#i need to write a chunk of underline the black

[not-poignant]

Omg Smoke In Autumn is back AAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!

Pia you have no idea how happy I am

*bounces happily*

Honestly writing feral Augus and feral Mosk being ridiculous together lets me live my best life.

There's just something about older 'so charming I don't need to be kind' Augus Each Uisge against younger 'absolute feral gremlin hours' Mosk Manytrees that I just adore. They're ridiculous, lol.

I hope I can write more of it! I felt a bit down about the story recently but I'm still so excited to write them together that I still am hoping to write another chapter (or even two) this month. :D

[jgvfhl]

Number Lads! AKA me taking a hammer to canon :)

Well now we see some actual plot being affected by the character choices in this here little ol' story I'm writing. Damn this list is getting long... wonderful! (Read Part 1 - Part 2- Part 3)

Some gentle warnings for injury descriptions--specifically burns

ARC-0000 = Zero = d0nut man

CT-2222 = Do-si-do = Double Trouble

CT-3333 = Trees = Leafs

CT-4444 = Fours = Submarine

ARC-5555 = Fives = high fives

ARC-1409 = Echo = BetterDomino

CC-6666 = Sixes/Death = DEATH

ARC-7777 = Sevenset = RedBoiiiii

CT-8888 = Loops = Loopy

high fives: GUYS guys guys i think echo and i can get our hands on nines soon

d0nut man: “get our hands on nines”

d0nut man: well. I’ve heard stranger things out of one of our medics

BetterDomino: lol yeah us too

Leafs: nines? 212th yeah?

high fives: yeah echo and i just got the rundown for a mission with cmdr cody and gen kenobi and there was definitely a CT-9999 on the list

Double Trouble: oo what kinda mission??

BetterDomino: the kind you’re not allowed to know about

high fives: yeah :3

BetterDomino: and technically he shouldn’t even have mentioned it >_>

Double Trouble: oh ho ho

Leafs: do si do, gossip is not worth breaking classified information

high fives: but nines!!

RedBoiiiii: WE’RE GETTING A NEW NUMBER????

high fives: MAYBE

BetterDomino: very strong maybe

DEATH: classified missions = death trap

DEATH: the new guy might not even make it out, don’t get too excited

RedBoiiiii: life of the party, as usual

Leafs: well he is the more experienced of us in these things… so…

high fives: we’re not gonna die guys

Loopy: you better not :(

DEATH: you want some advice? if the seps point a gun at something, they’re going to shoot

DEATH: doesn’t matter how important it is to them or their cause. they will shoot it.

high fives: … noted sir

BetterDomino: thank you

RedBoiiiii: OYA DOMINO I LOVE YOUUUUUUU blease come back safe *bonk*

high fives: *bonk*

BetterDomino: *bonk*

____

Had Nines not been a member of the 212th for nearly two years, he’d probably be wondering if all of his general’s missions went this muja-shaped so fast. Well. Actually, he’d probably be dead. He rather liked not being dead, and hoped to keep it that way, despite the absolute and utter chaos happening around the Citadel’s lower airfield at the moment. The air was a haze of colors as blue, red, and green blaster bolts zipped through the air, combined with the five lightsabers whirling about the generals and commander. But right now, Nines was really trying not to die while pinned down behind this cargo crate.

The noise of a door drew his attention--ever so briefly--as yet more clankers emerged from the hellish prison. He could only take a glance before he had to duck back behind the large cargo crate he and two ARCs were using for cover. He looked over at the pair, watching one--Echo or Fives, he couldn’t quite recall at the moment--launch a charge at the new droids. Nines felt the detonation, and twisted back around to send some bolts towards the scattered droids. Kriffing hells, commando droids? Again? Stars, he really hated those buggers.

“General Skywalker!” Nines barely caught the tail end of the ARC’s warning as he returned to cover. “A droid is manning one of those turrets. They’re gonna blow up the shuttle, sir.”

Oh, hells no. Nines looked up, locating General Skywalker and General Peill on the little flying craft they’d commandeered from incoming assailants. It looked like they were heading towards the turret, then they disappeared over the edge of the cargo crate.

“This is our only chance!” Nines heard behind him from the same ARC. “We have to stop him.” He looked over just as one of the pair disappeared around the side of the crate, the other close on his heels.

“Echo no!”

Nines jogged over, hoping to cover the pair. Echo was running towards the shuttle’s ramp with a shield dropped by one of the commandos. Nines looked and saw at the same time as Fives--if that was Echo, the one still standing here was Fives--the commando droid at the turret’s controls turning the blaster barrels towards the shuttle.

Nines felt a horribly familiar cold lump sink into his gut as the seconds seemed to slow, green turret rounds creeping closer and closer to Echo and their only way out of this Maker-abandoned pit. But it seemed time hadn’t slowed for Fives, who was suddenly reaching to the ascension cable at the back of his utility belt.

He attached it to his blaster, aimed at his brother, and fired.

There was the distinct sound of the cable striking plastoid. A huge noise followed, managing to drown out the whizz of blaster fire. A wave of light and heat washed over the immediate area as the shuttle exploded. Nines’ eyes followed a chunk of the ship as it flew over the landing pad and destroyed the turret and the droid manning it, but then his attention was back on Fives. Fives, who was drawing in his ascension cable desperately as the rest of the strike team collected by the last way out of the landing pad.

“We need to go,” General Kenobi said, and no one was going to argue. “Now.”

“Fives,” Captain Rex stood next to his ARCs.

Fives was kneeling on one knee over Echo’s unmoving, singed, and smoking form, hastily detaching the cable from his brother’s chestplate. “I got him,” he said, and even for all the training he had, anyone would hear the distress underlining the urgency of his actions.

Nines cast his eyes over the fallen ARC. The plastoid of Echo’s boot had melted in the intense heat of the shuttle’s explosion. It wasn’t coming off until a medic was there to cut it off. Nines was grateful now for the filters in his bucket, keeping the smell of burning blacks and probably flesh out of his nose. Taking another look, he saw Echo’s right arm had suffered similar injuries--the side unprotected by the shield. But, judging by Fives’ concerted efforts, he was still alive.

As the team retreated, Fives finally stowed his cable and his blaster on his belt, hefting his brother across his shoulders and hauling them both up. Nines lagged between the two parties, waiting until Fives had caught up before picking up his pace.

“No man left behind, right?” Nines said, low enough to keep it between them.

“Not a kriffing chance,” Fives huffed.

_____

In a whirlwind of sulfurous stench, near misses, anoobas, crawling over lethal lava lakes, and the unfortunate death of General Peill, the greatly reduced strike team was finally aboard General Koon’s gunship. Fives carefully lowered his brother to the floor, leaning him against the wall. Captain Rex maneuvered over to them, standing between them and the other occupants like a human privacy screen as the gunship flew far, far away from the stinking hell that was The Citadel.

It was another hour or so before Nines had the chance to find them again. Echo’s injuries were the worst to come out of the mission, mostly because of the sheer number of casualties. Nines himself only suffered some relatively superficial bumps and bruises, so he was cleared from medical quickly.

“Where are you off to, Nines?”

The commander, too, had been quickly cleared, it seemed. Nines turned and waited for Commander Cody before starting for the other medbay rooms again. “Sir, I thought I’d check on the two ARCs. Fives and Echo?”

The commander nodded, switching his helmet to under his other arm. “I was gonna check on Rex, and he’s probably with them. I’ll come with.”

“The captain’s pretty fond of them, then?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” the commander smiled, though there was something bittersweet in the expression.

As he’d predicted, they found the captain and Fives outside one of the medbay rooms. Rex was seated on the bench between doorways, his bucket on the floor between his feet, a water bottle in one hand. Fives was on his feet, pacing back and forth in front of the room, his eyes only leaving the windows briefly at every pass. His bucket was resting on the ground near the captain’s.

When the two caught sight of Nines and Cody approaching, Rex made to stand, but the commander gave him a sharp look. “Sit down, Rex.” The captain slumped back down on the bench, where the commander soon joined him. “What’s the word?”

“There hasn’t been any kriffing word,” Fives growled, still pacing.

The commander’s brows scrunched. “It’s been over an hour.”

“I know,” Fives shot back with far more force than Nines would ever use towards a commander.

But Cody took it in stride, barely reacting to the added bite in the ARC’s words. He just nodded and leaned back against the wall like Captain Rex, whom he asked, “Have you both been looked over?”

The captain nodded. “Yeah, we’ve been cleared.”

Nines watched Fives pacing back and forth. He hadn’t gotten much of a chance to talk to Echo or Fives before the whole strike team went into carbonite. But, clearly, Fives needed a distraction. Nines had been around long enough, battle after battle, to recognize that.

He took a step forward, clearing his throat. “Hey, uh… Fives. What was it you were telling me about before we left? That… number group?”

Fives paused in his pacing, and some of the stress on his face replaced by slight confusion, then recognition. “Right. Yeah.”

The captain raised an eyebrow at them both. “Number group? Fives, how many people are you gonna tell about those guys?”

“Well,” Nines began, “he had a good reason. I’m CT-9999. Nines, sir.”

The captain chuckled. “I see.”

“Yeah, he didn’t get much out before we had to go under. Anything else I should know about these guys?”

Fives finally stopped pacing and sighed quietly, looking over through the medbay windows. “Yeah, okay.” He rubbed his eyes, his shoulders lowering as some of the fight left his system. It appeared he’d realized Nines was only trying to take his mind off his injured brother, and was giving in to the plan.

“Why don’t you get cleaned up while you’re at it, Fives,” Captain Rex told him, and despite the wording, it wasn’t a question.

“But--”

“Echo’s not going anywhere,” the captain said, cutting off Fives’ protests. “I’ll stay here, and I’ll comm you the second I hear anything.”

Fives sighed again. The captain had won, Nines knew. The ARC trudged over to collect his helmet from the floor by his captain’s boots. As he straighted up, the captain caught the back of his neck and pressed their foreheads together long enough to murmur something inaudible. Nines knew it wasn’t for him to hear anyway. But Fives nodded when he was released, and even Cody reached up to pat his chestplate. Huh.

“Food first or shower first?” Nines asked when he walked over to him. “‘Cause I’m starving.”

“Yeah, me too,” Fives admitted. “But, I think I wanna get the stink of that place out of my armor before I try eating anything.”

_____

After a fast shower, even by GAR standards, Nines found Fives sitting on the floor outside the ‘freshers in just his blacks and boots with his kit and a wet cloth, in the middle of wiping off the worst of the grime from the mission. He had paused, however, and was now fiddling with his wrist comm. Nines sat down next to him with his own kit to do the same.

“Any news?”

“No, I just remembered something…” Fives replied, clearly occupied. Finally, his comm blinked green as it connected with someone else’s. “Loops?”

There was a hesitant answer. “Fives…? Why can you comm me while I’m in hyperspace?”

Fives smiled triumphantly. “Don’t worry about it. Are you busy right now?”

“I mean… it can wait an hour or so. Why?”

“You wanna pop down to the mess hall for a bit?”

There was a pause. “Are you onboard?”

“Maybe.”

Loops stuttered out a few indignant syllables before demanding, “Did we just haul ass across hyperspace to pull you out of The Citadel?”

“Well, not just me, but yeah. Thanks, by the way, for whatever small part you played in getting us the hell out of there.”

“What in the nine hells were you doing in The Citadel, Fives?”

Fives rolled his eyes. “Can you just meet me in the mess and I’ll tell you?”

Another pause. “Fine, but I’m not happy about it.”

Even if Fives hadn’t filled Nines in on who Loops was on their way to the mess hall, it would have been fairly obvious by the large eight tattooed on his cheek, much the way Fives’ tattoo was obvious. Loops was CT-8888, and his face only dropped its suspicious scowl at Fives when Nines introduced himself.

“Nines? Really?”

“Hey, I said we could get our hands on him,” Fives said around a mouthful of rations. He and Nines had gotten their food and found a table before Loops had shown up.

“Yeah, and the commander said he’d be dead by the end of the mission,” Loops shot back across the table.

Nines raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’m not dead…”

“Which is wonderful,” Loops assured him.

“And… which commander?”

Loops looked at Fives, who took the opportunity to take a long drink. “You didn’t tell him about the commander?”

When he finished, Fives shrugged, wiping his mouth and smiling. “I think it’s better when you find out organically.”

“Maker, you and Sevenset are two of a kind,” Loops said, shaking his head. “Hey, where’s Echo?”

“Medbay.”

“Is he okay?”

Nines watched the shadow of worry fall across Fives’ face, but he seemed to shake it off. “I don’t know yet.”

Loops dipped his chin, looking sympathetic. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

Fives tried to give an assuring smile, but it didn’t quite land. “Yeah, well… it’s not gonna kill him. So.” He poked the remaining cubes of food on his tray with his fork.

His friend nodded, understanding that, sometimes, injuries weren’t so straightforward to fix. Clones had been decommissioned for some pretty mundane reasons, and everyone knew it. “Well, hey,” he said, “you’re both alive, and so is Nines. You can prove the commander wrong if nothing else.”

“Well, you’ve got a point there.”

“Do you wanna do that now, or…?” Loops asked, slowly raising his wrist comm and opening a text channel.

“We’re in hyperspace,” Nines reminded him.

He frowned, putting his arm back on the table and resting his chin on it. “I hate hyperspace.”

Nines could understand. Usually, he was too busy to complain, but now he was a bit at odd ends. But before he could voice his commiseration, Fives’ comm pinged, and a second later, Fives sprang up from the table, food and tray almost forgotten.

“That was Rex, I gotta go,” he said, already hurrying away to deposit his tray before dashing out the door.

Loops had made no move to follow him, and Nines knew there would be no room in the medbay for them regardless. “Hope it’s good news,” Loops said. Nines nodded.

_____

Fives skidded to a stop, narrowly avoiding crashing directly into Rex in front of Echo’s room in the medbay. Rex grabbed his upper arms to help him stop.

“What is it? What happened?” Fives demanded, only just noticing the Wolfpack medic standing by. He looked regulation except for a large geometric tattoo on the left side of his neck.

“Take a breath, Fives,” Rex told him. “This is Bolt, he was just about to tell us.”

Bolt gestured them into the room, allowing Fives to move past him to stand next to his twin. Echo was still unconscious, although Fives didn’t know if that was because of the extent of his injuries or because of something the medics had done. A blanket was drawn up to his chest, his arms laid out at his sides. His right arm was swathed in bandages almost to the shoulder joint, and Fives could see by the outline of his right leg that it was wrapped up similarly. He reached over to put a hand on his brother’s head, feeling some of the tension he’d still been carrying fade as he ran gentle fingers through his brother’s hair.

“So, how is he?” Rex asked.

“Why is he still unconscious?” Fives added.

Bolt folded his arms, tucking his datapad under one arm. “He’s medically sedated. The burns on his leg are extensive and severe, and it’s better for him to be unconscious for the pain. Most of the time we spent today was getting his leg out of his boots and blacks. They’d melted on in some places. There are some third-degree burns around his knees and ankles where his armor didn’t protect him, but for the most part, they’re all second- and first-degree.”

“But his--it’ll all heal, right?” Fives wanted to know. Batchmate aside, Echo was his partner on the field. He needed to know Echo could still be that, or else Jesse might be getting a bit of informal ARC training to make up for it.

The medic nodded. “It should heal. There might be some nerve damage that will take longer than the rest, but it should be a functional result. Whatever surgeries or grafts will be minor, which is good. As soon as we come out of hyperspace, I will contact your medics, Captain, and let them know to have a bacta tank ready for him when you arrive.”

Rex nodded back, and Fives could see a similar shedding of worries from his shoulders. “Thank you.”

“It’ll still be a couple months until he’s ready for action, but he should be able to return to full duties eventually.” He unfolded his arms and moved towards the door. “You can stay as long as you want.”

Fives nodded, his focus back on Echo now the medic was done. He didn’t notice the captain moving until Rex’s hand landed on his shoulder, and he looked over. “Have a seat. I know you’re gonna be here a while.”

An empty supply crate had appeared behind him. He sat, his hand moving to grasp his brother’s. “I thought I was gonna be the one getting hurt doing something stupid like that.”

Rex breathed a short laugh. “Yeah. Well. Good on you for pulling him out like that. Ascension cable--don’t think I would have thought of that one.”

A tiny smile appeared on Fives’ face. “Guess the ARC training was good for something.”

“Mm… I think that was more Domino training than ARC training.” Rex ruffled Fives’ curls. “Maybe get some sleep while you’re keeping him company, okay?”

He didn’t have any arguments for that. Once Rex was gone, however, he stood up so he could lean over Echo to put their foreheads together, resting his left hand on the side of his brother’s face. He remained like that for a short moment, where he could feel his brother’s slow, even breaths across his face, and to finally let it sink in that Echo was okay. That explosion had been terrifying to watch, and the sight of Echo’s body landing limply on the ground on the end of the cable would have debilitated Fives before ARC training. Then again, they wouldn’t be ARCs if they didn’t have the potential to be better than themselves.

Echo was okay. That was the important thing.

“You’re gonna be right as rain in a few,” he murmured before moving to kiss the spot where their heads had touched. “And I’ll be there the whole time, okay?”

He pulled the crate a bit closer to the bed before he sat back down so he could lay his arms down and rest his head on top of them. He took Echo’s hand in his own, tucked their clasped hands against his cheek, and closed his eyes. Sleep wasn’t far behind.

_____

high fives: guess who’s not dead commander

RedBoiiiii: FIVES!!!! YOU’RE OKAY!!!

DEATH: what do you want, a medal?

high fives: already have one, thanks

Leafs: is everyone else alive too, or just you

Double Trouble: YOU LIVE!!! Now do we get all the goss about the mission??

Leafs: do si do you are a hazard to the gar

Double Trouble: why thank you trees <3

high fives: anyway nines is *also* alive

RedBoiiiii: NINES??

Loopy: and so is echo

d0nut man: oh good nox and pixel were worried about their “handprint buddy”

high fives: that’s adorable he’ll be glad to hear it

DEATH: Where is your plus one?

high fives: … medbay

high fives: also sevenset, i sent you nines’ comm code? didn’t you get it?

RedBoiiiii: oh whoops hang on

d0nut man: what happened to echo???

Leafs: is he okay?

high fives: he got caught in an explosion, got some nasty burns. he’s still in bacta for another half-day, but the medics seem pleased with the progress so… yay?

