perhaps we never fell out of love?!”

Her eyes shine, wet with rage and frustration. “You’re delusional if you think I still give two shits about you!”

“Go on then, say it,” Yoongi snarks, and he feels hot to the touch, like he would release steam if he were to have a bucket of water dumped on him. “Say that you don’t love me anymore. Say that you stopped loving me when it all went to shit five years ago.”

He expects her to deny it straight away. Yet, under the pressure of his ferocious gaze, she simply stares over his shoulder, into the void of the entranceway, and keeps her mouth clamped shut. Her failure to speak is practically a profession of assent in itself, but Yoongi is not so sure, anymore. He exhales, harsh enough to disturb the hairs floating around her distressed expression.

“When are you going to stop blaming other people for every single thing that doesn’t go the way you want it to, ___? When are you going to realise that only you can control your own feelings? When are you going to see that some things just naturally happen, and nobody can be blamed for it?” Yoongi, without remorse, lunges for the jugular and begins to tear, tasting copper and salt and vivid scarlet. “When are you going to stop blaming me for that accident and apologise to me? I’ve said I’m sorry to you about something that was never my fault more times than I ever told you I love you.”

“Fuck you,” she immediately spits, beginning to twist on her heel and flee. The right one—the one that she is convinced he smashed to smithereens with his bare hands.

But not before Yoongi slams the door in her face with enough force to shatter his heart.

Note | If you haven’t already noticed, I’ve decided to split the finale into two parts. This will enable me to get content posted for you guys much faster and it’ll be a weight off of my shoulders!! As you can see by the word count, it was getting pretty darn long sdfghs. Also, the ending was very scrappily edited, so if it’s bad, just know that I’m going to go through it again on Monday.

Anyways, prepare for the finale to be posted sometime over the next few weeks!! In the meantime, I’d love to know all of your thoughts on their relationship and what you think happened in their past!! ♡

All Rights Reserved © Vankoya. No translations, reposting and/or modifying of the material is allowed without my direct permission.

[zarchomp]

hey hey HEY!

i know so many people are upset about the way dany’s character went this season. that’s fine. please, talk about the shitty writing and know that it’s 100% okay that your favourite character didn’t end up the way you wanted them to.

but if anyone fucking tries to defend her for her actions, i have absolutely no respect for you. 

she committed genocide. she killed thousands of innocent people.

this is objectively not okay.

and for the love of god, if you have any respect for her character or for women in general PLEASE don’t tell me she was justified because she’d been going through a hard time.

this does nothing but play into the idea that women are not to be trusted with power because they are too emotional. i know that when i hear people use this argument it is in defence of dany, but what she did is objectively one of the worst things a human being can do (in my opinion it’s the absolute worst), and having her supporters say it was okay because she was upset at the time does not help her case.

my absolute favourite character got exactly what she deserved this season, so i don’t think i can really talk about that same kind of heart break that lots of dany supporters must be feeling right now, because if anything i do think it’s the end it has been leading towards for her for seasons. but even i will admit that these fans trying to defend her using this justification is a massive dishonour to dany’s character and is just insulting to all women.

in the real world men CONSTANTLY use this argument to talk about why women should not hold too much power. don’t contribute to this. in my opinion, dany did what she did because she has been blinded by a hunger for power. (which she has been for quite a bit) there are other interpretations of what could have happened too. argue those. argue that the writers don’t care about the truth of the character. argue that the writers are misogynistic. but don’t contribute to this branch of misogyny that affects women on the daily.

[choose-your-own-url]

Okay, I told myself I would never talk about Priya again, but my urge to insert myself has gotten too strong to ignore even though I feel like a loser for talking about this two days later. This is going to be long so sorry to everyone on mobile who wants to scroll past (honestly don’t blame you lol), but hey, it could be worse.

And just as a general, slightly vague, overview of what is under the cut: be nice to people, don't judge others, you can like villains, creepy is creepy, sexism and homophobia both suck, and fiction=reality isn’t always applicable.