Double Trouble: damn i’m sorry that sounds awful

RedBoiiiii: nu ;-; fives that sucks but i’m glad the medics are keeping an eye on him

Loopy: yeah that’s good to hear

Loopy: sevens did you get nines in here yet i wanna say hi to my number neighbor

Orangio: hello i’m nines

Orangio: please tell me i can change my own name here

Loopy: nines! hiiii, yeah you can change it

high fives: hey nines

Leafs: welcome to the madness

Double Trouble: we’re not *that* bad :)

d0nut man: … arguable, but welcome anyway

Double Trouble: >:(

DressedtotheNines: thanks guys

Submarine: sorry to hear about your batcher, fives. hi nines

RedBoiiiii: IS THAT FOURS???

Loopy: fours!!

Submarine: yeah sorry i’m not here a lot, but i read all of it

RedBoiiiii: no apologies!! only love!!

Double Trouble: yeah there’s no pressure to use the chat, don’t worry about it

DressedtotheNines: so if i happen to get good footage of cmdr cody like spin kicking grievous or smth, you guys want to see that, yeah?

RedBoiiiii: YES

high fives: pleeeaassseee rex hoards his footage the bastard >:(

d0nut man: i would like to see it

Submarine: yeah me too. general mundi is… he doesn’t do that

DEATH: i’ll bet i could get cadet pictures of cody from some of the alphas

DressedtotheNines: commander death sir i would be honored to help blackmail him for you if you ever need it

DEATH: noted

RedBoiiiii: wait

Double Trouble: anyone else see that

RedBoiiiii: DID WE FINALLY FIND A NUMBER SIXES LIKES????

DEATH: no and while you’re at it kriff off

RedBoiiiii: nines you are magical

DressedtotheNines: ………… cool

I love these lads so much :) @darth-void @23-bears @theultimatesandwich @nintendolover13 @peacefulwizardfox @glubtheflyingfish (lmk if you don't want to be tagged anymore 👍 or if you'd like to be tagged in the future!)

[depizan]

I was thinking about the post I reblogged about the loss of the Alliance in SWTOR, and some of my other disappointments with how faction is handled in the game, and how faction based MMOs in general tend to get stuck in this kind of "eternal conflict" mode. (Not that factionless MMOs don't get stuck in their own kind of weird "eternal conflict" mode, too. Look at Guild Wars 2 and the growing list of things that have tried to destroy Tyria.)

But there are stories that lend themselves to a faction model, and SWTOR does have - or does begin with - one of those. It's just that with no prospect of whatever conflict divides the factions ever being resolved, you have a weird permanent stalemate situation, kind of. The Sith Empire will never win, because that would make Republic players unhappy. The Galactic Republic will never win, because that would make Empire players unhappy. No actual solution to the conflict can ever be found because then it would be game over. (Also, no real faction shifting because how would you code that?)

Except... maybe none of that is true. There are games that have faction shifting of a kind coded in. Think of all the minor factions in World of Warcraft, some opposed to one another, some just independent. Sure, those faction shifts are mostly achieved with some kind of grind, but it does prove that mutable factions are codeable.

This might even solve the problem of the Smuggler and the Bounty Hunter being tied to specific factions when that leads to some very odd story stuff, particularly outside of each class story. It suggests a way to handle factional grouping and third faction classes without making those factions "better" because all flashpoints are available to them.

Here is Mac's theoretical redesign of SWTOR with a different handling of factions and playing into the story focus that is the game's best quality.

Republic and Empire each get three classes, Smuggler and Bounty Hunter are Underworld (a third, neutral to the others faction). Since the galaxy is supposed to be under a peace treaty - the Treaty of Coruscant - you design the game with flexible faction tagging and lean in hard to the Cold War set up.

You have degrees of faction, just like those minor factions in WoW. I'm going to borrow the middle part of WoW's faction set up for this. Theirs runs Hated - Hostile - Unfriendly - Neutral - Friendly - Honored - Revered - Exalted. We just need the middle chunk, from Hostile to Friendly. Hostile is typical enemy mob: bar is red, it will attack you on sight. Unfriendly is an orange bar, but will not fight you unless you attack. Neutral is a yellow bar, again, will not fight you unless you attack. Friendly is typical allied mob: bar is green, etc.

Imperial players can go to Coruscant, and Republic players to Dromund Kaas, but everything is Unfriendly to them, they can't buy anything (except maybe at the spaceport?), and there are no quests available to them. Underworld players start out one tick up at Neutral and have a few merchants and quests available. Ones that it makes sense would be available to random people. (This is to balance out Underworld space starting at Neutral to Pubs and Imps.) And, obviously, Pub space starts out Friendly to Pubs and Imps space Friendly to Imps. (Though I would be slightly tempted to have Korriban be neutral to the Agent class because, as a non-Force-Sensitive you don't really belong there.)

(As you can see, we're basically using a game mechanic to underline the state of galaxy. We can also set things so that people can't go fuck things up for their fellow players by coding it so that if you just go attack people on the opposite faction capitol, you get blipped to hostile and squashed like a bug.)

Now, we write the game like there is actually a Cold War happening. This means missions for Imps and Pubs that send people into "enemy" space (not, to start with the capital or Force User planets, though) where they have to accomplish their missions without attracting the attention of the other faction. We can take advantage of instancing to allow for diplomatic incidents, like thinking "well, they can't report I'm here if they're dead," without triggering the anti-trolling splat mobs. This is also where we introduce some side quests that give people the opportunity to work on becoming to Neutral with the opposite faction.

Smugglers and Bounty Hunters are off doing Underworld stuff, with some options to take quests that benefit the Republic or the Empire. (Giving them the chance to work on becoming Friendly with one or both factions.)

All class stories get written so that there are several potential outcomes. We're going to use the Agent story as a model here, and basically set it up so that everyone has a story line that ends with them still loyal to the faction they began with, now Underworld/Unallied, or loyal to the opposite faction. This gets paired with the ability for characters to keep doing things to make the other faction like them better and you're setting up defections or the decision to go neutral with mechanics and story.

You use the Cold War setting to ramp up general tension. Have more missions like that one on Republic Hoth where you can work with some Imperials. Or the times where a Sith Warrior can use Republic soldiers to their advantage. So the whole base game has this good overlay of people wanting peace and people wanting to go back to war (on all sides!). This lets you really flesh out the factions, and the good and bad people in them. Have a more positive sort of Gray Morality going on.

As far as Flashpoints go, you re-write The Black Talon/Esseles for proper Cold War subtlety. I think we want to use the intro flashpoints to give people a better idea of the kind of proxy conflict stuff, where you might be fighting what appear to be a third party (like pirates), but you get info (of the non provable kind) that they're working for the Empire/Republic. And maybe come up with some kind of mechanic where party members can get special communications based on faction. Like, the main (everybody) cut scenes for the Esseles talk about it being pirates that are attacking them, but the Jedi/Trooper characters get a quick comm call that the pirates are probably working for the Empire and after a particular person.

For all the shared flashpoints, you tweak them so they are truly shared. One queue for everyone, we still need to work out exactly how we're getting the different factions their special flavor bits, but there's more of that here. And maybe a kind of saboteur mechanic for things like what to do with the missiles on Cademimu, so that they can still be launched at a fleet for a DS option, but it's not in-character obvious that someone did it.

We can still have some Empire and Republic specific flashpoints, which we might allow Underworld characters who are Friendly with the right faction to do. (Or maybe not if we're keeping the ones we have. They've got a bit of a secret mission vibe. Maybe we add a fun treasure hunt flashpoint for the Underworld folks.)

The end of the base game becomes the Cold War going hot because of Revan (and let's say it's not the Republic at large backing him, but a smaller group within the Republic that's okay with his plan). Now we get proper fall out from someone wanting to commit mass murder, we get a good climax, and we can shift from writing eight class stories to three-ish main stories with class and faction related flavor bits. You'd have those fighting for the Republic (ex-Empire characters could get good flavor bits about fighting their old allies and some suspicion from their new ones - a suspicion ex-Underworld characters would also get), for the Empire (again, joined members get some good flavor bits), or who are with the Underworld now.

First expansion is the war, maybe with some of what we used to have in Chapter Three going on. I'm also kind of tempted to weave in some actual foreshadowing for Zakuul here. I'm not keen on Space Voldemort or the time skip, but other parts of those expansions seem worth trying to save. But maybe we have the player characters working with Lana and Theron like in the Revan expansion, but it's about hints that there's something bad coming instead.

Next expansion, Zakuul attacks, things go super to shit, Lana, Theron, some people from Zakuul and the player character(s) form the Alliance. Oooh, wait, lets go ahead and keep the Vitiate/Valkorian thing, and have killing the Emperor be the end of the first expansion (because he wants to eat the galaxy - he's gone mad, but the Empire as a whole won't acknowlege it and are following him off a cliff, the Republic isn't seeing him and the Empire as separate, even evil characters live in the galaxy, etc). Now, Zakuul invades because when you kill Vitiate, Valkorian keels over. Whoops.

(Zakuul is the backup plan. If he can't destroy the galaxy as Vitiate, here comes the uber-Empire! You just managed to off him, but the uber-Empire gets fired at the known galaxy anyway.)

Now we have one story going, with different flavors depending on the characters relation to the three old factions. Kind of like we do in the existing game. And we avoid bumping the player character up to a ridiculous level of authority by making them part of the leadership of the Alliance instead of the leader. Keep them more in line with the base game power level.

Not quite sure where we go from here, but basically you have this kind of flowing faction thing going through the game that meshes well with the story.

I don't know. Mostly I wanted to work out how you could do something more interesting with faction.

[thegirlinthetardisat221b]

Ok so I wrote this very short story last night and I hope you enjoy!! (Based on a line from ‘The Amazing Devil’s ‘Fair’)

I was born to press my head between your shoulder blades at night, when light is fading.

It’s odd how some stress can be comforting, how some stress can make you feel good and productive, make you feel hopeful. As Thalia sat at her desk, slogging through the essay she was currently writing for her Ancient History class; that was the kind of stress she was feeling. A tension in her shoulders that felt earned and a stiffness in her back that only came from hours at a desk. The essay was nowhere near done, but she’d gone through a good chunk that day. A feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction had washed over her as the clock ticked ever nearer to midnight and her pen ran smoothly over the journal article she had printed off.

As she ran her pen across the page, underlining a sentence of particular importance, two hands ran over her shoulders and came to a rest hanging above her chest, a chin resting on her head. In her focus on her work, she hadn’t heard the door open nor Meredith walk over. But the hands could belong to no other, she’d know their weight and feel anywhere.

‘Come to bed,’ a soft voice, melodic and lilting.

She leant backwards into the warmth of the body behind her, comfort and familiarity.

‘I will,’ she replied, ‘just let me finish this, dear heart’.

The hands retreated and so did the warmth. She heard noises coming from behind her, a shifting of bed covers, legs sliding across sheets, the resting of a head on a pillow. Sighing, Thalia capped the pen, her work could wait until the morning.

Turning on the chair she let her eyes linger on Meredith’s form. Her black hair spread across the pillow, her limbs tangled in the covers, her large dark eyes watching. A warmth flooded Thalia’s chest at the sight; pure undistilled love and affection. She stood up and stretched slowly, rolling her shoulders in a futile attempt to loosen the knotted tension deep in the tissue.

‘Let me help with that’, Meredith spoke softly as she rose to a seated position amongst the sheets, her back against the headboard.

Thalia didn’t need to be told twice. She walked the short steps towards the bed, settling herself between Meredith’s legs.

Meredith’s thumb pushed into her left shoulder, pressing and rubbing the spot of tension that had been aggravating Thalia for the last few hours; somewhat always present despite her best efforts to ignore the pain. Her eyes closed as Meredith’s other hand came to join the kneading. She felt the ache slowly begin to disappear as her tired muscles relaxed under the ministrations being dealt upon them. Time seemed to become languid, something no longer real. A second could be as long as a minute, an hour a day; all she felt was the warmth of contentment and the easing of her weary body.

Despite the long stretching of the minutes, it was all too soon before Meredith’s hands retreated, sliding off of her shoulders. The feeling of them winding around her stomach moments later, however, softened the misery of their leaving. Thalia semi-turned round, just enough for her to comfortably lean against Meredith, her head finding its resting place upon her shoulder. A hand caught Thalia’s own, rubbing soft circles into the spot between forefinger and thumb, almost as if without intention. Unbidden, a yawn escaped her lips and she snuggled in further, her eyes slipping closed again as the covers were brought up to cover her shoulders to encase her. Meredith’s free hand ran through her hair and she could tell without looking that there would be a gentle smile spread across her lips just as there was one on Thalia’s own.

‘You know’, Thalia whispered, ‘I’m starting to believe that I was born to rest my head between your shoulder blades at night, when light is fading’, her voice betraying her and the tune of the song coming out with the lines.

There was a brief silence from above her as the hand stilled in her hair for a moment before resuming its course.

‘I think you might be right.’

Just before Hypnos took her for his own completely, she felt more than heard ‘oh how unreasonably in love with you I am,’ whispered into her hair and the arms of her heart and soul tightened ever so slightly more around her.

Thank you for reading!! And a mahoosive shout out and appreciation for the amazing and wonderful @jaskier-wearing-dresses for reading through it and giving advice!!

[thedeevirus]

Can you do some more with Martin as a young adult? Legacy is one of my favorite fics in this fandom. (It doesn’t have to be an extension of that one necessarily. Just anything with an aged-up Martin.)

Hope you enjoy this little titbit with Martin as a rebellious teenager who wants to join the family business :)

For @summerofgotham Week 3: Future AU

Also added to Nygmobblepot Ficlet Collection on AO3

***

Edshook his head as he heard the door to his hideout slam and a distinctive,halting tread descending the stairs. He noted the barely audible grumbling emanatingfrom the stairwell as well as its correlation to the speed and weight of thefootsteps. Oswald was not in a good mood.

Edturned to Martin.The teenager was still sitting on the stool. He had been experimentally touching hisbandaged wrist, wincing as he tried to rotate it but his eyes had grown wide ashe also identified the interloper into Ed’s lair. He hastily jammed the popsiclehe had been enjoying into his mouth, breathing heavily to battle the brainfreeze as he chewed and swallowed frantically. Once he had overcome thediscomfort, he reached for the writing pad resting on the desk beside him and wrotea single word. He held it up for Ed to see, even though his expression told Edhe already knew the answer. It flummoxed Ed how like a child Martin could still appear with those large,innocent looking eyes and boyish curls despite the fact he had grown nearly astall as he was.

Busted?

Edtook the pen from Martin and underlined the word in answer just as Oswaldwalked in.

‘HelloOswald’, Ed said brightly, holding up his own popsicle in greeting, ‘Would youlike a pop-?’

‘Whathappened?‘ Oswald demanded, glaring at Martin’s wrist.

AsOswald advanced on them, Martin scribbled quickly and leapt in front of Ed,showing Oswald the pad.

It’s not his fault!

Oswaldreached down and with care despite his obvious fury, took hold of Martin’swrist. His pale eyes flashed savagely, reflecting the various computer screensand neon lights of Ed’s hideout.

‘What.Happened?’ Oswald asked in a dangerously neutral tone.

‘It’sjust a small sprain’, Ed said placatingly, ‘Nothing to worry about’.

Martineagerly flashed a thumbs up with his good hand but was dismayed to see he andEd’s overtly chipper pantomiming was doing little to dampen his adoptedfather’s short fuse.

‘Whodid it?’ Oswald asked.

Martin,visibly deflated, drew a symbol and showed Oswald the page. A black bat outlineon a white page. He was about to explain further but Oswald tapped his caneloudly on the floor. A signal that he wasn’t interested in more details.

‘Oswald,just breathe’, Ed said, ‘You’re a penguin, not a Mother Hen’.

‘Howcould you do this to me?’ Oswald demanded, fingers clenching on the cane’shandle as if it was some poor unfortunate’s throat, ‘You promised this wouldn’thappen again! That if he came to you looking for more ‘lessons’ you’d call meimmediately!’

How did you find me?

‘Doyou think a leaf falls in this city without me knowing about it?!’ Oswald said,obviously insulted, ‘You are officially on thin ice young man’.

‘Penguinsknow all about that right?’ Ed joked, attempting to draw Oswald’s attention.

Itworked and Ed instantly felt like a rodeo clown facing down a particularlynasty bull as Oswald’s baleful gaze was redirected at him.

‘Andas for you, Riddler’, Oswald spat Ed’s alias as if it were a curse, ‘When I tellhim ‘no’, it means ‘no’. Not ‘go ask Ed if it’s alright’! It’s the oldest,basest loophole abuse in the book!‘

‘Hewanted to learn’, Ed said shrugging, deliberately keeping his tone and bodylanguage subdued so as not to enrage Oswald further, ‘He needs to learn how this city works if you want him running it oneday’.

‘Heneeds to learn how to be a better liar!’ Oswald snapped before rounding onMartin again, ‘Did you honestly think the school wouldn’t call me to see howyou were feeling?! Truant for three days!’

‘Yousaid you were on vacation’, Ed said to Martin disapprovingly, obviously againstthe idea of Martin skipping school.

Martinrolled his eyes and groaned, annoyed at being outnumbered and held up the pad.

I’m not missing anything important!

‘Howdo you know?’ Oswald asked but Martin had already finished the answer.

Heheld up the pad with a flourish and the slightest hint of a smug smile.

Because I stole the teacher’s lesson plan and did all thisweek’s work in advance.

‘Well,in that case-‘ Ed began, softening but Oswald held up an arresting finger.

‘Don’tyou dare act like that changes anything!’ Oswald growled, irked that Ed hadreverted to an opponent instead of a potential ally.

Dad! I’m fine. It doesn’t even hurt!

‘Weare going home and you are going back to school. End of discussion’.

You just don’t think I can handle it! I’m not a kid! I’m nothelpless!

Martinwas in the middle of another furious sentence when Oswald snatched the pagefrom the pad. Martin’s lip tightened as Oswald scrunched it into a ball insidehis whitened knuckles.

‘Isaid: ‘End of discussion’’, Oswald finished.

Martinthrew down his pad and ran for the stairway. Oswald made to go after Martin butEd laid a hand on his shoulder. Oswald shook Ed off and spun on his heel, coattails whipping like a scorpion’s barb.

‘Don’tworry, he’s tripped the security system. He’s not going anywhere’, Ed said andpointed his half-eaten popsicle at Oswald, ‘And neither are you until we’ve hada chat’.

‘You’dbetter make it good Ed because right now I’m really tempted to stick that popsicleup your-‘

Ed thrusthis arm forward and jammed the popsicle into Oswald’s open mouth. Oswald,caught off guard, pulled the stick free and was forced to chew the freezingcold lime flavoured chunks as the disintegrated in his mouth. Just as Ed hadplanned.

‘Ibrought Martin along on recon for a museum job I have planned and the Bat cameby on patrol’, Ed enunciated carefully, ensuring Oswald was listening, ‘He wasten minutes earlier than expected. I saw him coming, grabbed Martin and we ran.Martin caught his wrist on a fire escape and twisted it. We came back here, Ipatched him up, unlocked the door because I knew you’d come here looking for him,popsicles. The End’.

Edtook the popsicle stick from Oswald and flicked it into a nearby wastebasket asa visual full stop just as Oswald finally managed to swallow.

Ed’ssuccinct explanation as well as the fact that the violent vigilante did notseem directly responsible for Martin’s injury seemed to have mollified Oswaldsomewhat. In that he seemed content to just scowl at Ed instead of activelytrying to retaliate against the citrus flavoured assault he had just endured.

‘You’resure he didn’t see you?’ Oswald pressed.

‘Ithink we would both be a lot worse for wear if he had, don’t you? By the way,is it true?’

‘Iswhat true?’

‘Thatyou’re working with the Bat’.

Oswaldadjusted his shoulders and sniffed dismissively: confirmation to Ed, who wasintimately familiar with Oswald’s body language, that it was indeed true.

‘I’mnot working with him’, Oswald said pointedly, ‘I’m just not getting in hisway’.

‘Martindisagrees’.

‘Seemshe’s not the only one’, Oswald said sourly, eyeing Ed.

‘Whathappens if he does come for Martin one day?’ Ed asked, allowing a trace ofdisapproval to creep into his voice, ‘Will you get in his way then?’

‘Thatwon’t happen if Martin does as I say!’ Oswald snapped, ‘Why do you keepundermining my authority?!’

‘BecauseI’m trying to keep him safe too! When I found Martin had snuck in here again, Ithought it was better for me to keep an eye on him, so, I told him he couldcome with me to check out the museum. The more you try and tell him not to dosomething, the more he’ll want to do it. You can’t keep him on a leash so whynot make sure he’s safe and knows what he’s doing? Ignorance isn’t safety!’

Ed couldsee Oswald could see his point of view. Ed could also see that Oswald hated thathe could see Ed’s point of view.

‘Iblame you for this’, Oswald groused.

‘Forwhat? The well documented hormonal tyranny and rebellion of the adolescent?’

‘You’rethe only other person that drives me this crazy!’ Oswald said, slamming a handonto the desk.

Acrinkling noise made him realise he was still holding the piece of paper he hadtorn from Martin’s pad. He opened it and read:-

Why are you trying to hide who you are

Oswaldsighed heavily and folded the paper carefully in half, ruefully smoothing outthe wrinkles.

‘Youtold me you weren’t much older than Martin when you started your ‘career’’, Edsaid.

‘Thatwas different’.

‘How?’Ed asked, baffled.

‘Becauseback then there weren’t lunatics running around in costumes!’

Ed gesturedto his vibrant green suit with an offended expression and Oswald made adisgruntled noise.

‘Youknow what I mean!’

‘Is Martinright?’ Ed asked, sitting beside Oswald, ‘Do you really think he can’t handleit?’‘He shouldn’t have to handle anything!’ Oswald said exasperated, ‘I want him tobe better than I was, Ed. To live a proper life without looking over hisshoulder all the time. Maybe even find someone special someday’.

‘Likeyou did?’ Ed asked, placing a hand over Oswald’s.

He beganto trace swirling patterns on the back of his lover’s hand: a soothing movementhe knew Oswald enjoyed.

‘Preferablywithout the bumps in the road we’ve had’, Oswald said, one raised eyebrow aclear indicator that he knew what Ed was doing, ‘But, yes’.

‘Oswald,you and I only met because you were part of Gotham’s underworld and I wanted tojoin it. Just like Martin does. Have you considered that maybe Martin couldthrive there? Like I have?’

‘Thatwas different’.

‘There’sthat phrase again’, Ed said teasingly, ‘It was different only because I was lessprepared than Martin was. Until you helped me become who I was meant to be. Youcan help him too’.

‘Iknow. I just don’t want him to get hurt’.

Oswaldremoved his hand from Ed’s touch distractedly as it strayed to his leg. Ed felta pang of sympathy: Oswald was correct in that his error in naïve over reaching,had cost him dearly.

‘Justone mistake and…and I could lose him’, Oswald continued, ‘I want him to beworried about finding a date for prom or not getting picked for the footballteam, not practicing how to escape from handcuffs or deliberately pickingfights with bigger boys to toughen himself up!’

‘Allfledglings have to learn to fly sometime’, Ed said philosophically, ‘They’rethe ones who know when it’s time to jump out of the nest’.

‘Penguinfledglings don’t fly’, Oswald deadpanned earning a laugh from Ed.

‘Maybenot Mr Pedantic’, he conceded, ‘But they do have to navigate and feel at home invery dark waters. As a smart man once said: It’s better to walk with a friendin the darkness than-‘

‘-walkalone in the light’, Oswald finished, shoulders finally slumping in defeat.

Edrubbed Oswald’s back consolingly and kissed his cheek. Oswald leant his headinto Ed’s shoulder and sighed wistfully.

‘Ijust didn’t expect him to be diving so deep so soon’, he said.

Martinglowered from his seat on one of the stairs as they both approached and bangeda palm on the glass partition irritably. On his way up the stairs, motion detectorshad kicked in and sealed him between two glass partitions that had slid fromthe walls. Even if he had been able to talk, shouting wouldn’t have helped. Theglass walls dampened sound. It was why Ed had decided to talk to Oswald whenMartin was incapable of overhearing.

‘Stumpedya this time huh?’ Ed joked, clicking a hidden panel on the wall.

The partitionsslid back into the walls and Martin, newly liberated, stood up, crossing hisarms carefully but resentfully. Oswald approached and held something out toMartin with a sincere apology.Martin saw it was an origami penguin, folded from the words Oswald had takenfrom him. He looked at his father questioningly and saw he was smilingcontritely.

‘Youdon’t go off on your own, always be back in time for dinner and absolutely nocostumes’, Oswald pronounced, ‘Agreed?’

Martinlooked at Ed with sheer disbelief who flashed him a thumbs up. Martin smiledfrom ear to ear and hugged Oswald close, the paper penguin held tightly yet cautiouslyin his hand.

[btsjeonjazz]

Petname Babygirl II pt.2

yoongi x reader

genre: smut, punishments, dom!yoongi, sugardaddy!yoongi, boss!yoongi

warning: dirty talk, choking, hitting

word count: 7.8k

You discussed the rules of your agreement before turning overtime into sexual favours in behalf of the man who pays you for your body.

You tried to rush to the exit without Yoongi noticing you were gone. His acquaintances said their goodbyes – so did you – before you made your way home.

The conversation inside the storeroom was present the last two hours you had to spent at your company dinner. Maybe the sex with Yoongi clouded your rightful judgement but you definitely said ‘yes’ as he asked you to become the man who pays you for sexual favours.

You held your hair, thinking about it while running away from the hotel. On the street you waved a cab to you, climbing on the back seat and telling the driver your address. Only then exhaustion creped into your bones, thoughts of your recent dialogue filling your head.

“Hear me out, baby girl.”

You did not move, waiting for him to say what he wanted to say. His eyes never left your face as the words left his pink lips.

“As I just said, I want to offer you something. Just listen till the end before you start speaking”, he said, stepping closer to you. “I’m a busy man, the chairman of our company. You can guess that I don’t have time for an actual love life. Even the sex is cut short since a few months. After sleeping with you I thought about giving you a chance for a different kind of relationship but you were gone as I came back that morning.”

You watched him in concentration, your gaze following every word that left his lips.

“Since you are here now, I want to ask you if you want to do what just happened more frequently. On my calling. Me saying when and where, how often, with my rules. Of course I would give you everything you want, except for romantic feelings.”

Confused you tilted your head. Was he implying what you thought he would?

“Do you mean something like prostitution? Sorry, but I’m not into it”, you said wide eyed, separating your bodies as far as the small room allowed. Yoongi just sighed.

“Listen, the sex is fucking satisfying with you. And even if you deny it now, it is obvious that you feel the same. You devour me with your eyes even now! And you could end the agreement any moment.”

He was right, you found him undoubtedly hot, exciting. Yes, even now you felt your juices dripping down your inner legs. But was sex worth selling your body? Selling your pride? Or were you just afraid of getting hurt? Doesn’t this reciprocity meant just sex? And if it was that with Yoongi you were sure that the intercourse would be amazing every time.

“And I guarantee you, it won’t affect your job. You do excellent work, so it would be just a personal matter between the two of us. You just have to stay ready for me, baby girl.”

Why was he so charming as his brown, almond eyes pierced your own. Sure, it was more than tempting to sleep with Yoongi, but for free.

“I give you time to think about my offer, just don’t wait too long”, he made his way towards you, gripping the key that closed the door to turn it around. Before he could do so you reached for his arm. Your cheeks were bright red as you tried to hold his gaze, his brows pulled up.

“We have to decide the rules together. I’m down for nearly everything but I want to be sure.”

He backed away from the closed door, crossing his arms in front of his chest. A victoriously gummy smile pulling his lips up. You inhaled loudly, realising what you just said.

“So, you’re down to do it?”, you heard his voice suppressing a feeling of relief.

You hesitated but nodded at him. “I’m down.”

“It will be for the best if we discuss the conditions monday morning in my office. I hope you don’t change your mind in your free time tomorrow”, Yoongi’s eyes sparkled, reaching for the key a second time. “Wait for me after dinner, I will drive you home.”

With that he adjusted his tie back at its place before opening the door and walking towards the workers exit.

“You are unbelievable, y/n!”, you groaned after sorting out the conversation about him being your sugar daddy. The driver watched your action through the driving mirror but did not say a word. In no time you arrived at the front door of your new small apartment. You dragged yourself up the stairs, opening your door while tossing your shoes aside. You decided to take a hot shower to relax your tired bones but even that did not help to distract you from the nagging thoughts of Yoongi’s words. Only the shelter of your sleep let you finally slack off until your boss appeared in your dreams.

To distract you further you decided to spent the sunday at you parents’ house, baking cake with your mom while your dad worked his way through their garden. It was a lazy day, talking with your parents and spending time with them without thinking about him and your future as his sex slave.

The next morning was the complete opposite. You woke up earlier than necessary, taking a long shower and spending some time in your kitchen sipping on your hot tea.

  Ana: Hey, do you mind working overtime the next days? I need you help, pleeease

  you: Sure, you owe me one ;)

That meant you had to work longer and think less, you thought grinning to yourself.

The office was far more hectic than the last week as you entered the 18th floor to get the files you would work on from Mrs. Rita. On your way to her bureau you could see that something was up wondering what was the case this early.

“Mrs. Rita, good morning. Did something happen? It’s like hell in here”, you asked as you saw the older lady running around giving instructions to the other employees.

She looked at you with a drained expression. “Mr. Min is back. We expected him to come back tomorrow and right now nothing is ready. Neither the work is done nor did we clean up this weekend.”

“Oh okay, but do you mind giving me the rest of the files from last week?”, you asked nicely not to overstretch her nerves.

Kind of confused she looked at you: “Mr. Kim already collected them a few minutes ago, Miss y/l/n. He said that Mr. Min wanted to go through them with Miss Jung and you.”

Your heart stopped for a moment. That was definitely not the morning of your dreams.

“Thank you”, was all you said while walking slowly to the elevator. You were just so nervous meeting him again. There was no reason to avoid him as you already told him yes, but the uneasy feeling did not leave you.

A ‘ding’ signalled you to step out of the metal booth, heading straight for your desk. To your surprise Ana was earlier than you, Mr. Kim right next to her a chunk of files in his large hands.

“Good morning, Miss y/l/n. Your task will be to work on today’s cases with Miss Jung and Mr. Min, so please do me the favour and follow me”, the tall guy told you giving you your share of work.

You did not say anything while entering the elevator you just exited to go up two floors above to your boss’ office.

“I’m so nervous around Mr. Min, y/n. He gives me goosebumps, I don’t get it”, your co-worker whispered in your ear so the assistant would not overhear her phrases.

If she knew how nervous he made you, you thought. “Just relax, at the dinner he was..very friendly towards us.”

Mr. Kim knocked on the alabaster glass door of Mr. Min’s office before entering it. The man with the grey hair sat on the chair behind his big wooden desk, black framed spectacles on his nose. One of the clients cases you worked on last week in his hands he looked up. As if nothing happened between the two of you he stood up to gesture Ana and you to sit down on the chairs in front of his desk.

“Good morning, Miss Jung, Miss y/l/n. Mr. Kim might already told you but today I want to point out the mistakes as well as the good points in your latest works. Normally I don’t have time for this but it makes my work a lot easier if the preparatory work is done precisely”, Yoongi said, giving both of you your edited files back. With a red marker several lines were underlined, a handwriting that was not yours filling the edges of the papers. While Mr. Kim always complimented your work, and even Yoongi did, you were disappointed with yourself. He was the boss, so it was normal that he found more mistakes in your works but so many? And some were obvious even for you.

“Don’t worry Mr. Kim’s preparatory work looks the same”, Mr. Min tried to sooth  Ana and you while holding up a pen and leaning forward to show Ana her gravest faults. They discussed some issues he found most important and you could see how heat shot up the cheeks of the pretty woman next to you. Attentive you listened how he explained what she had to pay attention to, to decrease his work afterwards.

“No, it’s more important if you look for flaws in the reports, don’t concentrate on the good points. Nobody wants to hear them anyway”, he said, tipping his pen on a red line on the papers.

Sighing Ana nodded, seeing how wrong she did her recent work.

“Everything’s fine. This is why you are here today, so don’t worry and take a new map. Prepare it while I explain the next steps to Miss y/l/n”, your boss shot her an encouraging smile, the same he gave you as you gagged on his dick on saturday. A shiver ran down your spine as you remembered this scene.

While he handed Ana a report you watched his expressions. But they never changed as his eyes wandered to your face. Unlike you. The rose hue of your cheeks deepened while you looked down on your own work, waiting for him to start speaking.

“Miss y/l/n, for your first week your prepared documents are nicely done”, he began, giving you a slight smile. “You should pay more attention to solutions though. Write them on an extra paper, I will consider advices from my employees and I’m keen to see how you would evaluate some cases.”

Your head shot up, looking at him with a confused expression. “That’s it?”

Yoongi pulled his eyebrows up, tilting his head to the side while glancing your way. “I’m content with your work, so yes, that is all. Or do you have any questions?”

With fast movements of your eyes you read the remarks on the edges. You had several questions and formulated them as to why he answered them carefully.

“But I really don’t understand why you underlined it, Mr. Min. Could it be counted a hidden solution? Whereof should I recognize it?”, you tried to get how you could be of help to him. You did not even understand what he just told you and the red pen that filled your work was more confusing than helpful to you.

Your boss sighed and stood up from his chair to come around to you. Ana shot you a glance, her wide eyes traced with shock that you spoke against your boss. You on the other side just wanted to detect the things he did, learning how to do a better job.

Yoongi leaned forward, his chest close to your back. You could feel his fresh, hot breath against the skin of you neck while his hand grabbed the pen that lay next to your hand on his desk.

“I wrote notes here..here and on here”, his voice was so close to your ear that you could not even follow his hand as he circled the notes he talked about. Yoongi was too near for you to concentrate. Your gaze was not on the papers in front of you but on the pink lips of your boss while his low voice filled the office. He looked so kissable right next to you. And his scent! It filled your nose while he leaned further into you, never looking you in your face that was just a few centimetres away.

Suddenly you felt his free hand, that was hidden from the sight of your co-worker, caressing your side. He stroked further down until his hand got to the fabric of your jeans where his fingers traced up and down. “I want to bend you over my desk and fuck that little pussy of yours, baby girl”, an unnoticeable, low whisper reached you as he pressed his lips shortly on your ear.

Your body stiffened, afraid of Ana listening in on him. But as you glanced at her you could see how she scrabbled over her work, brows furrowed in concentration.

“That wouldn’t be so nice, Mr. Min”, you said aloud tapping your one hand on the file while the other petted his on your knee. A low chuckle, only you noticed, fell from his lips.

“You know what isn’t nice? The fucking jeans you’re wearing”, another lewd comment as he slapped your thigh lightly. With one last touch of his fingers on your stomach, as he slowly pulled his hands away, Ana’s voice filled the room.

“Mr. Min, I think I’m done.”

He smiled at her, holding out his hand to grasped the file before sitting back down across from you two.

It was a common feeling that spread through your lower stomach. He made you crazy, the fact that he did it in front of Ana was just fuelling the heat in your core. Therefore you pressed your thighs together, the tingling feeling amplifying as you saw how Mr. Min’s hand disappeared under his desk, hidden away from you and Ana.

“I will look it over, Miss Jung. You are free to take a break. I will ask Mr. Kim to give it back to you tomorrow”, Yoongi said, motioning to the door.

Clearly relieved your co-worker made her way back to her own desk two floors underneath. But before she closed the door behind her, she shot you an encouraging smile, signalling you to relax.

“We need to discuss another matter, y/n”, the man in front of you reported, leaning his chin on his folded hands. “First of all, why the hell did you run away? I told you to wait.” His stare was calm but his voice showed how impatient he was with your actions.

“Ah, yeah.. that..”, you stuttered not knowing what to tell him. How nervous you were about all this? How it might affect your own feelings towards him?

“Wanna back out, y/n? That would not amuse me but if that’s your wish”, he sighed annoyed, leaning back against his chair. The tone of his voice suddenly much colder than before.

“No! No, I’m just not used to such situation. It would be my first time to deal with paid sex”, you mumbled, fidgeting with your hands in your lap.

It was not what he expected but a little grin appeared on his lips while he watched your stiff features in front of his eyes. “It will be my first, too.”

Wide eyes flew to his face, searching for the truth in his words. If that was true it made it easier for you to accept him as the man you had to give your body to.