So, first off, stop insulting people and calling them names for thinking differently. This applies to everyone on both sides on any issue really. Frankly, it’s just mean and rude and it doesn’t accomplish anything productive. It only hurts people’s feelings and causes them to get defensive. This in turn makes them resist change. They become more convinced that their side is right because the other side can only be mean and resolve to childish insults. If you’re actually trying to change minds, this approach won’t work. I understand the need to rant and release your emotions, but you have other options, like either keep if off the internet or just vague blog or whatever. Just, please try and always be kind to others.

Now for Priya. Again, I want to reiterate, liking Priya does NOT make you a bad person. Anyone who says or tries to make you think otherwise it just wrong. I sincerely apologise to anyone who has felt personally attacked by the discourse at my hands, though I certainly hope that I have not done that to anyone. I am also sorry in general to anyone that has been hurt, especially wlw. Your real life is hard enough, you don’t need a game that’s meant to offer you an escape and bring you pleasure to add to that. This is something the fandom as a whole should work on.

As for the actual criticisms of Priya, there are two main things I want to address here. I’m going to start with the criticizing people for liking a villain aspect.

If your approach to criticizing the desire for Priya has been because she’s clearly written as an antagonist, maybe don’t do this. There is nothing wrong with liking a villain. People like characters for their allure and complexities, not whether or not their moral compass is perfect.

There are countless male characters this can be applied to, both within the world of Choices and general media. So unless you see a problem with all of them, this argument should probably be dropped. Now, of course you can disagree with liking someone like Priya because of the murder and throwing house boys around and all that jazz, but don’t use your personal disgust as an excuse to make judgements about or attack other people.

Now for the second aspect I want to address, the one I think should be being the focus: excusing similar behaviors of different characters due to gender and attraction. The issue should never have been “Priya is a bad person”, but “Priya acts in a sexually predatory way”. This is the reason for the comparison to Lester rather than any other character.

Lester is a creep. Everyone knows that and no one is trying to defend him. He makes sexual advances on MC regardless of whether or not she wants it. Priya does this as well. Some people who like Priya argue that it’s not creepy because they do want it. However, there are people who don’t. Priya still acts the same, meaning that either way she doesn’t care about how MC feels.

This is the double standard. Lester is universally disliked, Priya isn’t. This difference completely depends on gender and how attracted you are to the two. Double standards are rarely a good thing, and I don't think this is one of the situations where it is. People should always be held accountable for predatory actions, regardless of circumstance.

However, I will add, because I think it is important to note, that the two characters are written very differently. Lester is obviously meant to make the readers uncomfortable and hate him, whereas Priya is written to have a sort of forbidden attraction. Neither are being excused for their actions, but with Priya, it is being used as a way to make her alluring.

Plus, lack of representation and acceptance for gay girls has made standards...low. I’m a bi girl myself. When you have such few options, you tend to latch onto options that aren’t necessarily the healthiest. I’m not innocent of this. I know there are characters I thirst after that logic says I shouldn’t.

Lester’s actions may also be more triggering than Priya’s for some.

When you compound these things together, it's not surprising people like Priya and hate Lester. I feel these are valid points, it’s just not enough to convince me that this double standard is okay.

I also want to say that there are many aspects of society at play here to allow this double standard to exist. I think sexism is the main one.

In (American) society, women are allowed to get away with way more than men in terms of abusive behavior. Things like rape and domestic abuse just aren’t taken seriously when a woman is the perpetrator.* This is because women are seen as weak and overly feminine so they can’t cause any real harm.

To be clear, I don’t see anybody saying Priya isn’t a bad person or that she isn’t toxic. I’m not trying to claim people are. I’m just trying to communicate that saying there is a double standard here isn’t saying men are oppressed. The consequences of misogyny just aren’t all negative in terms of how it affects women.

Homophobia is also relevant to this discourse. Do I think there would be backlash against liking Priya if she was a dude straight girls were obsessing over? Yes, much like how Caleb lovers were criticized. But, this fandom does have a history of homophobia, just as almost all fandoms do. You can’t ignore that history when talking about negative posts that mainly target wlw.