“If it helps, you can declare your conditions first”, he said after a while of tension as you just looked at each other, unsure of beginning the theme. He gave you a blank piece of paper and his red pen so you could write down your own rules for the agreement. You felt sweaty as you rolled the pen in your hands, thinking what you would be able to give him and what were your limits. His dark, almond shaped eyes inspected your expression while you put your thoughts to paper, marking the white slip in dark red. The pen left several sentences before you tilted your head to the side, reading your precepts a second time. Content with propositions you put the pen back next to you, holding sheet of paper up to read it aloud.

“First of all, I’m not into having sex with you with some random people. Either the two of us, or nothing happens. You are refrained from having sex with other women without a condom. If I say stop, you have to stop, I don’t care how close you are at that moment. I also don’t want you make any allusions in front of my co-workers..”, you had not many conditions but one thing you absolutely despised. “Not the ass, Mr. Min. Choke me, hit me, bite me or call me degrading names, but the ass is forbidden territory!”

Yoongi’s dark brows were pulled up, listening to your demands. Luckily it contained only things he would say himself, except for ass play, but he would be able to speak you into it, he was sure.

“Cute rules, y/n. Now let’s listen to mine”, he laughed, crossing his legs. “Before we have sex without protection I want you to get tested, after work.”

“So do you”, you said confidently, interrupting his speech.

“No hard feelings, no cuddling afterwards. You will get my private phone number, so be ready every moment. Answer within ten minutes maximum and from tomorrow onwards you should wear easy removable clothes. Skirts, dresses whatever suits you, just don’t wear pants in the bureau”, his voice sounded kind of disgusted as he spoke from you wearing pants. “I like if woman do what I say, be submissive; y/n. Therefore I want you to obey my commands otherwise you will get punishments. We will test your limits if the time comes. I also don’t want to share what’s mine. That means that you are forbidden to fuck other guys, not even with condoms or whatever. On the contrary can you request everything you want from me. And what is possible to buy with money”, he made a short break in which his words slowly sunk into you. Up until now everything seemed just as you imagined. It was easier than you thought, listening to his rules and deciding if you were content with them.

“The last thing is, that coming to my apartment means absolute discretion. Nobody needs to know about my offer to you, understood? The details will crystallize themselves by time.”

After his announcement the office was filled with just your low breathing, thoughts running wild about what the other talked about. Then you moved by leaning forward giving him the sheet you wrote your own conditions on.

“I guess the fronts are clear now”, you said aloud, waking him up from his trance.

His grey hair bobbed up as he nodded, biting his pink bottom lip. “I like doing business with you, Miss y/l/n. You should hurry back to work if you don’t want to anger your boss.” His laugh reached his eyes and even if he was a shameless man if it came to his sexual desires, did he seem like a cute boy as he laughed, showing his gummy smile.

“Pleasure is mine, Mr. Min.”

You stood up to turn around but before you walked out his office, you shot him a suggestive smile. This was when your adventure began.

“God, Ana, what the hell have you done?”, your voice was laced in utter frustration as you overlooked Ana’s reports this thursday afternoon. “Didn’t we agree on you focusing on the needed points? You marked everything again.”

An apologizing smile played around the woman’s full lips, trying to sooth your overworked state. The last three days were a constant routine of late night sessions at work, short nights of sleep and the pestering feeling that Yoongi would call at an incongruous moment. To your surprise did he not contact you the last days. He had your number but did not even try to animate you for a quick fuck. Considering the fact that you had overtime every day thanks to Ana’s mistakes were you quite happy about that.

“It’s already five, how should we give the report to Mr. Min? We will never be able to finish it on time”, Ana said, her voice trembling. It would be her second file in two weeks that she would not be able to finish punctually.

“Don’t worry, if we work it out together we can do it”, you smiled tiredly at her, taking the file to your own desk and flying over her scribbled notes. It would be a long, long night, you thought as you saw all the wrong rudiments.

The watch ticked on the white wall above you. The last employees were already leaving, even Mr. Kim said his goodbyes minutes ago. You knew that Ana and you were the only people in the company at his point. Except for Min Yoongi.

“Y/n, let’s stop here. My eyes are burning and I developed a headache. Seriously it might take two more hours before we finish it”, Ana said hands in her blond hair. She looked exhausted. You were not the only one who had long nights. As it was mostly her fault she had to stay, too, sometimes even longer than you helped her. Therefore you felt sorry for her, even if you were just as tired, you made a suggestion.

“Go home, I can do it alone. If you promise me to sleep tight and come back fresh tomorrow”, your voice was loud as you stood up, stretching yourself.

“But, y/n..”, she just said, standing up as well before hugging you shortly. “Thank you. If you need anything you have to tell me!” Her response came quick, you thought, at least try to act as if you don’t want to leave.

Nodding you pushed her towards the elevator. “Now hurry up, I have to work.”

“I owe you one, again”, Ana smiled apologizing, waving you while being able to go home.

You fell back into your chair, surveying the last remaining pages of her miserably prepared file. Oh, it will take you several hours, you thought looking at the watch. Ten already? Goodbye sleep.

“You’re still at work, busy as a bee, huh?”, a low, familiar voice resonated through your empty floor.

“I’m not down for joking around. It’s past midnight and I want to go home”, you said annoyed, scribbling another phrase on the edge of the paper.

Instead of going away Yoongi walked to you, leaning over your shoulder to see what you were doing at this time of day. Fast you hid Ana’s name with some pages you already prepared. He noticed your stiffening shoulders at his presence, grabbing them before he slowly pressed his thumbs into your aching neck. A loud moan fell from your lips at his touch.

“Don’t distract me, please. I need to finish this”, you said squirming yourself out of his soft hands. His grip only got stronger, massaging your delicate skin that was hidden behind the fabric of your white blouse.

“I had the plan to call you tonight, baby girl. You know you aren’t allowed to refuse my requests”, his low voice got closer to your ear until his soft, warm lips kissed the sensitive spot on your neck. His strong hands stroked your hair to the side to get better access to your skin.

“I don’t have time for that, Mr. Min”, you tried to repress the feeling of falling into is touches. Instead of answering you, he turned the chair around, glaring into your eyes.

“You know how I tried to be nice to you? I even kissed your neck to stimulate you. But your refusal annoys me, baby girl”, his calm voice changed into a lustful, demanding one. “And the last time you even had the nerve to run away from me.” An unamused laugh filled the floor. “Now be a good little girl and suck me off.”

Perplexed you gulped. If you had known how fast he switched from a quite delicate man – he never really was like that – to the demon he resembled, you would have never tried to refuse his attempts. Therefore you stood up, straightening your tight grey skirt before you got on your knees in front of him.

“I take the lead today, so don’t even think about doing something I don’t demand from you”, he growled, unbuttoning his suit pants, pulling them down and grabbing your hair into his solid fist. “Unfortunately I won’t be gentle today, baby girl.”

Just then you looked up to see his hot dick above you. Your mouth watered at this sight, hoping he would make the sex session pleasurable for you as well. With warm fingers you traced over the vein of his cock to his red tip. Then you leaned forward giving his delicate skin wet kisses, beginning at the shadow of his trimmed hair, nibbling with your teeth, to his shaft where you made a mix of wet kisses and licks that reached his top in slow motion. At the contact Yoongi began to hum. As you did not want to have trouble you started to press your hot tongue onto his glans, making eye contact with the man who hovered over you. His view locked into yours as a cold expression was drawn on his attractive features. You never lost connection to his dark, lustful oculars while opening your mouth as far as you could, taking his dick in. Slowly you deepened your motion until his cock was coated in your saliva fully.

“I like it if you’re submissive”, Yoongi said, patting your cheek a little too strong, “Put your hands between your thighs and suck on my dick, baby girl.”

You obeyed immediately, putting your sweaty hands between your clothed thighs. Whereas you bobbed your head, taking him in further with every move of your head. The fist in your hair increased its strong hold as he separated his legs a little wider, making sure his position was solid. From then on he started to move on his own, hips tardy pressing into your face at first before Yoongi sped up his pace, his dick hitting the back of your throat. Several gags escaped you while tears initiated to fall from your eyes, your nose touching his stomach over and over again. Just then you began to accustom to his length.

“I give you the advice to breathe through your nose”, you got the feeling that his advice was laced with scorn and hidden action because he shoved his pulsating dick violently into your open mouth, holding you in place through the grip in your hair. Merriment was shown on his face, bottom lip sucked between his teeth trying not to show his heavy breathing. “Do you like holding your breath, baby girl?”

Confused you tried not to pull your hands from the position between your thighs to signal him to stop joking around. But before you could do anything, he enclosed his big hand around your head, thrusting his full length into your mouth. Luckily he gave you the tip to inhale and exhale only through your nose. He repeated his actions a few times, grunting louder with every move of his hips.

“You do a good job, letting me fuck the pretty little mouth you have, baby girl. But don’t you think it’s time for a punishment? You didn’t behave like you should by running away on saturday and by trying to refuse sex with me.”

Your eyes remained on his lips even as he finished his little speech, panic and arousal flooding you. On one hand you were not sure what he meant but on the other side did the unexpected turn you on, blood beginning to boil at what was going to happen.

A superior smirk creeped on Yoongi’s lips, his darkening eyes burning their way into your soul. Then he began to repeat his previous movements, this time changing the angle to have even more access to your wet mouth. Whereas you tried to latch your tongue around his moving dick, making him feel even better. A feral sound filled the place, making your core tighten, leaving your pussy soaked without getting touched.

“God, you turn me so fucking on”, Yoongi growled, hitting your cheek again more violently this time. His hand left your face burning, leaving red marks on your skin. At his actions you moaned, wetness dropping on your panties. You hoped Yoongi would not notice that your hands found their way towards your aching pussy, wanting to being touched as well. Your eyes stayed on his face that was traced with pleasure until he noticed what you did. In one go he pulled out of your mouth.

“You really think I’m blind? Stop touching yourself. Hands behind your fucking back!”, his voice was so low, leaving you shuddering beneath him. But you did as he said, whimpering as your hands left the spot on your core, that oh so gave you the needed friction by pressing your fingers on your tingling clit.

Suddenly Yoongi grabbed your chin, pulling your face up before he pinched your cheeks, positioning himself before you again. This time he just shoved himself right into you, making you gag again. But unfortunately his next move was unpredictable. He fucked your throat a few times before his one hand enclosed around your hair again, holding you pressed against his stomach, his dick buried in your mouth, only letting a tiny gap for you to breath through your nose. Low grunts leaving his mouth he leaned forward pressing your nostrils close, making you choke on his dick that he pushed forward closing the remaining gap he left for you to breath. Tears rolled down your marked cheeks while you looked straight at Yoongi’s face.

His eyebrows were furrowed, lips agape and eyes shut in pleasure. You could hear him whimper as your throat began to contract itself around Yoongi’s erect cock.

“Baby girl..”, was all he said before you tapped at his thighs, a signal to let you go.

Without delay he pulled himself out your wet cave, grunting at the loss of your warmth. You had to inhale deeply, catching up on the missed oxygen. Light coughs fell from your lips while you held your hands around your neck. Through the concentration you did not notice how wet your panties were by now. All the actions Yoongi did on you, made your core tingle with excitement, leaving your folds in heated anticipation for his dick. While you tried to find your composure, your boss pulled you on your feet, ripping at your white blouse until the buttons sprung off. Incredulous you watched his actions, feeling how anger made its way in your bones, a mean remark laying on your tongue. But before you could say anything he gripped your waist, pushing you to the edge of your own desk. The back of your legs felt the hard, cold material of the table as he lifted you up on it before Yoongi’s hands roamed around your torso, feeling the soft fabric of your bra tracing down to the hem of your skirt, sliding it up till it lay loose on your waist revealing the wet spot on your grey underwear. You were so damn wet that it even painted the fabric of your dark tights.

Yoongi licked his pink lips, while pulling up his dark eyebrows. “Why are you always so ready for me? I did not even touch you and you are soaked, baby girl”, he shook his head in pretended disappointment. “Did my actions turn you on that much?”

A small whimper left your dank lips, nodding hastily at his words. “Yes, Mr. Min. I’m so ready to be fucked by you.”

He hummed in agreement, the habitual degrading smirk on his lips as he saw how needy you were. You saw how he looked at your desk, a mess behind your back.

“Fuck, baby girl, stand up”, you heard him saying as he turned around to walk to the next free desk. You followed and hopped on it, sitting in the same position as before. Your hands found their way to Yoongi’s chest, trying to pull him into a kiss, but he fended and pushed your torso down in a swift movement. The desk you lay on felt cold through the thin fabric of your top.

“Spread your legs”, a demand followed from the man who stood in front of you.

You could not see him as he stripped the tights and panties you wore down, exposing your heated folds to the chilly air in the office. “I’m so lucky having such a slutty pussy to myself.”

His words made you shiver in agitation, quietly cursing him for leaving you wet and needy.

“Please, Mr. Min, I need you to fuck me. I beg you”, you whined, hands running down to your wet core. You laid your fingers on your heated folds, stroking heavily to feel the needed touch of at least something.

“So eager?”, your boss’ voice was lustful but you thought you heard disgust in it. “I never allowed you to touch yourself, did I?”

“N-No”, your voice was weak, leaking with anticipation to finally feel his touches on your skin.

“Exactly, baby girl”, Yoongi said slapping your hands away before he smacked your aching pussy. Heat rushed through you while you bent your back at the striking tickling his slap left. A second hit followed that made you squirm, your lap throbbing for him. Yoongi did not sooth the spots – he did it last time neither – ere he smacked your clit for a last time, more forcefully, letting you cry out in slight pain that evolved into arousal. You wanted him. No, you just really needed to already feel his dick filling your insides.

A short silence filled the floor as you saw Yoongi fishing for something in his wallet he pulled out his suit jacket. You saw the small foil and recognized it to be a condom. Your eyes traced the outline of his veins that were shown on his hands as he opened the package and had to admit that his big hands were one of the most sexy things you had ever seen on a man -well, except for his dick. With experienced fingers he covered his swollen dick with the protection medium before he spread your legs further apart. Two of his bony fingers pressed against the opening of your entrance. Small moans leaving your lips before you felt how he eased them into you. Several sounds filled the room while you wiggled underneath your boss’ body.

Without really moving his fingers he pulled them out, licking his digits clean. You just watched him in awe, the coin in your lower stomach pulsating, only waiting to be snapped.

“Please”, was all you got out before he got hold of your legs, pulling your body onto the edge of the desk. Your head lay on its surface so you were only able to feel what he did and not to see how he finally stepped closer, letting his cock slide through your folds to get the condom coated in your juices. Whimpers escaped you as he abruptly hit his covered dick onto your bundle of nerves, leaving you panting beneath him. It was the same spot he just hit with his long fingers that made you feel lust detonate in the spit of your stomach.

“I hope you’re as tight as you were month ago”, his voice was laced in anticipation.

Trembling your body ached for him while you felt how he pushed his tip into you. As you were not used to have sex for a while this light motion made you groan. Step by step he shoved forward before he filled you entirely.

“I can barely fucking move”, he pressed through his teeth holding onto your legs while starting to move his hips slowly.

“Oh god, Mr. Min, please be rough with me”, you cried, wanting to feel more of him. He just fit so perfectly into you that your folds contradicted around him on their own. As time passed he sped up his pace into a merciless one so you had to find support by grabbing the edges of the desk. Your breasts bounced with his thrusts but you did not care as you propped yourself on your elbows to see how he was doing.

Sweat was flowing down in tiny drops from his forehead, his face traced with concentration. But his eyes lay on you, dark oculars that stared right into your face, trying to imprint this picture into his head. You had problems to stay in position while reading the expressions on his face. Therefore he started to hold your waist, speeding up until you heard how high and heavy his grunts got. You yourself felt the coin slightly turning, but not enough for you to come.

“I coming, baby girl. You did your job too well at the beginning”, his breathy voice announced as his movements became sloppier, wet sounds echoing from the spot your bodies met. You were totally content with his release whereas you moaned his last name in a kind of mantra to yourself. This alone and the sight that played in front of him, made him spurt out white drops of cum into the condom he wore.

You on the other side were exhausted from your position while watching as Yoongi closed his eyes, moving his hips tardy in and out of you as he rode out his orgasm. Your hands ached as you straightened your back, positioning yourself into a sitting form while he slid his dick out of you. You followed him with your eyes as he pulled of the used condom from his dick and throwing it into one of the employee’s bins. As you were still tuned on, your bare pussy rubbing on the glass surface of the desk, you whined as he pulled up his suit pants. You were sure he wanted a second round as you did not come by now, but unfortunately it was not the case.

“Make me come, Mr. Min”, your weak voice whined, squirming on your spot. “I’m still so hot.”

Yoongi looked up, adjusting his belt. “Next time, maybe, if you behave like you should, baby girl.”

You shook your head a no. “Come on, I’m a good girl.”

Your begging did not help as he just pulled one brow up, shaking his grey thatch. “You have work that should be done to tomorrow morning. I give you twenty minutes to finish them or I drive home without you.”

With that he just fucking left you high and dry, the second time in one week. He could not do this, you thought. You let him fuck you however he wanted but did not even make you come!

Despite this fact you were kind of satisfied with what you did. Eventually you were the one that had to make sure that he was pleased and not you.

Sighing you stood up, sliding your panties and tights back up before you pulled down your skirt. Just your torso was a disaster. He ruined your new blouse. Therefore you tried to cover at least your breasts with the ripped top of yours ere you made your way to the remaining work you had to finish.

The distraction was not the best as you could not concentrate any more. You were freaking exhausted and tired by now. And to be honest, you wanted to go home.

At last you decided to scribble some notes on the edges of all remaining pages, a little soiled but better than nothing. The watch told you that Yoongi left twenty-five minutes ago and so did the chance to get home with him in a luxurious car. You packed your bag and dressed into your black coat before you turned down the lights and made your way out of the office.

If you would’ve been faster, you could be on your way home, safe and warm, you cursed yourself but as you exited the entrance of your company a black, expensive car parked in front of it. The window of the passenger’s seat was down so you saw the familiar grey hair sitting of the driver’s seat. A small smile played around your lips while you walked to the car.

“Mind if I get in?”, you said showing him your teeth as you smiled at him brightly. Never had you thought that Min Yoongi would wait for someone else.