Obviously nobody is intentionally being homophobic with their posts. Regardless, I do feel that homophobia has allowed for people to feel comfortable having an extra level of...aggression, I guess? in their posts. I’m not exactly sure how to describe it, but I do sense it. But basically, what I’m trying to say here is there would still be anti-Priya posts if she was a man, just not at the same level.

There is one final thing I want to talk about: the relation between fiction and reality. I do think fiction mirrors reality, but it isn’t always applicable. Here, I think it’s acceptable to say the different reactions reflect how obsessed with physical attraction society is, but not much beyond that. It certainly isn’t okay to say that if you like Priya you must excuse abuse in real life. As long as the person isn’t blind to the fact Priya is a terrible person, which, again, I don’t think anyone is, then it’s fine to like her.

So, in conclusion, there is nothing wrong with liking Priya. You do you and thirst to your heart’s content. Liking her isn’t the issue. The issue is the difference in reactions to similar characters. But, regardless of your opinion on Priya, I really want to emphasize the point that attacking people is not okay. This means don’t use personal insults to argue with others. It also means don’t make moral judgements about people depending on whether or not they like Priya. Neither of these are productive actions.

Oh, and also, congrats to anyone that read the whole thing. That’s a lot of text for an internet post. Also, again, I’m sorry people on mobile. If only the read more worked. And yes, I just took an hour and half to write a post about discourse for a fictional character. I have too much time on my hands and should maybe get a life.

*I wanted to add that I am not saying Priya is a rapist because I realized people might read it that way. That was just an example of women not being taken seriously.

[thesydneyfeminists]

Hannah Gadsby’s Nanette Review

By: Brittany L.

27th June 2018

It’s pride month and the 40th anniversary of the first ever Sydney Mardi Gras, so that means it’s time for some Lesbian Content™. Hannah Gadsby’s Nanette is now streaming on Netflix, and everyone and their mother (literally and figuratively) should watch it. I’m not normally a fan of standup– probably due to the long list of ex-boyfriends who tried to convince me poorly veiled misogyny and racism is the best thing to ever grace the planet. So, when I first saw Nanette advertised, I wasn’t too keen. But when an old friend and mentor of mine shared a ravishing review on Facebook, I decided to give it a try. It’s only a little over an hour long, so not as time consuming as a movie, or even a decent series binge. I figured it would be a good way to detox after finishing my final paper of the semester. I was wrong. Nanette is not a lighthearted show, by any means. In an interview, Gadsby specifically states, “I really wanted the audience to have a bit of a shock … This show was more of a push back against the majority culture of it all”. 

That being said, Gadsby is brilliant in her performance. She will have you laughing until you’re sore. In the same breath, she will yank your whole world out from underneath you. Nanette is shocking, confronting and, in many ways, uncomfortable. It will shatter your heart and leave you reeling. Despite, or probably because of, this fact, it is very much worth watching.

To start, I want to give a bit of background on Hannah Gadsby, because context is important, especially for this performance. Gadsby was born and raised in Tasmania, the “bible belt of Australia” as she calls it. Although she’s been a well-known comic in Australia for years, she’s a fresh voice to the rest of the world. Before she started performing comedy, Gadsby studied Art History at ANU, a fact she jokes about throughout Nanette. If you don’t think classical art can possibly be funny, you’re in for a treat. Gadsby makes the art scene both accessible and hilarious. She calls out the entire Western canon and, more specifically, Pablo Picasso, for their deeply rooted sexism and racism. The male gaze and, by extension, female oppression is nothing new for Gadsby. She rightly reminds her viewers women have been trying to speak this truth for years; the #MeToo movement, while critical, is built on the backs of so many silenced women. She also speaks eloquently and knowledgeably about mental illness in art. In an interview for another show she works on, titled Nakedly Nude, Gadsby reiterates “You can’t change the story, but you can change the way you tell it and what you focus on,” she says. “You can’t rewrite history, but you can shake it up”. And shake it up she does. No topic is off limits for Gadsby. She leaps gracefully (and sometimes purposefully not-so-gracefully) between a large range of subjects throughout her show.