“You are five minutes late”, was all he said but instead of driving away he motioned for you to hop on. You barely closed your belt as he drove away from the company.

“Ah, my address”, you began but his beautiful hand waved you to be silent.

“I know where you live, I’ve read your resume”, he just said, never looking at you while he drove you past a quiet city. Only street lights letting you see the expressions the man next to you felt. But you could not read anything out of them. He was not the type to be emotional, you thought while observing him.

Your thoughts were laced with the memories you two made a few minutes ago. Even though you were so close to him right now you felt as if your distance was further than it ever was, but exactly this is what you had agreed on. Just sex, no hard feelings.

“Is there anything you want to have, y/n?”, he broke the silence, eyes kept on the streets.

You thought about his words for a moment before you decided that he definitely had to compensate you for something. “You destroyed my new blouse. I went shopping two days ago and now it’s ruined”, you said, nodding to yourself.

Yoongi’s head shot towards you. “That’s all?” He seemed to be quite surprised about the fact that you wanted nothing more than a cheap new top from him. “I expected to hear something..more costly.”

“Why? Just get me my blouse”, you said, relaxing in the seat you sat on.

A quiet laugh was heard from your boss as he shook his grey thatch. “So easy to please.”

“Have a problem with that? Then buy me some jewellery or something”, you snorted turning your face to the window, watching as the houses got past you.

A few minutes later he stopped in front of your new apartment, letting you get off right before your door.

“My employees should sleep well and do their work precisely”, Yoongi said pulling his brows up while you got off his expensive car. “Tell it, Miss Jung.”

With that he was gone.

Ups, he had definitely seen her name on the tag of the file. First thing in the morning you had to tell-

No you better not told her that he saw her name on the report as he tried to seduce you.

This night you stayed awake, thinking about the sex with Min Yoongi while touching yourself. The memories making you come pretty fast but you felt dirty for thinking about him and the fact that he had you wrapped around his finger even though it was just sex.

The next week was traced with your first meetings, seeing how Yoongi was busier than ever as he had to made sure the contract with your new partners was done fair and square. Many times after your late night session he requested you for sucking him off while he had to work on some files for his trip abroad. It was thrilling to hide beneath his wooden desk, not being allowed to tease, just making him relax in the form of pleasurable blow jobs. Nothing more and nothing less.

“Good job, baby girl”, he said without looking up while you crawled back up from your hideout underneath his desk.

“Always a pleasure, Mr. Min”, you told him wiping away the remaining cum on your lips. You adjusted your clothes while walking around his workplace looking at the trophies on one of the many shelves to see that they were from his youth as a basketball captain.

“Can you look at the package that lies behind you on the chair?”, Yoongi motioned for you to turn around just so you could see a nicely wrapped present on one of the chairs in front of his desk. Curiously you opened it to find a white piece of soft fabric in it. A new blouse. The material was from a better quality and even the brand was one of the most famous ones. A cheap top would have been sufficient, you thought but was happy to be able to own something as costly as this.

“Thank you!”, your voice was cheerful as you inspected your new top.

“Sure. You better take it with you next week”, he just said, head bend over his work.

“Next week?”, you asked, confused about his statement. Was something going to happen next week that you had not noticed?

Yoongi leaned against the backrest of his chair, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Are you dense, y/n? We are going on a business trip to complete the task around our new contract.”

Realisation hit you. How could you forget the trip abroad with your boss, you thought, the company was all over it. Embarrassed you walked to the alabaster glass door to go back to work stopped dead in your tracks at your boss’ next words.

“Don’t forget to bring your best dessous, baby girl”, Yoongi smirked licking his pink lips before he continued his work.

The next week should show you how real business was done with Min Yoongi.

[dwsecretsanta]

The House At The End Of Pandora Lane (Part II)

The second part of my SS gift for @presidentromana. Two or three more parts to come, at this stage. 

Thanks for the awesome set of prompts, by the way! I’m having huge fun, writing this!

Rated: FR13, for dark themes. Very dark.

Wordcount: 3,033

Author: @the-ripper-rides

The House At The End Of Pandora Lane

If this place were what it seemed, then at the end of the street would stand a large, old shell of a House. The trees, real trees which line the path are eversilver although they don’t grow any more. When they did flourish, once upon a time, the branches wove together in a tangle that blotted out the red sky. Now, it’s visible through the tangle of branches overhead, but the shadows on the outside of the house are twisted and jagged, bending and flexing and swaying with the wind, as though they’re claws, reaching out to snag anyone who gets too close.

Inside the house there’s more dust; there’s no end to the dust, not even here. The shelves of the once-proud library stand bare and empty, like the blank, toothless grin of a madman, somehow both disturbing and pitiful in the same moment.

There’s no carpeting on the floors, no food or servants in the kitchen, no furniture in the rooms.

Only the endless, empty, shifting hallways to prowl through, and a floor to sit on. The curtains are always drawn across the windows.

That doesn’t make a difference, though. Most of the time there’s only an endless blackness outside the windows. When light does flash through, the images are always of things that one was better off not knowing.

There’s no breath here, no life.

Only sanity.

And even that is fading fast.

Can you guess where this place is?

One might well say it’s the House at the end of Pandora Lane.

Days?

Weeks?

Months?

Decades?

How long had it been, since the War ended? Here, in this place time had no meaning.

A flash of light, the sound of a laugh. Strong emotions makes the windows light up, and reflect the outside world for a moment. Satisfaction, fury and triumph all give me that glimpse of the world beyond her prison, inside the walls of Pandora’s mind.

Rage makes the light inside the house grow a sickly red-green. Triumph was more a cold, distant blue and victory was always a dark, thick red, as though the light was shining through a film of blood. It was only when the light changed, that anything was visible through the windows. The rest of the time they are as dark, silent and cold as the house around me.

This house is the only thing keeping me alive, as such, the only reason I still exist. Sometimes I think that trapped in here, I’ve been forgotten about, like a toy stuck on a shelf and left to rot.

Every time that the light changes, every time that I see something, I make a mark in the dust. I have no need of sleep, so these glimpses of the world outside become my days and nights. I used to scream in here, but it didn’t so much as make a ripple on the surface.

If you scream inside a mind, but cannot do so out loud, then are you even screaming?

When Pandora is angry, I hear things scurrying in the walls, and scratching at the old wood ‘outside’, as though searching constantly for a way to get in, and start on my final destruction.

Sometimes I wish that they would break in, and destroy my safe zone. Maybe then, I’d have a chance to fight back, and regain myself again. Or perhaps it would be the end of me.

Either way, this holding pattern would be over.

I scrawled the agreement of surrender in the dust of the walls as well, so that it would not be forgotten. Only a fraction of it has come to pass.

The terms of surrender are as follows:

Firstly - that the Time Wall encircling the Academy be lowered.

Secondly – that Narvinectrolonum is permitted to receive immediate medical care for his amputation, in order that the limb might be reattached.

Thirdly – that no person who sided with me, yet was inactive in battle be held to any account for anything that happened during the war. They shall not be punished, ostracised, exiled or in any other way targeted.

Fourth – That those who did play an active role in the war be treated with both mercy and respect, irrespective of what may have been done under the flags of war.

Fifth – That anyone who wishes to leave Gallifrey be permitted to do so, without harassment.

In order that these terms are met, a Council of overseers shall be appointed to stand watch over the spirit of this agreement.

I’m not surprised, that Pandora didn’t keep her word.

Narvin is alive, and has two arms. Or at least, he was still alive some twenty-nine glimpses of the world ago. I know it was that one when I saw him, because it’s underlined.

He and Leela, and several others that were important to me, have been locked up in maximum security cells, individually - as a way to keep them from interacting with one another, and with the outside world - by smaller versions of the Time Wall which held us all.

I honestly don’t know why they haven’t simply been killed. Less of a threat to security, that way.

Perhaps, it’s that Pandora fears I’ll use such an event in order to snap her control over me.

I don’t know if I’d have the strength to do so, after all this time.

I’ve watched my people fitted with collars that will explode if they disobey; an event that even a Time Lord wouldn’t survive and regenerate from.

The Panopticon has had a balcony added to it. The last time I saw the world, a flash of colour in the darkness, was when we were standing on the edge of it, looking out over the space that has been cleared below. There are no more colours to divide chapters, only an endless sea of grey robes, faces upturned, collars on those that lived Before, who once knew the taste of freedom. They wear red stripes on shoulders to tell ranks apart, and this is the only concession to individuals that there is. My people have been turned into an army, and they are a ruthlessly efficient one, at that.

The Looms are running at full efficiency, producing scores of full-grown beings every month, Loomed with just enough knowledge for the next battle, the next victory. Most of them aren’t expected to survive any longer than that, and never have a chance to do anything but fight and die.

Only some of them have regenerative potential, and those that do are limited to one or two, at the most. They’re used as living bombs, the force of the regeneration overwhelming the enemy, and taking a good chunk of the battlefield with them. There is no way to tell who had been Loomed as a bomb, until it happens. Not even the people in charge of the Loom Factories know, themselves.

Gallifrey isn’t an artwork of colours, sounds and beauty any more. The buildings that do still stand are low and domed, the same colours as the earth beneath them, so as not to present an obvious target to the rare enemy that might still have the capabilities to bring the Final War to Gallifrey.

That’s what Pandora calls this.

A flash of satisfaction, and the black windows fracture, an image coming into view, a fragment at a time.

We’re standing on a stage, made of cold grey metal, as uniform as almost everything else on this world has become, with trees burned and buildings levelled. The faces look at us, streaked with blood and grime, the robes of some of the people singed. Little things like that don’t matter any more.

Some of the gazes looking up at us still shine with resentment, although there’s less of those amongst the crowds, every time they gather at the conclusion of another battle. It didn’t take me long to realize that those that still resent Pandora’s rule are placed in the most dangerous of positions, expected to die for the cause.

Survival isn’t honoured, and the only reward is a place at the front line in the next battle, and the next, and the next.

However many it takes, until she achieves what she wants.

What she wants isn’t always destruction of the enemy.

Our lips move, although I never put the words there any more, and I feel a fierce, arrogant pride in our hearts.

“My people, we push ever closer to our goal, in this, the Final War. Gallifrey stands together, united, and stronger than ever before, and as long as we maintain this…”

I pulled the curtain, disconnected from the moment. I’ve seen enough of these moments, to know that they all in the same. A victory speech, and a call to the next battle. Pandora takes no time to slow down.

The rest of the universe doesn’t stand a chance, as long as she stands at the helm of Gallifrey.

Another endless day, and another, and another.

I scratch at the walls to weaken them for the next time that Pandora’s fury stirs, wonder to myself if she can hear, or feel my scratching at the walls of her no man’s land in the same way that I can hear her instinct trying to dig me out, when she rages.

I may as well not have bothered; the walls grow back over like the living thing that they are, as impenetrable as though made out of living stone.

So, I can write on the walls, but not in them. Figures.

A flash of calm green, and I move to throw the nearest curtain open. This one is in the foodless, dank kitchen, not that where the windows are make a difference to what I see, so far as I know.

Our head tilts up, the scent of smoke in our nose, tears filling our eyes from the sting of it. Still, there’s a satisfaction in standing here, seeing what we’ve orchestrated first hand. Another world is burning, another civilization falling to dust.

The last sounds of a dying planet are inaudible, as the smooth hum of a fleet of Battle TARDISes obscure any voices that still might have been around to speak.

There’s something that’s soothing to the deepest part of us, watching as their black shadows streak across the sky, blotting out the moon and stars of this planet.

Our eyes linger on one glittering point in the distance. None of the others have quite the same lure as the next target, and the next, and the next.

A flick of the wrist, another disconnect. I used to try and pinpoint what planet I was on from the stars in the sky, but I’ve long since given up on that.

I don’t want to know what the name of the latest planet to pay the price for my decision is. It hardly matters these days, when the death toll just keeps climbing further and further.

Another mark on the wall in the dust.

There are well over three hundred in total now, and for all I know some of them are years apart, what with how smoothly the war machine of Gallifrey runs, these days.

Another stretch of empty silence.

This time I try to break down the door, but it’s as unyielding as the windows.

Whispering to it, to just relax and let me out, is as efficient as splintering a door off an empty cupboard, and trying to use that to pry the main door open.

The cupboard door grows back, but the one in my hands remains, also. At least until I use it to try and end this endless cycle of… well, I’m not even sure what I ought to call it. Then the door in my hands crumbles to dust.

Another thing that I’m beyond in here is tears.

I try to talk to the walls next.

If other people could hear me, they’d probably say that I’m going mad. I’m not sure that I’d disagree with them.

“Please, just for a moment. All that you have to do is step to the side. I’m sure that you can manage it. It must be rather boring being a wall, and having to stand in the same position day in, day out, always looking at the same thing, nothing changing, and nothing ever about to change unless you change it.”

I jab a finger into the wall for emphasis, then pull a face.

“Sorry, I hope I didn’t hurt you. You can hardly blame me for getting frustrated, though, can you?”

This particular wall, I’ve been talking to for what feels, to my now-warped perception of of time, like over an Earth week. This one seems friendlier, somehow, than the others though. More flexible, more open to new ideas. I’m sure that if I just keep working at it, chipping away at its defences…

A flash of blue, solid and cold. This is a real victory, whatever it is.

And also, something else that I’ve never experienced before, a whisper of a voice.

Come and see.

For a moment I almost think that the wall is answering me back, but I’m not quite that far gone, yet.

It’s a direct invitation from Pandora, herself.

So, she does know where I am.

I move to a window just down the hallway and flick the curtain back, waiting as the world swims into view, as though I’ve spent an eternity in a dark place. Which I suppose, in a way, I have.

It takes a moment to make sense of what I’m seeing, for the connection to form properly.

We’re in what used to be my office. Pandora’s office now, battle plans on the wall, and death masks staring down at us, always watching with cold, accusing, blank eyes. They shocked me, the first time that I saw them, but now, seeing old friends hanging amongst the dead, there’s almost something comforting about them.

Even though I may not see them again in life, they still linger.

Somehow, Leela stands before us, unchained, unbound, unfettered. I wonder how she got there, then I remember that the summoning emotion was satisfaction. Very few things make Pandora truly satisfied, so this must be something truly special.

Her sightless eyes flicker around the room, almost as though she can see what’s around her, and I know that she’s figuring out her surroundings, gauging what’s around her in the way that I suspect only she ever could.

We clear our throat, and lean forward over the edge of our desk, so close that we could reach out and snap her neck without a second thought if we wished it. Idly, we entertain the idea of it, picturing the sound that those thin bones in her neck would make.

Still, there’s always later for that.

My hearts ache, in a way that I haven’t known for a very long time.

“So, it comes to my attention that you have professed a desire to wear my collar, and stand at my side once more, like the faithful dog that the old occupant of this body taught you to be.”

“Yes, I have.”

“Answer me two things, then, savage. No hesitation, and no second chances.”

“Of course.”

Oh, Leela. How did you come to this?

“Why the change of heart, after all these years?”

“I grow bored, locked in my tiny room, with nothing but the same day, day after endless day. I hear only my own voice, know only myself. I have forgotten what it is like, to be around other people, and I long to run under the stars, and hunt once more, even if would be hunting under your orders. I have heard stories of what you have been doing, and I wish to be a part of it. Next question, please, Pandora.”

I can’t take my eyes off of her, can’t believe what I’m hearing. This is wrong, so wrong. But there’s no mistaking that the words, and the tone are Leela’s, alone, uttered under her own free will.

We scratch a fingernail on the wooden desk, hard enough to leave a white mark across the grain, watch as the savage’s head tilts slightly to the side. We can sense the underlying truth to her words, tell that she means what she says. There is no fear here.

“What use is an alien Savage, to the likes of me?”

“I think I might surprise you, Pandora. For example…”

We watch as Leela leans forward, faster than even we can react, raise a single hand to lock around her throat, even as we see a glint of metal in her hand, feel it slipping into the skin at the back of our neck, somehow perfectly in line with our spine, and…

The windows go black again, and the walls of the house around me seem to shiver and contract, as I feel something in the distance splintering and breaking, a far off pressure, pain sharp enough to make me weep.

Then, for a moment, one of the walls dissolves. I’d move towards it, take my chance to get thought the gap, but what follows next has me frozen in place. A projection of Leela’s form is shoved through where the wall was, and then the wall forms once again, and this time Pandora’s voice speaks to us both.

See what happens, when you try to invade my mind?

I hope that the two of you have missed one another, because you’re going to be together for a very long time. Welcome to your new cell, Leela of the Sevateem.

I don’t have a chance to scold her, or berate her, before I’m wrapped in a hug that would leave me breathless if I still had need to breath in these walls.

“Do not worry, Romana. Things will be better, now.”

Oh, but after all this time, I want nothing more than to believe her.

[musingsdeme]

Silly Love Songs

There are exactly twenty-two cassette tapes in the shoebox under the passenger seat of the Impala. There have been exactly twenty-two cassette tapes in that box since Dean was twenty-five and bought a copy of Abbey Road and Combat Rock from a record store in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Most of the tapes were John’s, inherited right alongside the Impala, the soundtrack of a life on the road: Motorhead and Lynyrd Skynyrd; Black Sabbath and The Kinks; there’s even some Springsteen in there that Dean is pretty sure belonged to his mom before everything went to hell. Dean (and even Sam) can pick some of them out without even looking: Kashmir’s label has worn off from being handled so many times; Back in Black has a noticeable chip in the left corner; Heaven and Hell is weirdly heavier than the rest. Dean’s lived by this music; driven back and forth across the country to the sounds of those tapes. There are exactly twenty-two cassette tapes in the shoebox under the passenger seat of the Impala, until one day, there are exactly twenty-three.

ao3

Dean discovers the twenty-third tape on a Tuesday evening in May. The weather is turning swiftly towards summer; there’s a heavy golden glow hanging in the air from the setting sun, it smells like earth and light when he steps outside the bunker, climbs in the Impala, and rolls down the windows. It’s almost eighty still and it’s the perfect weather for grilling up some burgers, and that’s exactly what he’s gonna do. Dean’s got a smile on his face as he heads to the grocery store. There’s a lot to celebrate. The Mark of Cain is long gone, Cas is human (of his own choice) and more relaxed than Dean’s ever seen him, Sammy is not in any kind of danger or trouble (in fact, when Dean headed out the kid was happily geeking out over some boring shit in the Men of Letters archives). If they kept a kept a tally (which they would never do for fear of calling down catastrophe) it would proudly declare that IT HAS BEEN [37] DAYS SINCE OUR LAST LIFE, DEATH, OR HELLISH FATE SITUATION. That’s something to be damn happy about.

On the way to Trader Joe’s, Dean listens the steady rumble of the engine. He drums his fingers on window ledge, reviews his mental grocery list, and smiles at nothing. He’s been doing that a lot lately: smiling at nothing, humming even, bouncing on the balls of his feet, laughing. It’s partially because there isn’t some arcane brand on his forearm making him want to kill everything in sight, but it also has a lot to do with the fact that he kissed Cas for the first time thirty-seven days ago.

They were bloody and exhausted, sweating, and covered in ash in the wake of the ritual that cured Dean, laying grace against the mark, cleansing his soul of the curse. They were lying there, tears in both their eyes, on the floor of the dungeon. Cas had laid his fingers against Dean’s cheek, a whisper of a touch, and Dean had closed his eyes, overcome with Cas’ gentleness, letting it radiate through his whole body.

He didn’t run away like he had some many times before, afraid, embarrassed, undeserving. Instead, for the first time, Dean let himself lean into Cas’ touch. Unhindered by bloodlust, everything else flooded to the surface—affection and relief and gratitude—it was all right there in front of him. For the first time in a long, long time, Dean felt alive. Miraculously, fully, alive, and, buoyed by that heady sensation, he reached out for Cas, when so many times before he had flinched away. Dean laid a heavy, shaky hand against Cas’ hair and he smiled through a broken cheekbone and a bloody mouth. Cas’ eyes shown bright and full and so damn relieved, so damn happy. He leaned forward, and Dean met him half way and it was the most fucking amazing, wonderful moment that Dean had ever had in his whole life.

So yeah, on this bright sunny evening in early summer, Dean has a lot of things to be happy about, and a pretty sizable chunk of those things include Cas: Cas at his side, Cas in his bed, Cas smiling more, Cas frowning less, Cas stealing his clothes, Cas drinking coffee, Cas holding him at night. Dean is almost forty but he feels so light, so airy, he swears sometimes he could fly.

He whistles his way through the grocery store. Loading his cart with ground chuck and freshly baked burger buns, sweet potatoes and bell peppers and onions, tomatoes, cheddar cheese. He grabs a pineapple and some blueberries (for pancakes tomorrow), remembers to grab the granola and Greek yogurt Sam asked for, and the Orange-Mango juice that Cas is crazy about. He waits in line, making funny faces at the toddler in the cart in front of him and making small talk with her mother. He pays and loads everything into brown paper bags and then into the trunk. He twirls the keys around his fingers and slides behind the wheel.

“Time to get home, Baby,” he says, patting the wheel.

It’s at that moment, on this beautiful Tuesday evening in May, with the sun shining and the Impala loaded down with groceries, that Dean decides what his ride home needs is some tunes. He reaches into that old shoebox ready to let chance decide what he’ll listen to, expecting something familiar, but his hand grabs a tape that he doesn’t recognize.

He at first thinks that Sam’s tried to sneak some Indie crap into his sacred space, but when he pulls out the tape, the writing across the front is not Sam’s messy scrawl, it’s the sharp, slightly slanted lines that belong to Cas. All in capital letters, precise and pointed, the label reads FOR DEAN.

Dean’s heart jumps immediately to his throat, where it beats much faster than normal. There is a rubber band wrapped around the tape to keep a folded piece of paper attached. With trembling hands, Dean removes the rubber band and unfolds the paper. He half expects it to be a track list, but what he finds is Cas’ tightly packed writing filling the page from top to bottom.

“Dean,” it reads, “please, play the tape and read along.” The ‘and’ has been underlined enough that Dean can see the glare that Cas would use to punctuate if he were speaking aloud.

Dean turns the tape over in his fingers, bites his bottom lip. He feels like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, about to jump. His palms are damp and he shakes his head.

“Nut up, Winchester,” he mutters and he shoves the tape into the deck.

It takes a few seconds to start playing, but when it does, Dean can’t help it, he laughs; it’s a strange, strangled, wet laugh. Fucking Jason Mraz. Really, Cas? Does that make Dean Colbie Caillat? He shakes his head bemusedly, and rubs his eyes before he reads what Cas wrote:

“1. I would like to think that the reason that I included this song on this tape is obvious, but, in case that it is not, I wish to make it abundantly clear how lucky I feel to be in love with my best friend. You are the dearest and best friend that I have ever known in all my incredibly long life, to share not only this profound bond, but also the deep and abiding love that I feel for you is a gift that I had never hoped to experience, never thought to experience, and I am incredibly grateful to have the privilege of loving you as our relationship has evolved to include numerous forms of love: friendship, camaraderie, family, and romantic affection.”

“Jesus Christ, Cas, you can’t just say shit like that,” Dean grips the steering wheel, realizing that’s probably why Cas wrote it down.

It continues like that, for every song on the tape, Cas has written a note explaining why it’s there, what it has to do with him and what it has to do with Dean and, most importantly, what it has to do with the two of them together. The notes are earnest, they’re heartfelt, and they keep Dean oscillating between muffled laughter and silent tears.

Dean listens and he reads; he follows along right down the line.

“2. Given that we did, quite literally, find love in the most hopeless of places (I’m referring to Hell, though a case could also be made for Purgatory and some rather difficult situations on Earth) and times (the Apocalypse comes time mind), I thought that this song was apt. I don’t know that I have ever told you this (indeed, I know I haven’t, fearful of how you would react), but I loved you the first time I beheld you, Dean. Your soul shown so brightly amongst the desolation of that place, and when I held you in my grace I was changed fundamentally from the being I once was. I have never felt so close to another.”

Dean has to wipe his eyes and sniff, “C’mon, man.”

When he hears the third song, he laughs.

“3. I understand that you have a deep, abiding (and partially clandestine) love of Taylor Swift. I was hard-pressed to choose amongst her many works (all of which are quite catchy). This, however, seemed most appropriate as one of your most admirable qualities is your ability to ‘shake off’ the burdens that the world and fate have presented to you, and continually find beauty and joy in spite of hardship.”

“4. Dean, I would very much like to hold your hand every day for the rest of my human life. Nothing would bring me more happiness than to share this and other simple pleasures with you.”

“You’re such a damn sap, Cas,” he mumbles, wishing Cas were with him, wishing he could hold his hand through this, rub his thumb against Cas’ palm, press a kiss against his knuckles.

Boyz II Men sings “I’ll Make Love to You” as the fifth song, and Dean rolls his eyes and smiles when Cas uses his notation to basically quote the whole damn thing, with particular emphasis on holding Dean all through the night.

Dean is chuckling to himself when he flips the tape.

Elvis is in sixth place:

“6. Dean, I could not help but fall in love with you, with the beautify of your soul, with the strength of your character, with your capacity for love and you abidingly loyalty, with your laugh and your smile, with your stubbornness and your passion, with your compassion, with your capacity for forgiveness and your willingness to give all that you have to those you love. I did not know at first that that is what I felt for you, others realized it long before I did, and they did, in fact, try to stop me from falling in love with you. They tried many, many times, but no one could ever break that bond, Dean. You and I, we are stronger when we are together, the ties that bind us are far greater than any scheme or machination that they have yet to concoct on any realm of existence. And I will continue to love you and fall in love with you every day”

Dean thinks about Zachariah, about Naomi, about Cas hiding in Purgatory, and Dean’s own bullshit. He thinks about all the crazy, stupid shit that’s come between them and all the stupid, crazy shit they’ve overcome, and it’s suddenly crystal clear how many times Dean has fallen in love with Cas, with his gentle hands and fierce spirit, with his strength and faith and determination; how he has always, always been there when Dean needed him.

REO Speedwagon comes on next.

“7. I feel this song encapsulates much of what I’ve experienced in the past few years. It was difficult to ‘hold back’ how I felt for you, even more difficult to express the depth of the affection that I carried for you in a way that I thought you would accept. I am happy that we no longer have to ‘fight this feeling” but can, instead, embrace it.”

When One Direction comes on Dean is startled into a laugh.

“8. Despite the inherent paradox in the lyrics, I thought of you when I first heard this song. It seems so often you undervalue your worth, undervalue that which makes you truly beautiful, and it pains me (and also Sam and all those who care for you) to see you be so unaware of and so cavalier with your person. You are the most beautiful soul I have ever beheld and I wish you could see how I see you. You glow Dean, you are ethereal, you are the sun.”

Chicago is next with “Just You’N’Me,” and for the second time, Cas, uses his allotted space to basically quote the entire thing (“You are my love in my life, Dean, you are my inspiration”). “You Make Me Feel So Young” follows (“I have never known what it was to be young, to feel youthful, or carefree. For something as old as I, literally older than dirt, youth seems a alien sensation, but, when I am with you, I feel a sense of wonder and excitement that I have never before known. I see things differently, I experience things differently, and for the first time. It is a gift.”)

The last song plays “A Thousand Years” and Cas writes simply: “I have loved you with all that I am, and will continue to do so as long as even a part of me exists in this, or any, universe”.

When the tape stops, Dean is left in silence. There are tears on his face and his heart is a slow, steady, painful beat in his chest. He feels overwhelmed, filled to the brim, shaking, and all he can say is “Christ, Cas.”

He wipes his eyes, clears his throat, and heads for home.

*

He doesn’t bother unloading the groceries when he gets there. He just scrambles out of the Impala, and moves like a man on a mission, quick and purposeful and a little faster than normal.

Sam is exactly where Dean left him, hair a little messier and notebook a little fuller, still buzzing with scholastic energy. He looks up when Dean comes in.

“Hey, Dean, guess what I found in the—” he frowns, “Where are the groceries?”

“Trunk,” he tosses Sam the keys, “Change of plans: we’re orderin’ in tonight.”

Sam frowns more deeply, “Um, okay…everything all right?”

“Where’s Cas?”

Sam’s frown starts to take on a worried edge, “I think he’s in the kitchen. Dean, are you sure that you’re—?”

Dean stalks off towards the kitchen while he answers, “Totally fine, dude. Unload the groceries and order some pizza or something.”

Sam mutters a reply that Dean doesn’t make out; he doesn’t really care presently.

Cas is, in fact, in the kitchen, rooting through one of the cabinets near the stove.

Dean’s heart swells and his fingers tingle with nervous energy.

Cas doesn’t turn around, but Dean can hear the smile in his voice.

“Dean, you’re back,” he pulls a box from the very back of the cabinet, “I was just about to make some tea would you like—” he turns, pauses, and tilts his head, “Where are the groceries?”

Dean rolls his eyes. How is that the biggest issue right now? How awesome is it that that’s the biggest issue right now? Can’t they tell he’s having a goddamn moment?

“I need to talk to you,” Dean says. His voice comes out much gruffer than he intended. Cas’ forehead furrows, but he permits Dean to grab his wrist (smooth warm skin, and strong tendons beneath Dean’s fingertips) and allows himself to be dragged away.

Dean tugs Cas along in his wake and neither of them speaks until Dean pulls them both into Cas’ room and closes the door behind them.

Cas stands before him, increasingly concerned, tension in his shoulders and a worried frown on his face. He’s gonna get wrinkles, Dean thinks, how goddamn lucky is he that he gets to see that happen. Apparently Dean’s bemused smile does nothing to decrease Cas’ preoccupation because he starts forward as if he’s going to lay a hand on Dean’s forehead, not to heal, but to check for fever. Affection washes over Dean in a wave of warmth. He intercepts the gesture, holding up the tape. Cas drops his hand and takes a step backwards.

“Cas, what is this?” Dean asks, tone serious.

All of the tension leaves Cas’ body for a second, Dean can actually see all the puzzle pieces slotting into place in Cas’ mind as he works out Dean’s behavior in response to the cassette in his hand. He touches the back of his neck and shuffles on his feet, suddenly nervous.

“It’s a mix tape.”

“Cas,” Dean says, voice low, “why did you make this?”

Cas frowns, blinks several times, and then stands straighter, “I was speaking with Claire last week, texting actually, and she commented upon the changed nature of our relationship.”

“Of course she did,” Dean quips. She was probably damn sassy about it too.

Cas’ mouth twitches, “Yes, well, she said that all we were missing now was a letterman jacket and a mixed tape to be a complete cliché.”

Dean barks out a laugh, “The whole angel and human thing wasn’t enough for her?”

There’s definitely a smile on Cas’ face now, “Apparently not.”

“Kids, man,” Dean shrugs.

“Well, I suppose this caused me to reflect,” Cas continues, “I obviously have no letterman jacket to give to you—”

Dean interrupts, “Woah, if anyone’s giving anyone a letterman jacket it’s gonna be me.”

Cas rolls his eyes, “—obviously neither of us has a letterman jacket to give the other, but I was given to understand that mixed tapes were common in courting practices among young people of your generation.”

“Courting practices?” Dean repeats, torn between amusement and wanting to hide his face in his hands. He’s being courted by a former angel who has actually thought about how he would have wooed Dean in the early 90s.

“So I asked Charlie to help me because it is surprisingly hard to make a cassette tape,” he continues, “have you considered updating the sound system in the Impala?”

Dean glares, “Really, Cas?”

He shakes his head and grins, “I suspected as much. Charlie was all too happy to help me actually produce the tape. When I told her what I wanted to do she responded with, what she referred to as a ‘velociraptor screech’, which actually bore very little resemblance to the vocalizations of a velociraptor. Charlie helped me with the mechanics, but I chose the music and I, uh, wrote the note.”

They stare at one another for a moment. Cas shuffles on his feet again, and Dean is held in thrall, overwhelmed by the gesture of it all, by all the things that Cas said in that note, by the contours of his face, by the fact that Cas is here with Dean, and, if what he said is true, always will be. It’s a heady feeling, makes Dean’s eyes sting and his throat tighten.

“Did you, uh, like it?” Cas finally asks uncertainly.

That’s apparently all Dean needs to move.

“Cas, that was the cheesiest,” he takes a step forward, “corniest,” he’s in Cas’ space, “dorkiest,” he pulls Cas into his chest so that they are flush together, and Cas freezes for a moment in the warm embrace of Dean’s arms, “sweetest fucking thing that anyone has ever done for me in my entire fucking life.”

Cas licks his lips and hesitantly brings his arms to wrap around Dean’s waist, “So you liked it, then?”

“I fucking loved it,” Dean swears into the warm, tanned skin of Cas’ neck. He kisses him just beneath his ear, “Thank you.”

The final bit of tension in Cas’ shoulders melts away, he rubs a soothing circle against Dean’s side, “I meant all that I said,” he assures, pressing a kiss into Dean’s hair.

Dean buries his flushing face more firmly into Cas’ neck, “No song has yet been written in a human tongue that could encapsulate the way that I feel for you.”

Dean’s eyes burn and he holds Cas tighter.

“Nothing could ever come close to expressing what you have given to me,” he pulls them apart so that Dean is forced to look at him, wide, watery eyes and all, “all that I feel,” Cas wipes his thumbs against Dean’s cheekbones, catching the tears, “when I am with you.”

“Cas,” Dean tries, voice thick.

“I love you, Dean Winchester,” he says with such warmth in his eyes and voice that Dean feels that he’s drowning in it. Cas leans forward and he presses their mouths together. It’s gentle, slow, and Dean feels it from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. It’s like sunlight, warming him all over, deep into the core of him. He’s breathing heavily, shaking, overcome.

When they come up for air, Cas rests their foreheads together, holding Dean’s shaking fingers in his own steady ones, cradling them against his chest. Dean can feel Cas’ heartbeat against his knuckles.

“What do you want, Dean?” he asks, voice rough, but tone so, so tender. Dean could say he wanted to go on a picnic, and Cas would walk out of this room and pack a damn basket without a second’s hesitation.

Dean knows he could ask for anything, anything at all, and what comes out of his mouth is heartfelt, “Lie down with me?”

Cas smiles, presses a kiss against Dean’s lips, “Of course.”

He pulls Dean gently by their linked hands and settles him down on the bed. He undresses Dean reverently, carefully. He removes Dean’s shoes and his shirt, he undoes his belt, and slides off his jeans, he takes of Dean’s boxers, freeing his slight erection. Cas brushes a hand through Dean’s hair and kisses his mouth, soft and lingering. Then Cas undresses himself, quickly, purposefully, while Dean watches. He has tan lines from running and working in the garden: the toasty brown of his torso ends just below his belly button, and a swathe of milky skin extends to just above his knees. When they are both naked, Cas settles onto the bed, turning on his side to face Dean, who reaches out for him.

They’ve had sex before, and it’s awesome, every time, because it’s Dean and it’s Cas and they’re together, which is inherently awesome. How could it be anything else? Even when Dean accidentally trips over his own jeans while giving a strip tease, and face plants into the bedframe and Cas has to bandage his head in between some awkward explanation to Sam, even when one or the other of them is too tired to get it up, even when Cas says something that makes Dean laugh hysterically right when things are getting hot and heavy. It’s always awesome.

Cas asked Dean what he wanted, and all Dean wants right now is to be close to Cas, to feel him, to know he’s there.

When they comes together, it’s slow touches and kisses. It’s Dean tracing the shape of Cas’ body: his face and his shoulders, his back, his stomach. It’s Cas laying worshipful kisses, gentle and wet against Dean’s skin, interspersed with endearments. He presses them against Dean’s eyelids, his collarbone, his chest. Cas works Dean into hardness, slow and steady strokes of his hand around Dean’s cock that send heat, electricity running through his nerves, coiling low in his belly. Dean does the same for Cas. The first touch of their cocks together, hot, velvety skin and pulsing heat, is almost too much for Dean. Cas twines their fingers together, working over them both, climbing to that precipice together. Cas’ mouth is warm against Dean’s, his tongue smooth and wet. They’re sweating; Dean’s eyes burn, their hearts beat frantically. Dean can’t look away and Cas can’t either, they watch each other, eyes locked. They jump over the edge together and when they come down from that high, sticky and sated, Dean has tears in his eyes, running down his cheeks. He takes shuddering breaths, while Cas pulls him close, wraps him tight and safe in the circle of his arms, and presses kisses to the top of his head.

“Shhh,” he murmurs, “shhhh.”

He hums a song that Dean doesn’t know but he feels the love in it down to the very marrow of his bones.