A major theme running through Nanette is Gadsby’s coming out story. Gadsby is an outspoken lesbian and built her career off what she calls self-deprecating humor. One of the most gut-wrenching lines in the show is simply, “Do you know what self-deprecation means coming from somebody who exists on the margins? It is not humility; it is humiliation”. Towards the beginning of the show, Gadsby sets up a joke about coming out to her mother. It’s a good joke, mostly because it’s relatable. But as the show progresses, Gadsby calls out the toxic and cyclical paradox of marginalized groups relying on humor as a coping mechanism. In a comedy show, her coming out story must stop at the point of tension. That’s what makes it funny. But she’s been living the rewards and consequences of that story for years now and is ready to move past that point. Jokingly, but also somewhat seriously, she responds, “I identify as tired.” This tiredness is apparent at different points during the show. It’s not the kind of tired that a short nap or even a good night’s rest will cure. Gadsby is tired of the world and she isn’t afraid to let you know about it. And she’s not only tired. Gadsby is angry. She gives voice to the anger so many women around the world are feeling and channeling today. It’s not a blind rage, but a constructive one. No one in Gadsby’s audience is safe from the difficult yet necessary effects of self-reflection.

Gadsby begins Nanette by swearing off comedy. It’s been a noxious atmosphere for her recently, and she believes it’s finally time to let it go. Gadsby then spends a large portion of the show dragging comedy culture through the mud. She realizes the contradictions of her acts, and masterfully allows room for them all. The strength of Nanette lies in its ability to encompass many seemingly conflicting topics. As one critic states, “Nanette oozes emotion, like a raw and weeping wound, but has the strength of a great mind and a canny comedian behind it”. Gadsby’s skills as a comedian give her the freedom to critique comedy while simultaneously relying on it to explode her story into the world. Gadsby refuses to sugar coat her story or package it into an easily digestible form for her audience. She wants us to grapple with all the complexities of her life and, in doing so, our own. The result is magnificent, if heavy on the soul. Nanette is a crucial watch for all women and feminists. Despite the anger and bitterness, the show is ultimately full of hope. Gadsby reminds us how it is possible to work within the structures that bind us while also using them to build something new. To conclude, I want to leave you all with some of Gadsby’s words, which I think ring especially true today. “There is nothing stronger than a broken woman who has rebuilt herself.”

Sources

https://www.forbes.com/sites/andrewhusband/2018/06/18/hannah-gadsby-nanette-netflix-interview/#763319ed2512

https://uproxx.com/tv/comedy-after-hannah-gadsby-nanette/2/

https://www.bustle.com/p/who-is-hannah-gadsby-nanette-on-netflix-is-a-must-see-for-comedy-fans-9194901

http://ew.com/tv/2018/05/22/hannah-gadsby-nanette-netflix-special-announcement-exclusive/http://ew.com/tv/2018/05/22/hannah-gadsby-nanette-netflix-special-announcement-exclusive/

https://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/2018/feb/19/hannah-gadsby-on-the-male-gaze-in-art-stop-watching-women-having-baths-go-away

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/03/19/arts/hannah-gadsby-comedy-nanette.html

https://www.thecut.com/2018/06/hannah-gadsbys-nanette-and-the-limits-of-laughter.html

https://dailyreview.com.au/nanette-review-hannah-gadsbys-brilliant-netflix-special-going-set-fire-internet/75701/

https://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/comedy/why-hannah-gadsby-is-retiring-from-comedy-after-nanette-20170628-gx0313.html

Image sources:

Hannah Gadsby Nanette (kind of blue tone): http://comedy.com.au/tour/hannah-gadsby-nanette/

Gadsby interview: https://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/2018/jun/27/hannah-gadsbys-nanette-dares-to-dream-of-a-different-future-for-ourselves-and-for-comedyGadsby with art: https://anz.newonnetflix.info/info/80233611/s