Dean has to work his mouth several times before he’s able to get anything out past a shaky sob, but he finally manages, with his eyes closed tight, and Cas’ heartbeat just beneath his ear, “I love you, too, Cas.”

Cas tightens his hold on Dean, pulls him closer, as close as he can. It hurts a little bit, but Dean doesn’t mind.

“I know, Dean,” he sounds so sure, so certain, “I know.”

*

Dean doesn’t keep the twenty-third cassette tape with the others. He keeps it and Cas’ note in his room, in the top drawer of his desk, next to a picture of his mom.

When a month later, Dean decides to make good on his Mark of Cain bucket list and take a nice long vacation, he makes sure to move the tape to the car. The Carolinas should be fucking gorgeous this time of year. It’s just him and Cas on the road; Sam is gonna meet them at Myrtle Beach next week (“get all the loud sex out of the way before I show up, please.” Dean makes no promises). Dean loads their duffels in the trunk just after dawn, stores some snacks and the cooler in the back seat. Cas brings two steaming cups of coffee for the road. Dean starts the Impala and smiles at Cas, who is still a little bleary eyed.

It’s the twenty-third tape that Dean pushes into the tape deck just before they pull out of the garage. Cas smiles at Dean and takes his hand. They hit the road to the sound of a love song.

*

Cas’ mixtape for Dean

1. “Lucky” Jason Mraz & Colbie Caillat 2. “We Found Love” Rihanna 3. “Shake it Off” Taylor Swift. 4. “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” The Beatles 5. “I’ll Make Love to You” Boyz II Men 6. “Can’t Help Falling In Love” Elvis Presley 7. “Can’t Fight This Feeling” REO Speedwagon 8. “What Makes You Beautiful” One Direction 9. “Just You 'N’ Me” Chicago 10. “You Make Me Feel So Young” Frank Sinatra 11. “A Thousand Years” Christina Perri

[elizabethrobertajones]

my theory is that mary says that i love you to dean to reach to him when he has forgotten everyone (sort of like the scripted i love you in the cript scene that they cut, i wouldn't be surprised if she also says something like we are family) my worries tho is that they're playing favorites with this gradual loss of memory, seems that dean has no problem remembering mary and sam but cas is the first one he's starting to forget? unnecessary why didn't they make him lose his memory all at once?

This is the sort of speculation I really don’t wanna get into because it’s constructing a whole narrative out of a completely out of context video, and we just don’t know what will happen because even our best guesses can’t account for random curveballs or the context around the quote, which could drastically change the meaning of the delivery. Maybe it’s from some totally different episode and Dean has some urgent reason to worry about Cas specifically - it was layered over Cas having the Horrible Thing Of The Week happen to him, all that black cracking. Which for my best guess would be 12x12 because witch with a grudge :P

For what it’s worth though, ignoring any potential context and just looking straight at that line on its own, to me I am reading that emphasis as very particularly weighted in a GOOD way emotionally towards whatever they’re saying when it comes to including/elevating Cas’s importance. 

For one thing he’s at the end of the list, and has the pause, the stammer and the repetition on his name. If it IS even from the memory episode, the fact that Mary is alive is an obvious thing that would create masses of turmoil for Dean because he’s barely just through all his new turmoil about her anyway. Mary is very important to Dean’s emotional arc this season and it would be low hanging fruit to have Dean reel off the names of the brother who’s been by his side the entire show, followed by his BFF who has been a feature of his life for nearly a decade, followed by stumbling awe/confusion/raw emotion to mention his mother as if he couldn’t even trust she was actually back. (for all the excellence of her return and how it’s been handled, Dean had shock but easy acceptance, because Mary shows up with no strings attached, he knows why, he knows Amara is fully capable of having done it, and so doubt about Mary’s return has been limited only to that one scene at the end of 12x06 where Billie suddenly throws a dark cloud of it - a memory episode dealing with Dean’s Mary issues would be great because it would introduce the uncertainty/doubt even stronger and maybe tackle her permanency some more…)

Similarly, if Dean mentioned Cas first as “Cas is my friend, Mary Winchester is my mother, and Sam - [broken noises trying to explain Sam is his brother and convey how much that means]” then of course the emphasis is a bro bond special emphasising what we already know and have the entire show, but WOULD be the obvious surface level way to take a ranking of who is the most important to Dean (as Dabb said in that last interview that people are taking out of context, Sam and Dean have an obvious history that does give them emotional precedence to each other that Cas an outsider would feel - which I think was what was going on in the car scene in 11x23 on the surface text certainly, that Cas finds “brother” a tough position to share with Sam, which all basically demands that Cas have something different with them that’s not trying to emulate what Sam and Dean have with each other)

Anyway, what we get is a line where Dean gives each member of his family some emotional consideration, but breaks up trying to explain what Cas is to him, and correcting himself to give Cas the right nickname that means more to Dean, and by putting him last, and having a moment of correction and some repetition, is inviting analysis on why that correction (from Castiel to Cas) and generally underlining the care taken in that explanation, and separates Cas from being lumped in with Sam (which, well, IS a high honour to be lumped with except clearly despite what Dean said in 11x23, Cas doesn’t get lumped with Sam, not in his heart, because there’s just something different about Cas to him, and the way he loves him feels different and he’s playing with definitions between brother and BFF)… 

If Dean IS forgetting everything and struggling with Cas the most, then all the careful picking of words is even more interesting, and dealing with losing Cas first isn’t the show just randomly wiping him out of Dean’s memory (especially since Mary has a couple of months so could easily go first and put Dean in a state where up untl the last second of 11x23 Mary wasn’t even a feature in his life any more aside from the obvious how it’s always been until then way…) It would mean a whole lot of screen time dedicated to Dean struggling to remember his relationship with Cas.

Remember in 7x17 where Cas gets his memories back and the first few flashes of memory are like the exact sort of Destiel fan video you’d have cobbled together at the time? Putting the focus on forgetting someone is asking what they’re forgetting and what it means to them to do so. And it says “rapidly losing his memory” so idk what you’re looking for but it seems like he will quickly have some huge and obvious chunks on the way to true oblivion of self… But it’s not a BAD thing for us to see a process of him losing pieces, because what those pieces are and how he loses them will be fascinating all by itself. 

I mean, it sounds like literal Cas erasure to suggest Dean might randomly forget Cas but if they’re writing an episode around it? sign me the fuck up for the most Destiel thing to ever happen in an episode that does not initially seem to be about or contain Cas. 

(Although I suppose the whole needing a witch to fix it thing and then if Dean starts babbling about Cas in front of witches probably would lead on to the next episode… KIND of about Cas. Hm. Interesting. That thought might be the first thing that feels suggestive to me the line could definitely be from 12x11…)

See now I’m speculating and you’ve talked me into the episode where Dean forgets Cas and I want exactly what you don’t, and I also don’t think this episode will happen because speculation is a dangerous game and the best we can do is come up with random scenarios and wait to see what ACTUALLY happens instead of them :P

[seven-oomen]

I mean, when I first thought of the trail mix thing, I was definitely thinking of Stiles and Jackson.  Then I thought, wait, that whole family is made up of dumbasses, assholes, and dumbass assholes.  It really could work for any combo of them.  Hence the more open-ended suggestion.  And I mean, some of the dog treats we carry could easily be mistaken for regular snacks anyway (hell, there’s one brand looks like a Teddy Graham, but is all bland fruit flavors.)  Also, now you’ve got me super nervous with that latest hint.  Doubt about what, exactly?…  There are so many potential options, some of them definitely more fraught than others.  Should I stock up on more coping consumables?

Hope you enjoyed your movie.  Today I’m opting for Winter Soldier, because while I may not be able to muster up any patriotism for America right now, I can always manage it (among myriad other emotions…) for America’s Ass.  And that movie is not only amazing, but comes with a bonus of 3 total Caps in it (technically.)  Though I can literally never watch it without my brain at least once going “hey, that’s the nurse from American Werewolf in London!” (the Security Council lady), which is apparently only entertaining to me, but I don’t care.

Had another thought brought on by too many Tasty videos (I know, I have a problem, I’m just not ready to deal with it yet.)  I know we’d discussed Chris kinda being the main cook of the three, as well as making the occasional fancy pastry and probably the more regular desserts.  Peter I can see being the one to make the more elaborate, fancy cakes and pies for special occasions, because he has a better grasp of how to extra, but classy about it.  Like, Chris will handle it if they need bulk amounts of things made for a bake sale (though others may chip in to help), while Peter will make it if they need something attention-grabbing for like a raffle or something.  Now, normally Noah doesn’t bake much outside a few handed down holiday recipes (he can very rarely be convinced to make some ridiculously delicious triple chocolate chunk cookies that he refuses to share the recipe for, but it takes a lot of convincing to outweigh Stiles’ potential tantrums about healthy eating.  [Mostly Stiles is mad because he REALLY wants the recipe, but clings to the easiest excuse]), but the idea occurred to me that maybe while he’s stuck at home more during the latter part of his pregnancy, he develops an interest in bread-making.  He already has some experience with dough from his family’s pierogi recipes (and he has a babka one he’d loved to try if he felt more confident, so), he can take rests while the dough is proving, he finds the kneading very meditative (and he certainly has the arm strength for it), and just mostly finds he rather enjoys it.  And the family certainly enjoys the fruits of his labors.  After the twins are born, he starts branching out into different, fancier kinds as the mood strikes him, and Peter gets very used to coming home to a house that smells of fresh baked bread and home cooked food, underlined with the scents of his mates and pups.  He finds he adores it on an almost spiritual level.

I…I think that was everything?   I’ll probably think of something as soon as I submit this, I usually do.  I hope you’re feeling better, and that writing has gone well today (and that you found some good games.  I had a number of friends talking about Steam’s sale [they apparently like to look through all the super cheap stuff for the so-bad-they’re-good kinds of fun.])  Did you know Keahu Kahuanui does/has done cosplay for Assassin’s Creed?  And Cody Christian and Tyler Hoechlin both did voices for the FF7 remake?  (You probably did, but the fact that Derek Hale voiced Sephiroth will never not be funny to me, so.)  Actually, there’s another costume idea - video game characters (I admit you probably have a far better repertory of known characters to pull from than I do.  I’m a casual gamer at the most generous.)

But anyway, hugs to you and Mo, good vibes and (hopefully) helpful inspiration!  Can’t wait to see what kinds of hints we get next!

Ok it’s 3 am, and I just finished some Detroit become Human on PC so whoops. (Already owned it on Ps4 but the Steam sale was too good. Three games for the price of one) Ah well, it’s Saturday (Sunday now?) and I have today off too.

I mean, that’s fair. A lot of dog treats honestly look like something I could eat when I’m not paying attention and just shoveling snacks into my mouth. (Also on another note, I may have eaten the dog’s kibble as a young child and my brother pulled a prank on me when I was an older child and fed me kibble without me knowing.) So I can definitely see how this family filled with dumbass assholes would pull it on one another. And it’s a fantastic image! XD

I debating on what kind of warning I should give this. Because I’m hoping it’s a bit impactful/emotional, but it’s not about the boys. I think that’s the best warning I can give it. It’s about a character in the main story that isn’t the main ship. But it has unforeseen consequences/implications? So maybe getting some good snacks is not a bad idea. Is that vague enough while also being considerate enough?

Huh actually, I might put in the set up for another reveal about another character. I’ve been working on that one for a while. (Nothing bad, just one of those, huh okay neat! things. I hope.)

Sully was so good, holy shit. I definitely enjoyed that one! Can highly recommend it actually. And yeah, as far as the MCU goes, WInter Soldier is one of my absolute favorites. I think for me it’s Thor Ragnarok, Black Panther, Winter Soldier. In that order. They’re just really good movies and definitely some of the funnier/better movies in the MCU. Although with Black Panther I did go: Lion King did it! a couple of times. But that’s okay, I loved the 90′s version of that too, so.

And Winter Soldier is def worth it for America’s ass, hmmhmm.

I love that headcanon, I can just see Peter coming home after some grueling day at the office, the house smells like fresh bread and pastries and freshly cooked lasagna, there’s the soft arguing of Stiles and Noah over recipes, Chris is just pulling dinner out of the oven. Allison has set the table with Lydia. Danny and Jackson are watching over the twins while Scott and Malia are keeping Ben entertained. And Derek is helping Chris with Dinner.

Their house has never been more lively and Peter’s living for it. Makes his entire day filled with dumb businessmen worthwhile because this is what he gets to come home to.

Did you know Keahu Kahuanui does/has done cosplay for Assassin’s Creed?  And Cody Christian and Tyler Hoechlin both did voices for the FF7 remake?

I did not actually, on both! (I’m terrible at voices/names, it’s honestly a thing.. I ain’t proud of it.)

But that explains why Sephiroth sounded so low key familiar to me. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Will definitely have to revisit that now. And I will say, Cody does a great job as Cloud.

Oooh that’s a good one though. Hmmm I feel maybe the FF franchises would have enough characters to do group cosplays. Or Kingdom hearts. The Witcher might have a few. 

Oh! Or a bunch of ‘adventurers’ for the group. Like Peter could be Nathan Drake. Chris could be Joel Miller. Noah could be Arthur Morgan. Jackson could be Cloud. Malia could be Lara Croft. Allison could be Clementine (TWD). Stiles could be Sora (KH). Lydia could be Aloy (Horizon Zero Dawn).  Ben could be Atreus (God of War). Scott could do Link (Zelda). And they could go as this rag tag group of adventurers.

There are probably better ideas, but it’s almost 4 am and my sleeping pills are kicking in. So I’m gonna go catch some sleep.

But this was fun! <3

[bentonpena]

How to Read Long and Difficult Books

How to Read Long and Difficult Books http://bit.ly/2NQBd1W

In the last year, I’ve managed to finish a number of lengthy, sometimes hard-to-read books. Ron Chernow’s 900+ page tome on George Washington. 600+ dense pages on James Madison. Andrew Roberts’ massive biography of Winston Churchill. (Yes, I’m into biographies.) A couple of Dickens’ novels — they’re all big. Melville’s American masterpiece, Moby-Dick. Robert Caro’s legendary, epic series on Lyndon Johnson. And most recently, all 1,400+ pages of Les Miserables. 

Even though these books were enjoyable, and I had a genuine interest in the subject matter, they were often hard to read, if for no other reason than their sheer volume. Large pages, small fonts, tiny margins. Les Mis, because of its actual weight, had to be read sitting up, and often in a chair with an armrest because the thing was so dang heavy and unwieldy. (While I could have read an e-version, as I’ll explain below, I often prefer hardbound copies of classics, even if they’re harder to wrangle.) 

While Hugo and Dickens are a delight to read, the reality is that their language is so different from today that it takes brain power to really digest. And while those biographies I mentioned aren’t necessarily old, they are dense with facts, especially when you’re new to that person/time period. They’re just intimidating for folks who aren’t used to that type of reading which requires sustained focus and a bit of endurance. 

Before the last year or so, I would have probably counted myself in that camp. I had tried to read Washington: A Life and gave up after a few hundred pages. I’d tried Moby-Dick and met a similar fate. The allure of a big, meaty book was great, and yet I couldn’t find the stamina to actually finish many. 

So what was it that finally put me over the top and allowed me to get all the way through these hefty tomes? (And then to keep going too!) At the time, I wasn’t quite sure why. I figured it was some combination of having a plan and finally having the gumption to just keep flipping the pages. But after thinking about it, I realized that there was some innate method to how I was accomplishing it. There’s no need to be intimidated by old books, long books, or just plain hard to read books. It really is a skill to be learned in our Smartphone Age. 

Here’s how I did it (and continue to do it), and how you can too: 

1. Make a plan for yourself. 

Without a doubt, part of my success in reading at least a few of these books was that I had embarked on a couple different reading projects. One was to read a biography of every US president; the other was to read all of Dickens’ novels. (Both were set with indefinite timelines so that I can read other things too.) Having an end goal sure made it easier to get through Chernow’s Washington and Dickens’ sprawling and loosely connected series of vignettes that make up his first novel, The Pickwick Papers. 

Have a particular area of interest you want to explore? Is there a list out there that has really piqued your interest — perhaps AoM’s “100 Books Every Man Should Read”? Do you have a favorite author whose canon you’d like to explore in full? Make yourself a reading plan. 

2. Set a small amount of time or pages per day that you’ll read.

One of the keys in achieving that plan is giving yourself a micro-goal. My plan to read 44+ presidential biographies (some of which are multi-volume) gives me helpful direction, but it’s too distant an end goal to sustain my motivation from day to day. Even focusing on simply finishing the next book in the sequence is tough, when that book is massive — presidents’ lives are often very well explored and documented. 

So I go even smaller and set myself very attainable reading goals. I often flip through the book first to get a sense of how long chapters are; with Washington: A Life I set out to read a single chapter a day. With chapters averaging just 10-20 pages, this was totally doable. For books that have longer chapters (like Caro’s LBJ series), I’ll set a time-based goal, usually 30 minutes a day. 

Working from home, and not having a commute or anyone to disturb my lunch hour, I perhaps have more spare time to read than others. If you’re really cramped, give it just 10-15 minutes per day. You’ll get through those long and hard books far quicker than you’d expect, and when time and energy allow, you’ll often willingly do more than what you’ve allotted. 

3. Engage/interact with the text. 

One of the things that helps keep me engaged, especially when reading a long and/or difficult book, is making myself interact with the text. I almost always read with pencil/notebook at the ready, underlining interesting tidbits and writing one-sentence summaries of each chapter or important section. In James McPherson’s Battle Cry of Freedom — a classic history of the Civil War — I literally drew an illustration in my notebook when he mentioned the concentric circles of anti-slavery beliefs in the North. If you’re reading an e-version, underline and take notes in the same way. It’s a little harder (mainly for the notes part), but still worthwhile. 

4. Get an edition that you like. 

This can make a surprisingly big difference in your reading experience. Reading can be a far more kinetic activity than you’d think. The weight of the book, the styling of the font and the design of the text, even the cover art — if a book is nice to look at and easy to hold, you’re more likely to pick it up. 

Tangible and tactile, and free from the distractions built into my phone, I prefer paper copies for most of my reading, and often hardcovers specifically. Paperbacks are more portable, but the text is often a little harder to read with darker, smaller font size and tighter margins. And while I enjoy used bookstores as much as anyone else, I don’t like reading copies that have any notes or underlining in them already. It’s too distracting. So I always make sure to get a clean copy. 

When it comes to classic literature, you often have a ton of choices. Old versions are sometimes fun to have, but often harder to read, with small margins and overly dark text. I also like explanatory endnotes and lengthy introductions, which older versions almost always lack. Penguin Classics is the gold standard in my opinion. I have a few handfuls of those black paperback covers staring at me from my shelves. If I’m really feeling like I want a hardcover for whatever reason, I also really like the Everyman’s Library editions. 

In spite of the above, I’m also slowly getting back into reading with my Kindle. I tend to go in for an ebook when it’s not a volume I’m collecting, or that I desire taking up shelf space, or there’s simply a Kindle sale going on that’s too good to pass up. Certainly, when it comes to comfort, reading on a couch or in bed with a lightweight Kindle is hard to beat. I can read a weighty biography with a single hand, and even still chase kids around the house if need be. Plus, it doesn’t have the glare or distractions of a smartphone or tablet. And one final benefit of reading on a Kindle: free classic books! Anything published in 1923 and earlier can be had for free and downloaded within seconds. 

Ultimately, find what you like. Whether it’s a cheap used paperback, a new hardcover, or the ease of a Kindle edition, find the book version that you most enjoy reading. 

5. Have a dictionary/encyclopedia handy.

When it comes to long and difficult books, part of the struggle is just that they can make us feel dumb when we don’t know certain words or don’t have the contextual knowledge that would make it easier to understand. When I started to delve into Civil War reading, I got myself an atlas of Civil War battles and movements. When I read Les Mis, I kept my phone nearby to look up French phrases, antiquated and out-of-use words, and facts about the Battle of Waterloo (a section of text which nearly killed me). 

You’ll likely find it helpful to keep your phone at hand too; while you could invest in a hardbound dictionary, you’ll often need to access various resources to investigate various references (historical, cultural, etc.). Looking things up on your phone can invite the temptation to browse other apps, of course, but just fight past the Instagram itch. If that’s too difficult to do, block distracting apps during your reading time (here’s how).

6. Just get through the hard parts. 

With every long and/or difficult book, there’s bound to be a part that disengages you and makes it hard to pick back up. My encouragement to you: just get through it, even if it means skimming or (heaven forbid!) skipping chunks if needed. When reading the aforementioned Churchill biography, I skipped a section on his experience in the Boer War since I had already read Candice Millard’s spellbinding account on that same time period (and listened to her interview with Brett). 

Even if you don’t already know something, don’t worry about missing things. The first time you read a book, especially a long or difficult one, you’re going to inevitably miss things anyway. If it’s a novel, you’ll catch up to the plot quickly enough; if it’s non-fiction, you’ll survive missing a few facts — if they’re important enough, they’ll come back up. Trust me: It’s okay to skim things. 

7. Take advantage of the momentum! 

Part of why I’ve been able to read a lot of long books in the last year, I think, is simply that I finished Chernow’s Washington, which is a book I had previously given up on. Turning the final page and closing the back cover was quite gratifying. I knew that I could read the next hard book, whatever it might be. (It was David McCullough’s John Adams; McCullough is a great storyteller, but even he had a hard time making Adams’ decade in Europe exciting. Nevertheless, I got through it easily.)  

The same was true of Les Mis. After 1,432 pages and two months of reading most days, I was rather proud of what really felt like an achievement (perhaps more than it should have!). Finish one big, hard book and you’ll have momentum on your side. Really all it takes is one “win” to bolster your confidence in your reading capabilities. 

I know now, moving forward, that I can read and finish just about anything you put in front of me. With a little bit of daily diligence, intentional engagement with the text, and some strategic skimming and skipping if necessary, you can do the same. 

You can follow along with what I’m reading — plenty of long books included — by signing up for my weekly newsletter: “What I’m Reading.”

The post How to Read Long and Difficult Books appeared first on The Art of Manliness.

via The Art of Manliness http://bit.ly/2NeG3FZ September 3, 2019 at 01:58PM

[topmixtrends]

THIS IS THE 17th in a series of dialogues with artists, writers, and critical thinkers on the question of violence. This conversation is with Canadian cultural theorist and philosopher Erin Manning, who holds a University Research Chair in Relational Art and Philosophy in the Faculty of Fine Arts at Concordia University (Montreal, Canada). She is also the director of the SenseLab (www.senselab.ca), a laboratory that explores the intersections between art practice and philosophy through the matrix of the sensing body in movement.

¤

BRAD EVANS: Your work has for some time addressed fundamental questions around what it means to think and act in the world. This has invariably raised questions about limit conditions and forms of disavowal. Why are you interested in the neuropolitical and how does it speak directly to the problem of violence?

ERIN MANNING: I have never considered the concept of the “neuropolitical” in relation to neurodiversity. It’s an interesting proposition, though, so let me think it through with you. Neurodiversity is a movement that celebrates difference while remaining deeply nuanced on questions of (medical) facilitation and the necessity of rethinking the concept of accommodation against narratives of cure. The added emphasis on neurology has been necessary in order to challenge existing norms that form the base-line of existence: the “neuro” in neurodiversity has opened up the conversation about the category of neurotypicality and the largely unspoken criteria that support and reinforce the definition of what it means to be human, to be intelligent, to be of value to society. This has been especially necessary for those folks who continue to be excluded from education, social and economic life, who are regarded as less than human, whose modes of relation continue to be deeply misunderstood, and who are cast as burdens to society.

“Classical” autistics fall within this category. As my work has sought to underscore (following the writings of autistics such as Tito Mukhopadhyay, DJ Savarese, Amanda Baggs, Melanie Yergeau, Ido Kedar, Lucy Blackman, and many others), not only is the mainstream understanding of autism deeply flawed, but autistics have a vital contribution to make precisely due to their neurology. One way in which neurological difference presents itself is through what I call “autistic perception.” Autistic perception is a deep sensitivity to the coming-into-itself of form in experience. While all perception includes an edging-into-form, more neurotypically aligned perception in most cases occludes the process itself: objects and subjects are seen and not their process of coming-into-form. Autistic perception dwells in the interstitial, perceiving the process itself. Anne Corwin speaks of neurotypicals as those who “chunk” experience: neurotypicals perceive by categorizing. Autistic perception, on the other hand, troubles categories, feeling-seeing the world coming into itself. Autistic perception is the direct perception of the forming of experience. This has effects: activities which require parsing (crossing the street, finding the path in the forest) can be much more difficult. But there is no question that autistic perception experiences richness in a way the more neurotypically inclined perception rarely does.

As I’ve suggested at length in both Always More Than One (2013) and The Minor Gesture (2016), autistic perception is not a mode that should be reduced to autism. First, as every autistic will tell you, there is infinite difference among autistics. Second, autistic perception should be seen as a limit case of what accompanies all experience. Nonetheless, I think it’s fair to say that this enhanced perceptual field is an aspect of much autistic experience and something neurotypicals could learn a lot from, not only with regard to perception itself, but also as concerns the complexity of experience.

This has direct effects on what is considered a livable life. Much of life as it is organized in neoliberal capitalism works against autistic perception. This is not simply a question of speed: autistic perception is not necessarily slow. It is rhythmic, moving across relays of experience in-forming. This layering of experience is intense and often overwhelming, particularly in circumstances that deaden complex rhythms, which is certainly the case in the forward-oriented tendencies of contemporary life. This includes education, which tends to be organized not in terms of what is lived but in terms of what needs to be parsed in advance as knowable.

I foreground all of this to underscore that there is a neurological difference, or a spectrum of neurology, that must be attended to. The movement for neurodiversity is not interested in homogenizing experience. We are different and we require different accommodations. On the other hand, my interest is not in the neural per se, which I find quickly loses its usefulness in such discussions, particularly in the ways it can be taken up in the humanities and the social sciences as an explanatory category. The neurological is only one point of departure for the question of autistic perception, and of autism more broadly.

So I would say that the concept of the neuropolitical is not particularly interesting to me. I want to support the movement for neurodiversity because I find it exciting and deeply important in its foregrounding of complexity as the baseline. And I want to think about the ways in which an engagement with neurodiversity affects how we think of the political and how we effect change. The political emphasis here is less on neurology than on the question of how normative modes of being subsumed under the unspoken category of the neurotypical organize experience, and how an engagement with neurodiversity changes the questions we ask and the actions we support.

How does this concern with such diversity relate directly to the problem of violence?

Neurotypicality is a grounding narrative of exclusion. The neurotypical is the category to which our education systems aspire. It is the category to which our ideas of the nuclear family aspire. And, it is the category on which the concept of the citizen (and by extension participation in the nation-state and the wider global economy) is based.

In the context of education, which is the one I am most knowledgeable about, the mechanisms for upholding the neurotypical standard are everywhere in force. Every classroom that penalizes students for distributed modes of attention organizes learning according to a neurotypical norm. Every classroom that sees the moving body as the distracted body is organized according to a neurotypical norm. Every classroom that teaches predominantly for one mode of perception is organizing its learning according to a norm. Every classroom that knows in advance what knowledge looks and sounds like is working to a norm.

Intelligence, understood as the performance of a certain kind of knowledge acquisition and presentation, is built on the scaffold of neurotypicality as the unspoken norm. To speak of the normative tendencies of education is not new. My concern is with what remains largely unspoken in that conversation. Having “special needs” classrooms upholds neurotypicality, for instance, as the dominant model of existence. Drugging our children because of their attention deficit is upholding a neurotypical norm. Sending our black and indigenous children to juvenile detention centers in disproportionate numbers is upholding a neurotypical norm which takes, as neurotypicality always does, whiteness as the standard.

To engage with neurodiversity is to speak up about the extraordinary silence around neurotypicality and to acknowledge that we do not question ourselves enough as regards what kinds of bodies are welcomed and supported in education, and in social life more broadly. It is still far too rare that we discuss neurotypicality as that which frames our ways of knowing, of presenting ourselves, of being bodies in the world.

In any classroom I’ve ever taught, I would say at least 50 percent of students don’t work well with the norm. This may be clearer for me than for other professors because I teach in studio art, where students who have different modes of learning have already been funnelled. But my experience is not limited to fine art students: it also includes students in the wider humanities and social sciences. Accommodations are not complicated: facilitating a classroom organization which is not completely frontal and allowing participation to occur in ways that don’t privilege eye-contact, or allowing for and even generating movement in the classroom are two simple techniques. The accommodations are not mine to make but ours to invent, and each class will do it differently depending on the needs of the participants. And, lest this be seen as an “unserious pursuit” (I wish I didn’t have to underline this), these students I speak of are leaders in the field: brilliant writers and artists and philosophers and dancers, folks whose PhDs have become important books, whose teaching practices have deeply affected their students, whose thinking about what else knowledge can look like has altered their practices and continues to orient their politics.

The violence of the norm that is imposed without ever having to be spoken as such is debilitating. Not only does it normalize education, siphoning out difference of all kinds, but it also forces all bodies who want to be recognized as “knowledgeable” (and thus human) to be organized within an incredibly unimaginative matrix. This violence of course plays out far beyond the academic institution, affecting how bodies are considered to have value to society, even allowing certain bodies to be killed or altered to facilitate neurotypical existence (see Not Dead Yet for an account of how neurodiverse and disabled bodies tend not to be given the same life-saving medical treatment; see the Ashley Treatment for medical procedures that allow parents of disabled children to alter their bodies without their consent).

Connecting this more directly to the policing of thought, as you indicate in your work, in order for thought to be recognized as being meaningful, it needs to conform to preset ideas regarding authentic thought-processes. Can you elaborate more on this in terms of the denial of alternative modes of thinking and expression?

I recently wrote an essay entitled “Me Lo Dijo un Pajarito: Neurodiversity, Black Life and the University As We Know It,” where I engaged this question in detail. One path I would like to highlight from that piece is the concept of the free indirect. In A Thousand Plateaus, Deleuze and Guattari write: “Language is not content to go from a first party to a second party, from one who has seen to one who has not, but necessarily goes from a second party to a third party, neither of whom has seen.”

Neurotypicality as mode of knowledge policing builds on what it considers “direct” communication. But language, as Deleuze and Guattari point out here, never comes directly. It always moves through experience, altered by the detours it has taken. Despite extraordinary work in studies of pedagogy, knowledge continues to be organized in most classrooms as though language came directly, untethered, from a source that can be named and sequestered. It is the order word that makes this possible. Deleuze and Guattari explain:

We call order-words, not a particular category of explicit statements (for example, in the imperative), but the relation of every word or every statement to implicit presuppositions, in other words, to speech acts that are, and can only be, accomplished in the statement […] An order always and already concerns prior orders, which is why ordering is redundancy […] When the schoolmistress instructs her students on a rule of grammar or arithmetic, she is not informing them, any more than she is informing herself when she questions a student. She does not so much instruct as “insign”, give orders or commands. A teacher’s commands are not external or additional to what he or she teaches us.

Speaking in the free indirect, catching language in the making, the order-word is carried in the performance of what the instructor does not actually need to say. The school, its habits, the teaching expectation and pedagogical format enforce a certain organization of knowledge that moves through the free indirect to give it the form of a command, here, now. It is not language that constrains knowledge, but the order-word that moves through it.

Because the order-word moves through language indirectly, pedagogies must be invented that are sensitive to how the order-word not only classifies knowledge, but also organizes bodies. I am interested in pedagogical modes that open the way for the realization that there is no “individual subject” of enunciation. The “individual subject” is in fact what sustains the neurotypical norm: the belief that knowledge is sequestered and held by certain kinds of bodies allows us to police those bodies who learn differently.

What autistic perception teaches us is that things are not necessarily as they seem. Just because something can be categorized as an object or a subject does not necessarily mean they are more vital than other modes of welling experience. What is needed are not more categories but more sensitivity to difference and a more acute attunement to qualities of experience. This would allow us to see that knowledge circulates and it is through this circulation that learning happens: language and other forms of expression move through us and it is through this movement that we learn. Expression is social and it is this sociality that most interests me. This is not to say that all enunciation happens “with” others. It is to underscore that language is social at its core, organized around the unsaid in the saying, oriented by the lapses and detours and reorientations of what we think of as direct communication. Our bodies, whether speaking or not, are alive with this sociality of expression.

To make this claim is to open language beyond linguistics, to value modes of expression that function across and beneath and in excess of words (including, of course all that beyonding that takes place through the linguistic itself).

Deleuze and Guattari describe this interstitial modality of language in terms of “pass-words.” These are modes of expression that activate a passage, that create circulation. Pass-words are the illicit carriers of a text’s uneasiness: they undo language of its securing of reason as preestablished category. They make expression sparkle by moving it past the order-word, by freeing indirect language of the unspoken categories and imperatives that would shape it.

The challenge is that modes of passage, or pass-words, amplify the free indirect quality of expression: they make it felt that language moves us as much as we move it. This is why order-words tend to be more pervasive in the academic environment where the detours of language tend to be excised from our work, and from our bodies: we hold ourselves to the chairs in the same gesture that we delete lines of flight from our writing. To make apparent the flexibility of passage within expression would be to trouble the categories and methodologies that undergird our disciplines. It would also unsettle the linguistic bias of education — the notion that knowledge is expressed through a particular usage of language. Of course, there are plenty of examples of those who risk speaking across the lines. But the risk should not be underplayed: there are bodies, plenty of bodies, who are excluded from education because it is taken for granted that they cannot adhere to the order-words on which our educational systems are built and sustained.

New modes of knowing come with the danger of being “unrigorous,” “unformed,” “unclear.” But we need to be careful in assuming that the order-word means rigor. The order-word is short-hand for knowing how to perform. Modes of passage that trouble existence as we know it will always feel uncertain: autistic perception lives in the quality of tendencies coming into themselves, not in already-rehearsed forms. Modes of knowing that take off from qualities in-forming will involve rethinking the very question of value.

If we take Gilles Deleuze’s idea that resistance is a creative process seriously, how might we revaluate the political importance of those who society tries to pathologize, and by that token effectively disqualify from having a credible or authentic voice, on account of what are badly perceived as neurological “deficiencies”?

Your question takes me in two directions. First, there is the question of creativity, and then the question of how a creative process activates a politics of resistance. Let me begin with the first. Deleuze’s provocation that there is no relationship at all between art and communication is very important in this regard. In The Minor Gesture, I proposed the concept of artfulness to allow us to move away from the concept of art-as-object. Even with the proliferation, for at least the last half century, of more ephemeral works of art (including performance, installation, et cetera), there tends to remain a very strong association of art with an object, and thus with form. If you add to that the current tendency to canalize art toward a set of concerns or issues (as advanced by the now ubiquitous artist statement), what we have is too strong a tendency, I believe, to connect art to communication, and by extension to the order-word. I am much more interested in the force of art for the invention of free indirect modes of discourse. This is where the concept of the artful comes in — a notion that what creates a shift or an opening in experience carries with it the quality of artfulness. This can include an artwork but is not limited to it. Nor is it limited to the human.

This leads us to the question of political resistance. Artfulness and autistic perception are deeply allied to the degree that both engage with qualities of experience over category or form. In a world that foregrounds category at every turn, the tendency is to also see political change in terms of form: change is only change insofar as it has affected or altered the form. On the political spectrum, this situates change only in terms of what we might call macropolitics — politics that have a shape and a history and a preexisting orientation. But what about protopolitics — isn’t it at the germinal level that the political has most potential for reorientation, or even reinvention?

Creation as resistance begins here, I would say, where artfulness cleaves experience to produce not a recognizable set of frameworks, but new modes of knowing, of feeling, of acting. There is no question that neurodiversity opens the way to such practices, even if only by unsettling the norms through which objects and subjects come to be differentiated and “known.”

This doesn’t mean that resistance is a given within the field of neurodiversity, however. Resistance is always to be crafted. The work must do its work, and for that, the conditions of experience have to be recalibrated each time anew in relation to the ecologies of practices with which they composes. In Deleuze’s vocabulary, artfulness always calls forth a people to come.

¤

Brad Evans is a political philosopher, critical theorist, and writer, who specializes on the problem of violence. He is the founder/director of the Histories of Violence project, which has a global user base covering 143 countries.

¤

Artwork: Adam Wolfond, Movements While Walking. Courtesy of Estee Klar.

The post Histories of Violence: Neurodiversity and the Policing of the Norm appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

from Los Angeles Review of Books http://ift.tt/2qfAmxL